Chicksands to Sierra Leone: PsyOps Radio, Mess Life & Snowy Sweden | Real Military Stories

Step inside real military life with a fast-paced story that jumps from Chicksands paperwork purgatory to field innovation with RIAB (Radio in a Box), and on to a gritty five-week PsyOps stint in Freetown, Sierra Leone. Expect true military stories packed with humour, resilience, and hard-won lessons—plus the chaos and camaraderie of the Sergeants’ Mess, Remembrance, and muddy midweek rugby. We round off with a full-family Swedish Julafton at the lodge—snow, glögg, and tradition done properly.

You’ll hear how small, portable PsyOps radio punched above its weight, how training went from dry slides to realistic scenarios, and why generators and jingles can make or break a mission. There’s mess dinners, Pickle Night mayhem, vets’ rugby at Thurrock, and the pride of parades—plus a candid look at post-deployment life that spans 1970s, ’80s, ’90s, ’00s and ’10s postings, including Germany.

If you love:

• Authentic military & veterans’ stories
• Rugby, skiing, and travel to war zones
• PsyOps, radio, and on-the-ground problem solving
• Warm, funny, human moments off duty

…this is for you. Subscribe for more real military and life stories—from parade square to family table.

Transcript

Back at Chicksands, we were thrown straight into the real frontline—paperwork. Forget sandstorms and firefights; nothing saps your will to live faster than a week in the office with only forms, flowcharts, and tepid coffee for company. We holed up like caffeinated academics, battering out a report thick enough to stun a mule and shaping a grand presentation for the rest of the Group.

The verdict was unanimous: shiny new kit was on the way. Specifically, a couple of Riab's—Radio in a Box units. Small, portable, clever, and exactly what we needed. Until then, we’d been juggling a mix of gear: a few old 4KW transmitters, two radio trucks so dusty they belonged in Dad’s Army, and one surprisingly slick studio. The Riab's were the missing piece in our broadcast arsenal.

Naturally, they arrived fashionably late—military kit never turns up when you actually need it. But once they did, we were like kids at Christmas. We threw ourselves into building a bespoke training programme: scripted broadcasts, role play exercises, and plenty of shouting about bandwidth.

It wasn’t just dry drills, either. We ran full-on scenarios—operators pretending to be field commanders, presenters ad-libbing like Radio 1 DJs, Johan putting on dodgy accents until someone told him to stop. By the end, the lads were laughing, learning, and genuinely excited about PsyOps radio. That was the magic of the Riab: it made broadcasting feel real, tangible, and—dare I say it—fun.

The four of us—Vinka, Marlin, Johan, and me—were living our best operational lives: running MPOC courses, training teams for Iraq deployments, and every so often escaping the grind under the noble banner of “field assessments.” One such escape had all four of us shipped to Sierra Leone for five weeks, to assess the PsyOps team out in Freetown and design a training package for the next trio heading in.

Five weeks was long enough to make an impact, earn the medal, and still get home before Chicksands forgot we existed. Sierra Leone wasn’t exactly brochure material. Freetown, despite the name, was neither particularly free nor much of a town in the traditional sense. It was tough, gritty, and tense. Our team were lodged at HQ, surrounded by a sea of bureaucracy, flickering power supplies, and the kind of admin that could break even the keenest operator.

The ghosts of the West Side Boys still lingered. They sounded like a dodgy 90s rap group, but in reality they were a splinter faction from the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council—more murderous boy band than anything else. Back in August 2000, they’d grabbed UN peacekeepers, then made the mistake of capturing a patrol from the Royal Irish Regiment and their Sierra Leone Army liaison. The SAS and Para's dropped by soon after, launched Operation Barras, and erased the West Side Boys from the charts for good.

Our mission wasn’t quite as kinetic. We were there to advise the Sierra Leone Army on Psychological Operations—how to win hearts, influence minds, and maybe convince people to tune in to a radio broadcast instead of taking a pot shot at the DJ. Between training sessions, field visits, and cups of suspicious tea, we got stuck in. Marlin’s knack for teaching, Johan’s dry humour, Stephen’s banter, and my own bluntness somehow blended into something that worked.

Power was the first battlefield. Every training day started with a game of “will the generator cooperate?” Half the time it coughed, spluttered, and died before we’d even fired up the projector. One morning we ended up giving the entire first lesson off a whiteboard balanced on an ammo crate, while Johan stood in the corner fanning the generator with his beret like that would help.

Radio was the second battlefield. The Sierra Leone lads had enthusiasm in spades, but the tech side? Less so. On our first attempt at a live broadcast, the opening jingle looped for ten solid minutes while the operator panicked. Listeners must’ve thought it was some kind of avant-garde propaganda. Marlin calmly leaned over, flicked one switch, and the studio came to life. She got a round of applause big enough to drown out the feedback.

Then there was the infamous field visit to one of the outlying units. We’d barely piled into the Land Rover when the heavens opened—rain so hard it made British drizzle look like a mist spray. By the time we got there, the road was half washed away, and we had to hike the last mile with kit bags on our heads. The locals found it hilarious—four soggy foreigners swearing under their breath, trying not to lose boots in the mud.

Not everything was comedy. There were sobering moments too—sitting with officers who’d lost family in the civil war, listening to stories that made the West Side Boys feel a little too close for comfort. But there was pride, too. Pride in rebuilding, in teaching new recruits, in getting a PsyOps programme running on their own terms. That’s what kept us pushing through the heat, the power cuts, and the chaos.

By the end of the five weeks we’d delivered a package solid enough to hand over with confidence, qualified for our medals, and built friendships we wouldn’t forget. We flew home smelling of diesel and dust, pockets stuffed with Sierra Leonean coffee beans, and stomachs still arguing about the local brew. But we came back smiling. Mission ticked, medal earned, job done.

Our grand medal parade turned out to be less of a parade and more of a queue. We were herded into the clerks’ office, handed a box apiece, and told to sign on the dotted line. No marching, no speeches, no rousing music—just a biro running out halfway through my name.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Five weeks in Sierra Leone—heat, chaos, power cuts, dodgy beer—and our official recognition came down to, “Here’s your medal, mate. Don’t lose the paperwork.”... Efficient? Absolutely. Ceremonial? Not even close.

Johan muttered something about “earning it the efficient way,” while Marlin asked if she could swap hers for one with fewer fingerprints. The clerk didn’t even look up—just shoved another form across the desk and gestured to the next in line.

From there it was straight to the tailor’s shop—again. Fresh ribbons, updated medal racks, the whole works. The tailor barely batted an eyelid. “You lot again?” he sighed, already reaching for the chalk and tape measure. By now he probably had our sizes memorised.

And that was that—five weeks of sweat, dust, and diesel reduced to a signature, a bit of ribbon, and another line of metal on the rack. Not glamorous, not glorious—but ours. And, if nothing else, good for winding up the lads who thought we’d just been on an extended beach holiday.

Life in the Sergeants’ Mess was, quite frankly, a riot—and not always the kind involving chairs and cleared furniture. The Battle of Britain Dinner, hosted by our RAF brethren, was a class act: stiff collars, soaring toasts, and Spitfire nostalgia served with slightly overcooked beef.

But it was Pickle Night—courtesy of the Royal Navy—that really made mess history. The evening began civilised enough: Dispatches, naval toasts, polished silver, the Captain’s Table gleaming. Then the rum started flowing, Defaulters’ Court was convened, and suddenly we were honorary Matlow's, bellowing sea shanties, waving our arms like signalmen, and sporting shirts that would never be white again.

Somewhere in the haze, someone clocked the fresh ribbons on our chests and started ribbing us about “holiday medals.” Johan grinned and held his up. “Signed for it in triplicate—efficient soldiering at its finest.” The Navy lads nearly choked on their rum.

Marlin topped it with a deadpan: “Next time, I’m asking the clerk to just courier mine. Save the trip to the tailor.” That brought the house down. From that moment, every tot of rum came with a sarcastic salute to “Her Majesty’s Most Efficient Medallists.”

By midnight, we were propping each other up, still laughing, still singing, medals glinting in the mess lights. Sierra Leone had given us stories, a strip of ribbon, and one more excuse to join in the glorious chaos that was Mess life. Not bad for five weeks’ work.

Meanwhile, Johan and I were galloping round rugby pitches like we were twenty again—turning out for Hitchin Twos most Saturdays and donning Chicksands colours for the odd Wednesday fixture. Those midweek games were usually against teams of terrifying squaddies who thought rucking was a form of low-grade combat and tackled like they were still on exercise.

Marlin and I weren’t about to sit on the sidelines either. Hitchin had a women’s side who trained as hard as the blokes, and we slotted right in. Weeknights were spent on the training pitch under floodlights, covered in mud and bruises but loving every second. The lads soon realised we weren’t there for a jog—we scrummed, rucked, and tackled with the same stubborn streak we took into Ops. More than one squaddie discovered the hard way that a “Swedish shoulder” is just as unforgiving as a British one.

That autumn, Johan and I got the nod to turn out for the Royal Anglian Vets team at Thurrock Rugby Club, on the Saturday before the Regimental Gathering at Duxford. Now that was a weekend to remember. The match was brutal, muddy, and absolutely brilliant. Thurrock laid on a proper post-match spread—piles of roast meat, gallons of ale, and more back-slapping than a Sandhurst awards night. Better still, we won. How? No one’s sure. Probably a mix of adrenaline, stubborn pride, and the opposition still nursing their Friday-night hangovers.

Marlin and I weren’t far behind—our women’s side had a fixture the same weekend. It was every bit as hard-fought, though instead of Thurrock roast and ale we got pasta bake and lukewarm cider. Didn’t matter—we came off the pitch with grins as wide as the lads’, mud on our faces, and bruises blooming like medals. Rugby gave us the same rush as Ops: teamwork, chaos, and the sweet satisfaction of walking away—barely—on our own two feet.

We sat in front of the Regimental Memorial for the drumhead service, sunlight catching the brass while the chaplain’s words rolled over us. It was quiet, dignified, and just solemn enough to steady the laughter still lingering from the rugby the day before.

Then came the address from the Regimental Colonel—measured, proud, and laced with reminders of what it meant to wear the badge. His voice carried across the museum grounds, mingling with the faint smell of aviation fuel and history. Around us, berets dipped, backs straightened, and even the youngest lads looked like they belonged to something bigger.

The march past followed, in Battalion order. Old comrades fell in with surprising crispness, medals clinking, boots scuffing the tarmac in rhythm. We slotted into place, aches and bruises forgotten for the moment, carried along by tradition and pride. Under the shadow of a Lancaster’s nose, it felt like we were part of an unbroken chain stretching back generations.

Afterwards came the buffet—regimental cake cut with ceremony, toasts made with solemn respect, and enough tea poured to float a destroyer. Veterans swapped stories louder than the museum PA, and for all the aches in our legs and the fog in our heads, we knew we wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Remembrance Weekend rolled in not long after, and for once we were actually home at Chicksands. No airports, no desert dust—just Bedfordshire chill and a parade square full of familiar faces. Kit was immaculate, medals polished, and the bugler nailed the Last Post without a single squeak—a rare and noble feat in itself.

Anyone not on duty was “voluntold” to attend, which meant the turnout was impressive. Some were dispatched to lay wreaths at nearby villages, then returned sharpish for the Mess tradition that had become as sacred as the silence itself: curry lunch. Because nothing says military remembrance quite like poppadoms and pints.

Everyone looked sharp in Number Twos, even the usual suspects who normally treated shaving as optional and ties as a dark art. Somehow, miracles had happened—faces clean, boots gleaming, trousers pressed so sharp they could cut. For a few hours at least, the Group looked every inch the part with all three services represented in best uniforms.

It was solemn, proud, and quietly emotional—the kind of day that stitched past and present together with a thread of service and sacrifice. And then, just like that, we were back in the Mess, toasting absent friends over curry and beer, laughter slowly seeping back into the halls.

And then came the festive charge toward Christmas. Chicksands came alive with pantomimes, raffles, and rogue decorations in truly questionable taste. You’ve not known fear until you’ve seen tinsel duct-taped to a fire extinguisher with “do not use” scrawled across it in marker.

The children’s party in the Mess was a riot—literally. Jelly flying, a magician whose rabbit looked traumatised, and a Santa who looked suspiciously like the RQMS with a fake beard and a sack full of Quality Street. The kids didn’t care. They left buzzing on sugar and cheap party poppers.

And then came the infamous Sergeants vs. Officers Mess Games Night. It began civilised enough—polite drinks, polite conversation. By midnight, it had descended into a table football grudge match, three disputed pool frames, and an impromptu game of mess rugby that probably should’ve been filed under “dangerous sports.” Chairs were moved, ties were lost, and at least one major had grass stains on his mes kit the next day.

And finally, after all that chaos came the real prize: three glorious weeks of Christmas leave. No duty rosters, no early parades—just slippers, telly, and pretending we didn’t see the WhatsApp group lighting up with January’s work rota. For once, the world could wait.

Since all four of us had been deployed the previous Christmas—earning our festive cheer the hard way—it was agreed that this year we’d be excused duties. No guard lists, no duty officer calls, no last-minute “volunteering.” Bliss. Naturally, we weren’t about to waste it. Instead, we organised a grand trip to Sweden, back to the lodge, and this time we brought the whole tribe with us.

And I do mean the entire family. Not just us four, but the kids as well—grown now, with jobs, partners, and even little ones of their own. What had once been a cosy winter retreat was about to turn into a full-scale family occupation. Bedrooms filled in seconds, mattresses appeared on floors, and the old place echoed with the kind of noise only a multi-generational Christmas can produce.

Crowded? Absolutely. Shoes in every hallway, coats hung three-deep on pegs, and someone always hunting for the corkscrew. But fun? Oh, it was shaping up to be gloriously chaotic—laughter in every room, snow piling at the windows, and the fire crackling as if it knew it had a serious shift ahead.

Johan and Marlin’s tribe had flourished. Their son Otto had married Sara—a lovely woman with patience enough for Johan’s stubborn streak—and the two of them had settled in London. Otto now worked for a multinational bank, earning, by all accounts, the sort of money that should come with its own offshore island. They brought with them their little boy, James: cheeky, curious, and full of questions about everything.

Olivia, their daughter, had married Simon—a second-row forward for Northampton Saints. They lived up in Northampton with their daughter, Susan, a sweet little girl who looked far too innocent to be related to Johan. Simon, bless him, was a good sport. Not only did he sort us out with match tickets, but he even roped us into a team training session.

Watching Johan try to keep pace with Premiership rugby players was like watching a Labrador attempt ballet—valiant, enthusiastic, but slightly tragic. He grinned through every knock, but I could see the wince every time he jogged back to the line-out.

As for me? I didn’t even make it onto the pitch. I pulled a hamstring just tying my boots. The lads thought it was hilarious. I thought it was proof that some battles are best left to the younger generation.

Our side of the family had done pretty well too. Nils had married Joanna, and together they had a son, Henry—a quiet, thoughtful lad with an obsession for model boats, Lego, and questions that would stump an Oxford don. He could happily spend hours designing a fleet of ships out of bricks, then interrogate you on the finer points of hull design until your ears rang.

Thanks to Ronnie—still holding the line as a Master Shipwright—Nils had landed a job at the Hallberg-Rassy factory. You’d never seen a man more pleased with himself than Nils the day he first walked through those gates with a tool belt and a Hallberg-Rassy badge. He was like a kid allowed into the sweet shop he’d been pressing his nose against for years.

Vera, meanwhile, had gone fully international. She’d married Frodo, a Norwegian logistics wizard from Oslo who managed transport fleets the way a general commands battalions—precise, efficient, and with a faint air of menace if things weren’t done properly.

Together they had Hanna, a bright little spark with an accent that could melt glaciers. When she solemnly told us we were “going to da mown-tens to see Santa and da moose,” we nearly fell off our chairs laughing. Innocent, earnest, and unintentionally hilarious—that child had the whole lodge in stitches before the fire was even lit.

Then Tim rolled in with Petra. They’d settled nicely just outside Ellös—close enough to be part of everything, far enough to have their own little kingdom. Tim was now driving trucks, big ones, and loving every mile. Petra was working in the translators’ office, sharp as ever, juggling languages the way the rest of us juggle brews.

Their daughter Sigrid her husband Mark and their daughter Mary came over with us, determined not to miss the chaos. And it was chaos, in the best way: Tim instantly trying to take over the firewood rota, Petra slipping into hostess mode, and both of them being swallowed whole by the lodge’s noise and laughter.

Seeing them there made it feel complete. Brothers, sisters, kids, grandkids—all crammed under one snowy roof in Sweden. A full house, a full table, and more stories flying round the room than we could keep track of.

Johan and I took charge of transport and somehow managed to wrangle a minibus big enough to fit the entire UK contingent—fifteen of us, a boot crammed with luggage, and more snacks than sense. It looked less like a family outing and more like a regimental deployment with tinsel.

We set off on the 17th of December, bound for the ferry like some great festive migration in thermals. The drive across Sweden was pure magic: snow-draped forests, frozen lakes shimmering in the low sun, and the occasional moose crossing the road with the sort of dignity that suggested it owned the place.

When we finally pulled up at the lodge, it felt like stepping back in time. The same timber walls, the same scent of pine smoke in the air, the same sense of calm that wrapped around you the moment you set foot inside. Only difference now was the sheer number of us spilling out of the bus—laughter, bags, kids, and chaos tumbling into the snow like a Christmas invasion.

Olaf and Greta were still there—greyer, slower, but regal as ever. They were treated like royalty, and rightly so. Feet up, hot drinks on demand, and not allowed to lift so much as a teaspoon. The rest of us ran around like a small army, but they just sat back and smiled, the matriarch and patriarch of our mad little dynasty.

Stefan still ran the lodge with military precision—meals timed, logs stacked, chores delegated before you even realised you’d volunteered. And Sven—now broader, beardier, and in possession of an unholy talent for spiced glögg—kept the bar flowing and the snow cleared like it was nothing. Between them, the place ticked over like clockwork.

Thankfully, Stefan had had the good sense to build an extension. No more cramming into bunkbeds like sardines—there was actually room to breathe, eat, and occasionally collapse for a nap after one too many helpings of Christmas ham.

The laughter echoed, the fires crackled, the kids tobogganed until their cheeks were scarlet, and for one glorious Christmas, everything just clicked. Generations under one roof, chaos without conflict, and the sort of joy you can’t script—only live.

Ingrid, Anna, Torva, and Silvi had quietly seized control of the kitchen with the precision of a special forces unit—and thank goodness they did. What they produced for our birthday celebration was nothing short of miraculous: a spread that looked like it belonged in a royal hall, not a mountain lodge.

It was like stepping back into the golden days of our childhood birthdays—only this time with better wine, more candles, and far more jokes about aching knees and bad backs. The smells, the flavours, the atmosphere—it was all familiar, yet richer now, layered with years of friendship and family.

The day rolled on in perfect rhythm: a bit of skiing to earn our supper, sauna sessions followed by the obligatory shrieking snow roll, then back inside for mountains of food and rivers of drink. By evening, the fire roared, the table groaned under platters, and the air rang with toasts, stories, and laughter.

Board games came next—cutthroat rounds of Scrabble, then a wildly competitive charades session where Johan’s “moose” impression was, according to him, misunderstood genius. We nearly collapsed with laughter. Misty-eyed toasts followed, blending gratitude with a few well-aimed jokes, until it was impossible to tell if the tears were from wine, laughter, or both.

It was, without question, one of the most joyful shared birthdays we’d ever had. No fanfare, no fuss—just generations of family and friends crammed into a snowy Swedish lodge, celebrating the years behind us and the ones still to come.

Julafton dawned crisp and white, the snow piled high against the lodge walls and the air carrying that bite only a Swedish winter can manage. Inside, the kitchen was already alive—herring being set out, ham glazing in the oven, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon rolls drifting through the halls. The children tumbled about in their new Christmas jumpers, while the rest of us did our best not to trip over them carrying trays of food or mugs of glögg.

By mid-afternoon, the whole tribe was gathered. The Julbord stretched from one end of the dining room to the other—gravlax, meatballs, sausages, cheeses, breads, and enough pickled fish to make you question your life choices. Plates were piled high, toasts made with snaps, and songs sung louder with every round.

No Swedish Julafton is complete without Kalle Anka on the telly. So there we were—four generations crammed together, watching Donald Duck and friends in dubbed Swedish, laughing at the same old jokes we’d been laughing at since childhood. Even the British side of the family joined in, bewildered at first but soon swept up in the tradition.

Then came the big moment—gifts handed out with squeals, hugs, and enough torn wrapping paper to redecorate the lodge. The kids’ eyes sparkled, the grown-ups beamed, and even Olaf and Greta sat back with that quiet, contented smile that said, this is what it’s all about.

As the fire crackled, the snow fell outside, and the room buzzed with chatter and song, it struck me just how rare and precious it was—this gathering, this chaos, this joy. For one perfect Julafton, everything was as it should be.