Briefing the Brass: 6-Month Prep, Combat Medic Skills & RIAB PsyOps | Real British Military Life

Authentic British military and life stories from the 1970s–2010s: Germany postings, PsyOps/Int, Afghanistan, plus rugby, skiing, and Sergeants’ Mess mayhem—told with humour and hard-won lessons. Subscribe for on-the-ground ops, training insights, and veteran camaraderie.

In this episode we take you inside a no-nonsense British Army briefing that turned hard lessons into doctrine. We lay out why teams need six months’ pre-deployment training, full HQ integration, and real immersion before Helmand or Iraq—no shortcuts. We cover the essentials: every operator confident on rifle, pistol, Minimi and GPMG; every deployer Combat Team Medic capable (tourniquets, morphine autos, airways, IV under pressure); and the truth about running PsyOps in contact—part soldier, part planner, part producer.

You’ll see how we ditched “FM daydreams” for RIAB (Radio in a Box)—portable, reliable broadcasting that actually reaches villages. Inside the Training Wing and Int Cell at Chicksands, we show the grind that built capability: realistic scenarios, audience analysis, field recording, rapid edits, and measuring effects that matter.

If you love real military stories—from Afghanistan 2006–2007 to the admin machine that never sleeps—this is for you. Expect sharp truth, black humour, and the human side of service: PsyOps/Int, weapons & medic training, Camp Bastion build-up, and life that swings from briefings to Mess nights to rugby at the weekend.

Transcript

When it came time to present, we didn’t shuffle in like academics with charts. We strode in like operators with a story to tell and a point to make. The head shed were already lined up—rows of brass, notepads out, tactical coughs at the ready.

I opened with a grin. “Ladies, gents—thanks for giving us the floor. Don’t worry, we’ve kept it short: only forty slides and a sing-along at the end.” A ripple of laughter. Job done—the hook was in.

Humour first, then the weight. I stepped forward with the laser pointer and let the room quieten. “We’ve been there. We’ve seen it. And here’s the truth: you cannot deploy people cold. Six months pre-deployment, minimum. That’s not a suggestion—it’s survival. And they need immersion with the HQ elements they’ll be supporting, or else they’ll be saluting the wrong people and asking interpreters to translate acronyms. That’s embarrassing at best. At worst? Deadly.”

The slides were simple—maps, timelines, bullet points—but we laced them with the details that mattered. “Yes, Colonel, a farmer in Helmand will tell you in one breath that wheat feeds his family and poppies pay for his petrol. You don’t grasp that reality, you don’t understand the fight.”

We pulled no punches. “We’re not here because we like the sound of our own voices,” I said, looking them straight in the eye. “We’re here because we’ve buried too many who didn’t get the prep they needed. If you want these teams to succeed—and if you want them to come home—you give them time, training, and proper integration. Anything less is negligence dressed up as optimism.”

By the end, the usual fidgeting and coughing had stopped. Just a room of officers scribbling like mad, and one Brigadier staring at us with that look that says bloody hell, they’re right.

When we wrapped, the questions came thick and fast—about kit, about timelines, about who exactly we thought should fund all this. We answered each with the same mix of sharp truth and a touch of humour. Johan even slipped in, “Look, if you want us to magic resources out of thin air, fine—we’ll ask Santa on the way home.” Even the Brigadier smiled.

Then came the part of the brief where the laughter died down and pens stopped doodling. We spelled it out plain: every operator deploying needed to be fully competent with their personal weapons—rifle and pistol, obviously—but also the Minime and GPMG. Because let’s face it, if the base ever came under attack, everyone down to the tea lad would be in a sanger with a belt of 7.62 across their lap. Sergeants and below in particular needed to be able to hold the gate, man the towers, or step off with Ops Company when the balloon went up.

And weapons were just the start. First aid wasn’t going to cut it anymore—not when minutes decided if someone lived or bled out. We pushed hard: every single deployer needed to be Combat Team Medic trained. Not “a bit of first aid.” Proper training. Morphine auto-injectors. Tourniquets under fire. I V drips in the dark. Airway management. Patching someone just well enough to get them alive onto a Mert bird. The course was intense, brutal at times, and came with more fake blood than a Hollywood horror set.

You could see a few faces blanching at that, but we didn’t flinch. This wasn’t about ticking boxes. It was about sending teams out who could fight, survive, and keep each other alive until the cavalry showed up. Anything less, and you might as well start writing condolence letters before you deployed.

And because this was PsyOps, not just bayonets and bandages, there was a whole other layer of skills we hammered home. Team members weren’t just soldiers—they had to be part planner, part designer, part journalist. That meant being able to sketch out a campaign plan, record and edit radio spots, snap usable photos under pressure, analyse audience responses, and measure whether the messages were landing in the villages or just disappearing into the dust. Think special forces meets media production—armed with both rifles and Adobe.

At first, the grand plan was to piggyback on local radio stations—“hearts and minds on the FM dial.” Looked good on a slide, but in practice? About as effective as shouting into a sandstorm. Schedules slipped, signals faded, and sometimes the only audience was a goat tethered outside the studio.

Thankfully, we had an ace up our sleeve: the now-legendary Riab's. Radio in a Box. Portable, powerful, and idiot-proof enough that even Johan could get one on air without swearing too much. We trialled them, and they worked—properly worked. Broadcast across Helmand with minimal fuss, flexible enough to set up in a compound courtyard, and reliable enough to survive a dust storm.

Finally—military kit that did what it said on the tin, first time, without needing a priest and a black magic degree. The Riab's weren’t just kit; they were a cornerstone. With them, our teams could reach into villages faster, clearer, and with more credibility than any leaflet ever could.

Afterwards, the head shed didn’t just pat us on the back. They nodded, muttered about budget lines, and promised to take our recommendations forward. The Brigadier finally stood and said, “It’s rare you get a presentation that’s both brutal and entertaining. Well done. You’ve got your six-month package. Make it happen.”

We walked out with that rarest of things in military life: the feeling we’d actually shifted the needle. Training wasn’t a box-tick anymore—it was doctrine. And we’d made it stick.

The Group was expanding faster than the coffee bill. Every week brought new faces—wide-eyed, clutching fresh ID cards, lugging overstuffed Bergens, and wearing that dazed expression you only get after fifteen consecutive briefs before breakfast.

The Int Cell had turned into a full-blown hive, twenty-five strong and buzzing. At least half a dozen were deployed at any one time, the rest buried in maps, reports, and enough acronyms to make a linguist cry. It was organised chaos—but somehow, it worked.

Our Training Cell had ballooned into a proper Wing—twelve Sergeants under our command, running flat-out. They were everywhere: briefing deploying units, hammering PsyOps doctrine into new teams bound for Iraq, Sierra Leone, or Afghanistan, and coming back only long enough to grab another brew before heading out again.

The building itself practically pulsed with activity. Not so much an office anymore—more like a war fighting factory, churning out capability with a side hustle in caffeine addiction. And we? We were at the centre of it, steering the madness, holding it together, and occasionally wondering when exactly we’d agreed to become managers of a small army.

The Int Cell, while laser-focused on current ops, always had one eye fixed on the global chaos league table. Iraq, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan—those were the headline acts. But the next crisis? That could pop up anywhere, usually courtesy of one dodgy election or an over-excited militia with too many Kalashnikovs.

That’s where Marlin and I came in. We ran a crack little sub-team of four analysts—young, sharp, and buzzing on espresso—who spent their days scanning news feeds, SIGINT, HUMINT, and the occasional strongly worded tweet. They were our crystal-ball department, there to make sure nothing blindsided us.

The rest of the Cell stayed glued to the sharp end—turning raw scraps of intel into briefings the CO could actually use, sketching maps, plotting patterns, and only occasionally bickering over whose turn it was to make the tea.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was relentless. And with Vinka and Marlin running their Valkyrie act up front, the whole thing ticked like a caffeine-fuelled Swiss watch—loud, precise, and only slightly liable to explode if left unattended.

Despite the relentless churn, the Group still kept to a solid Battle Rhythm. Monday mornings kicked off with the CO’s PT—a cheery reminder that we were technically soldiers, even if half of us creaked like tall ships in a gale. Nothing says “operational readiness” quite like watching sergeants stretch hamstrings that sounded like Velcro being pulled apart.

After PT came the real workout: work until ten, then the weekly brief. At least one brave soul always tried to pretend they understood the latest spreadsheet. Usually, they didn’t. Cue quiet panic, much nodding, and a few strategic coughs until the slide moved on.

The rest of the week was department grind—training teams in the field, Int Cell crunching data like academics on speed, and us keeping just close enough to brigade plans to claim we were aligned. Call it creative fudging.

Fridays brought the CO’s end-of-week brief and, of course, another dose of PT—because why not finish sweaty as well as broken? If you’d ticked all your boxes, you might even knock off by lunch. Unless you were on Ops Room duty. Then it was 24/7 watchkeeping: two poor souls at a time, chained to the phones, kept alive on strong brews, stale biscuits, and a mild paranoia that the world was about to end on their shift.

For the four of us, we somehow carved out scraps of life beyond the wire. Track days kept us sane—two wheels, a bit of speed, and a blessed break from the tyranny of PowerPoint. Mess dinners gave us a chance to swap flak jackets for mess kit and argue over the correct way to serve port, which, naturally, none of us ever agreed on.

Family time mattered just as much. We’d nip to Northampton to watch Simon charging around for the Saints, then head back for tea and cake with Olivia and little Susan—who, with unnerving accuracy, had decided Johan was “Grumpy Grandad.” He never denied it.

Otto, Sara, and little James would barrel in from London on the odd weekend, Marlin instantly shifting into full grandma mode—baking, fussing, and insisting the poor lad wear two jumpers, even indoors. James, bless him, tolerated it with the patience of a saint.

And so it went—war, family, duty, and dodging admin. A perfect mess. But somehow, it all worked.

For Vinka and me, seeing our grandchildren meant playing the long game. Christmas in Sweden, Easter on our turf, and, if the calendar gods felt generous, the odd summer holiday reunion. We missed them something fierce—especially Vinka, who went full Scandinavian-grandma at the mere mention of the word “hug.”

FaceTime became our digital lifeline. There we’d sit, laptop balanced on the kitchen table, watching little Hanna and Henry babble, giggle, and occasionally try to lick the camera. Every call left me glowing. It wasn’t the same as wrapping them in my arms, but it was enough to bridge the miles.

For me, it was simpler: as long as they were healthy, happy, and not forming a punk band at age six, I could breathe easy. The screen was never quite enough—but seeing their faces, even virtually, made the distance bearable.

As our 50th birthdays loomed on the horizon—like a tornado made of candles and existential dread—we gathered round the kitchen table for one of our serious, tea-fuelled conferences. The big question: Sweden or not?

It would have been the first without Grandma Greta and Grandpa Olaf. Just the thought of that left a lump in my throat the size of a snowball. Their absence still echoed in every plan, every tradition. They had been the centre of so many celebrations—the steady warmth we all gathered around.

We knew, in truth, what they’d have wanted: for us to carry on. To gather, laugh too loud, eat too much, and toast too often. But sentiment and reality don’t always shake hands.

There were long silences. A few tears. And yes, I may have claimed “dust in my eye.” Finally, we made the call. This time, everyone would come to us.

So, we put the word out like a proper family-wide Op Order: Christmas and New Year at ours. Attendance mandatory. Dress code: festive and fabulous.

The responses came back fast—and unanimous. Everyone was in. And, naturally, the first questions weren’t about travel or presents but, “Is the Mess Christmas Ball on?” and “Can we come again?”

Even better, the Mess was open for New Year’s Eve too. We checked if we could bring the family along. The answer: a resounding yes—delivered with the gentle warning that we’d better behave this time.

We smiled sweetly, nodded politely, and quietly thought: no promises.

Turning fifty in the Sergeants’ Mess was never going to be small. The RSM went all out—top table set for the four of us and our nearest and dearest, with long legs of tables fanning out like a regimental deployment map. White tablecloths crisp enough to cut your fingers, silver cutlery gleaming, and enough wine glasses to float a canoe. The staff moved with parade-ground precision, silver service all the way, courses arriving in perfect order. It felt less like lunch and more like a state banquet, except the guests were our lot—family, relations, and enough old comrades to fill a parade square. Close on a hundred in all.

The buzz of conversation was deafening—children darting under tables, grandparents beaming at the chaos, and cousins arguing over who’d inherited whose chin. Every time I looked around, I caught sight of someone else we hadn’t seen in years, laughing, hugging, raising a glass. There was so much love in that room it almost rattled the silverware.

The toasts came thick and fast. One to absent friends, one to family, one to “fifty years without getting caught,” which raised more eyebrows than I’d care to count. Speeches followed—mercifully short, but packed with enough humour to keep everyone grinning. And then the cake—two great slabs, iced within an inch of their lives, carried in to a chorus of “Happy Birthday” that nearly lifted the roof.

I caught Stephen’s eye across the table as the laughter rolled and the wine flowed, and for a moment the years melted away. We weren’t two veterans of countless deployments. We were just us—celebrating half a century with everyone we loved crammed into one glorious, noisy room. Grandma Greta and Grandpa Olaf weren’t there, but their presence was woven through every hug, every cheer, every raised glass.

Two nights after the birthday lunch, we were back in the Mess—this time for the Christmas Ball. If the birthday had been about family pride and silver service, the Ball was pure regimental splendour. The dining hall glittered with garlands and lights, silver laid out on crisp white linen, and a tree standing tall enough to brush the ceiling beams.

This time it was grown-ups only. The great-grandparents had happily volunteered to take charge of Camp Chaos, leaving the rest of us free to enjoy the night. Tim and Petra were there, Otto and Sara, Olivia and Simon, Nils and Joanna, Vera and Frode—the whole circle of grown-up children and partners gathered around us, dressed to the nines. It felt more like a family gala than a regimental function, though the uniforms and medals gave it all the gravitas it deserved.

Dinner was a triumph—roast beef carved with ceremony, vegetables done exactly right, and puddings that would have shamed a Michelin chef. Toasts rang out, port was passed, and by the time the band struck up, the dance floor was a blur of gowns, mess kit, and laughter. Johan somehow turned a waltz into a rugby scrum, while Simon proved a second-row forward could hold his own in a quickstep.

By midnight, the Ball was in full swing—laughter, music, and the glow of port and champagne binding everyone together. Looking around, I realised what a week it had been: our fiftieth birthdays and the Christmas Ball, back-to-back, celebrated with family, friends, and the Regiment that had shaped our lives. It was chaotic, joyous, and unforgettable.

And when the photographer finally gathered us all together—family, partners, and the four of us in full mess kit—the resulting photo was something to behold. Now framed and hanging in pride of place, it remains one of the most treasured reminders of just how far we’d come, and how much we had to be thankful for.

Then came New Year’s Eve, and the Mess staff once again outdid themselves. The place glittered—garlands, lights, and tables groaning with enough food to fuel a battalion. By midnight, glasses were raised, cheers rang out, and the staff even laid on a modest firework display for the children, who—for reasons still unknown—behaved impeccably all night. Perhaps it was sugar, perhaps the novelty of being allowed up so late, or perhaps a few whispered grandparental threats. Whatever the magic was, it worked.

At one point, we even corralled the entire family into a single photo—including the little ones, who normally had the sprint speed of Olympic sprinters when a camera appeared. That picture, capturing four generations together, was worth its weight in gold. Around us, the music played softly, conversations flowed, and laughter filled the gaps. For once, no politics, no arguments, no drama—just family, food, fireworks, and even a cheese board. A small miracle, wrapped in joy.

Somewhere during the evening, I found myself having a quiet laugh with Petra. After a glass or two of something bubbly, she leaned in and confessed—with a grin—that back in the day she’d had a massive crush on me, and had secretly hoped I’d fall for her instead of Vinka. I nearly spat my drink.

“Petra,” I chuckled, “you were like a little limpet—everywhere I went, you magically appeared.”

She laughed and admitted she’d worked very hard on “accidental proximity.” I told her I’d known all along—everyone had. Even Vinka. “She thought it was sweet of me to indulge you,” I teased.

Petra rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Well, that’s one way to put it. Still… it all worked out, didn’t it? That Easter in Hitchin—when Tim walked in—it was love at first sight. And that was that.”

We clinked glasses, both grinning, both a little misty-eyed, and toasted to missed chances, perfect timing, and happy endings.

2007 barrelled in like a sergeant major with a stopwatch, and before we knew it we were off at a sprint—teams to train, briefs flying left, right, and Chelsea, and the whole Group buzzing like a hornet’s nest that’d just been poked. The training machine roared back into life, and the pace was relentless. Monday mornings kicked off with a parade, then straight into CO’s PT—because apparently, you’re never too old to be shouted at while running uphill in freezing fog.

After that, it was breakfast—swallowed in three bites—and then into the offices until ten o’clock sharp, when the CO’s weekly brief rolled round. It was a ritual: updates from theatre, a mug of tea strong enough to floor an ox, and a cascade of new tasks that landed on our desks like incoming mortar fire. The trick wasn’t keeping up—no one ever really did—it was surviving until Friday lunchtime, when, if you’d ticked every box, you might just be allowed to sneak out before the phones started again.

The rest of the week always spiralled out from that sacred Monday morning brief—like a glorified shopping list of chaos. Range days, weapon training, PT that bordered on cruel and unusual punishment, and briefings that seemed to be written by someone with a grudge against logic. Add in joint exercises with HQs and projects with more acronyms than answers, and we were flat out before Tuesday had even finished.

And that was just the start. We also had reach-back tasks from deployed teams piling in, training prep for battle groups about to head out, and endless OPTAG briefings where PowerPoint was clearly being trialled as a form of psychological warfare. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone always remembered Adventurous Training—because nothing says “for morale” like being dragged up something steep, cold, or otherwise unpleasant while pretending to enjoy it.

By the time Friday morning rolled round with the CO’s wrap-up brief and another dose of PT for good measure, we were crawling toward the weekend like dehydrated lizards. But oh, how sweet that Friday lunchtime release was—if, and only if, all your tasks were signed off and nobody had stitched you up for Duty NCO.

Of course, while the rest of us enjoyed our fleeting weekends and tried to pretend ironing shirts wasn’t real life, the Ops Room kept grinding on 24/7. It was manned by a band of watchkeepers fuelled almost entirely by caffeine, biscuits, and a healthy dose of paranoia.

They were the unsung heroes—always on the line, tracking movements, passing updates, and soothing the occasional drama. One day it was “the sat phone’s missing,” the next it was “a goat has eaten the signal wire again.” Somehow, they held it all together while the rest of us dashed between briefs, ranges, and classrooms.

Those years—2006 and 2007—blurred past in a whirlwind of deployment cycles, sitreps, and the endless refrain of “Have you got a minute?” when everyone knew damn well it meant an hour.