From Deathly Hallows to Helmand (2008): Delivering RIAB with 3 Commando | PsyOps Radio, Marines & Real Ops

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

Ever wondered how a small team turns ideas into influence on the ground? In this episode we go from wrapping our final translation job—the Harry Potter: Deathly Hallows finale—to fielding RIAB (Radio in a Box) across Helmand, 2008 with 3 Commando Brigade. We embed with the factory, train at BFBS Chalfont, then fly into Camp Bastion to hand-deliver 14 RIAB systems—setting up and teaching live broadcasting at Lashkar Gah, Nad-e Ali, Kajaki and Musa Qala.

Inside you’ll see how PsyOps radio really works: interpreters as presenters, soldiers as producers, playlists, health spots, jingles—and the moment locals start requesting songs. Expect dust, generators, antennas, and the odd sandstorm… plus a surprise galley meet with Ross Kemp. It’s practical, funny, and brutally honest about what succeeds (RIAB) and what fails (wishful FM partnerships).

If you love real British Army stories, Afghanistan operations, Int & PsyOps, and life lived between briefings, helipads, rugby weekends, and family, this is for you. Come behind the wire and watch portable radio become a force multiplier—one village at a time.

#MilitaryStories #PsyOps #Afghanistan #Helmand #3Commando #BritishArmy #RIAB #Veterans

Transcript

Meanwhile, Marlin and I were reaching the end of a very different kind of chapter. In August 2007, we wrapped up our final translation job for the publishing house we’d worked with for thirty-three years—the epic finale of the Harry Potter series, The Deathly Hallows. Over six hundred pages of wizarding mayhem, plot twists, and magical puns that made even our dictionaries groan.

I remember walking past the study and hearing the pair of them muttering at the screen like academics possessed. “You can’t translate ‘Horcrux’ literally—what even is that?” Marlin would growl. Vinka would just sigh, tug her headphones down, and scribble in Swedish like she was trying to outwit J.K. Rowling herself.

When the final cheque landed—handsome, by the way—we raised a glass of fizz and laughed like maniacs. It was bittersweet. We’d loved the work, but between translating spells and running PsyOps strategy, life had turned into one giant game of “which deadline’s on fire today?” Something had to give. So we closed the book. Literally.

And just like that—2008 rolled in, and with it, the long-awaited, much-delayed arrival of the Riab's—Radio in a Box systems. Getting them procured had taken longer than some governments stay in power, but finally, here they were: shiny, portable, and allegedly idiot-proof. The mission was clear enough—get them out to the Battle Groups, set them up, and start broadcasting. Easy on paper.

Except, of course, the CO wasn’t leaving it to “easy.” He turned to us four with that deceptively casual air commanders get when they’re about to ruin your week and said, “Fancy delivering them across theatre yourselves?”

It sounded simple. Suspiciously simple. Naturally, we retreated to our office, put the kettle on, and had one of our infamous long chats—the kind that began with practicalities like routes and escorts, and usually ended with me asking, “What’s the weather like in Helmand?”

And me reminding him, “Do you really want to live in a shipping container again?” The tea cooled, the biscuits vanished, and eventually we agreed. But not without caveats. No sharing tents with goats. And we got to pick the convoy music—non-negotiable.

The plan was simple—well, military-simple. Which is to say, it looked neat enough on the whiteboard and would almost certainly unravel the second our boots hit the dust. The idea? Split into two-man teams: Johan with Marlin, Vinka with me. Each pair would deliver, set up, and train local operators on the freshly minted Radio in a Box (Riab) systems.

The design was clever—portable stations, interpreters doubling as presenters, soldiers moonlighting as producers and engineers. The kit kept humming, the interpreters kept talking, and suddenly you had a radio station broadcasting straight into the villages. Simple, effective, and if we got it right, game-changing.

The CO listened, nodding like it had been his idea all along, then gave us the green light. Just like that, it was on. From there, it was pre-deployment training—though, honestly, between the four of us we could’ve written the manual ourselves. In triplicate. In five languages. And probably with better jokes than the official version.

To fill the final gaps in our knowledge, we embedded ourselves with the factory building the Riab's—days spent elbow-deep in circuit boards, cables, and the occasional “feature” that was really just a design flaw with a posh label. They showed us the lot: how to raise the antenna without losing your fingers, tune the transmitter so it didn’t try broadcasting to Mars, and what bit to kick if it stopped working. (Spoiler: it wasn’t the Riab.)

From there, it was on to BFBS at Chalfont, where we discovered the fine art of teaching presenters and producers without resorting to shouting—or tears. Then we toured a string of civilian radio stations, sitting in on live shows, grilling producers, and picking up all the little tricks they never cover in a signals brief. Armed with all that, we wrote a training programme so idiot-proof it made IKEA instructions look like the blueprints for a nuclear reactor. One week on the ground, and we could take anyone—from rifleman to rogue DJ—and turn them into a half-decent station crew.

Of course, Johan and I had already dipped our toes in the radio chaos pond. Back in mid-2007, we’d been dropped into Sangin to set up one of the old 4KW transmitters—great lumbering things that looked like they’d been designed by someone who really didn’t like soldiers. We cobbled it together, got it humming, and trained up a handful of interpreters to do the talking while their minders wrestled the knobs and dials. Against all odds, it worked. For a glorious couple of weeks, Sangin had a proper local voice on the airwaves.

But then came the Rip—the handover. The new team must’ve thought the kit ran on hopes, vibes, and a bit of shouting, because within a fortnight it was dead. Not “needs a tune-up” dead, but “scrapheap challenge” dead. No broadcasts. No messaging. No way to reach the locals except by foot patrols—by then about as safe as juggling live grenades. We tried not to say, “We told you so.” Honestly, we did. But it slipped out more than once. Maybe twice.

Fast forward to mid-November 2008, and the four of us were off again—this time hitching our wagon to 3 Commando Brigade. We’d done our homework properly: briefed the entire Headquarters element, run through every Battle Group commander, and made sure no one could pull the classic “Who are you lot?” routine when we rolled in with more antennas than sense.

It felt good—better than good—to be back alongside the Royal Marines. They were sharp, professional, and harder than frozen rations, yet they still managed to laugh at the absurdity of it all. We landed with fourteen Riab sets, each one preloaded, prepped, and practically gift-wrapped. The laptops were crammed with music, jingles, local-language messages, and—if I know the lads at BFBS—probably the odd questionable track slipped in just to see if anyone noticed.

Everything looked squared away, ready to go. All we had to do now? Make it work. On time. Across a warzone. Easy.

We didn’t have time to train anyone up before deploying—classic military timing—so we hit the ground running. No easing in, no gentle acclimatisation. Just boots still warm from the flight and a to-do list longer than a Corporal’s excuses. First order of business: find Buzzard.

Now, Buzzard wasn’t a bird, nor a callsign, but the man in theatre—the flight ops guru at Bastion. If you wanted to get anywhere, Buzzard made it happen. If Buzzard didn’t like you? You were going nowhere. Fortunately, he liked us. Maybe it was the promise of a stash of Yorkshire Tea, or maybe it was the clean USB stick Stephen waved like a peace offering. Either way, we were in his good books, and that meant choppers on demand.

With that sorted, we got our very own container down by the helipad. Not glamorous—more like an oven on legs—but it had a lock, strict access protocols, and enough warning signs slapped on it to scare off even the most curious bootneck. That was our Riab store. Next stop was Lashkar Gah, to link in with the team directing us on where each box of magic needed planting.

Meanwhile, back at Bastion, we’d been issued a four-man portacabin for accommodation. Basic, roasting in the daytime, freezing at night—but it had the one thing that mattered most: a whiteboard. Within 24 hours, it was less “admin board” and more “sarcastic graffiti wall,” covered in doodles, reminders, and Johan’s best attempts at poetry. It was home, after a fashion.

November in Helmand isn’t the frying pan we remembered—it’s more like standing in front of a giant hairdryer that suddenly gives up and turns into an industrial freezer the minute the sun drops. Days still dusty and warm enough to keep you sweating, nights sharp enough to make you wish you’d packed your nan’s hot-water bottle. So when we checked in at HQ Lashkar Gah, wrapped up in softies under our body armour, the first thing I wanted was a brew and a heater that actually worked.

Instead, we got something better: familiar faces. There in the Ops Company office were the RQMS and the Sergeant Major—two men we’d once suffered through Lympstone training with, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and Bergen frames were made of stone. The reunion spilled straight into dinner—loud, rowdy, full of the kind of belly laughs you only get with people who’ve seen you at your absolute worst.

It was all there—bad impressions of old instructors, scandalous stories that really shouldn’t ever make it into print, and more piss-taking than sense. By the time dessert rolled round, the Sergeant Major had slapped me on the back so hard I nearly inhaled my rice pudding.

The best bit, though? They meant it when they said: “Anything you need—kit, transport, biscuits—you ask.” Solid blokes through and through. Because out here, it was never about the stripes on your sleeve or the shine on your boots. It was about knowing exactly who would have your back when things went sideways.

Camp Bastion had changed. And by changed, I mean exploded—like someone had taken a sleepy builder’s yard, fed it steroids, and left it in the sun too long. What used to be a couple of neat rows of tents in the dust was now a full-blown metropolis. You needed a map, a compass, and possibly a sherpa just to find the showers.

The walk from the helipad to the hospital? A mile. A mile! Along the way you’d pass endless sandbagged offices, accommodation blocks, and at least three contradictory signs telling you where the galley wasn’t. In the middle sat the main cookhouse, dishing out mystery meat by the ton—enough calories to fuel a platoon and enough grease to re-oil a Land Rover.

The Americans had carved out their Special Forces compound up north—bristling with kit, muscle, and an aura of “don’t even think about looking in here.” To the south, the Danes had set up camp, all quiet style and understated efficiency. You couldn’t fault them—they somehow managed to make their tents look like something out of a Scandinavian furniture catalogue. To the east lay the runways, stretching so far into the horizon you half expected them to run straight into India.

With a dozen or so national contingents, more units than anyone could count, and roughly ten thousand troops squeezed into Bastion, it felt less like a camp and more like a chaotic military city-state. Getting around without a GPS, a packed lunch, and a very patient sense of humour? Almost impossible.

By the end of our first week in theatre, we’d stopped looking like lost tourists and started acting like we belonged. Contact lists? Built. Direct lines? Locked in. Enough institutional clout to move mountains—or at least a few stubborn majors? In the bag. We’d learned quickly which offices to knock on, which to avoid, and who could make things happen with one phone call.

Johan and Marlin were the first out the gate, two Riab kits strapped into the belly of a Chinook that thundered out of Bastion in a haze of dust and rotor wash. Their destination: Lashkar Gah HQ. Within hours, they had one system humming in the PSE cell, the antenna up, and the local team already pressing buttons like they’d been born in a studio.

Then came the stroke of luck—if you can call being ambushed by the Brigade Commander’s diary luck. Johan and Marlin found themselves corralled into the nightly briefing, standing in front of a room full of brass with a laptop and a lot of nerve. They kept it short, sharp, and jargon-free: what we were, what we did, and why it mattered.

The Brigadier didn’t miss a beat. He leaned back, gave that deliberate pause that makes everyone sweat, and said: “Every Battle Group commander here is to give these four every ounce of support they need—no excuses.”

That one line opened more doors than a crowbar. From then on, every HQ, every patrol base, every commander knew exactly where we stood. We weren’t begging favours anymore—we were mission critical. And that, in this game, was worth more than gold.

Johan and Marlin’s second mission dropped them into Nad-e Ali, where the so-called District Centre looked less like a civic hub and more like someone had plonked Hesco and concertina wire around a dusty football pitch. Inside sat a Company group, a platoon of ANA, and a collection of ANP whose main contribution seemed to be perfecting the art of leaning against walls.

They were handed four interpreters and two Afghan lads who were “good with wires”—which in Helmand usually meant they’d once fixed a radio with chewing gum. Marlin corralled the linguists into something resembling a newsroom, while Johan introduced the “techies” to the mysteries of cables, laptops, and why shouting at a transmitter doesn’t actually make it work.

It was a week of tea-fuelled chaos—translation drills, dodgy power supplies, and one unforgettable moment when Johan discovered the antenna was bolted to a wall that wasn’t attached to the building. But by day six, they had a working Riab: antenna up, playlists loaded, presenters trained, and the ANA already arguing over which song should be first on air.

The real surprise? Within forty-eight hours of going live, a farmer walked half a mile just to tell them—in impeccable Pashto—that the music “wasn’t bad.” High praise indeed. In fact, in Helmand terms, it was about as good as a five-star TripAdvisor review. The message was clear: people were listening. And once you’ve got ears, you’ve got influence.

Kajaki was the end of the earth with a hydroelectric dam bolted onto it. The compound clung to the hills like it had been built out of leftover Lego and optimism. The locals called it strategic. I called it bleak with a side of windburn.

Still, we had a job to do. The interpreters were sharp but cheeky—quick with words, slower with wires. Stephen got them talking, reading scripts, and arguing about whether cricket commentary or Pashto folk songs pulled more listeners. Meanwhile, I had the “tech crew,” three young men who knew how to switch things on but not why. By the end of day two, they were lining up jingles, fading music, and even recording their own news bites.

They called it OP Athan’s—a rocky spur high over the Kajaki Dam, the kind of perch that gave you both a breathtaking view and a permanent knot in your stomach. Getting our Riab kit up there was a mission in itself. The Chinook crew weren’t daft—they dropped us at the base and left us to hump the gear the last stretch, sweating like dockers and muttering curses that would’ve made a padre blush.

But once it was set up? Magic. From OP Athan’s you could see everything: the blue sweep of the reservoir, the valley villages, and the dusty trails threading between them. The transmitter hummed into life, antenna standing proud against the Afghan sky, and suddenly we weren’t just a handful of soldiers on a hill—we were a voice that carried across half of Helmand. Farmers stopped mid-field, kids paused in their games, even the goats seemed to cock their ears. It was working.

The interpreters loved it. Every morning they climbed that hill like pilgrims, scripts in hand, ready to sit behind the mic as though it was Radio Kabul gone local. Their Pashto and Dari rolled out over the valley, and for once, we could actually see the audience below as we broadcast. It was surreal—like doing live radio with the whole of Helmand as your studio window.

Of course, OP Athan’s had its “quirks.” The generator coughed, cables sulked, and one sandstorm tried to bury the whole setup in a single night. But every time that little red light blinked on, it felt like defiance. OP Athan’s became more than just a hilltop with kit—it was a symbol. A lighthouse of sound, shining out across a war-torn valley.

Funny thing about setting up at OP Athan’s—just as we were manhandling the antenna into place, sweating and swearing in equal measure, the Ops Company down in the valley got themselves into a proper scrap. From our perch, we had a front-row seat. Calls crackled over the net, bursts of gunfire echoed faintly up the slopes, and then—like something out of a film—two jets came screaming in low over the ridgeline.

We froze, antenna half-raised, watching as they loosed a pair of 500-pounders. The valley below bloomed with dust and smoke, the sound rolling up the hillside like thunder. The ground under our boots actually trembled. We just stood there, mouths open, spanner in hand, antenna wobbling dangerously to one side.

Johan would’ve called it “close air support with complimentary pyrotechnics.” Me? I just muttered, “Well… that’ll liven up their day.” Then we went straight back to bolting the antenna together like it was the most normal thing in the world. War outside the wire, radio inside it.

Later, when the system went live and our first broadcast drifted out over the valley, I couldn’t help but wonder if any of the lads we’d just seen running for cover were listening now—hearing calm words on the airwaves while the echoes of those bombs still bounced around their hills. Afghanistan, in a nutshell: chaos and connection, all in the same breath.

That evening, we shuffled into the galley—one of those big green tents where the menu was always “mystery meat” but the gossip was Michelin-star. Plates in hand, we were halfway through trying to guess what flavour of beige we’d been served when in walked Ross Kemp, camera crew in tow. Bald dome shining under the strip lights, he looked every bit the action hero parachuted into a warzone.

He clocked us immediately—dusty boots, half-mismatched kit, the kind of faces that didn’t scream “infantry platoon.” Tray in hand, he wandered over, curiosity written all over him. “So… what are you lot doing out here?” he asked. Without missing a beat, I leaned forward and deadpanned, “If we told you that, we’d have to kill you.” His crew nearly dropped their forks, but Stephen cracked up, and Ross gave me that knowing grin—like he’d just been handed a story.

We eventually let him in on the real secret—PsyOps, radios, leaflets, all the bits most people never hear about. And fair play to him, he was genuinely interested. Not just nodding for the cameras either—he sat with us for ages, asking sharp questions, laughing at the right moments, properly switched on. Felt less like a celebrity visit, more like chatting to an old mate who happened to bring his own lighting team.

Next morning, first light, his crew packed up and clambered aboard a waiting Chinook bound for Musa Qala. He gave us a wave, that trademark grin still plastered on his face, and then he was gone in a whirl of rotor wash. We went back to our interpreters, our broadcasts, and—believe it or not—an unusually good lentil stew in the galley. Even in Helmand, life has its small mercies.

By the time Marlin and I got to Musa Qala, the place looked like the set of a war film—dust, sanger's, and enough sandbags to build a second wall of China. We were barely a day into setting up the Riab when in walked Ross Kemp with his crew, all cameras and kit bags. We’d already had a heads-up from Vinka and Stephen at Kajaki—something about him popping into the galley and asking awkward questions—so when he spotted us, he grinned like we were old mates.

He came straight over, tray in hand, and said, “Ah, you’re the other two!” He asked after Kajaki, wanted to know if the system was working, and laughed when I told him it was running fine as long as no one kicked the generator. He was sharp, genuinely interested, and stuck around long after most people would’ve drifted off.

Eventually, he admitted he couldn’t squeeze us into the documentary—everything was already storyboarded. Fair enough, telly has its own rules. Didn’t bother us in the slightest. Still, I couldn’t resist winding him up. “Truth is, Ross, you’re worried Vinka will upstage you—she’s been bossing Afghan techs about like a Scandinavian Jedi.” He nearly dropped his fork laughing. “You might be right,” he said, shaking his head.

Setting up the Riab in Musa Qala was a different beast altogether. No commanding hilltop, no sweeping views—just the dusty sprawl of a compound in the middle of mostly flat farmland. Wheat fields stretched out to the horizon, crisscrossed with irrigation ditches and the occasional cluster of mud-walled compounds. It looked peaceful enough, but we knew better. Every tree line could hide a firing point, every ditch a movement route.

The compound itself was a hive of organised chaos. ANA drifting about, ANP leaning on anything solid, and our lads working double-time to keep the place secure. We found a corner of the compound, ran the cables, bolted the antenna to something vaguely stable, and within a couple of days had the Riab humming along nicely. Marlin worked the interpreters hard, drilling them on voice delivery and message flow, while I wrangled the so-called “techies” into not electrocuting themselves.

To our surprise, the broadcasts caught on quickly. Within 48 hours, locals were talking about what they’d heard—farmers mentioning the health tips, kids humming the jingles, even one old man who walked half a mile just to tell us, “The music is not bad.” From an Afghan elder, that was practically a five-star review.

Flat land or not, Musa Qala carried our voices far. Out there, with no TV and precious little else to compete, we became the soundtrack of the valley. Not bad for a couple of boxes, some cables, and a handful of interpreters with more enthusiasm than training.