Radio Garmsir: British PsyOps in Helmand (2008–09) | Royal Welsh, RIAB, Sangin, MBEs & a Shock Twist

Real British military & life stories from the 1970s–2010s: Germany postings, Afghanistan/Helmand, PsyOps & Intelligence, rugby, skiing, Mess life and family—told with humour, honesty, and hard-won lessons. Subscribe for true operations, training insights, and veterans’ stories.

From frostbitten Garmsir to the tense alleys of Sangin, this episode shows how a tiny PsyOps team turned RIAB (Radio in a Box) into a force-multiplier across Helmand. We set up Radio Garmsir inside the FOB (too risky in the District Centre), raised an antenna over HESCO, and—within 48 hours—song requests flooded in. The Royal Welsh pushed south and our broadcasts carried with them, families gathering at PBs to listen. We fixed Sangin’s fried 4kW set, trained local presenters, and stood up stations at Kajaki, Girishk (with our superb Danish hosts), and beyond.

Expect real British Army ops: dusty convoys, interpreters on the mic, near-misses, a Christmas sing-along cut short by incoming, a life-saving flight change at PB Gibraltar, and a rare Brigade “bloody impressive.” Back home came doctrine changes, training the next wave—and a double-shock finale: MBEs on the 2009 Queen’s Birthday Honoursand a £12.5m syndicate win.

If you love authentic military & life stories, Afghanistan operations, PsyOps/Int, plus the thread of rugby, skiing, Mess life, and family, you’re in the right place.

Transcript

By the time winter closed in, Stephen and I were dispatched south to Garmsir—about as far as you could go in Helmand without ending up in Pakistan. The landscape was a flat sprawl of farmland: irrigation ditches, bare fields, and the occasional mud compound crouched against the cold. The Royal Welsh were running the show here, a hardy bunch who looked like they’d been posted to the freezer aisle of Afghanistan.

The heart of Garmsir was the District Centre—a cluster of shops, a school, and the police station. On paper, it was perfect for a Riab hub: central, visible, and right in the middle of the community. But the Ops lads shook their heads. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. The place had been fought over more times than anyone cared to count, and no one fancied the risk of sticking our shiny new broadcast kit in the line of fire.

So the plan shifted. Instead of the District Centre, we tucked the Riab into the corner of the Fob. Less glamorous, less accessible—but safer. We carved out a room, strung the antenna high over the HESCO walls, and set up shop where at least we had protection from incoming trouble. The interpreters grumbled about the walk from the District Centre, but once they saw the kit humming, their eyes lit up.

Within forty-eight hours, we were broadcasting. A cautious test run one afternoon—thirty minutes of music and messages—just to see if the signal carried. The next morning, we went live properly. By lunchtime, a handful of locals had braved the cold to approach the Fob. We thought they were coming to complain. Instead, they clutched scraps of paper, asking if we could dedicate songs to their friends and families. I nearly dropped my pen.

That was the breakthrough. Instead of wallpaper, we were something people actually wanted to tune into. Radio Garmsir was born—not with a bang, but with song requests scribbled on scraps of paper. Even the Royal Welsh started joking that we’d launched Helmand’s Top 40, right there from a corner of the Fob.

Over the next few days, the trickle turned into a flood. Dozens of local men began showing up—all with handwritten notes, some on crumpled paper, others on scraps of cardboard, all carefully folded. Vinka, ever the innovator, suggested the interpreters play a few songs dedicated to women, just to test the water. That afternoon, a surge of new notes arrived—still from men, but now on behalf of their sisters, cousins, or possibly imaginary girlfriends, all requesting tracks. We didn’t question it. We just played the tunes.

Meanwhile, the Royal Welsh had pushed a good ten miles further south, setting up a line of patrol bases just north of the Pakistan border. Their job was to keep eyes on one of the Taliban’s main infiltration routes—tracking who was coming and going, day and night. We sent a batch of wind-up radios down with the resupply convoys and asked them to test whether our Garmsir broadcasts carried that far. The result came back grinning: loud and clear. Within days, the Welsh lads were handing out radios to the locals living around their PBs'. Evenings saw little clusters of families gathering outside their compounds, listening to the music and messages drifting in from “Radio Garmsir.” For the first time, our words carried beyond a single market square—they were reaching whole communities strung out along a route the Taliban thought they owned.

By the time we flew out a few days later, we’d collected over a thousand song requests—more than most DJs see in a month. That evening, back in Lash, we briefed the Brigade Commander on the success of Garmsir and Kajaki. His reaction? A raised eyebrow, a slow nod, and the very rare military phrase: “Bloody impressive.” Then he asked the obvious follow-up: how soon could we expand the coverage to support the Welsh line in the south?

We told the Brigadier straight: the reach was already there. The Garmsir broadcasts were carrying all the way down to the Welsh patrol bases, clear as a bell. What we didn’t add—at least not until he leaned in—was that we were planning to supercharge it. Back in the UK, a handful of bespoke 1kW transmitters were being built for us. Once they arrived in theatre, we’d get one pushed down south, giving the lads near the border a broadcast footprint so wide even the Taliban would struggle to avoid it.

He gave one of those slow, careful nods—the kind senior officers use when they’re trying not to look too pleased. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Make it happen.” That was all the approval we needed. Plans were already scribbled in notebooks, kit lists half-drafted, and contacts primed. It wasn’t just about getting messages into villages anymore—it was about owning the airwaves from Lash all the way to the Pakistan border. And with the new transmitters, we’d do exactly that.

Next stop: Sangin—via Bastion to pick up a couple of fresh Riab sets. Sangin hadn’t changed much since I was last there—still dusty, still tense, still bristling with character you didn’t really want to meet after dark. The kit we’d installed the year before, however, hadn’t aged quite so gracefully. The 4KW transmitter we’d sweated blood over? Gone. Well, not gone exactly—more “sacrificed on the altar of operator error.”

Turns out, someone had unbolted it from the vehicle, dragged it into a room, disconnected the co ax to the antenna… and then, in a fit of optimism, fired it up at full power anyway. Result: one very expensive, very dead box of fried circuits. To make matters worse, the safety cut-off hadn’t worked, so the poor thing had gone down in a blaze of electromagnetic glory.

We stared at the carcass for a moment, then shrugged, cracked on, and rolled out the new Riab kit. Within two days we had a local team trained, interpreters prepped, and broadcasts humming across Sangin again. The old 4KW was stripped, packed, and labelled for backloading to Chicksands. It eventually limped home a year later, looking like it had been dragged through three wars and maybe a camel race for good measure. The engineers took one look, shook their heads, and wrote it off on the spot. Another glorious chapter in the long saga of military kit: heroic in theory, tragic in practice.

Marlin and I drew the short straw—or the lucky one, depending how you looked at it—and got dispatched to Girishk. Picture a sun-baked patch of dust halfway between Sangin and Lashkar Gah, where the only thing moving faster than the wind was the occasional donkey cart. The Fob there was Danish-run, which meant the whole place looked suspiciously like an IKEA catalogue: neat rows, clean corners, and an espresso machine that worked better than half the vehicles.

The Danes were brilliant—efficient to the bone, and with a sense of calm that made you wonder if they’d secretly solved war already. Sharing the compound were a handful of sunburnt Americans, who, bless them, seemed permanently baffled by British humour. Johan cracked a joke about Danish pastries one morning and got three blank stares and a muttered, “Copy that.”

Still, it was a good gig. A couple of the Danes had come through Chicksands the year before, so the reunion involved hugs, backslaps, and the universal NATO game of “let’s see who’s had it worse since last time.”

We spent the week getting the team up to speed, tweaking the kit, and gently correcting some fairly creative interpretations of radio maintenance. At one point, Johan had to diplomatically explain that no, you can’t just plug the transmitter straight into the generator and hope for the best. To their credit, they listened, learned, and by the time we lifted out, the broadcasts were flowing smoothly and the locals were already tuning in.

It started out as one of those silly little moments that breaks the grind. We were in a Fob canteen—dusty benches, lukewarm tea, the works—when some joker put on a scratched CD of Christmas songs. “Fairytale of New York” blasting out in the middle of Helmand was funny in a surreal, what-the-hell kind of way. Blokes were singing along, out of tune, pretending for five minutes they were back home in the pub. Even I cracked a grin.

Then the incoming alarm went off. Just like that, the laughter snapped shut. Mortar rounds started walking towards the base, whistling down with that stomach-dropping sound you never forget. Everyone dived for cover—half-finished mugs of tea abandoned, plates skidding across tables. In seconds, the Christmassy singalong had turned into a grim chorus of explosions.

One round landed close enough to rattle the windows and spray grit across the floor. Someone muttered, “Merry bloody Christmas,” and we all hunkered lower. The contrast hit hard—five minutes earlier we’d been laughing, and now we were waiting to see if the next one had our name on it.

When it finally stopped, we picked ourselves up, dusted off, and went back to our lukewarm tea. No one said much. Just a few nervous chuckles, like we were trying to laugh the fear away. That’s how it went out there—one moment you were human again, the next you were reminded exactly where you were.

By some miracle of scheduling—and probably a sympathetic nod from Buzzard—we managed to get all four of us in Camp Bastion for our birthday week. First time we’d been in the same place in months. The porta cabin they gave us wasn’t exactly the Ritz—four bunks, a dodgy heater, and the faint smell of diesel—but it was ours. We celebrated with the kind of luxury only Bastion could provide: tinned cake, lukewarm custard from the cookhouse, and a smuggled bottle of ginger beer. Doesn’t sound like much, but sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, alive and together, it was priceless.

Christmas came next. No snow, just dust, diesel fumes, and a faintly ridiculous attempt at decorations in the galley—tinsel strung between sandbags and a cardboard Santa taped to a blast wall. Still, the cooks pulled off a miracle: turkey, stuffing, roast potatoes, even a Christmas pudding that had clearly been shipped via three continents. We pulled crackers, wore paper crowns, and laughed at the terrible jokes until our sides ached. Best of all, we queued for the sat phones and managed to call home. Every one of the kids picked up. For half an hour apiece, voices crackled down the line—grandchildren chattering, partners filling us in on family gossip, and the kids making us promise to stay safe. Those calls were worth more than all the presents in Sweden.

After Boxing Day, we flew into Lash for New Year. The HQ lads had scrounged up a battered stereo and a crate of “near beer,” so we saw 2009 in with mock champagne toasts and a playlist that lurched wildly from Afghan folk songs to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. At midnight, we stood on the roof of the compound, looking out over the city. No fireworks, no crowds—just tracer fire on the horizon and the sound of distant dogs barking. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real.

A week together. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year—all crammed into seven fleeting days of laughter, shared meals, crackling phone calls to the kids, and the comfort of being whole again. Then, just as quickly, it was back to work—rotors thumping, dust swirling, and four pairs of boots heading out in different directions once more.

All four of us happened to pitch up at Patrol Base Gibraltar in the Sangin Valley within an hour of each other—a pure fluke of movement orders and, more likely, Buzzard’s divine flight scheduling. The place was being run by Captain Tom, an old mate from the Telemark skiing circuit, remembered as much for his perfect turns as for his hideous taste in après-ski knitwear. He had a small, tight-knit team and was genuinely chuffed to see us. We’d brought a Riab with us, so between the brews, the banter, and Tom’s running commentary on “the joys of Sangin,” we got it set up, trained his lads, and spent four days pulling our weight around the PB.

On the final afternoon, the plan was simple: head out with Tom on a foot patrol, meet a few elders, and see if anyone had clocked the broadcasts. Boots laced, helmets ready—we were halfway there. Then the message came through, straight from Buzzard’s desk at Bastion: “Only flight out today lifts at 1130. Miss it, and you’re stuck for days.” We looked at our boots, looked at Tom, then at each other. With no choice, we made the reluctant call to pack up.

At the time, it felt like an inconvenience. Later, we realised it had probably saved our lives.

We landed back in Lash that afternoon, heads full of kit lists and the last Riab installs to tick off, when the Ops Room dropped the hammer: Op Minimise. All comms cut. No calls home until families were told. The whole place seemed to hold its breath. Minutes dragged like hours.

Then the news came in. Tom had been killed by a blue on blue incident, the very patrol we’d planned to join.

The silence between us was deafening. That night we sat together in the dark, no banter, no bravado—just the four of us, breathing the same heavy air. Shell-shocked. Lucky. Guilty. Grateful. Numb. Words came and went in fragments, but mostly there was nothing to say.

Tom wasn’t just another name on a list. He was a mate—a man we’d skied with, laughed with, trusted. And the truth was brutal. If Buzzard hadn’t shuffled that flight manifest, we’d have been right there beside him.

We took a couple of days off, holed up in Lashkar Gah. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn’t. But one thing was certain: the job would go on. It always did. Only now, every broadcast, every message, every decision carried Tom’s shadow with it.

By the time we’d zigzagged Helmand like a tactical version of Santa’s sleigh run—minus the reindeer, plus a lot more dust—we were down to our last two Riab's. Every Battle Group, every outpost, every corner of the province that mattered now had a voice on the airwaves.

Those final two sets were treated like crown jewels. We tucked them away at the PSE in Lash, wrapped in spare kit and watchful eyes, ready to be flown out the moment one of the others coughed its last. And they would—Afghan dust had a way of turning even the sturdiest bit of kit into scrap.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was smart. Spares meant resilience, and resilience meant broadcasts stayed live. Out here, losing a radio voice was like pulling the plug on half the battle.

One morning after a downpour, we had to cross the compound to the radio tent. Sounded simple. Should’ve been simple. Except the entire ground had turned into one giant suction trap. I took three steps, and suddenly my boots weighed more than my bergen. “Bloody hell,” I muttered, trying to yank my right foot free, only for the left to sink deeper. Behind me, Johan was already laughing—until the mud claimed him too.

Marlin tried the delicate approach, tiptoeing along like a ballerina. Two strides in and whoop—down she went to her knees, arms windmilling. Johan, still stuck, leaned forward to help and immediately pitched face-first into the muck. I had to turn away because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. And Stephen? He wasn’t much better—staggering like a drunk trying to leave the pub at closing time.

I spotted the walking boards about ten feet away, salvation in plank form. “If we can just make it there—” I started, before the mud sucked clean through my lace and tried to keep my boot as a souvenir. I ended up hopping across barefoot, one sock turning a heroic shade of Helmand brown.

By the time we all made it to the boards, we looked like swamp creatures. The local ANA lads were doubled over laughing, one even miming swimming strokes at us. Johan muttered something unprintable, Marlin flipped him a muddy salute, and Stephen—sock ruined—just grinned. “Forget the Taliban,” he said. “We need air support just to cross the yard.”

And she wasn’t wrong. That mud could’ve held its own in a firefight.

A few days later, bags packed and dust still clinging to our kit, we finally got word we were heading home. Turns out, we weren’t flying alone—our fellow passenger was none other than Ross Kemp and his camera crew. He’d been back to the UK for a quick reset and was now on his return leg, though we reckoned he mostly missed the galley curry.

The flight itself was textbook military chaos. First, we were told it was direct. Then—surprise!—we stopped in Cyprus for two days, no one able to explain why. Half the flight thought it was refuelling, the other half swore it was paperwork. Personally, I think someone fancied a beach day.

When we finally landed at Brize Norton, the real comedy began. We filed off the Herc, bleary-eyed, expecting at least a driver, maybe even a corporal with a clipboard. Nothing. Just an empty arrivals hall and the faint smell of wet concrete. Ross Kemp looked as baffled as the rest of us.

Still, he took it well. We teased him mercilessly about his “gritty voiceovers” and his EastEnders scowl. To his credit, he gave back as good as he got. By the time we’d scrounged lifts and sorted ourselves out, we’d swapped numbers with him. Though whether any of us would ever dare actually text Ross Kemp—that’s another matter.

We rolled back through the gates of Chicksands in March 2009, all aged 53, and all carrying that same odd cocktail—relief, weariness, pride. We’d known on the flight home: that was it. Our last deployment. No more dust, no more patrols, no more lugging forty kilos across hostile ground. From here on, the adrenaline of ops would be swapped for the fluorescent glow of PowerPoint and flip charts. Boots off the ground, brains in the room.

And yet, it wasn’t an ending. Not really. Our new job was just as vital—passing on every lesson we’d scraped together over decades. We set about building training courses that turned ordinary soldiers into Riab whisperers. From the basics—setting up the transmitter, tuning the antenna—to the art of running a broadcast under pressure. We even included a section titled: How Not to Incinerate Your Kit—with Sangin cited as Exhibit A...

We handed over everything—course notes, lesson plans, step-by-step guides that could make IKEA blush—and all the stories that never made it into the official manual. Watching those young sergeants lean in, ask questions, and start to get it… that was the payoff.

Because in the end, the kit was clever, but useless on its own. Without good people running it with purpose and clarity, it was nothing more than an expensive metal box humming static. Our mission now was making sure the next lot could do better than we had—starting where we left off, not stumbling through the same mistakes.

Unbeknownst to us, good old Major, now Brigadier Bruce had been keeping tabs on our escapades. Not just skimming our reports for typos, but actually clocking what we’d pulled off over the years. Then—out of the blue—came the posh envelopes. Lord Chancellor’s Office, no less. Thick cream paper, gold crest, the sort of thing you half-expect to explode if you open it wrong. Inside: the news. We were all on the 2009 Queen’s Birthday Operational Honours List. MBE's. I had to sit down.

Gobsmacked doesn’t even begin to cover it. We’d always seen ourselves as workhorses—boots, brains, banter—not medals and titles. And now here we were, told we were about to become Members of the Order of the British Empire. The catch? We were sworn to absolute secrecy until it hit the London Gazette. So, for a whole month, we had to carry on as if nothing had happened. Four very ordinary people—only we weren’t ordinary anymore. We were national treasures-in-waiting… not that anyone could know.

Back when the National Lottery first launched, we’d set up a syndicate for a laugh. Four quid here, four quid there—it was pocket change, a standing order we forgot existed most of the time. Until one otherwise bland Saturday, when the screen in front of us spelled out something absurd: £12.5 million. We sat there, jaws slack, blinking like owls. I must’ve checked those numbers twenty-seven times before daring to say anything out loud.

The noise that followed could probably have been heard back in Sweden. Four allegedly grown adults shrieking, laughing, and hugging like we’d just scored the winning try at Twickenham. Marlin nearly fell off her chair. Johan demanded we ring Camelot immediately—and then insisted on speaking to the operator himself, just to double check we weren’t collectively hallucinating. When the calm voice on the other end confirmed it was real, we all went silent. That rare, heavy silence you only get when life tilts on its axis. £12.5 million. Just like that.

Over the years, we’d had those late-night, slightly tipsy conversations—what if we won the lottery? You know the ones. We’d laugh about a big house by the sea, a garage stuffed with bikes, and a Hallberg-Rassy gleaming at the dock, ready to whisk us round the Atlantic circuit. Pie in the sky stuff. The kind of chat you file alongside “when I grow up, I’ll be an astronaut.”

And yet… there it was. Not just a dream, not just Mess banter over too much rum. A £12.5 million-sized reality. The numbers matched, the call to Camelot confirmed it, and suddenly our daft daydreams weren’t daft anymore. Johan immediately started muttering about espresso machines in every room of the house, Marlin wanted to know how many bikes counted as “sensible,” and I just sat there, laughing and crying at the same time. We’d joked about it for years—but none of us had.

Still, we weren’t about to chuck it all in and disappear into the sunset—tempting as that sounded. We had a couple of years left on our contracts, and truth be told, we weren’t the sort to scarper before the job was done. Besides, what would we do with ourselves—play golf badly and argue about wallpaper? Not our style.