From Kabul | Inside Real British Army Life in Afghanistan 2002

Step inside real British Army life during the early days of Afghanistan 2002. From Kabul takes you beyond the headlines and into the tents, briefing rooms, and dust-filled streets where humour, loyalty, and sheer determination kept the mission alive.

Follow Vinka, Marlin, Stephen, Johan, Simmo, and Major Bruce as they transform a battered PsyOps team into a working force — building Kabul’s first tri-language newspaper from scratch, juggling broken printers, NATO politics, and endless cups of tea. Witness daily life at HQ Isaf: from chaotic translations and coffee-fuelled briefings to surreal buzkashi tournaments played with a goat, and the quiet moments that held the team together.

This is real soldiering: laughter in the cold, camaraderie in chaos, and stories that reveal the human side of war.

Perfect for fans of true military stories, Royal Anglian Regiment, Intelligence Corps, Cold War Germany, rugby, skiing, and travel through the 1970s–2000s Army life.

🎧 Subscribe for authentic accounts of courage, humour, and everyday life on operations — told by those who lived it.

Transcript

By New Year’s Eve, though, we were back at the Mess, and oh, what a night it turned into. The hall glowed with fairy lights, uniforms were pressed sharp, and every table was stacked high with bottles. The music was loud, the laughter louder. At one point, a conga line broke out — and yes, Ingrid was right in the middle, handbag in the air like a victory flag. I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink. For a few hours, Kabul was pushed to the farthest corner of our minds.

She ain’t exaggerating. That hotel was a tactical withdrawal, plain and simple. You ever tried sleeping on an inflatable mattress with two kids bouncing on it like they’re training for the Paras? Nah. Give me a hotel bed, fresh sheets, and someone else doing the dishes any day.

New Year’s at the Mess, though — that was the proper send-off. The singing? Terrible. The dancing? Even worse. I’ll admit, I may’ve led a rousing version of Auld Lang Syne half a verse ahead of everyone else, but who’s counting? And yes, Ingrid was in that conga line — Johan tried to deny it, but I’ve seen the photographic evidence.

What I remember most, though, was that moment at midnight. The bells rang, glasses clinked, fireworks cracked outside, and I kissed Vinka like it was the last year on earth. Because, truth be told, none of us knew what the next twelve months would bring. But right there, in that room full of laughter and song, we felt untouchable.

And that was how we stepped into 2002 — not with fear or hesitation, but with music in our ears and family at our side. The shadow of deployment was still there, but for one shining night, it felt small, almost manageable. Looking back, I’m glad we had that night. It was a memory to carry with us into the storm.

I found Tim outside the Mess, standing with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching the frost gather on the cars. He looked thoughtful — not moody, just carrying that weight he never quite set down these days. I nudged him with my elbow.

“Don’t tell me you’re brooding already. We’ve not even left yet.”

I gave a half-smile. “Not brooding. Just thinking. This one’ll be my last, Steve. Eighteen months and I’m out.”

I nearly dropped my pint. “What, you? Out? You’ve done nothin’ but march up and down since you were knee-high. What’re you gonna do, run a bakery?”

“Don’t tempt me. But no — I’ve done my bit. Petra deserves me home, proper home, not just on leave. And truth be told, the Army’s younger now. Fitter lads coming through, sharper officers snapping at my heels. My clock’s nearly run down, and I’m alright with it.”

I leaned against the railing, trying to picture life without Tim in uniform. Couldn’t quite manage it. “Well, don’t think you’re bowing out without a fuss. We’ll see Kabul through together, you, me, and Johan. Then you can hang up your boots with some glory left on them.”

My grin widened then, the old spark still there. “That’s the plan, brother. One last push, and then it’s Petra and Ellös for me. Maybe even some peace.”

I joined them just as the frost began to crunch louder underfoot. The bond between those two — brothers in blood and brothers in arms — was unshakable. And though Tim spoke of endings, I knew Stephen heard only the promise of fighting side by side once more. In that cold night air, with the Mess glowing warm behind us, the future felt both heavy and unspoken.

The morning after the Ball, when the house was still heavy with sleeping bodies and the smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen, Petra found me in the quiet. She sat down with that look she gets when something’s been rolling around her head all night.

“Tim told you, didn’t he? About finishing up in eighteen months.”

I nodded. “He did. You sound almost relieved.”

“I am. It’s time, Vinka. He’s given enough. And truth be told, I’m tired of waiting for deployments to end, tired of planning life around Army calendars. Sigrid is grown now, living her own live. It’s just the two of us again. We’ve been talking, and when he leaves the Army… we’re thinking of moving back to Sweden. Ellös, or maybe Gothenburg. Somewhere quiet, somewhere close to family. Just Tim and me, starting fresh.”

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. The thought of Petra and Tim back in Sweden — back where our story first tied together — made me smile. “It sounds right. You’ve both earned it. And in Ellös, you’ll have peace, and family close. It’s a good place to come home to.”

Her eyes softened then, and for the first time in months, she looked less like the seasoned Army wife, and more like the girl who’d once slipped into Tim’s arms in Hitchin all those years ago.

On the 2nd of January, the entire Swedish battalion packed up and flew home — bellies full, heads sore, and with enough stories to keep the neighbours in Ellös gossiping for years. The houses in Hitchin felt strangely quiet after that, though not for long. The calm after the storm only made the waiting feel louder.

We already had our kit, caboodle, and creature comforts packed and stacked, ready to go at a moment’s notice — or rather, at a moment’s notice after several weeks of thumb-twiddling. Everything from helmets to hardtack had to be flown in, and the more boots went on the ground, the more bog roll, batteries, and biscuits had to follow. Logistics, eh? Less like a machine, more like a drunk elephant in ski boots trying ballet.

So we waited. And waited. And then waited some more. Bags packed, boots polished, passports ready, yet nothing moved. Every morning I checked the orders as if the paper might have changed overnight. Every evening I folded the same shirts back into the same bags, telling myself patience was part of the job.

By week three, we’d turned thumb-twiddling into an Olympic sport. Synchronised, disciplined, polished. If Kabul had needed a platoon of professional waiters, we’d have been top of the medal table. But soldiers waiting is dangerous — too much time to think. And I reckon we all knew that once the waiting ended, the hard bit would really begin.

Finally, second week of January, the stars only went and lined up — or rather, the airlift schedule did — and we got the nod. Advance party, they said: Major Bruce, Johan, and yours truly. Armed with a bit of experience, buckets of enthusiasm, and about two pallets of kit that made us look like we were setting up a travelling circus for middle management.

Half a dozen camp beds, but a full dozen folding chairs — so clearly sitting down was more important than sleeping. Add in five hulking twelve-by-twelve tents, a stack of whiteboards, laptops, printers, and, naturally, a couple of kettles. Priorities, right?

We’d waited weeks for that moment — false starts, last-minute cancellations, endless whispers of “maybe tomorrow.” Then, all at once, it was real. Orders in hand, kit loaded, and no turning back. I watched Stephen shoulder his bergen with that familiar mix of grin and grimace, and I felt that tug in my chest — pride and fear wrestling for space.

So off we went, clambering aboard a C-17 in the middle of the night, because nothing says “relaxing journey” quite like a tactical landing into a war zone at three in the bloody morning. Engines roaring, kit rattling, stomach doing backflips — that was our welcome to Kabul.

As the engines roared and we strapped in, the loadie gave us a cheery grin and said, “Body armour on, helmets tight — the pilot fancies showing off.” Lovely. Exactly the phrase you want to hear before takeoff.

Crossing into Afghan airspace, the lights went out and the C-17 began what can only be described as controlled chaos. Left, right, up, down — felt like the pilot was trying to shake us out like crumbs from a toaster. Stomachs dropped, kit rattled, and somewhere in the dark Johan muttered something in Swedish that I’m pretty sure wasn’t a hymn.

The landing was brutal — one moment floating, the next slammed down hard enough to rattle teeth. Six seconds of screeching brakes and we were there, in Afghanistan at last. The ramp clattered open, and all we could see was blackness. No welcome committee, no fanfare. Just a single flickering lamp outside a canvas doorway, casting long shadows across the dust.

It didn’t look like the entrance to a headquarters. It looked like the start of a long, uncertain road.

Inside, we were greeted by a Corporal from the movers who looked like he hadn’t slept since Christmas and was running purely on caffeine and spite. He rattled off a “welcome brief” that really set the tone: “Right lads, welcome to Kabul. Here’s a list of things that can bite, sting, or eat you. Don’t pet the dogs, don’t drink the water, and whatever you do, don’t step off the hardstanding — we haven’t cleared all the mines yet.”

Lovely. Nothing says warm Afghan welcome quite like the phrase we haven’t cleared all the mines.

We exchanged glances — part disbelief, part “of course it’s going to be like this.” With that cheery pep talk still ringing in our ears, we gathered our kit, wrestled pallets onto the tarmac, and got waved toward a couple of waiting trucks. Not British, not American — Italian. Olive-drab beasts with canvas backs, smelling of diesel, leather, and too many cigarettes.

Bundled onto the benches, kit piled on top of us, we jolted forward into the Kabul night. Our first taste of Isaf hospitality, and it felt less like an arrival and more like being smuggled into someone else’s war.

So off we trundled into the Afghan night, headlights dimmed, weapons clutched a bit tighter than usual, bouncing along roads that felt more like goat tracks. Kabul after the Taliban was… eerie. Streets deserted, shadows stretched long, the only light coming from the odd oil drum fire, where blokes in mismatched uniforms and suspicious eyes stared at us like we were on the menu.

Our destination? Some compound “somewhere in the city” — to be revealed, apparently, whenever the driver figured it out. Or ran out of diesel. Either way, not exactly confidence-inspiring. “Welcome to Kabul, gentlemen,” I muttered, as we jolted over another pothole. “Mind your step… and try not to explode.”

When we finally stopped, it wasn’t at anything grand. Just a cluster of tents on hardstanding, the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked. We were ushered into one that could only generously be described as basic. And by basic, I mean no heating, no lighting, and the general charm of a walk-in fridge.

Someone thrust a pair of damp wool blankets into our hands, the grand total of our luxury welcome pack. I remember the smell of canvas, diesel fumes still clinging to my kit, and the cold sinking straight through my bones.

As we stumbled into the gloom, trying not to trip over guy ropes, I muttered under my breath, “What’ve we got ourselves into this time?”

From the dark, Johan’s dry whisper floated back, “Exactly what I was thinking.” That set us both off, chuckling like a pair of naughty schoolboys caught nicking biscuits at midnight.

Major Bruce, attempting to claim a corner for himself, gave us the sort of look teachers reserve for unruly pupils. “What’s the joke?” he grumbled.

We told him — our grim little inner commentary on life in a fridge with damp blankets. He gave a long, resigned snort and muttered, “We must be mad.”

Sleep that night was more of a theory than a reality. Between the freezing cold, the stiff camp beds, and the chorus of Kabul nightlife — dogs barking like sentries, donkeys having full-blown domestic arguments — we scraped together maybe two shivers’ worth of rest before first light.

When the sun finally cracked over the horizon — bright, crisp, and entirely unapologetic — we staggered out of the tent like three hungover explorers. Priorities were crystal clear: tea. Everything else could wait.

We shuffled across the compound, breath steaming in the cold air, eyes half-shut against the glare. The galley was little more than a canvas box with a queue attached, but to us it was paradise. A few suspicious stares, some creative negotiations over mugs, and eventually we emerged with three steaming brews.

It wasn’t PG Tips — more like boiled sock water with aspirations — but in that moment it tasted like nectar. The heat cut through the chill, the caffeine sparked life back into our bones, and just like that, morale ticked up a notch. Kabul hadn’t beaten us yet.

Post-tea, we got the grand tour — which turned out to be nothing more than a barren patch of frostbitten dirt. “Home, sweet home,” the guide said with a straight face. Lovely. Still, no time like the present. Sleeves rolled up, optimism cautiously thawing, we cracked on.

First job: clear the ground. Second job: get our five trusty twelve-by-twelves up. Three became work tents, two for sleeping, laid out in a hollow square like some makeshift cowboy fort. Work spaces on one side, kip tents on the other, and a third work tent closing the top of the ‘U’...

Dead centre, we installed the crown jewel — a potbelly stove we’d “acquired” through a mix of winks, bribes, and promises we probably still owe. That little patch in the middle became the garden. Every evening we’d gather round it, wrapped in ponchos, puffing steam like old locomotives, brewing endless rounds of tea, and laughing ourselves warm.

The work tents were divided up with the kind of logic only the Army could manage. One for us and the interpreters, one for the Boss, Vinka, and Marlin — immediately christened the brains tent — and the third for Corporal Simpson, newly promoted to Sergeant, along with his pride and joy: the mighty print press.

It wasn’t much, but it was ours. From frostbitten dirt to a functioning little outpost in the space of a day — that was soldiering in a nutshell. And somehow, between the damp blankets, the dodgy tea, and that stubborn stove, we started to feel like we had a foothold in Kabul.

The girls wrangled their own accommodation tent, which somehow ended up with fairy lights strung across it. Don’t ask me how they smuggled those in — I didn’t dare — but it made our cowboy fort look like it was gearing up for Christmas. Meanwhile, the rest of us — the lads and the Boss — bunked down together in the other.

Fortunately, the Yanks had sorted us with proper cot beds and Therm-a-Rest mats. After that first night in the walk-in fridge tent, they felt like pure luxury. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it kept the frostbite out of our backs and the aches out of our bones.

Best of all, nobody snored loud enough to warrant a court-martial. A small mercy, but in those early days, small mercies were the kind of victories you hung onto.

Over the next fortnight, the rest of the gang trickled in until our little expeditionary force of six was complete. Unlike our Balkan circus, this op was stripped down — lean, mean, and running on just enough caffeine to keep the wheels turning.

We were camped in the grounds of the old university in Kabul’s Consulate quarter, right next door to the faded grandeur of the former military academy. Most days it was quiet enough, but every so often a racket would kick off next door. We’d peek over the wall and find ourselves ringside for a game of buzkashi — that’s polo, only with fewer rules and a lot more goat.

Turbans flying, horses thundering, riders hanging on for dear life — it was Afghanistan’s answer to a day at Twickenham. We’d stand in our makeshift garden, mugs of tea in hand, watching the chaos unfold like it was the best free entertainment going.

The quiet never lasted long, though. One by one, our crew arrived. First came Vinka with Sergeant Simpson — graphic wizard, comms king, and the only man I’ve ever seen make a landmine safety leaflet look like a Milan fashion spread.

Last in was Marlin, hauling the final load of kit and with it the critical mass we needed to really get cracking. Six of us, finally together — a lean little team in the middle of Kabul, ready to get to work.

We marked the reunion in true NATO style: strong tea, stale biscuits, and a few rounds of “who’s got the worst tent-mate.” Simmo won by a landslide. Poor sod was billeted with the Boss — and no one argued that was a hardship posting in itself.

The lads ended up billeted with us — our “ladies’ tent” suddenly not so ladylike once Stephen and Johan hauled their bergens through the flap. Privacy became a distant memory, but we made do. Between fairy lights, damp boots, and the constant hunt for clean socks, it felt more like a chaotic student dorm than a war zone billet.

Once everyone was under canvas and the tea supplies stabilised, the mood shifted. The easy pace of waiting gave way to the real work.

We threw ourselves into HQ Isaf alongside 3 Commando Brigade. Overnight, the tempo spiked — everything faster, sharper, more urgent. Orders flew in, updates flew out, and the whiteboards filled so quickly we joked Simmo would need another tent just for markers.

The Boss spent his days locked in meetings with Brigade staff, shaping campaign plans and smoothing politics with generals who seemed to multiply by the hour. For the rest of us, it meant long hours, endless brews, and the uneasy knowledge that Kabul was no longer just lines on a map — it was where we lived, worked, and hoped to hold our nerve.

Marlin and I spent our hours buried in briefing folders, drafting influence assessments, and surviving the endless carousel of battle rhythm meetings. Pages and slides piled up faster than we could clear them, and every evening we carried the day’s work back to our little brains tent, trading wry glances over mugs of tea that went cold before we could finish them.:

Meanwhile, me and Johan were off glad-handing the multinational crowd — half diplomat, half interpreter, and on a bad day, half-comedian. You wouldn’t believe some of the requests. One French officer wanted a radio spot written like a love poem. A German major thought we could solve half the war with a leaflet about recycling.

We did our best to keep straight faces, but more often than not the sarcasm slipped out. “Yes, brilliant in theory — but I’m fairly sure that’s illegal in four NATO countries.” Or, “No, we don’t have leaflets in Uzbek… yet. But if Simmo’s printer holds out, give us a weekend.”

It was chaos, relentless and caffeine-fuelled, but it was our chaos. And in the middle of Kabul, with the dust, the cold, and the uncertainty pressing in, that small sense of ownership made all the difference.

We’d been assigned four interpreters, all Afghan locals, and three of them had been or still were — journalists. That was a gift we hadn’t expected. Mohammed Senior, the silver fox with eyes that missed nothing. Mohammed Junior, quick as lightning and twice as talkative. Shah, calm, measured, and never without his little notebook. And Wassi — the quiet one, who somehow always knew what was happening before anyone else did.

They weren’t just interpreters; they slotted straight into the team like they’d been there from day one. Sharp minds, sharper instincts, and somehow patient enough to put up with us lot. What really floored me was how fast they picked up our humour. That’s no easy bridge to cross — British banter doesn’t come with a manual.

A week in, Mohammed Junior was already trading one-liners with Stephen, Shah was scribbling down phrases like “taking the mick” as if it was doctrine, and even Wassi cracked a grin when Simmo tried to explain why the printer was a “temperamental diva.” That’s when we knew — this wasn’t just a translation service. This was a proper team.