Operation Telic 3: Chaos, Camaraderie & Coffee-Fuelled Warfare | The Parallel Four

In this gripping and darkly funny episode of The Parallel Four, the team rolls into Operation Telic 3 — Iraq, 2004 — where chaos meets comedy in equal measure. From endless briefings at Multinational Division South East HQ to dodging bureaucracy, boredom, and the occasional sandstorm, the four find themselves once again turning chaos into strategy.

Vinka and Marlin drive the Intelligence Cell, wrangling maps, missions, and caffeine, while Stephen and Johan hit the ground across Basra, Al Amarah, and Nasiriyah, juggling PsyOps, leaflets, and locals who trust kebab sellers more than the police. Along the way come surreal allies: Italians who fight wars over espresso, Dutch logisticians running the desert like IKEA, and the Japanese building hospitals without driving themselves anywhere.

Between firefights, sandstorms, and the world’s worst PowerPoint presentations, the team finds laughter, friendship, and perspective — even as the war refuses to play by the rules.

Expect real military life, humour under fire, and unfiltered veteran storytelling straight from the front line.

Transcript

The months leading up to Operation Telic 3 felt less like a deployment and more like we were rehearsin’ for the Royal Variety Performance—only with flak jackets instead of sequins. Briefings, re-briefings, kit checks, intel updates, more briefings, and death-by-PowerPoint marathons that could’ve been replaced by a single decent memo. By early November we weren’t just ready—we were beggin’ to deploy, if only to escape another slide on “the importance of clear comms.”

Slotting into Multinational Division South East HQ went smoother than a Guardsman’s drill boot. Credit where it’s due—the Telic 2 lot gave us a solid handover, plus a few cheeky farewell beers that blurred some of the finer points but kept the goodwill flowing.

The “dream team” was lean but lethal: the four of us, our Boss, one of the Group’s print Sergeants, and an Int Cell Sergeant sharp enough to slice through red tape with a glance. The Boss and his sergeant duo stayed tied to HQ, mainlining instant coffee and squintin’ at maps, while us four did what we do best—boots out across the AOR, brains engaged, with just enough banter to keep the wheels greased.

Our official mission was written in bold type and read out with the kind of straight face usually reserved for funerals: “To enhance the perception of the Iraqi Police Service in the eyes of the local population.”

Noble? Yes. Clear? Certainly. Achievable? About as likely as teaching a camel to ice-skate. Because let’s be honest—the Iraqi Police Service didn’t exactly begin on a pedestal. Corruption, underfunding, intimidation… half the time the locals had more faith in the kebab seller on the corner than the man in uniform with a badge.

So, there we were—armed with leaflets, loudspeakers, and the sort of PowerPoint slides that could make saints weep—tasked with giving the Iraqi Police a shiny new PR glow. Except it wasn’t so much “image polishing” as “trying to buff a turd into a crown jewel.” A proper hiding to nowhere. But orders are orders, and in uniform, missions ain’t optional.

It meant our days were spent ricocheting around southern Iraq: Basra’s back alleys that smelled permanently of diesel and despair, the dust-choked stretches of Al Amarah, and the sandy nothingness near Umm Qasr, where the highlight of a whole patrol could be spotting a goat that wasn’t skeletal.

And then there were the Italians in Nasiriyah. Tactics, Italian-style: espresso cups balanced on map sheets, passionate hand gestures flyin’ like tracer fire, and the occasional shrug that said, “Eh, if Saddam shows up, we’ll shoot him after dessert.”

Then there were the Dutch in As Samawah—calm, efficient, and almost unnervingly well organised. Their HQ looked like it’d been flat-packed, complete with neat labels and probably an Allen key hidden somewhere in a desk drawer. If war could be assembled from an IKEA manual, they’d have had it sorted before first brew.

But the most surreal of all was prepping the ground for the Japanese. Yes—Japan. They hadn’t sent troops beyond their borders since 1945, and now they were dispatching an engineer unit to build a hospital and a school: international goodwill in camouflage, the Middle East’s answer to DIY SOS. It was like someone had invited the cast of Changing Rooms to a firefight.

Here’s the kicker—their rules of engagement meant they weren’t allowed to drive themselves. Not even to the corner shop, let alone through the badlands of southern Iraq. So the Dutch, ever practical, rolled out the red carpet—well, low loaders—and chauffeured the whole Japanese contingent around: engineers, kit, portacabins, the lot. Like crown jewels on tour.

The logic was simple: if a single Japanese soldier grazed a knuckle on a filing cabinet, it could’ve sparked a diplomatic storm loud enough to rattle the UN’s windows. Thankfully, the whole thing ran smoother than a Sergeant Major’s boots on inspection day. No accidents, no scandals, no international outrage.

The Japanese flew home with every limb, digit, and scrap of reputation intact—leavin’ the brass sighin’ with relief and the rest of us shakin’ our heads in disbelief.

We jumped at the chance to tag along with the Dutch and Japanese on a joint visit to one of the reconstruction projects in As Samawah. Quite the spectacle: the Dutch looking like they’d walked straight off a recruitment poster, Japanese engineers crisp as if they’d just stepped out of a tourism brochure, and Iraqi police scattered about, wearing faces that screamed “we’re definitely in control here” while their eyes told a different story.

We were ushered up to the local Chief of Police—a man whose moustache alone looked capable of bench-pressing dumbbells—flanked by a small entourage of officers who couldn’t decide if they were supposed to look friendly or formidable. To our surprise—and mild suspicion—the Chief turned out to be fully supportive of the Japanese rebuilding effort. He even smiled. Not the polite grimace we’d grown used to, but a proper tooth-and-tache smile. That alone deserved a line in the sitrep.

The townsfolk we spoke to were cautiously optimistic, their shoulders loosening when the word “hospital” came up. For once, this was PR gold we hadn’t had to conjure out of thin air or print onto an A5 leaflet. A PsyOps win—and not a muddy boot in sight.

While mingling with the locals (and slowly boiling alive in our kit), we slid in a bit of unofficial hearts-and-minds polling about the Iraqi police. The verdict came back blunt, with a shrug: “Yes, yes… they take a few bribes—but who doesn’t?”

Honest, if not exactly the strapline we’d put on a poster.

By local standards, this wasn’t corruption—it was pocket money. The general consensus was that the police were relatively fair, occasionally upright, and—here’s the big one—didn’t beat people too much. In southern Iraq, that was practically a five-star TripAdvisor review.

And since driving all the way from Basra to As Samawah in one go would’ve left us as gibbering, sunburnt wrecks, we very sensibly opted for an overnight stop in Nasiriyah. What a hardship.

The Italians welcomed us like long-lost cousins—tables buckling under the weight of “non-alcoholic” wine (wink wink), pasta so good it probably had Vatican approval, and hospitality rich enough to make a Michelin inspector cry.

Between courses we even “assisted” on their outreach projects. Translation: stand in the background of photographs looking suitably professional, nodding like sages, and pretending we knew exactly what was being said.

On the way back we pulled the same stunt—because obviously, good PsyOps work requires adequate rest and the occasional espresso.

By the time we rolled back into Basra, we were refreshed, slightly more cultured, and quietly wondering if the Italians had cracked this whole “war” business better than the rest of us.

While in Nasiriyah, the Italians insisted on giving us the grand tour of their AO—espresso breaks mandatory, naturally. The crown jewel was a stop at the main police station to meet their Chief of Police. Now, this bloke was built like a fridge-freezer and wore a moustache straight out of a spaghetti western.

All handshakes and hearty backslaps, he introduced us to his “top officers,” who—judging by their stances—looked like they were auditioning for a Middle Eastern remake of Hill Street Blues.

He rattled off his list of daily headaches: crime on every corner, too few uniforms, dodgy militias sniffing around, and—memorably—the odd sheep-related dispute. We didn’t press for details. Some stones are better left unturned.

Still, for all the chaos, he seemed genuinely upbeat about working with the Italians. We chalked it up as a positive—though whether it was true partnership or just a man very fond of his hosts’ wine cellar was anyone’s guess.

Every couple of weeks, like clockwork, we were professionally obligated—and I do stress the word “obligated”—to make the perilous run down to Kuwait City to visit our friendly neighbourhood printer. Vital work, obviously. Someone had to check the leaflet quality, run a finger across the ink, and nod sagely at the paper stock. Purely duty, nothing to do with the luxurious overnight stay at the American base just outside the city.

We always travelled in style: two GMC Envoys, each with a glorious 4.5-litre V8 that drank fuel like a Viking at an open bar. Operational reasons, of course. (And if those “reasons” happened to include mutual enjoyment, well, who’s counting?) Somehow it always worked out that Johan, Marlin, Stephen, and I ended up making the run together—every time.

The Boss and the two sergeants would tag along occasionally, usually when they’d had their fill of HQ politics and PowerPoint purgatory. Can’t blame ’em. A day on the road, a night in Kuwait, and a bit of breathing space from the madness of Basra—it was the sort of hardship posting we all managed to endure with a straight face.

Each Envoy was kitted out like a mobile armoury: five jerry cans sloshing in the boot, body armour and webbing strewn across the back seats, and our trusty SA80s plus pistols riding shotgun up front. This weren’t some carefree road trip—we treated it like a proper patrol, strict checklist, eyes peeled, and the constant possibility of being rerouted by reality.

That said, the drive itself was usually calm enough—long stretches of tarmac shimmering in the heat, sand stretching forever either side. Still, none of us ever relaxed fully. You don’t forget where you are, not for a second.

And here’s the kicker—the MSR we cruised down, all slick and freshly tarmacked, was the very same route we’d hammered during the last war. Nothing quite says déjà vu like runnin’ hearts-and-minds ops on a road you once shelled to bits. Funny old world.

We kept up constant comms—two-way radios between the Envoys, and a link back to the Ops Room in case things got spicy. SOPs meant booking out, handing over the full route plan, giving ETAs, and checking in once we arrived. Basically, the military version of phoning your mum when you got to your mate’s house.

Johan and Stephen had both done the advanced driving course—learning to throw a vehicle round like Jason Bourne while sipping tepid bottled water and shouting “CONTACT RIGHT!” at passing traffic. But Marlin and I weren’t exactly passengers. We’d done the same course years earlier before Northern Ireland, and I assure you, watching a six-foot Swede hurl a GMC into reverse at speed with the grace of a Parisian ballet is an underrated art form.

Before deployment, we all had a quick refresher—basically an afternoon of pretending to be attacked in the car park behind the armoury. Not exactly Hollywood, but it did the trick. By the time we hit the MSR in earnest, everyone could J-turn an Envoy like they were auditionin’ for The Italian Job.

The Envoys hummed along the MSR, radios buzzing, when the shape of a bridge rose ahead. Somethin’ about it pulled at me. I keyed the handset. “Halt here.” Dust kicked up as we rolled to a stop.

Climbin’ out, I pointed up at the span. “This is it. This is the bridge where we took out that Scud launcher back in the day.”

We joined him on the hard shoulder, squinting in the glare. Johan scrambled up the embankment, brushing a hand over the concrete. The marks were still there — pits and scars where fragments had chewed deep. Marlin let out a whistle. “All these years, and you can still see it.”

I could picture it like it was yesterday — the call coming through, the rush of adrenaline, the noise, the shockwave rattlin’ your chest. And here we were again, same patch of desert, only this time cruisin’ past in shiny Envoys with leaflets and loudhailers in the boot.

A few miles further up the road, Stephen called another halt. At the roadside, half-buried in sand, lay the ragged remains of a fibre-optic cable. He nudged it with his boot, grinning. “And there’s the cable we shredded. We did make a proper mess here, didn’t we?”

For a moment, the four of us just looked at one another. Then the laughter came — loud, unrestrained, cutting through the heat and the ghosts.

No beer to toast with — UK ops were dry, always were — but the laughter was better. Shared history, shared madness. Proof that even miles from home, on the same road we’d once attacked with menis, we could still find a reason to smile.

The Envoy settled back into its steady hum, desert heat shimmering through the windscreen. I kept my eyes on the road, though I could feel Stephen watching the horizon, lost in the past.

“You know what really happened that day?” I said, voice lower than the engine noise. “We sat for hours, eyes glued on that bloody launcher. Waiting. Hoping they’d wheel up another missile so we could take the whole lot out in one go. Patience was the order of the day.”

I let out a short breath, half a laugh. “Patience, my arse. They spotted us before the reload ever came. Suddenly the choice was gone—fire early or lose the chance. So we let rip. Took it out clean. Bridge shook like thunder.”

His hands moved unconsciously, as if gripping an invisible weapon, reliving it.

“Then came the fun part—extraction. Under fire, rounds kickin’ up the dust around us. Heart poundin’, lungs burnin’, every instinct screamin’ to run faster. We legged it back, kit draggin’, adrenaline pumpin’. By the time we made it out, I swear my boots were still smokin’.”

He fell quiet, just the rumble of tyres and the static chatter of the radios filling the silence. I glanced at him, catching the faintest grin.

“Now here we are—drivin’ leaflets up the same road. No one shootin’, no Scuds in sight. Just us, Envoys, and a lot of déjà vu.”

I shook my head. “Only you, Stephen, could turn a trip to Kuwait into a guided tour of your greatest hits.”

That did it—he laughed, and just like that the desert ghosts faded back into the dust.

“And then there was that fibre cable further up the MSR,” I said, a grin spreading. “We dug down for ages to find the bloody thing, then dragged a Pinkie in to pull it up. Great big V8 Land Rover, noisy as a brass band. Reversing into place, we thought Baghdad could hear it. Meanwhile, the rest of us laid booby traps along the trench. Hours it took—dust, sweat, nerves janglin’. By the end we were filthy, knackered, and still laughin’ at how much noise we’d made for one cut cable.”

I remembered when that report had first landed in the Int Cell. Crisp typing, grids marked, and a tidy line about “enemy communications disrupted.” That was it. No digging. No sweat. No Pinkie bellowing across half of Iraq.

Marlin and I had exchanged a look across the desk, eyebrows raised. We knew there was more to the story—there always was. “Bet they made a meal of it,” she’d muttered under her breath, and we’d both laughed. But even then, we could sense the work behind the bland line, the grit hidden under the paperwork.

“Yeah,” I said now, chuckling, “not quite the clean tick in the box the Int lads got. But it did the job.”

And I thought again how different the two sides of the same war could be. On paper: sterile, efficient, stripped bare. In reality: dust, sweat, laughter, and a Pinkie V8 that roared loud enough to become part of the legend.

Then there were the times when Johan and I had to abandon our gas-guzzling cruisers and take to the skies in a helicopter bound for Al Amarah. The airstrip there was, with great imagination, located outside the wire. Which meant every landing came with a Warrior armoured vehicle and a welcome committee bristling with enough firepower to make the point: this is not Club Med.

They’d fly out looking like they were off on a business trip, and we’d wave them off knowing full well Al Amarah wasn’t exactly a holiday hotspot. You didn’t arrive there so much as drop in with one eye open and your safety off.

We usually stayed a day or two, doing the rounds—drinkin’ suspiciously hot water, makin’ polite conversation with people who looked like they hadn’t slept since the invasion. Dust in your teeth, tension in the air, and not a cold drink in sight.

Then came the bit we all dreaded: the flight back. They’d climb aboard with briefing notes tucked under one arm, kit clutched in the other, and mutter a silent prayer that they’d make it back to Basra in one piece—with all body parts and paperwork intact.

On one particularly charming outing, Johan and I found ourselves in Al Majar al-Kabir—a name already etched in infamy after the brutal murder of six RMP lads back in ’03. The place had all the warmth and welcome of a haunted house on Halloween. Dusty streets, twitchy eyes peeking from behind shutters, and an atmosphere that screamed “you’re not wanted here.” Even the dogs didn’t bark. They just stared.

From the moment the sitrep came in, we knew it would be a rough one. Towns like that sit heavy on your chest. And Stephen wasn’t exaggerating—the local police chief wasn’t exactly queuing up to shake hands either. Grumpy, evasive, and about as much use as a chocolate teapot. He clearly didn’t want them poking about.

We really felt for the tiny team holding the fort there—a young female sergeant and her corporal, both of ’em graduates of the MPOC course back at Chicksands. Proper switched-on pair, holding the line in a place that looked like it would’ve chewed up and spat out most blokes twice their age.

Despite the tension, they were doing a cracking job, keeping calm heads in the frostiest of conditions. But would any of us rush back to Al Majar? About as likely as volunteering for a jog through Baghdad in flip-flops.

A few days later, the four of us—plus the Boss—got the summons to Baghdad for a PsyOps Conference in the infamous Green Zone. Big country-wide affair: share ideas, compare notes, and chew on stale biscuits. We flew in by Hercules, thumping down at Camp Victory, and were met by the team from 4 Pog. Couple of familiar faces there too—one from Kosovo, another from Kabul. Strange thing, those reunions in war zones: part backslapping, part gallows humour, and part arguments about who’d had the worst digs last tour.

We dropped our kit, got the grand tour of their dusty office, then bundled into three pickup trucks for the run to the Green Zone. Easy enough—or so we thought.

Not quite. As we rolled up to the gate, two Humvees and a pickup from another unit muscled ahead of us. “Fine, let them go first,” we muttered. Famous last words.

Halfway along the road, the world lit up. Massive explosion tore through the lead Humvee. Direct hit from an IED. Devastating. At least two KIA, others down. A Blackhawk dropped in sharp for the casualty evac just as we braked up.

The team on the ground waved us through, and we did not need telling twice. Our own drive into the Green Zone was uneventful but tense—sitting ducks in thin-skinned pickups, white-knuckled hands gripping rifles while trying to look casual.

Once inside the blast walls, you could almost breathe again. Almost.

The conference itself? Utterly predictable. Death-by-PowerPoint, bureaucratic waffle, and not a single idea we hadn’t already worked out ourselves back in Basrah. Classic.

That evening, we tried to unwind on top of our hooch—a flat-roofed, single-storey concrete box masquerading as accommodation. Hotter than a sauna, uglier than sin, but it was home for the night. We cracked open a few “near beers” —cruelest joke ever invented, beer without the alcohol or the joy—and lit a little pot fire, convincing ourselves we were finally relaxing after the day’s drama.

And then the night cracked. A burst of 50 cal tore the air apart above our heads—thirty, maybe forty rounds in the space of a second. It sounded like someone ripping a steel sheet in half. Brutal, deafening. One of those rounds found its mark, hitting a sentry up in the sanger by the main gate.

That was our cue. No heroics, no second guesses. Just a quiet shuffle off the roof, down the ladder, and into the dubious comfort of four concrete walls. We sat in silence, the only sound our own breathing and the cooling clink of near beer cans.

There’s something about heavy incoming fire that really ruins the taste of near beer. Not that it had much taste to begin with.

Next morning, we were scheduled to fly back down to Basra—grab a bite of breakfast, sweep the hooch for scorpions, then onto the Hercules. Standard drill. Only when we woke up, the entire world had turned a violent shade of nuclear orange. Looked like someone had smeared marmalade right across the sky.

Not sunrise. A sandstorm. And not just any sandstorm—the sort that makes camels walk backwards. You could taste the grit in the air before you even opened your mouth.

By some miracle, we got airborne just in time. Like the last chopper out of Saigon—only slower, louder, and with worse catering. Minutes after wheels-up they closed the airport. The storm locked everything down for days.

Lucky escape? Absolutely. Did we look cool climbing into the Herc? Not a chance. We were sweaty, dusty, goggles fogged, looking like rejects from Mad Max. Still—Basra never looked so inviting.