MY STORY: FROM SKOPJE TO PRISTINA WITH THE KING'S ROYAL HUSSARS (EXCLUDING BOOK GROUP) The radio set in the Daf crackled to life: 'Ah, breaker one-nine, this here's the Rubber Duck. You gotta copy on me, Pig Pen, c'mon?', before falling silent once again. A few moments passed as the scrubby Kosovan countryside passed by in the gathering darkness and the smoke from Winker's ciggy curled up out of the mortar hatch before the radio burst abruptly into life once again: 'All callsigns, this is Whiskey-Foxtrot 92. Stop fucking around you fuckers, this isn't a chat net. 'Foxtrot 92 out.'. After that, all was silence. It didn't do to push the patience of the Regimental Catering Warrant Officer too far. The road was boring, ill-maintained. None of the heart-stopping beauty of the Bosnian mountain here just a drip, drip, drip of ear honey spreading throughtout your body and consuming you into a pot of L/Oreal face cream (not tested on animals), birds on the wing, may-day gay-day, nothing like a prefect at a minor public schoool, more an all- consuming passion fruit that grabs hold of your head and makes you pork pie. I'm sure you can picture the situation. In any case, the convoy got back to Pristina without further incident and the very next day, me and Winker were tasked to go out with a patrol to one of the last Serb villages in the vicinity of the city. What a brilliant day it was, with memories to last a lifetime for anyone who was there. That's it really.