Pirbright Drill Course Secrets REVEALED | All Arms Precision, Pace Sticks & 1979 Army Life

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty

March onto the Pirbright drill square in Autumn 1979 as we tackle the All Arms Drill Course—pace sticks, blistered heels, beeswaxed boots and all. Expect razor-sharp drill, moustachioed instructors who glide like ghosts, and a four-man routine that (ahem) should’ve won. Then ride with us through real British Army life: a Swedish summer christening, posting orders to Northern Ireland, and the bittersweet move from Berlin to Bassingbourn via the frantic Hoek van Holland → Harwich ferry dash—with twins, travel cots, and zero sleep.

What you’ll get:
• Inside Pirbright’s drill culture (proper polish, proper pressure)
• 1979 Cold War family life—love, laughs, logistics
• Posting twists, depot instructor wins, and a chaos-but-together ferry escape

Watch for: true military humour, parade-ground precision, and the heart behind the uniform.

Pirbright, All Arms Drill Course, British Army 1979, pace stick, drill instructor training, Cold War Berlin, Bassingbourn Depot, Northern Ireland tour, military family life, Tim Heale, The Parallel Four, veterans stories, army humour, ferry to Harwich, Hoek van Holland

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter Twenty.

Pirbright – All Arms Drill Course, Autumn 1979

After surviving the blindfold games at Thatcham, we marched on—quite literally—to Pirbright, for four glorious weeks of precision, polish, and pain. The All Arms Drill Course. This was proper soldiering, the kind that gave you blisters in places you didn’t know could blister and made you salute in your dreams.

On day one, they handed us pace sticks—like batons for very angry traffic wardens—and two pairs of drill boots. Not shiny or gleaming. You were taught how to burn them down with bees wax and polish it until you could see your soul—or, more accurately, your terrified reflection just before morning inspection. One pair was for ceremonial use only. The other pair was for daily abuse.

And then the shouting began.

The instructors didn’t walk—they glided. Their boots never made a sound. They were like ghosts with moustaches. You never heard them coming, but you always knew they were there. Usually yelling something about your arm swing or your disgraceful lack of heel strike.

We spent hours—days—on that drill square, learning every stomp, halt, turn, and salute known to Queen and country. Every movement had to be crisp enough to make a metronome weep. Getting the pace stick just right? That was like trying to conduct the Royal Philharmonic while walking backwards. Awkward at first. Then… surprisingly satisfying.

Johan, of course, took to it like he’d been born with a parade square in his backyard. He had the angles. The timing. The calm, terrifying focus of a man who knew how to square corners with his mind. Me, I was more of a freestyle artist. But I kept up. Mostly. Occasionally. When my boots weren’t trying to eat my heels.

We ended the course with a synchronised drill competition—four-man teams, marching in formation like heavily armed ballroom dancers. And I’ve got to say—we were poetry in motion. Stiff-legged, sharp-cornered, and with just enough theatrical flair to make the instructors raise a moustached brow.

We came second.

Robbed, I tell you.

The winners had slick moves, sure—but their boots weren’t nearly as shiny as ours. And when it comes to drill, boot shine is spiritual currency.

In the evenings, we’d collapse in the barracks, hot tea in one hand and Brasso fumes still clinging to our fingers. I’d write Vinka little notes on the back of my marching cards, slipping in jokes and doodles of stickmen saluting badly. Johan, ever the romantic, sent Marlin neatly folded letters with graphs showing his improvement in step accuracy over time. I don’t know what she made of that—but she wrote back, so he must’ve done something right.

By the end of the course, we were knackered, polished to perfection, and capable of drilling a platoon with no more than a flick of the wrist and a raised eyebrow.

We may not have taken the trophy, but we left Pirbright with dignity, discipline… and a healthy dislike of pace sticks.

Summer leave 1980 we all made our way to Sweden to meet up in the lodge for the Christening of the year in the same church we all got married in and had so many Christmas service over the years.

I can still smell the pine resin whenever I think back to that day—the little white church up in the mountains, the same one where we had all stood years before, making our vows. Its bell tolled gently as we carried our children inside, sunlight streaming through tall windows that made the old wooden beams glow like honey.

There were five of them now—our Nils and Vera, Johan and Marlin’s Otto and Olivia, and Tim and Petra’s tiny Sigrid—all wrapped in gowns far older than us, embroidered with care by hands long gone. Stephen held Vera close while I kept Nils steady, his little fists already reaching for the world. Marlin’s smile said everything as she balanced Olivia, and Johan—always the picture of calm—rocked Otto until he gave a sleepy sigh. Petra looked radiant with Sigrid in her arms, Tim hovering protectively beside her, his chest puffed with pride.

All the grandparents filled the front pews: Grandpa Olaf and Grandma Greta side by side, eyes damp but smiling; Harry and Ingrid with their quiet strength; Papa Erik and Mamma Anna whispering prayers under their breath; and Lars and Silvi leaning forward, unable to hide their delight, Mum and Ron looked so happy. It was as if the whole mountain had gathered inside that little church, the weight of tradition and love pressing close around us.

The priest, who had blessed our marriages not so many summers ago, now blessed our children. One by one he dipped his hand in the cool water of the font, letting it trickle across their foreheads—Nils, Vera, Otto, Olivia, and Sigrid. Their names echoed in Swedish and then in English, weaving the two halves of our family into one whole. Not a cry among them, only soft coos, as if they already knew they were safe, carried by generations before them.

When the hymns rose, the sound filled every beam and stone. I looked along the pew—Stephen’s hand brushing mine, Johan’s head bowed, Marlin humming with the tune, Petra swaying softly with Sigrid—and I knew we had come full circle. The same church, the same mountains, only now with five new lives at the heart of us.

Outside, under the summer sun, Grandpa Olaf uncorked a bottle with a cheer while Grandma Greta passed around warm cinnamon buns. Harry organised everyone for a photograph, Ingrid fussing over Vera’s bonnet until it sat just so. The babies squirmed and giggled, five tiny voices rising above the laughter, carried away on the mountain air.

It was more than a christening. It was a promise—that no matter where life would take us, these children would always know where they came from.

Autumn 1980 – Posting Orders

Ah yes, Northern Ireland—again.

At this point, we were beginning to think we had some kind of magnetic attraction to the place. Maybe it was our sunny personalities. Maybe it was just bad luck. Either way, the Army had decided we’d be spending the next two years dodging bin lids and checkpoint politics.

The twist this time? It was a full residential tour—accompanied.

Yep. The girls were coming with us.

Cue a strange mixture of relief and guilt. On one hand, it meant no long separations, no tearful airport goodbyes, no solo parenting while the other wrestled with armoured vehicles and riot drills. On the other hand... well, try selling “Come live with me, darling, in beautiful Derry—it’s got murals, sanger's, and a guard force that never sleeps!”

Romantic strolls? Sure. Right past a reinforced sanger, round a blast wall, and back home via an armoured patrol. Bring your flask.

We were briefed by Company HQ with the usual PowerPoint optimism: “community integration,” “hearts and minds,” “vital security presence,” and so on. All very reassuring, if you squinted. In reality, we all knew it would be a grind. Foot patrols, vehicle checks, endless operations. But this time, with nappies drying on the radiators and a kettle always on the boil.

When I told Vinka, she didn’t flinch. Not once. Just folded her arms, gave me that look and said, “Well then, we’ll just have to bring our own peace, won’t we?”

Marlin was the same. “The children will be safe,” she said firmly. “We’ll make sure of it. Besides—at least we’ll be together.”

Honestly, those two could’ve run Nato.

The girls took it in their stride—organising packing lists, checking housing allocations, asking the real questions like: Will the twins have a safe garden? Will the schools understand Swedish? Can we get proper bread where we’re going?

Meanwhile, Johan and I were looking at maps and muttering about threat levels and routes into town without getting bricked.

It wasn’t the posting we wanted, but it was the posting we had. And like always, we’d face it together.

Before we could start packing the flak jackets and Derry street maps, our platoon commander summoned Johan and me into his office. We exchanged that universal infantryman’s look—“What’ve we done now?”—followed by a quick mental scan of recent misdemeanours. No late returns. No lost kit. No particularly sarcastic remarks directed at the RSM in earshot. So far, so clean.

Turns out, this time… it was good news.

He sat there, poker-faced, then slid the paperwork across the desk like it was contraband. “You two. Depot. Instructor postings. You interested?”

Now, to anyone outside the military, that might not sound all that thrilling. But to those of us who’ve spent winters in the South Armagh drizzle with webbing full of damp biscuits and blisters the size of Cumberland sausages, a Depot posting is the stuff of dreams.

It was like being offered a seat in first class—indoors, dry, and with a brews queue that didn’t require flak vests.

Did we fancy it?

We jumped at it faster than a recruit dodging a beasting on field day.

Two years as instructors back at the Depot in Bassingbourn—training recruits, mentoring young squaddies, barking drill commands without being shot at. It was still busy, sure, and there’d be inspections, parades, and the occasional rogue recruit with more attitude than brains—but it beat dodging milk bottles in Derry.

Johan was already mentally updating his lesson plans. I was wondering how long I could drag out polishing my pace stick before someone noticed it was mostly for show.

Of course, there was the small matter of telling the girls.

I half expected Vinka to be disappointed—we’d just started preparing mentally for a family deployment. But when I told her, she blinked, smiled slowly, and said, “So… no sanger's? No sandbags? Just screaming recruits and warm showers?”

“Exactly.”

“Well then,” she said, hands on hips. “You can still take the bins out tonight. You don’t get excused from that.”

Marlin had a similar reaction. Relief, then immediate action. Within an hour, she and Vinka were already plotting the next move—filling out the forms to apply for quarters in Bassingbourn, checking housing near the depot, sorting out nursery options, and debating whether the local bakery sold decent rye bread.

Tim and Petra took the news with brave faces, even though it meant we’d be splitting up the band—this time for real. While Johan and I were bound for the Depot at Bassingbourn, they were heading west to Londonderry, complete with bergen's, baby bottles, and their beautiful little girl, born back in February.

Tim wasn’t green to the Province anymore. Back in ’77 he’d cut his teeth in the Ballymurphy, a hard, unforgiving tour that had left him sharper and more measured. He’d seen the back alleys, the sudden flare of violence, the constant watchfulness needed to keep men alive. That experience showed now—he carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who’d been there before. As a section commander this time, the lads could see he wasn’t flinching at shadows; he knew when to push, when to hold, and above all, how to keep them steady.

Petra was as calm as ever, swaddling Sigrid with one hand while listing out packing priorities with the other. Tim looked proud—nervous, sure, but there was a quiet steel in him now. Fatherhood had lit a fire in the lad. You could see it in the way he cradled his little girl, like he was carrying the whole world in a blanket.

Vinka and Marlin offered hugs and long looks full of unspoken things—sisterly worry wrapped in hope. Johan clapped Tim on the shoulder, man to man, soldier to soldier. And me? I kept it light, cracking jokes about smuggling Pimm’s into Derry in baby bottles, even though I had a lump in my throat the size of a ration tin.

So just like that, Derry became their path, while we took another—one that led to the Depot, a life of shouting at teenagers, surprise inspections, lost berets, and the sacred art of teaching lads how not to trip over their rifles.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours.

And we were ready.

Well… almost.

It was strange, packing up a life.

Packing up in Berlin felt like dismantling a memory. The walls were still there, sure—but the feeling of home had already started to slip away. Boxes stacked neatly in corners, toys sealed in crates, and the walls suddenly echoing in a way they never had before. The laughter, the crying, the sound of feet padding down the hall—all faded under the rustle of bubble wrap and the squeak of marker pens.

We weren’t just leaving a posting. We were leaving a life.

Berlin had been the place where we grew up—properly. We’d arrived all swagger and ambition, four kids pretending to be adults, and somewhere along the way we’d become families. Married quarters turned into proper homes. Two sets of twins arrived—one boy and one girl each—within minutes of each other. Us girls built a freelance empire in translation. We drilled, patrolled, paraded… and fell asleep with babies curled against our shoulders.

Now, all of that was being packed into boxes. Most of our belongings—boxes, books, baby kit, God knows how many toys—had been loaded onto a big green removal truck two days before. What remained were the essentials, packed into our two newish Volvos: one deep blue, one dark green. Between us, we had four adults, four toddlers, prams, snacks, emergency nappies, a pranged travel kettle, two flasks of tea, and the sense that we were carrying not just a journey—but a life.

The last week was a strange blur of sentiment and admin—final bills, vehicle clearances, base paperwork. Vinka folded baby clothes with her bottom lip between her teeth. Marlin labelled boxes with that neat, precise hand of hers. Johan made lists. I mostly kept the kids out from underfoot and failed to explain what was happening in terms a toddler could understand.

When the time came for Tim and Petra to leave Berlin, it was Petra at the wheel of their black VW Beetle, a proper motorbike trailer hitched behind carrying Tim’s GS750. Tim rode shotgun, keeping half an eye on the straps in the mirror, while Sigrid dozed in a car seat in the back. Most of their boxes had already gone on ahead with the removals lorry, but the Beetle was neatly packed with everything they’d need for a couple of weeks on the road. The plan was simple: a stop in Hitchin to see family, then on to report for duty in Northern Ireland. A new chapter, rolling steadily out through the barracks gates.

We all gathered outside the block to wave them off—Stephen, Johan, Marlin, and me, mugs of coffee in hand and a lump in the throat I wasn’t about to admit to. Stephen gave his best parade-ground warning: “Straight through the corridor, no sightseeing, no schnitzel stops.” Johan added, “And for God’s sake, don’t wave at the Russians.”

Petra just laughed, saluted from the driver’s seat with mock seriousness, and eased the Beetle into gear. Tim grinned out the window, shouting something daft about “trusting the straps,” and then they were gone—engine buzzing, trailer rattling, family and future in tow.

We stood there a while longer, watching until the Beetle disappeared round the corner. Berlin already felt a little emptier without them.

We didn’t rush. We let it soak in.

On our final night, we didn’t have a grand send-off—just the four of us, two bottles of decent wine, half a loaf of rye bread, and our children asleep in new travel cots. We sat on the floor in the now-empty living room, talked quietly, and promised to come back one day—even if just to walk through Charlottenburg and remember what it felt like to be young and invincible.

We left before first light, the kind of hour that makes you question your life choices—even without toddlers involved.

The courtyard outside our flats was silent, blanketed in frost, our breaths curling like ghosts in the still Berlin air. Our two newish Volvos—Johan’s green, mine blue—were packed with just the essentials. The removal truck had rolled out the day before, groaning under the weight of toys, prams, and every last stick of our married-quarter lives.

Today was just us—four adults, four sleepy toddlers in pyjamas under snowsuits, two flasks of coffee, and the faint hum of nerves in our chests.

“Everyone got their papers?” Johan asked, already holding his folder like it might explode.

Vinka held ours up. “Triple checked.”

Marlin, ever calm, zipped up her coat and nodded. “Let’s get to the border before someone changes their mind.”

Checkpoint Tension – The Russian Border Ritual.

The sun was just rising, we reached the Soviet checkpoint at the edge of the Berlin Corridor—a slab of Cold War theatre carved into the countryside. You didn’t drive straight through these places. Not unless you fancied a lengthy stay in a room without windows.

No—here, the ritual was precise.

We parked the cars just short of the barrier—engines idling, breath fogging up the windscreens. Then, as per instruction, Vinka and Marlin climbed out—papers in hand, posture sharp, like they were back on parade. They walked slowly across the tarmac toward the Russian guard post, every eye on them.

A lone guard stepped out—tall, impassive, dressed in a long greatcoat and boots polished to the edge of reason. He didn’t speak.

The girls snapped a crisp salute in unison—flawless, military, full of quiet defiance. The guard held their gaze for a beat... then, without a word, returned the salute.

That was the signal.

They proceeded inside the checkpoint office—disappearing for ten tense minutes while the rest of us sat in the cars, pretending not to be watching every move.

Eventually, they returned, handed the stamped travel documents to the guard, received a silent nod, and gestured to us. Engines fired. Gears engaged. And the barrier lifted with a mechanical groan that felt, somehow, like a sigh of relief.

“Smooth,” Johan muttered.

“They didn’t even ask about the biscuit crumbs this time,” I said. “We’re improving.”

The Dash to the Ferry – Against the Clock

Once we were clear of the Soviet zone, the real race began. We’d allowed for delays—but border faffing had shaved our buffer thin.

We tore west through East Germany, fuelled by adrenaline, caffeine, and the occasional Swedish swear word from the back seat. The twins, bless them, mostly slept—waking only for raisins, loo stops, or to scream about whose teddy was touching whom.

By the time we hit Rotterdam traffic, we were on a knife-edge. The sun was already dipping, the ferry schedule ticking down like a time bomb.

We reached Hoek van Holland just as the last cars were being waved through the gates. A harried Dutch port official approached, clipboard in hand.

“British Forces?”

“Yes,” I said, breathlessly, holding out the orders. “Berlin. Kids. Very close to a meltdown.”

He took one look at the cars—biscuit crumbs, toy parts, exhausted mothers—and just waved us through.

“You are the last,” he said flatly.

We drove up the ramp as the gangway was being raised—no time for fanfare, just one last lurch forward and the dull clang of metal as the ferry sealed shut behind us.

They call it the overnight ferry, but let me tell you—no one actually sleeps.

The cabin was the size of a sardine tin and smelt like feet, travel sweets, and mild despair. Between the four of us, two travel cots, and a mountain of emergency baby gear, I wasn’t sure if we were emigrating or attempting to survive a naval siege with toddlers.

Stephen, bless him, was doing his best to act casual—zipping things with his foot, bouncing between bags like an amateur magician. “I packed the travel kettle!” he declared, as if it was the answer to all life’s problems. Meanwhile, our Vera was testing the structural limits of the travel cot and our Nils was howling into a muslin cloth like a lonely wolf.

Next door, I heard Johan say, “We’ve lost a giraffe.”

I poked my head through the connecting door and waved a little toothbrush bag. “He’s guarding the toothpaste. Again.”

Marlin looked up from her nappy negotiations. “That giraffe’s been through more borders than most diplomats.”

Our boys? They looked ready to launch themselves into the sea.

At some point, we managed to get two children settled… only for one to wake up because the other one breathed too loudly. Classic twin logic. I’d long since surrendered my personal space. Nils was snoring into my collarbone. My hair was stuck to a rice cracker. And I was 99% sure I was lying on a rattle.

But the thing is… we were happy.

We were exhausted, slightly fermented from the inside of our clothes, and all of us a little cross-eyed—but we’d made it. Out of Berlin. Past the checkpoint charade. Onto this floating tin can.

Stephen reached across from his bunk and squeezed my hand. “You alright, love?”

“I haven’t blinked since Hanover,” I said.

He smiled. “We’re a bloody miracle, us lot.”

I nodded. “Ja. We are chaos… but together.”

Then Vera let out a noise that could’ve cracked steel and demanded a banana. It was 2:43am. I gave her half and the other half to Stephen. He looked at it like it was a sacred offering.

Eventually—finally—the cabin went quiet. No crying. No bouncing. Just the soft, rhythmic hum of the ferry and our children breathing, one each wrapped around their exhausted parent like little starfish.

I lay there, eyes heavy, thinking how strange it felt to leave behind so much… and yet still carry the most important things with you. A husband. Children. Friends in the next cabin. And a half-eaten banana in my pocket.

Tomorrow, we would reach England.

Tonight, we simply floated.

I was awake before the tannoy.

Mostly because Vera had managed to wedge her foot into my sleeve and was muttering something about “pirates.” Nils was lying across Stephen’s face like a smug little scarf, and next door I could hear Marlin negotiating with someone who had apparently lost a sock, a spoon, and possibly the will to live.

Then came the cheerful ferry announcement—so loud it could’ve revived the dead.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, we will be arriving at Harwich International Port at approximately 08:00. Please return to your vehicles and prepare for disembarkation.”

Stephen groaned into a pillow. “I feel like I’ve been disembarked already.”

“You’ve been snoring like a ferry engine,” I replied, peeling myself out from beneath our Nils and stuffing muslin cloths back into the nappy bag like a magician packing away a trick gone wrong.

The twins were surprisingly cheerful. Probably because they knew they’d soon be escaping the ferry cabin of doom and into a car that had snacks and actual legroom.

We did a final sweep—found the giraffe, three raisins, and someone’s left shoe—and headed back down to the vehicle deck. The familiar smell of exhaust fumes and ferry grease hit me like a homecoming.

I climbed behind the wheel of our blue Volvo, Marlin just ahead in the green one. Johan gave a two-fingered salute through the rear window and I smiled. We were back on British soil. Almost.

As the ramp lowered with a groan and the grey sky welcomed us with that soft drizzle I’d never quite missed, I felt a twist in my chest. Not sadness, exactly—just that strange homesickness you feel when you realise one chapter is fully, completely closed.

Stephen leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Welcome to England, love.”

I nodded, watching the road stretch ahead of us. “Let’s find some tea first. Then Bassingbourn.”

The twins cheered from the back. Or maybe they were just shouting about raisins again.