Depot Life at Bassingbourn REVEALED | Queen’s Division 1981, Family Moves & Recruit Training

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty One

Fresh off the ferry from Berlin, we land at Bassingbourn Barracks to start life as Queen’s Division depot instructors—and as new homeowners in Hitchin. Peek inside real British Army depot life (1981): grim married quarters, avocado décor, the dreaded confidence course and milling, legendary Gym Queens, and day-one chaos with raw recruits. Off-duty it’s twins, house hunts, GS850s, and grandparents saving the day.
Expect: parade-square discipline, laugh-out-loud domestic mayhem, and an honest look at Cold War era recruit training, family life, and building a home between inspections.

Keywords: Bassingbourn Barracks, Queen’s Division Depot, British Army training 1981, recruit life, Cold War UK garrison, Hitchin family life, confidence course, milling, GS850, Tim Heale, The Parallel Four.

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 One.

We rolled into Bassingbourn just after lunchtime, under a sky the colour of dishwater and with eye bags deep enough to qualify as overnight luggage.

The drive from Harwich had been surprisingly smooth, except for one nappy emergency outside Braintree and a heated debate in the back seat over who had more raisins. The twins had passed out somewhere near Royston, sprawled like tiny aristocrats who had never known struggle. Stephen and Johan had been navigating with military precision—turn left, turn right, “bloody hell, is that it?”—until finally, we saw it: The Depot, Queen’s Division, Bassingbourn Barracks.

Our new home.

Sort of.

We were directed through the gates, waved along by a corporal who looked like he’d lost a bet, and into the long row of married quarters—brick boxes in neat little ranks, each one nearly identical except for the slightly different patches of moss on the window sills.

Stephen squinted at our assigned house. “Well... it’s square.”

Marlin, pulling in behind us, killed the engine and stepped out looking around like she’d just discovered a new species. “Is that... avocado green?”

I unlocked the door, stepped into the hallway, and immediately recoiled.

“Curtains,” I whispered, as if uttering a curse. “What did they do to deserve that fabric?”

The living room was carpeted in something that might once have been beige. The curtains—dear God, the curtains—were a heavy floral print that looked like they’d been salvaged from a 1947 church jumble sale and dipped in tea.

Marlin walked into her house next door, stood in the doorway for exactly three seconds, and called out through the thin wall: “Same curtains!”

We both groaned.

“I’ll swap you a potato masher for a screwdriver and the least offensive lampshade,” I offered.

“Done,” she called back. “First one to cover those windows wins.”

Stephen was wrestling the travel cots through the doorway. Johan had already plugged in a kettle. The twins were running in circles like they’d mainlined Weetabix. It was chaos. Familiar. Loud. Ours.

I looked at the sad little kitchen with its mismatched tiles and rattling cupboards. I looked at Stephen—sweaty, smiling, already dreaming of bacon sandwiches and a clean shave—and I smiled.

“It’ll do,” I said, with a sigh.

He leaned over, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Just wait till you see the wallpaper in the loo.”

Bassingbourn Barracks had quite the résumé. Built in 1937, it launched its military career just in time for World War Two—very punctual, very professional. The RAF moved in by ’39, no doubt with clipboards and polished boots, and by ’42 the Yanks had taken over, filling the place with big planes, bigger characters, and breakfast portions large enough to frighten a horse.

Back then it was all B-17s, dance halls, and jitterbug music echoing from the Naafi on a Saturday night. The locals probably didn’t know what hit them—one minute it’s quiet Cambridgeshire farmland, the next it’s full of Bronx accents and blokes asking where they could find “a decent dame.”

After the war, the RAF shuffled back in, a bit like someone reclaiming their usual seat at the pub after the out-of-towners had left. It ticked along nicely until 1970, when someone in Whitehall had a bright idea and repurposed the lot as the Depot for the Queen’s Division—training ground for the Royal Anglian's, Fusiliers, and Queen’s Regiment. Basically, if you were from the east or south of England and joined the infantry, odds were you’d get screamed at here at least once.

By the time we rolled up in 1981, the place had more layers than a regimental history book. Some buildings still bore the American touch—wide corridors, larger windows, a few suspiciously overbuilt mess halls—while others looked like they’d been slapped up overnight during rationing with two bricks and a strong cup of tea.

The drill square was enormous. You could lose a squad in the far corner and not find ’em till lunchtime. The training wing sat opposite the chapel like it was daring you to sin, and the gym had the usual smell of damp socks, metal, and ambition.

All in all, Bassingbourn was a strange cocktail—part history, part future, and part mildew. But it had charm, in that bleak, military kind of way. And for the next couple of years, it would be our home, our workplace… and the place where Johan and I got to do the shouting for a change.

As for the facilities—impressive, in that “blimey, that looks like it might kill someone” sort of way.

See, Bassingbourn wasn’t just your average barracks. Because it had started life as an RAF airfield, there was space—glorious, glorious space. Enough for parade grounds, obstacle courses, full-sized rugby pitches, and probably an emergency runway if you were desperate enough. It was perfect for PT. Or, more accurately, perfect for being chased across open ground by a PTI who looked like he ate kettlebells for breakfast.

One of the old aircraft hangars had been turned into a gym. And not just any gym. This place was part temple, part torture chamber, and home to the dreaded Traynaisum—a contraption dreamed up by someone who definitely needed therapy and wasn’t getting it.

Imagine, if you will, forty feet of twisted scaffolding, cargo nets, sheer ramps, swinging ropes, and jumps so wide you’d think they were building bridges, not testing fitness. The whole thing looked like a rejected set from The Krypton Factor, only more dangerous and with a lot more shouting. They called it a confidence course, which is funny, because most lads left it with shattered nerves and a strong sense of their own mortality.

Then there was the boxing ring—sitting in the corner as if it had been put there to shame us all. It wasn’t for sport, it was for milling, and every unfortunate soul had to endure it. No slipping, no sidestepping—just stand your ground and exchange blows until the whistle finally took pity. It hardly troubled Johan or me; we’d been through it before, and besides, as corporals we were thankfully exempt this time. Watching the fresh lads step in with bravado and step out looking as if they’d argued with a passing bus—well, that was entertainment enough.

But the real legends of the gym were the Gym Queens.

They weren’t actual royalty, of course, but they may as well have been the monarchs of muscle. Men and women who could run a mile faster than most of us could spell it, they prowled the gym floor in skin-tight PT kits, whistles round their necks like medieval flails. They lived to make us sweat, suffer, and occasionally cry for our mums—usually all three before breakfast.

You’d turn up thinking you were fit. They’d take one look at your press-ups and smile like they’d just been handed a new chew toy.

Still… I had to admit, it was bloody brilliant. The energy, the discipline, the sheer absurdity of it all—it got under your skin in the best way. And this was just the first week.

Now, after the luxury of our Berlin flats—central heating that worked, balconies with actual views, and carpets that hadn’t seen the Blitz—the married quarters at Bassingbourn were… well, let’s just say underwhelming.

Draughty, bland, and furnished with curtains that might actually have been listed under the Geneva Convention. I swear, the pattern alone was enough to cause mild eye strain. Vinka took one look at the kitchen tiles and said, “These are the colour of old teeth.” Marlin discovered a patch of damp shaped like East Anglia. Even the twins looked unimpressed—and they were still excited by cardboard boxes.

It didn’t take us long—about 48 hours, in fact—to decide that military housing just wasn’t going to cut it.

Johan and Marlin were in full agreement. So that very weekend, armed with hope, coffee, and a pram each, we went house-hunting.

And somehow—miracle of miracles—we struck gold.

Two four-bedroom detached houses, side by side, tucked away on a quiet road in Hitchin, just a stone’s throw from my mum and right round the corner from Johan’s folks. Big gardens, matching driveways, and enough space to swing a cat—or at least a nappy bag.

It was like fate wanted us to be neighbours forever. Or at least share lawnmowers.

We put in offers faster than a recruit drops on beasting run. And by some divine stroke of paperwork magic, both were accepted. Just like that, we were no longer renters, lodgers, or temporary tenants—we were homeowners.

The kind with deeds, chimneys, and the kind of boilers you pretend to understand.

Sure, we still had a couple more years ahead of us at the depot, but from that point on, we had a proper base. A future we could see, not just imagine. Somewhere to hang our medals, raise our little chaos squads, and argue about hedge trimming.

And if I’m honest, it felt bloody brilliant.

The houses we bought weren’t just homes—they were 1930s detached charmers, the sort that look like they’ve been gently preserved in a tin of Brasso and nostalgia.

Double-fronted beauties, each with that timeless, symmetrical grin: front door dead centre, flanked by a pair of generous bay windows—like a well-dressed butler standing between two nosy aunts, both permanently stationed to keep watch on the neighbours, postie, and any cats daring to cross the lawn.

Upstairs, three windows peered out like curious eyebrows. The two outer ones were for the front bedrooms—prime real estate for watching snow fall or spotting who’s nicked the recycling bin. The middle window—smaller, a bit squinty—lit the landing and served as the house’s chaperone, presumably to stop kids sneaking out at night with so much as a jam sandwich.

Out front, twin driveways—like two runways of possibility—led to solid brick garages, perfect for motorbikes, tools, or, in our case, a never-ending supply of prams, rugby balls, and things that “might come in handy one day.” Behind them, proper gardens—long, leafy stretches just crying out for a barbecue, a paddling pool, and several arguments about mowing technique.

Inside, the layout was so identical it was almost spooky. Mirror-world, we called it. Walk into ours and it felt like déjà vu if you’d just come from Marlin’s.

The left front room was the lounge—the sacred zone of telly, tea, and naps that start with “I’m just resting my eyes.” The right front room became a study—or rather, a bookshelf showroom with a desk no one dared use for fear of making it look untidy.

Down the central hallway, past the stairs, you’d find the kitchen—functional, slightly retro, and usually occupied by either the kettle or one of the boys saying “I’ll just be a minute” and appearing an hour later with biscuits. Beyond that was the dining room, a place where proper Sunday roasts were destined to happen, complete with Yorkshire pudding and the faint smell of 1960's gravy embedded in the walls.

Off the kitchen, through a wonky door that stuck when it rained, was the utility room—also known as “the place where laundry goes to die.” A humid realm of mystery socks, clattering washing machines, and that one jumper that’s never truly dry.

This opened out onto the back garden—perfect for summer picnics, birthday parties, and yelling “Shoes off!” at children halfway through a muddy escape.

Upstairs, we had four proper bedrooms. Not those shoeboxes with a single sloped ceiling and a suspicious smell of damp, but actual spaces where humans could live. One even had an en suite—complete with a working shower, a toilet that didn’t gurgle like a haunted submarine, and a sink that occasionally spat at you but otherwise behaved.

Between the two rear bedrooms sat a family bathroom, with tiles that tried to be cheerful and a bath big enough to fit at least two wriggling kids and half the plastic zoo.

And just above it all, on the landing, was a massive attic hatch—a trapdoor to mystery and promise. We popped it open and stared into the dark loft above like explorers. It had potential. For storage. For hiding. For forgetting boxes for the next thirty years.

Vinka reckoned we’d grow into it. I told her I was already planning to grow old in it. Johan agreed. Marlin said she just wanted curtains that didn’t look like they came from a hotel that had been on fire.

Fair enough.

Both houses, while structurally sound, had clearly missed every home improvement trend since about 1954. But for now, that was just a distant worry—we couldn’t touch a thing yet, not until completion day finally rolled around. So, in the meantime, we talked. And planned. And speculated wildly about whether the plumbing worked or if the avocado-green bathroom suite would spontaneously combust out of sheer embarrassment.

The girls were over the moon, though—absolutely glowing with excitement. They were already mapping out decorating schemes like it was a military operation. Over cups of tea and crinkled floor plans, curtains were discussed, paint chips compared, and each room’s future was debated with the seriousness usually reserved for Cold War strategy. Vinka had a notebook titled “House Plan – Top Secret” and Marlin carried a bag of wallpaper samples like it was her new handbag.

Meanwhile, Johan and I nodded wisely, offered the occasional “Looks nice, love,” and tried not to say anything that might get us reassigned to wallpaper-steaming duty. We were told—gently but firmly—that our opinions were welcome, but only when asked for.

And we weren’t being asked.

Naturally, the houses came unfurnished—completely bare, like a stage waiting for the chaos of real life to move in. Which meant, while we waited for the legal cogs to turn and the completion dates to stop shifting like sand, we spent our weekends on manoeuvres—trawling second-hand shops and car boot sales like bargain-hunting commandos.

The mission was clear: furnish two homes without bankrupting ourselves or adopting anything that smelled suspiciously of cats.

Beds were the first non-negotiable. None of us fancied inheriting a mattress with “history”—especially one that looked like it had hosted the entire cast of Dad’s Army. So we splashed out on new ones, ordered with military precision and due to arrive exactly three days after we moved in, hopefully.

Everything else—pots, pans, tables, chairs—we hunted for like relics from a lost civilisation. There was triumph, like the £5 oak sideboard Marlin found in a village hall sale. There was tragedy, like the floral armchair I fell in love with, only to discover it wouldn’t fit in the car. And then there was Johan’s attempt at DIY coffee table sourcing, which involved three planks of wood and a very misguided level of confidence.

Luckily, the kitchens had built-in cupboards, and the bedrooms boasted those classic fitted wardrobes, saving us from both a flat-pack breakdown and divorce court. Every time we scored a new item, it went into the garage or the spare room at Mum’s, ready for deployment the moment we got the keys.

Little by little, we were building our future. Not from blueprints or Pinterest boards, but from boot-fair bargains, borrowed tools, and a shared belief that with enough elbow grease, tea, and mismatched furniture, we’d make something pretty special.

A few months later, we finally made the great escape from the draughty purgatory of married quarters and moved into our very own houses—proud homeowners at last! There were celebratory cups of tea, spontaneous cheers from the kids, well, sort of and a shared sense that we’d levelled up in life. No more battling for hot water or wrestling with radiators from the dark ages—this was the real deal.

To mark the occasion—and to claw back a sliver of motorcycling glory—Johan and I treated ourselves to brand-new Suzuki GS 850 shaft-drives. Sleek, solid, and shaft-driven, so none of that chain faff, these beauties were fast, smooth, and Tim-approved. They could purr down the A505 like silk or growl like lions if we gave them a cheeky handful of throttle.

And no, we weren’t racing.

Obviously.

The girls, of course, retained full custody of the Volvos, our reliable Swedish chariots. With twins to wrangle, shopping lists the length of a parade square and a habit of popping into garden centres “just to look,” they needed something sensible.

Between the motorbikes and the family wagons, it was like Top Gear: Domestic Edition. One minute we were roaring out of the driveway in formation, the next, we were back to reality—changing nappies, comparing casserole dishes, and trying to remember where we’d put the spare loo rolls.

But we didn’t care. We had roofs we owned, keys in our pockets, and plans—big ones. The kind that involved decorating, digging up lawns, and building a life worth coming home to.

Depot life had a rhythm, a timetable, and—joy of joys—predictable leave. After years of “hurry up and wait”, last-minute deployments, and having plans obliterated by the whim of the military calendar, this felt almost luxurious. Not quite slippers-and-pipe territory, but close enough for us to start pencilling in things like birthdays, anniversaries… even holidays. Imagine that.

Of course, those endless skiing trips to Norway and dreamy Swedish summers were now filed under a new category in our lives: "BC", “Before Children.” Back when you could pack in ten minutes and sleep past 6 a.m. without being attacked by a plastic fire engine or an urgent cry of “Muuummmyyy!”

But still—we made it work. Every Christmas, we still bundled ourselves back to Sweden. Just now with a lot more luggage, a lot less sleep, and two extra tiny humans per family.

Travelling with two sets of twins was like running a travelling circus, only ours came with less juggling and more crying. Passports, dummies, wet wipes, spare socks, bribes in the form of raisins and picture books—checklists were drawn up like military op orders. The ferry staff knew us by name, and probably by noise level.

Meanwhile, translation work still ticked along, albeit between nap times and nappy explosions. We were miracle workers—balancing toddlers on hips, documents in one hand, and dinner in the oven, without breaking stride. My language skills could probably defuse a hostage situation, and Marlin once translated three pages of technical Swedish while breastfeeding and stirring a stew. Saints, both of us.

Thank heavens for Ingrid and Mum, who stepped up like the special forces of grand parenting. Forget slippers and knitting—these two were tactical geniuses. They could bathe four kids, fold laundry, plan a Christmas menu, and still have time for a pot of tea and a chat before dinner. Ingrid even managed to teach the twins to count in Swedish before they could walk properly. It was like SAS selection—but with bibs.

Back at the Depot, Johan and I were assigned to Salamanca Platoon, alongside a third corporal who’d come from The Queen’s Regiment—a decent bloke, if a bit partial to polishing his boots in the drying room like it was some sort of ritual. We had a cracking team—a platoon sergeant from our own Battalion, the sort who could strip you bare with a glare but would sneak you a biscuit when no one was looking. Firm but fair, as they say, with a face like thunder and a heart of gold buried somewhere under all that starch. Our platoon commander was from the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers—young, sharp, and, thank the Lord, capable of both marching in a straight line and tying his own shoelaces—which, as anyone who’s done depot life will tell you, isn’t always a given.

The training programme was laid out in a thick red folder like a military soap opera—page after page of PT sessions, drill rehearsals, field exercises, lectures, inspections, punishments, parades, and the occasional bonus ambush for good measure. Everything from “How to Stand Still Without Fainting” to “How to Kill a Man With a Folded Map.” Classic depot fare.

Each of us had ten fresh-faced recruits in our charge—bright-eyed, eager, and blissfully unaware of what was to come. Poor sods.

We arrived a couple of days before the new recruits to get ourselves squared away—reed: polish boots until we could see our reflections, hang our kit like it was being judged by the Queen herself, and most crucially, test the kettle. Priorities, right? Each of us was given a small, boxy room to stash our gear, grab a few hours’ kip between beastings, and serve as home base for the fine art of recruit torment. It wasn’t personal—it was tradition.

Those first few days were like Christmas for corporals. The calm before the storm. Kit checks, locker inspections, and the pure, undiluted joy of saying: “No, iron it again… and this time, pretend you care.” We’d roam the corridors like buzzards in boots, sniffing out unpolished cap badges and creases that dared to be crooked. It was less about cruelty and more about forging discipline through controlled chaos. Honest.

Meanwhile, the ride in on the bikes each morning took all of thirty glorious minutes—the GS 850s slicing through the lanes like silk, engines purring under us like big friendly beasts. It was the perfect head-clearer before we snapped into professional mode and unleashed ourselves on the unsuspecting next generation of soldiers.

The first couple of weeks with our new recruits were a bit like déjà vu in combats—only this time, Johan and I were the ones doing the barking, instead of sweating through our shirts trying to remember our left from our right. It was like stepping through a time portal back to Lympstone, only now we had pace sticks, clipboards, and the official authority to ruin someone’s day over sock folding.

Those early weeks were all about setting the tone. Loud tone. Unforgiving tone. There was shouting—oh, plenty of shouting. And cleaning things that were already spotless, because everyone knows the dust fairy is a sneaky little sod. And of course, the sacred rite of passage: room trashing during inspections. It didn’t matter if the place was cleaner than a surgical theatre—if we found a single speck of fluff under the bed or a fingerprint on the mirror, it was suddenly DEFCON 1. Beds would be flipped, lockers emptied, and pillows flung with the fury of a man scorned by laundry.

It wasn’t personal. It was tradition. The time-honoured method of breaking them down, sanding off the rough edges, and slowly, painfully, building them back up into something that resembled soldiers.

And to their credit—they took it. They held their nerve, kept their chins up, and by the time we hit the six-week pass-off-the-square, they managed to get through it with dignity intact and boots at least semi-polished. We sent them off on their first long weekend leave, quietly proud—and secretly hoping they wouldn’t forget how to iron.

When they dragged themselves back from leave—some looking like they’d just survived a war zone made entirely of hangovers and dodgy kebabs—we knew the real work could begin. Whatever wide-eyed civilian softness they’d briefly reclaimed was about to get systematically marched out of them.

We cranked up the pressure. Now it was all about infantry skills—map reading, section attacks, platoon tactics, mud and of course, more shouting, though, to be fair, most of it was constructive. The gym sessions got longer, the runs got steeper, and the smell in the drying room reached a level that could legally be classified as a biohazard.