From Mess Dinners to Belfast—Life as New Sergeants | The Parallel Four

From Mess Dinners to Belfast—Life as New Sergeants | The Parallel Four

Chapter 23 dives into the truth behind British Army life after promotion. 🇬🇧 From Hitchin weekends with toddlers to red-jacket Sergeants’ Mess dinners, we follow Stephen, Johan, Vinka and Marlin as duty meets family, pride and port. Then training ramps up for Belfast—Card Alpha, Lydd & Hythe, Tin City, public order drills—and the reality of post-contact investigations. Plus: Tim’s Senior Brecon, promotion to Sergeant, and the girls’ covert return via the Intelligence Corps TA.

• Real Sergeants’ Mess traditions & kit
• Belfast prep: urban skills, rules of engagement, accountability
• Family life, humour, and hard-won pride

British Army, Royal Anglian Regiment, Sergeants’ Mess, Op Banner Belfast, Lydd & Hythe, Tin City, Card Alpha, Senior Brecon, Intelligence Corps TA, SAS (TA), The Parallel Four, Tim Heale, 1980s military, veterans’ stories.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty Three

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 Three.

Back in Hitchin, it was all hugs, hot food, and toddlers using us as climbing frames. The weekends were golden: no inspections, no shouting, and the only 0600 wake-up call came from a small human with a soggy teddy and urgent breakfast demands.

Adjusting to life as Sergeants took a bit of getting used to. Suddenly, we weren’t just barking orders—we were expected to inspire, guide, and occasionally stop junior officers from accidentally marching their platoons into a hedge. We developed our Sergeant voices—firm, calm, with just enough gravel to make a private snap to attention without wetting himself. And yes, we could still shout when needed… just now it came with more paperwork.

The Sergeants’ Mess itself was a world apart. No more crowded block kitchens or Corporals’ Club mischief—this was a proper gentleman’s domain, with a healthy dose of mischief behind the curtains. There were traditions, toasts, and the occasional heated debate about the best regimental port.

Our new mess kits were sharp as bayonets—red tunics with black lapels and cuffs, high-waisted trousers with that crisp red stripe down the leg, black waistcoats, bow ties, polished George boots, and white shirts starched within an inch of their lives. We looked like military penguins with a penchant for flair.

They were made to measure, of course—tailors fussing with tape measures and chalk as though we were going on parade for the Queen herself. And wisely, they left just enough room in the waistbands to account for the inevitable “slight expansion” after a proper Mess Dinner night. A mercy, really—because nothing ruins a toast to the regiment like popping a button across the table.

Our first proper Mess Dinner in their new kit felt like stepping onto a stage. Johan and Stephen strutted back from the bar with fresh drinks in hand, boots gleaming, tunics scarlet and crisp, bow ties knotted within an inch of their lives. You could hear the swish of fabric and the creak of new leather with every step.

From the corner, Marlin and I were already grinning. “Look at them,” I muttered loud enough for half the ante-room to hear. “Two overgrown toy soldiers, strutting about like they’ve just won the lottery.” Marlin added, “Careful, or those waistcoat buttons will pop before pudding.”

It was my first taste of a proper Mess Dinner. I scrubbed up as best I could and found myself both amused and bemused by the ceremony of it all—multiple toasts, the passing of the port, the stern-faced Regimental Sergeant Major reciting grace like it was a battle order.

Then, before the first course was served, the RSM rose from his place at the top table. He cleared his throat, raised his glass, and named each of us—Stephen, Johan, Marlin, and me—welcoming us formally into the Mess. “Promotion well earned, and the regiment all the better for it,” he said.

In that moment, my throat tightened. It wasn’t just Stephen and Johan being recognised—it was us, too. For once, I didn’t feel like an extra at the edge of the room. I felt seen, part of the regiment’s story, and I knew I would never forget the weight of that welcome.

When the band struck up and the wine flowed, it became a proper celebration. A toast to the Regiment, a toast to friendship, and a quiet toast between Stephen and me—cheeky, sweet, and just a little bit sloshed.

The port flowed, the toasts rang out, and by the time the cheese board arrived, Stephen and Johan were discreetly tugging at their waistcoats under the table. Thank heavens the tailor had left a little give—otherwise, Colchester’s first Mess Dinner of the season might’ve ended with two Poachers exploding out of their jackets mid-toast.

The bar was quieter now, the earlier buzz mellowed into gentle hums of conversation and the occasional clink of glass on polished wood. Stephen and I had tucked ourselves away in one of the leather armchairs near the fire—yes, there was actually a fire, flickering softly like something from a wartime romance film.

He looked utterly delicious in his mess kit: red jacket still on, of course—etiquette and all, but his bow tie now undone, hanging rakishly around his collar like he’d just escaped from a spy film. Very James Bond, Cockney Edition.

I cradled a glass of port, watching him watch the fire, his expression calm but tired. Not the tired of a bad day—no, this was the deep-boned contentment that only comes after a long night of duty, laughter, and just the right amount of pudding.

Later, when the port had done its rounds and the fire had burned down to a warm glow, Stephen leaned across to me in the armchair. His voice was low, softer than I’d ever heard it in uniform.

“Vinka… when he said your name—when the RSM said it out loud, in this Mess, in front of everyone—I’ve never felt prouder. Not just of being a Poacher, not just of the stripes on my arm… but of us. You, me, the life we’ve fought for.”

He paused, bow tie hanging loose at his collar, eyes shining in the firelight. “I wanted you to hear it the way I did. That you belong here. That you’ve earned every bit of it.”

I felt my chest tighten all over again. The RSM’s words had carried weight, yes—but Stephen’s carried love. And in that quiet corner of Colchester, with laughter fading behind us and port still warm in my hand, I thought: this is what all the marches, separations, and sacrifices had been for. To sit here, together, proud and seen.

“Do you ever think we’ll miss all this?” I asked, swirling the last of my drink.

He looked over, one eyebrow raised. “What—shouting at recruits or polishing boots ‘til your fingers bleed?”

I gave him a playful nudge with my foot. “No, this bit. The grown-up nights. The dressing up, the tradition. Sitting here with you, no kids, no chaos. Just… us.”

His smile softened, and he reached over to take my hand, warm and calloused, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Then we better soak it up while we can, eh?”

We stayed like that a while longer, just the two of us in our little corner of peace. Tomorrow we’d ride back to Hitchin, swap uniforms for overalls and wine for warm milk—but for now, we were sergeants in love, wrapped in mess-kit and candlelight. And honestly, I wouldn’t have traded it for all the quiet nights in the world.

The Battalion was officially warned off for an urban tour of Belfast, and suddenly life kicked into overdrive. No more gentle Fridays and rugby-filled weekends—it was time to knuckle down.

Johan and I had missed the earlier Londonderry posting, so this was our turn, and we were determined to do it right. The training cycle was full-on—three months of intense prep that made even Depot life look like a holiday brochure.

We started with the basics: escalation of force, urban patrolling, and the infamous Card Alpha drills. Every syllable had to be memorised, recited, and understood backwards—because one slip in the field could cost lives or careers.

Then came the public order training: riot shields, visors, truncheons, and plenty of shouting. Lydd and Hythe became our second home.

Tin City—with its eerie, burnt-out windows and smoke-stained walls—was our proving ground. There we learnt to move as a unit through tight alleyways, clear buildings in seconds, and manage angry crowds, played, with suspicious enthusiasm, by soldiers from other units.

There were petrol bombs, deafening bangs, and days we went home still reeking of CS gas and sweat. But it worked. Week by week, our platoons grew sharper, calmer, and more efficient. The younger lads started standing taller, speaking with confidence. And Johan and I—well, we’d seen enough by now to know the real work hadn’t even begun.

For us, this was a whole new flavour of Op Banner. Our earlier tours had been the rural sort—lush green fields, long lonely patrols, and the constant squelch of wet boots. Half the day was spent skirting around cows, the other half wondering if a suspicious-looking hedge was about to explode.

But Belfast? That was another beast entirely.

When Tim returned to the Battalion in Colchester, just before the lads shipped out for Belfast, he was pulled aside and told he wouldn’t be joining them. Instead, he was being earmarked for Senior Brecon. It was a blow at first—missing the tour—but Petra softened it by moving with him into their fourth married quarter. They’d done the rounds—Jillingham, Berlin, Londonderry, Shornecliff—and now Colchester. This time felt different. By now they had most of their own furniture, shelves of books, a decent dining table, and all the little things that finally made a house feel like a proper home.

Tim threw himself into the prep, polishing kit, brushing up on tactics, and drilling until his notes looked like they’d been written by a man possessed. The course was brutal, no two ways about it, but he dug in and came through with a solid pass. Not quite a distinction, but good enough to earn real respect. At the end of the course, he was promoted to Sergeant—something he carried with pride, even if he played it down with his usual grin. Petra, of course, made sure they celebrated like he’d just been made RSM.

We were based out of New Barnsley Police Station, patrolling the Ballymurphy and Moyard—tight-knit estates where every brick had ears and every shadow carried an opinion. The terrain was vertical, the hostility palpable, and you never turned a corner without first whispering a prayer to whichever saint looked after squaddies.

That said, we were lucky. Our lads came home in one piece—no fatalities, no breakdowns. Just a few new grey hairs and a deeper respect for street smarts.

We handled a couple of riots along the way, but our training held up. Public order drills kicked in like muscle memory, and the fact that Johan and I knew how to scrum helped keep our line steady when things got rowdy.

There were bricks, bins, and bottles—but no batons flying off in the wrong direction, and not once did we lose our nerve. Just a bit of sleep.

The tour itself was relatively uneventful—at least by Northern Ireland standards. A few scrapes here and there, a couple of dodgy-looking lads nicked in the early hours, and some cracking work from the search teams. They managed to uncover two well-hidden weapons caches—one stashed behind a false wall in a derelict house, the other buried under a suspiciously well-fed rhododendron.

Our platoon commanders—both fresh from Sandhurst with shiny boots and even shinier ideas—actually turned out to be solid. They listened more than they talked, weren’t afraid to admit what they didn’t know, and crucially, didn’t try to lead section attacks like it was Arnhem. The lads respected them for it. Once we’d broken them in with a few reality checks and a couple of midnight stag duties, they turned into proper officers. Together, we made a cracking team—tight, reliable, and not half bad at seven-a-side rugby.

There were a couple of occasions when live rounds were fired during the tour—rare, but not entirely unexpected in that part of Belfast.

The moment the radio crackled with “shots fired,” the whole machinery of post-contact investigation kicked into gear like a Swiss watch… if the Swiss watch had been designed by a committee of lawyers, bureaucrats, and overly cautious colonels.

Back at base, the soldier who had fired was immediately relieved of their weapon—usually with a firm but polite “Thank you, I’ll take that,” from the RMP, who appeared like hawks descending on a picnic. The weapon was bagged and tagged like it was part of a CSI episode, whisked away for forensic analysis to see if it matched the round recovered, assuming a round was found.

Even the magazines were scrutinised—how many rounds left, how many in the chamber, whether it had been loaded upside down and backwards. It’s happened… usually to someone who’d never live it down.

The shooter would then be whisked off for a statement—usually by someone wearing a tie and a weary expression—while the rest of us were left to secure the scene, deal with rubbernecking civilians, and quietly hope the paperwork wouldn’t outlast the tour.

It wasn’t just about legality; it was about optics. Every bullet had a political shadow. Most of us were too busy doing the job to think about headlines, but we knew full well the Ministry would be thinking of little else.

Then came the real joy: the statement process. The firer would be interviewed—sometimes for hours—by an RMP Sergeant who asked the same question in about sixteen different ways.

It was a test of memory, nerves, and the ability not to fall asleep mid-answer. You had to justify exactly what happened, why you fired, which Card Alpha clause you were invoking, and whether you remembered what colour socks you were wearing at the time.

Once they’d had their fill of the shooter, it was the rest of the patrol’s turn—each soldier called in one by one to give their version of events.

And it wasn’t just, “What did you see?” It was, “Where were you standing? What direction was the wind blowing? Was there a cat on the windowsill at number 43?”

Everything had to match up—timings, angles, distances—as if we were trained forensic analysts instead of knackered infantrymen trying to remember if we’d even had breakfast.

One slip and it could snowball into days of extra questioning. So, we learnt fast: speak clearly, stick to the facts, and never—ever—guess. Guessing was the express route to a very long, very awkward meeting with someone in a lot of braid and not much humour.

I remember one poor lad nearly hanging himself with his own tongue during one of these marathons. The RMP Sergeant leaned in and asked, “Private, what direction were you facing when the contact occurred?”

The lad blinked, thought far too long, and then blurted out, “East… no, west… hang on, towards the chip shop.”

The Sergeant’s pen froze mid-scribble. You could almost hear the gears grinding.

I jumped in before it spiralled. “He means east, Sergeant. Towards the junction. The chip shop’s on the corner, but you can’t mark bearings off cod and chips.”

The room cracked, even the RMP smirked before burying it under his moustache. The poor sod was spared another half-hour of grilling, but to this day he’s known as “Compass.”

And then… silence.

You’d wait days—sometimes a week—before your rifle was returned. It usually came back with a fresh layer of forensic grease and a passive-aggressive note from the Armoury NCO reminding you that “your barrel wasn’t properly cleaned.”

Didn’t matter if you’d scrubbed it to within an inch of its life—they always found fault.

The rest of the patrol would walk on eggshells for a while. Nothing said “you’re under a microscope” quite like the sudden interest from the Adjutant, the Company Commander, and half the Ops Room staff—people who couldn’t have picked you out of a line-up the week before.

It was exhausting. Bureaucratic. More than a little surreal. But it was also absolutely necessary.

Because strict accountability wasn’t just about covering arses or ticking boxes—it was about making damn sure we stayed the good guys.

In a place where the lines could blur, where one wrong decision could spiral into something darker, this was how we kept our moral compass intact. No shortcuts. No guesswork. Just facts, clarity, and responsibility.

To be perfectly honest? Most of us would take a few hours of paperwork over the alternative any day.

That said, some lads reckoned they’d rather sit through another RMP interrogation than face the Armoury NCO telling them, deadpan, that their rifle still wasn’t clean. At least the monkey would offered you a chair.

During our tour, the Battalion received the joyful—yet undeniably awkward—news that we were to be posted to cellar in Germany for at least five years. Cue a mixed bag of reactions.

The lads mostly cheered—visions of Autobahns, currywurst, and tax-free fuel dancing in their heads.

The girls, though, had more nuanced thoughts. On the one hand, they liked the idea of bratwurst, castles, and cheap wine.

But on the other? They were finally settled. The mums were just down the road, always on standby with a casserole or an extra pair of hands for the twins. Hitchin had become their little empire—nursery routines, community ties, familiar shops.

Marlin and I sat at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee steaming between us, the twins’ toys scattered across the floor like landmines.

She sighed first. “Five years in Germany… sounds almost like a holiday, doesn’t it?”

I nodded, though my stomach twisted. “Castles and bratwurst, sure. But what about Mum just down the road? Hitchin finally feels like home, and now we’re meant to pack it all up again.”

Marlin traced a finger around the rim of her mug, her face caught between excitement and worry. “It’s always the same, isn’t it? Just when we’ve got roots, someone tugs them up.”

I smiled faintly. “We’re Army wives now—that’s the life. Roots don’t go down, they travel.”

She laughed, but there was a catch in it. We both knew Germany would be an adventure… but leaving Hitchin meant leaving the safety net we’d built. And that hurt more than either of us wanted to admit.

Still, we didn’t kick up too much fuss. Mostly because we’d been rather busy ourselves. Turns out our clever little secret was finally out: we’d quietly joined the local Intelligence Corps TA unit—attached, of all things, to the SAS (TA) squadron based right there in Hitchin. Whether that was a happy coincidence or just our Swedish instincts refusing to sit still, we never quite decided. What was clear was that we were back in the game—and loving it.

With our background in the Swedish Intelligence Service, we glided through the two-week basic course down at Ashford in Kent—home of the Intelligence Corps’ own boot camp. Less mud, more mind games. It was a different beast compared to the lads’ days at Lympstone: better coffee, sharper lectures, and far fewer bayonet drills.

Instead of shouting about section attacks, there were discussions on signal intercepts, open-source analysis, and how to spot a dodgy passport from fifty paces. The instructors clocked our experience almost immediately—there was no need for the usual hand-holding. By the end of the Command and Leadership course, we were promoted to Lance Corporal—a standard move once they were sure you knew your left from your right and could spell “counterintelligence” without needing a lie-down.

Then came the real meat: a specialist Intelligence course designed specifically for work alongside the SAS. No guns-blazing Hollywood nonsense—this was about precision, perception, and patience.

Running in parallel was the dreaded Developed Vetting process. And when we say invasive… well, let’s just say our childhood pets were probably interviewed, and the vetting officer ended up knowing more about our teenage boyfriends than our own parents ever did.

But we passed—of course we did. Cool, calm, and utterly unflappable. By the end, even the hardened instructors were quietly asking if we fancied taking over the course next time round.

We were curled up on the sofa that first night he got home from Belfast. The kids had finally crashed out—probably still buzzing from Daddy being back—and I’d just topped up our glasses with something slightly better than PX plonk. Stephen looked tired, properly tired, in a way that went beyond just long days and wet boots. I brushed a hand through his hair and said nothing for a moment, just letting the quiet settle. Then, he turned and gave me that half-smile—more crease than grin—and asked, “So… what have you two been up to while I’ve been dodging bricks in the Ballymurphy?”

I laughed softly. “Oh you know… bit of laundry, bit of espionage.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

So I told him. About the advert in the local paper for the TA Intelligence Corps unit just outside town—how Marlin had spotted it first, over coffee and biscuits, and said, “That sounds like us, doesn’t it?” She was right. We missed the work, not just the job but the feeling of being useful in that very particular way. We still did a bit of translating on the side, but this? This had purpose. Challenge. A glimmer of our old selves, before nappies, nursery and toddler tantrums.

“At first,” I said, tracing the rim of my wine glass, “we thought we’d just go along, see what it was like. But the moment we walked into the hall at Ashford, it all came back. The training, the discipline, the knowing look you give someone across a briefing table because you both understand the stakes.”

Stephen just nodded, quietly listening the way he always does when something truly matters. I added, “They clocked us straight away—one instructor said we had ‘the posture of professionals’… whatever that means. We didn’t correct him.”

He chuckled, eyes gleaming now. “So you two just… slid back in?”

“Like a key into a very well-oiled lock,” I said, winking. “We passed everything—easily. Even the DV checks, though I think the vetting officer’s still traumatised by your school reports.”

He snorted into his wine. “Oi, I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were,” I teased, then reached out to take his hand. “But you turned out alright.”

Then we sat there, quiet again, hands clasped, glasses half full, the kind of silence that only comes when you’re truly comfortable—when everything’s been said, and the rest can wait until morning.

I sat there for a moment, just lookin’ at her—my Vinka. Same eyes that had first caught me out back in those summer trips to Sweden, when I still thought Abba was a type of shoe polish. And now here she was: mother of my kids, secret agent on weekends, and still somehow managing to look glamorous in an old rugby shirt and fluffy socks.

I gave her hand a squeeze. “You know… I always knew you were dangerous. Didn’t expect it’d be M I bloody Five dangerous.”

She smirked, taking another sip. “It’s not MI5. It’s the Intelligence Corps.”

“Right, right—green beret lot. But still, I bet you’ve got some secret licence to disappear people, eh?” I leaned in, mock whispering. “Is that why the bloke from the building society never called back?”

She gave me a playful shove. “Don’t be daft. He just didn’t like your ‘negotiation tactics.’”

I laughed, then leaned back, the smile slipping into something a bit more serious. “But I mean it, love. I’m proud of you. You and Marlin—properly proud. And I’m glad you found something that’s yours again. I know these past few years… they haven’t been easy.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly, her eyes soft.

I reached out, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear. “You’ve been amazing. With the kids, the translating, keeping the house from fallin’ apart while I’m off playin’ soldiers. And now this? It’s like you’ve just… stepped back into your boots like you never took ’em off.”

She smiled then—properly—and leaned her head on my shoulder. “We just wanted to feel useful again. Useful in the way we were before.”

I nodded, resting my chin on her head. “Well, mission accomplished, Sergeant Bond.”

She chuckled into my shirt. “You’ll be saluting me next.”

“Oh, I already do… but only behind your back. Safer that way.”