The Final March: From Germany to Civvy Stree

The Final March: From Germany to Civvy Street | The Parallel Four

Chapter 24 brings The Parallel Four to a powerful turning point — from red-jacketed Mess nights and new postings in Germany 🇩🇪 to the bittersweet decision to hang up the uniform. Follow Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim and Petra as they navigate Army life, love, and the leap into civilian freedom. Expect laughter, pride, farewells, and a glimpse of what comes after service life.

• Life after Belfast — Germany postings, new Mess nights & family chaos
• Behind-the-scenes of Army redundancy & resettlement life
• Love, loyalty, and the courage to start again

British Army life, Royal Anglian Regiment, military retirement, Army redundancy, 1980s Germany, Sergeants’ Mess, veterans’ stories, The Parallel Four, Tim Heale, military transition, civvy street, Cold War era, military family life.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty 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 Four.

We sat like that for a long while—no telly, no noise, just the soft creak of the house settling for the night and the low hum of the fridge reminding us it was still on duty. Eventually, I reached for the wine bottle and topped us both up.

“Here’s to you, Vinka,” I said, raising my glass. “And to dangerously clever women everywhere.”

She clinked her glass with mine. “And to husbands who know when to shut up and listen.”

“Oi!” I grinned. “You’ll be wanting me to iron your Int Corp kit next.”

She gave me that sly little look—the one that’s got me in trouble since 1966. “Well… since you offered.”

Next door. The house was quiet, for once.

Mum had taken all four of the kids for the night, like some kind of benevolent lunatic. We didn’t question it—we just handed them over with a bag of snacks and ran. Now the silence felt thick, like the house was holding its breath. The only sound was the ticking of the old clock in the hallway and the faint creak of the central heating as it tried to catch up with the British spring.

Marlin came in from the kitchen carrying two mugs of something vaguely herbal and suspiciously Swedish.

“Chamomile,” she said, sitting beside me on the sofa and tucking her feet under herself. “Helps with the tension.”

“I was hoping for whisky,” I teased, taking a sip. “But this’ll do.”

We sat there in the low light, the living room lit only by the old lamp with the wonky shade we still hadn’t fixed. I looked over at her—my wife, my comrade, the girl who once told me to shut up in three languages when we were sixteen and I’d never been more impressed.

“You alright?” I asked.

She smiled, but her eyes flicked away for a second before returning. “Yeah. I think so. Just… everything’s changing again, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Germany. New posting. New schools. New everything.”

“And us… joining the Intelligence Corps TA like we’re still twenty and invincible.”

“You are invincible,” I said, grinning. “I’ve seen you interrogate an electrician and get a better quote.”

She chuckled, but then her fingers tightened around the mug. “Do you think we’re being selfish? Wanting this again? The work, the… danger?”

I shook my head. “No. You’re not doing it instead of being a mother. You’re doing it as well. And that’s what makes you amazing.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder and let out a long sigh. “I didn’t think I’d miss it this much. The thinking. The problem-solving. Being part of something that matters.”

I kissed the top of her head gently. “You never stopped being part of something that matters.”

There was a long silence after that. A warm silence. We didn’t need to fill it with talk—we never had. We’d always been like that, even back in Sweden. Two souls who could sit in a room and understand each other with just a glance.

Finally, she whispered, “You think they’ll let me keep the green beret this time?”

I grinned. “As long as you don’t let Stephen try it on.”

She giggled—properly—and that, more than anything, told me we were going to be just fine.

Back in Colchester after our Belfast escapade, the pace went from brisk to outright frantic. The whole Battalion was now swept up in full relocation mode, and if you’ve never seen several hundred soldiers trying to organise themselves for an overseas move, just imagine a rugby scrum with paperwork. There were packing lists, kit checks, endless briefings, and more rumours than a Friday night in the naafi bar.

The countdown to Germany ticked louder, the Sergeants’ Mess put on a dinner to mark our safe return and give the place a proper send-off. It was Tim and Petra’s first Mess do since his promotion, and they got the same warm introduction from the RSM that Vinka, Johan, Marlin, and I had had before. The six of us ended up sat together down the same leg of the table—three Sergeants and their wives, a little family inside the regiment’s bigger one.

When the RSM rose, glass in hand, he welcomed Tim formally into the Mess and, with a nod, added Petra’s name too—acknowledging her as part of the family every bit as much as him. Then his eyes flicked down the table to the three of us in scarlet tunics and said with a grin, “And good to see the battalion’s rugby trio back where they belong—let’s hope you start winning again.”

The room erupted in laughter and applause, and Petra, cheeks glowing, squeezed Tim’s hand under the table while Vinka and Marlin raised their glasses in mock salute. The port flowed, the band struck up, and for one night it felt like the Poachers were exactly where we were meant to be.

Over the clatter of cutlery and the steady hum of conversation, Tim leaned across the table with that familiar glint in his eye. “You’ll like this,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to make Stephen and Johan lean in. “They’ve given me the Recce Platoon. Straight in, no hanging about.” Stephen chuckled into his glass. “Trust you to land on your feet, Tim. Some of us had to graft our way there.” Johan only grinned, shaking his head. “Recce suits you—you’ve always liked poking your nose where it wasn’t wanted.” Tim laughed at that, raising his glass. “Aye, and now I’m paid to do it.”

Johan and I spent most of our days herding our platoons like over caffeinated sheepdogs with clipboards—making sure every man had signed the right forms, labelled his crates correctly, and hadn’t tried to sneak an entire stereo system into his Bergen. One lad nearly sent his kit to Bavaria instead of Bielefeld, another had packed nothing but football boots and Pot Noodles. Chaos, but controlled chaos—just.

Among the married lads, there was a quiet, cutthroat game going on: who’d land the best quarters in Celler. The dream was somewhere close to the naafi the reality was usually next to the bloke with two Alsatians and a ponchant for midnight trumpet practice. Petty squabbles broke out over gardens, garages, even who’d seen the floor plan first.

Meanwhile, the briefings rolled on—each more wildly optimistic than the last. “Smooth transition,” they promised. “Minimal disruption,” they said. We all nodded sagely, fully aware that in Army-speak this usually translated to: “Expect chaos and bring a pen.”

Then came the big one—who would go accompanied and who wouldn’t. After about five minutes of what could generously be called a “family discussion,” Johan and I decided, read: were gently but firmly told to go unaccompanied. The girls barely batted an eye. In fact, they were suspiciously quick to agree—something about needing to stay put for the kids’ routine, their new roles with the Intelligence Corps TA, and possibly the lure of uninterrupted coffee mornings in Hitchin.

So off we went, once again packing our lives into Bergens and boxes. Most of our kit and boxes had already been sent on ahead, leaving us with just a couple of spare uniforms and the bare essentials strapped down. This time there was no RAF flight, no convoy of families—just Johan and me, roaring out of Colchester on our motorbikes, heading for Cellar with the wind in our faces and the road stretching long in front of us. Two Poachers on wheels, looking more like leather-clad couriers than seasoned sergeants, but glad enough for it.

We made good time down to the ferry, bikes humming steady beneath us, panniers rattling just enough to remind us we were carrying half our lives on two wheels. At Harwich, we rolled into the queue alongside lorries and holidaymakers, drawing a few curious looks. Two soldiers in leather jackets, bikes caked in road dust, looking like we’d escaped from a recruitment poster.

On board we found the café and demolished a pair of bacon sarnies so greasy they could’ve oiled the chains for the rest of the trip. Johan raised his mug of tea and muttered, “To Cellar—may the beer be cold, the quarters be warm, and the RSM be merciful.”

I clinked my cup against his, grinning. “And may our boxes actually turn up before we run out of clean socks.”

With that, we leaned back, the North Sea stretching grey and endless outside, two Poachers on the move again—back to Germany, back to soldiering, and back to whatever waited for us on the far side of the road.

By the time we rolled into Cellar, the bikes were streaked with road grime, our faces wind burnt, and our uniforms looking like we’d slept in them—which, technically, we had. We swung through the camp gates like a pair of touring rock stars who’d taken a wrong turn somewhere after Hamburg.

The duty clerk gave us a look that landed somewhere between disbelief and pity as we parked up outside the guardroom. Helmets off, hair plastered flat, we tried our best at a smart salute. Not our finest drill-square performance, but after several hundred miles in the saddle, we reckoned it wasn’t half bad.

“Reporting in, Sergeants,” Johan said, trying not to grin.

The Corporal behind the desk raised an eyebrow, scribbled our names onto the arrivals sheet, and muttered, “Well, you made it. Boxes are here somewhere. RSM’ll want a word once you’ve cleaned yourselves up.”

I nudged Johan, smirking. “Told you the socks would beat us here.”

And just like that, we were in Cellar—new chapter, new barracks, same old Poachers.

We went straight into the Sergeant’s Mess—our new home-away-from-home. It was no luxury resort—think more “institutional chic”—but it had the essentials: a bed, a bar, and a cleaner who clearly hated us. Our rooms were boxy but functional, and the bar had just enough personality and questionable furniture to serve as the evening debrief venue.

From day one, it was all hands on deck—unpacking crates, setting up offices, liaising with rear parties, and breaking in the new lads. We spent an alarming amount of time reminding single blokes how to clean a bathroom and explaining why a frying pan does not belong in the boot of your car.

A few days later, Tim and Petra rolled into Cellar in their black VW Beetle, Tim’s bike hitched behind on the proper trailer he was so proud of. The little car looked almost comical dragging a machine twice its size, but it made it without complaint—Petra steady at the wheel, Tim grinning in the passenger seat like he’d just conquered Europe and Sigrid in her child seat in the back.

They pulled up at the quarter allocated to them, the Beetle coughing politely as it switched off, only to find the removals van already parked outside. The crew were just unloading the first crates when Johan and I roared up on our bikes, engines rumbling like a cavalry charge.

Within minutes, we three sergeants were shoulder-deep in boxes, lugging furniture up staircases, arguing about which wall the wardrobe would fit against, and discovering—after a chorus of curses—that Petra’s prized dining table was exactly half an inch too wide for the doorway.

Petra managed it all with a calm efficiency that put the lads to shame—balancing a box of crockery on one hip while keeping a watchful eye on their four-year-old daughter, who was happily unpacking her toys onto the living room floor. Every so often, Petra would step in to redirect the chaos, moving a chair here, stacking a box there, while still keeping their little girl entertained.

Johan wiped his brow, set down a trunk, and shook his head with a grin. “Look at her—running the whole move, wrangling a four-year-old, and still keeping us in line. Makes the three of us look like lazy privates on fatigues.”

Petra only laughed, brushing hair from her face as she set another box down. “That’s because you are.”

And with that, Cellar began to feel like home.

Just a few weeks after settling in, Tim and Petra decided to take full advantage of the Forces’ tax-free deal and treated themselves to a brand-new BMW. Sleek, black, and smelling gloriously of fresh leather, it was a world away from the trusty Beetle that had hauled them across Europe. What made it sweeter was that the down payment came from Petra’s translating work—her steady income had quietly built into a tidy sum, enough to cover the new car outright. She teased Tim that technically it was her BMW, since she’d paid for it and would be doing most of the driving. Tim, of course, was already polishing the bonnet like it was part of his kit. Between the BMW, the Beetle, and the bike on its trailer, their driveway looked like a miniature motor show.

As for the married quarters drama? Still raging. We even had to mediate an actual argument over whose balcony got more sun. Johan just stared at them and said, “Try sleeping on the floor in a field for three months, mate,” before walking off. Game, set and perspective.

Sadly, the downside of this new German chapter was that we only managed to get home about once a month for a long weekend—barely enough time for hugs, haircuts, or a proper roast.

We squeezed every drop out of a couple of precious weeks of leave, of course, but it was tough.

About six months in—just as we were finally figuring out how to order schnitzel without accidentally requesting a singing fish—the CO called us in. He had that familiar twinkle in his eye and asked, “Fancy another run at the Depot as platoon sergeants?”

Another no-brainer.

We missed the family like mad, the commute from Hitchin would be miles easier, and frankly, the thought of not herding half-dressed squaddies through inspections at 0600 while deciphering the German for “where’s your belt?” was deeply appealing.

We were genuinely gutted to leave our lads behind—they were a solid bunch, and our young officers had reached the point where they only needed mild supervision.

Before leaving, the Sergeants’ Mess in Cellar laid on a proper dinner to see us off. It was one of those nights where the band was lively, the port never seemed to run out, and the toasts carried a little more weight than usual. The RSM made a point of standing to thank us both by name for our work with the company, adding that the Depot would be lucky to have us back shaping the next generation of Poachers. The cheer that followed was loud enough to rattle the silver. For a moment, we felt ten feet tall—and just a little sad to be leaving such a fine bunch behind.

Tim and Petra were there too, raising their glasses with the rest. Tim clapped us both on the shoulders at the end, grinning, “Don’t forget us poor sods still holding the fort.” Petra gave us both proper hugs, whispering that Hitchin wasn’t far and that Vinka and Marlin were already plotting how to keep us busy on leave.

And then it was time. We packed our kit again, saluted farewell, and rolled back into Blighty four weeks later for a blissful chunk of leave before diving headfirst into Depot life—version 2.0.

Life as a platoon sergeant was, dare I say, a touch more civilised than our days as section corporals. The chaos was still there, naturally—it is the Army, after all—but now we had just enough authority to steer the madness instead of being swept up in it. The days were slightly more structured, our voices carried a bit more weight, and—shock horror—we even got to sit down now and then. Admittedly, it was usually at a desk buried under lesson plans, nominal rolls, and enough admin to wallpaper Buckingham Palace, but still… progress.

Luckily, for us, the stars aligned. We landed back in Salamanca Platoon—our old stomping ground. Same name, new faces, and a familiar fire in our bellies. We’d dodged the clipboard bullet, at least for now.

There was something satisfying about shaping the new instructors, refining training, and watching fresh batches of recruits slowly turn into soldiers. It was like gardening with grenades—plant a few ideas, yank out the weeds, and occasionally lob something explosive just to keep everyone on their toes.

But time, as it tends to do, zipped past, and by the following October Johan and I were packed off back to the Battalion.

This time, though, the mood had soured. Someone in a very expensive suit—probably more comfortable with a calculator than a rifle—had decided the Army had too many soldiers and not enough spreadsheets.

The word “redundancy” started floating around like a bad smell in a crowded lift. You could feel the unease creeping through the Mess; every new posting list became a nerve-wracking lottery draw, with blokes whispering, “You seen the list?” like it was the end of the world.

The girls, meanwhile, were having an absolute blast with the TA—weekends away, sneaky-beaky exercises with the SAS (TA) lot, and probably more laughs than we ever had on operations. Word was they even got better snacks.

They’d taken to it like ducks to water—or in Vinka’s case, like a Swedish panther in camouflage. I half expected her to start running counter-surveillance drills in the living room.

Marlin wasn’t far behind either—cool as you like with a map case and compass, the sort of woman who could charm intel out of a brick wall.

It was one of those Friday nights back in the Hitchin rugby club bar when Johan and I finally laid it out. We clinked pints, sighed like two blokes with sore backs and longer memories, and admitted that something had changed. Between the constant separations, the kids growing up faster than we could keep up, and the Army’s newfound love of forms, budgets, and death-by-powerpoint, it felt like the right time. Maybe not to quit entirely—God forbid—but to step sideways, see what civvy life had to offer.

That weekend, we called a family summit. No war council, no shouting—just tea brewed strong, biscuits deployed with tactical precision, and all four of us sat around the kitchen table like we were plotting the next chapter of our own intelligence dossier.

And when it came down to it, we all agreed. Time to hang up the boots, trade pace sticks for school runs, and see what fate had in store for the four of us.

Later that night, when the house had gone quiet and the children were asleep, I sat with Stephen in the glow of the kitchen light. The decision we’d made still hung in the air—not heavy, not sad, but certain.

For me, it wasn’t the end of something. It was proof of everything we’d built together. We weren’t leaving because we’d had enough, or because the Army had beaten us. We were stepping sideways because we could—because we’d given our best years, carried our share, and still had the strength to choose what came next.

I felt proud, not just of Stephen and Johan, but of all of us. Proud that we weren’t clinging on until the Army decided for us. Proud that we were brave enough to close one chapter and open another, together.

And as I laid my head on Stephen’s shoulder, I thought: whatever fate had in store, we’d already proven we could face it—side by side.

Bright and early Monday morning—well, bright-ish—we strolled into the Adjutant’s office with matching grins and our redundancy applications clutched like Willy Wonka golden tickets.

We handed them over with all the solemnity of two blokes about to win a pub quiz jackpot.

And blow me, they were approved on the spot. No fuss, no guilt trip—just a quiet nod and something about “freeing up the manning grid.”

Translation: they were more than happy to shave a couple of pay packets off the budget.

Turns out, after fifteen-plus years—and having signed on for the full 22-year marathon—we were entitled to a redundancy package that felt almost suspiciously generous.

We cleared our mortgages, tucked away a decent rainy-day fund, and still had enough left over to upgrade the biscuit tin from rich teas to chocolate hobnobs.

Best of all? The pension started rolling in straightaway.

Not bad for a couple of scruffy lads who once couldn’t iron creases into their shirts the same way twice.

Handing our kit back at the Depot was weirdly emotional. We’d started here, as a pair of bootnecks and smelling faintly of polish and apprehension. Now, we were leaving with more grey hairs, fewer ligaments, and a stack of thank-you cards from the clerks who no longer had to chase our leave forms.

It wasn’t just an end—it was a full-circle moment, neatly folded and handed in with our 1157s.

Of course, the Army being the Army, they didn’t let us go entirely. A chunk of kit was quietly handed straight back, because we still had a reserve liability until the magic age of forty-five. Technically “out,” but not quite free—like ex-schoolboys still expected to turn up for sports day if the team was short.

For our resettlement course, we skipped anything too highbrow. No offshore finance seminars or corporate networking fluff. We went for something classic: Class 1 truck and bus licences.

Seemed only right. Johan’s logic was, “If all else fails, we can drive each other to the pub.” Mine was, “Or start a wedding disco business.”

Either way, after years of soldiering at full tilt, the idea of hazard perception tests and reversing into cones felt strangely calming.

And just like that, civvy street awaited—with open arms, a full pension, and possibly a clipboard.

When Stephen came home waving his shiny new truck licence like it was a Victoria Cross, I couldn’t help but laugh. After all the years of deployments, patrols, and exercises, it seemed surreal that the next great challenge in his life had been reversing into a cone without flattening it.

He talked big about wedding discos and long-haul adventures, but I knew what it really meant. For once, his future wasn’t dictated by a posting order or a man in braid—it was his choice. Watching him stand there, proud of something so ordinary yet so completely his, I felt the same pride I’d felt a hundred times before.

Soldier or truck driver, Sergeant or civvy—he was still my Stephen. And now, finally, we had the chance to live life on our own terms.