SAS Selection Madness Begins | Real British Army Life, TA Training & Rugby Banter | The Parallel Four

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty Five

What happens when two ex-Royal Marines walk into a rugby club, sink a few pints, and decide joining the TA SAS sounds like a cracking idea? Chapter Twenty-Five of The Parallel Four dives head-first into the madness of SAS selection — from the frosty mornings at Duke of York’s HQ to the brutal fitness tests, map-reading trials, and those infamous Brecon Beacons hills that break more egos than boots.

Told with Tim Heale’s trademark humour and authenticity, this episode captures real British Army life in the 1980s — the camaraderie, the competition, and the chaos that comes with chasing the beige beret. You’ll laugh, wince, and maybe even smell the Deep Heat.

Beyond the mud and mayhem, it’s a story about friendship, resilience, and the fine line between bravery and madness. Expect sharp wit, rugby banter, and a nod to those who served, trained, and somehow survived it all.

🎧 Keywords: SAS selection, TA SAS, Special Air Service, British Army stories, Cold War veterans, military humour, Royal Marines, rugby culture, 1980s army life, veteran podcast, The Parallel Four, Tim Heale

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 Five.

We had this bright idea—probably somewhere between the third and fourth pint down at the rugby club bar—that we’d have a crack at joining the TA Special Air Service. Madness, right? But we’d just finished giving the second XV a bit of a schooling at Thursday night training, and we were feeling smug, invincible… and just tipsy enough to think it was genius.

After all, the local squadron was practically on our doorstep in Hitchin—2 1 SAS, no less, proper serious kit. And with our girls already knee-deep in the Intelligence Section, doing their Mata Hari thing with languages and typewriters, we figured we might as well keep it in the family. A bit of cross-service harmony, like. Swedish-English Special Forces Alliance.

Seemed like a cracking idea at the time.

Until reality showed up—wearing boots, a stopwatch, and a permanent scowl.

So, one nippy Saturday morning in January—cold enough to freeze your moustache solid—we found ourselves reporting in at the Duke of York’s Headquarters just off Sloane Square in London. Still dark out, breath fogging in front of us like we were blowing steam off a brew.

Johan looked immaculate, as usual—fresh-shaved, polished boots, face like he was heading to a dinner party rather than a beatdown. Me? I had a cheeky bacon sarnie stuffed in my coat pocket and a ‘what have we done?’ expression I was trying to hide behind a grin.

We weren’t alone, not by a long chalk. Must’ve been about a hundred of us packed into this great draughty hall—most of us looking like we were auditioning for Soldier of Fortune magazine. Everyone was trying to stand just that little bit straighter, breath a bit quieter, shoulders a bit broader than the bloke next to ’em. Testosterone and Lynx Africa, if you could bottle it, you’d gas a rhino.

Then, up onto the stage strode this tiny Scottish RSM—classic breed, he was. Five foot nothing, but you could tell he’d flatten a charging bull with a raised eyebrow. His voice? Like gravel going through a cement mixer. And his moustache? Mate, you could’ve used it to sand a banister. Proper broom handle across his top lip.

He gave us the once-over with this look that said, “Here we go again, another hundred idiots thinking they’re hard enough.”

Then he barked out, “Right, lads. Bit of advice. All of you who smoke—hands up.”

About thirty or forty hands went up like they were admitting to nicking the last Hobnob.

“Right,” he goes, “now all of you who don’t take sugar—hands up.”

Another wave of hands, this lot clearly confused. Maybe we were being sorted into Hogwarts houses, who knew?

He squinted out over us, let the silence hang just long enough for a few lads to shift nervously on their feet, then growled—

“Those of you who smoke—stop.

Those of you who don’t take sugar—start. You’ll bloody need it.”

Silence for a beat… then a ripple of nervous laughter, a few sideways glances, and the dawning realisation that this wasn’t going to be a fun weekend getaway.

Nope. This was going to be Type II diabetes and shin splints.

Then the sorting began. Like some kind of military game show—Who Wants To Be Knackered?—they started dividing us up. Some poor sods got marched off for paperwork, others got poked and prodded by the doc, and the rest of us—lucky devils that we were—got herded out onto the track like sheep at a shearing shed.

“Twelve laps in ten and a half minutes, lads!” someone said. “That’s a mile and a half—don’t embarrass yourselves!”

Right-o, then. Johan and I gave each other a look, that little raised-eyebrow shrug we’d perfected over the years. You know the one that says, Shall we bother?

We figured we’d play it cool. Blend in. No need to go full show pony on Day One. We’d jog it, steady pace, get the tick in the box, move on.

So we set off, nice and breezy, a gentle lope like we were out for a warm-up before rugby. Crossed the line just under nine minutes, chatting about breakfast plans, barely a bead of sweat between us.

And that, as it turned out, was our big mistake.

The PTI, a wiry little bloke with the grin of a fox who’d just spotted two clueless chickens, strolled over, looked down at his stopwatch, then up at us with a smirk that should’ve been our warning.

“Very funny, lads,” he says, all friendly-like. “Now do another couple of laps—for wasting my bloody stopwatch!”

I opened my mouth to protest—something about tactical pacing—but Johan gave me a nudge and muttered, “Just run.”

So off we went again, while half the blokes we’d just lapped tried not to laugh and the other half looked terrified they’d be next. Lesson learned: blending in only works if you’re actually average.

That first day? That was just the taster—a cheeky little “sickener,” as they so lovingly called it. The sort of day designed not so much to test your fitness, but to find out who’d crumble faster than a Rich Tea in a builder’s brew. Separate the wheat from the lads-who-only-joined-for-the-patch.

Still, apparently it was all in the name of character-building… or character-breaking, depending on which bit of your body was cramping at the time.

By the end of it, after we’d mopped ourselves up, wrung out our socks, and got our breath back, somewhere around the fourth coughing fit, a slightly less cranky sergeant told us the good news—we’d made it through to the next bit.

It came in three lovely stages, laid out plain and simple, no fuss. No one shouted. No one needed to. You either did what was asked—or you left. That was it. No drama, no second chances, just a quiet, steady pressure that stripped away anything that wasn’t nailed down inside you.

First: The Hills. Which, despite the pleasant name, meant being marched up every incline Wales had to offer, under load, in silence. You either kept moving or you didn’t.

Second: Camp. Two weeks of quiet assessments—navigation, endurance, resilience—all delivered in the same flat tone. You were either up to scratch, or you weren’t.

Finally: Continuation. If you made it that far, they started teaching you things. Proper things. Skills. Tools. And the same quiet understanding carried through—no one cared how hard it was. Just get it done, or go.

Johan and I were to report to Hitchin TA Centre that Wednesday, 1900 sharp.

Wearing PT kit, a decent pair of trainers, and the kind of expression that said yes, Staff without saying a word.

The TA Centre was buzzing when we arrived—blokes everywhere trying to act casual while their eyes betrayed the inner panic: What fresh horrors have I signed up for now?

You could smell the nerves. Bit of Deep Heat, bit of aftershave, and a strong waft of regret.

No time for pleasantries. We were split into groups faster than you could say, “Why am I doing this again?” One lot shuffled off for paperwork, another for interviews, and the poor sods drawn shortest got marched straight into the gym for what can only be described as legally sanctioned torture disguised as physical training.

Johan and I landed in the map-reading group first—a lucky break, that. Not just because it meant dodging the gym for an hour, but because it was something we could do in our sleep.

We were both qualified map-reading instructors—proper ones. Contour lines, compass bearings, all that jazz. We’d taught young squaddies on Salisbury plains how to navigate their way to safety using nothing but a protractor, a soggy ration pack, and sheer desperation.

Honestly, we could’ve done the lesson blindfolded, backwards, underwater, and in Latin. But of course… we didn’t.

Rule Number One of selection?

Be the grey man.

Don’t stand out.

Don’t mess up.

Definitely don’t let on you’ve already done half this stuff professionally.

So we kept our heads down, nodded at the right times, asked one or two carefully timed “clarification” questions, and played the part of “quietly competent.”

No strutting. No eye contact with the DS. And absolutely no pointing out that the instructor had his map the wrong way up.

Then came the gym session.

If map-reading had been a gentle jog through the park, this was a sprint through the gates of hell—with a PTI fuelled by nothing but pure spite and industrial-strength Nescafé.

We did laps of the gym until our legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. Press-ups until our arms gave in and started trembling like a dog in a thunderstorm. Sit-ups until our abs staged a full-blown walkout, chanting “Not my tempo!” Rope climbs that made you seriously question whether gravity was personal. And the burpees—oh, the burpees—until the whole place sounded like a symphony of wheezing, retching, and prayers to various gods.

Blokes were dropping like flies. Some legged it to the bins and heaved like they were purging last Christmas. Most of them didn’t come back in.

The staff didn’t shout. They didn’t need to. They just smiled—cheerful, almost friendly—like this was all perfectly normal. “That,” one of them said, with the sunny confidence of a man who clearly enjoyed watching grown men suffer, “was just a taster. Most of your training? That’s on you. If you want to survive selection, you’ll have to put in the work—on your own time.”

Message received.

Johan and I took it seriously. We knew this wasn’t going to be some weekend warrior hobby with the occasional hike and a nice badge at the end. This was all in.

We trained five days a week.

Weights, runs, loaded marches, hill reps, circuits. If it hurt, we did it twice.

Wednesday nights were drill and SAS PT—which, translated, meant being beasted in new and imaginative ways until you considered taking up knitting.

Fridays were rest days.

And by rest, I mean we limped slightly less and only cried internally.

The paperwork session, in theory, was just a box-ticking exercise:

Name.

Rank.

Regimental number.

Military experience.

Next of kin—just in case you wandered off a Welsh hillside and got adopted by a sheep.

Johan and I rocked up, still catching our breath from the gym session, and filled in the forms with the casual swagger of two blokes who’d been round the military block a few times. We scribbled down Royal Marines Commando, then Royal Anglian's, recently demobbed Sergeants with a decent bit of dirt under our boots.

The admin NCO took our papers, scanned them quickly, then raised an eyebrow so high it nearly filed for its own pay grade.

“That’s nice,” he said flatly, not looking up. “But none of that matters here. Everyone starts as a Trooper.”

Translation:

Forget your medals, your stripes, your war stories.

Forget your CV, your old units, your old lives.

You’re nothing now. You all start equally unimportant.

Johan gave a quiet nod. I smiled and filed it neatly under “charming”—right next to “soul-crushing honesty” and “things I’ll laugh about in ten years, maybe.”

It took six weeks before our first official training weekend rolled around. Six weeks of drill nights, midweek beastings, and solitary sessions lugging bergen's over every hill in Hertfordshire. Six weeks of bruises, blisters, and wondering what on earth we were doing to ourselves.

First hurdle? The dreaded map reading test.

Now, for most of us with half a clue, it was a formality. But for those who thought a compass was something you drew circles with… well, let’s just say they vanished like socks in a tumble dryer. No drama, no ceremony—just fewer names on the list the following week. One bloke went out for a smoke halfway through and never came back. Might still be out there, circling north.

For those of us left, we were given our orders:

TA Centre. 1800hrs sharp. Friday, full kit.

And when they said “sharp,” they meant it. Not a minute past. Not thirty seconds. If you were late, the coach would leave without you—and your only option was to start running west until you hit the Brecon Beacons.

So there we were, kit squared away, bergen's like lead blocks, standing by like a platoon of very polite psychopaths waiting to be released into the wild.

We hurtled down the M4 in a bone-rattling old coach that had definitely seen better days, swapping nods and quiet stares, all pretending we weren’t nervous.

At Leigh Delamere services, we pulled in to link up with two other coaches from sister squadrons. A brief, grim mingle—bit like a school trip, if your teachers were ex-Pathfinders and your classmates all had thousand-yard stares.

Johan and I grabbed one last civilian sausage roll, knowing full well it might be the last warm thing we ate until Sunday night.

Then we pushed on…

Straight into the abyss.

Eventually, we arrived at what could best be described as “a former army camp”… and worst be described as “a damp apocalypse with old disused huts.”

It looked like someone had tried to build a barracks, failed, given up, and then let the weather finish it off. The kind of place where rust grows rust and every surface smells faintly of mildew, diesel, and broken dreams.

We were unceremoniously told to grab our kit and prepare to sleep under a lean-to—constructed from corrugated iron, rotting timber, and what I can only assume was decades of bad decisions. Proper rustic charm, if you’re a mushroom.

No one actually slept, of course.

We all lay there in our doss bags, wide-eyed and wired, twitching at every snap of twig or gust of wind—fully convinced that at any second the DS, Directing Staff, known lovingly as professional sadists, would leap out from the bushes and shout something terrifying like, “MOVE!” or “MAPS OUT!” or “WHO SNORED?!?”

But they didn’t. Not that night.

No shouting. No drama.

Just the cold. And silence. And your own thoughts telling you you’ve made a terrible mistake.

Then, at exactly 0500, a voice. Calm. Polite. Dead behind the eyes.

“Time to get up. Wash. Shave. PT kit on.”

Now, when you hear PT kit, your brain might imagine shorts, trainers, and maybe a nice warm sweatshirt. Not here.

Here, it meant boots, denims, and a vest.

Because nothing says “prepared for exercise” like looking like a builder on holiday in Blackpool.

At precisely 0530, the DS herded us up like sheep with hangovers—no shouting, no drama, just a quiet, unrelenting efficiency that somehow made it all worse. You could feel the dread rising with the mist.

“Basic Fitness Test,” they said.

Like it was a cup of tea and a crossword.

Now, for the uninitiated, the BFT is that cheerful little rite of passage every squaddie’s got to pass to prove they’re not just fit—but fit enough to be thrashed properly without snapping in half.

First up: a 1.5-mile jog as a squad. Fifteen minutes max.

Basically a brisk stroll with attitude.

We trotted off in formation—boots thudding on the wet tarmac, breath puffing in clouds, and someone near the back already regretting last night’s pastie from Leigh Delamere.

Most made it through that bit grumbling but upright.

Then came part two:

The solo mile-and-a-half.

Ten and a half minutes or less.

No excuses. No sympathy. Just your legs, your lungs, and a hill that seemed to grow steeper the longer you looked at it.

Johan and I paced it well. Smooth, steady—looked like we were out for a casual jog to the corner shop. Still had time to clock the state of the bloke next to us, red in the face and sounding like a kettle about to blow.

Others? Not so lucky.

Blokes were staggering across the line, retching into hedgerows, some practically crawling the last fifty metres. And those who didn’t make the time?

Gone.

Just… gone.

No announcement. No farewell. No pat on the back.

They simply vanished—like a dodgy corporal on duty weekend.

One minute they were next to you gasping, the next minute their bergen was gone from the pile. Unspoken rule: you don’t ask where they went. You just tighten your laces and hope you’re still standing next time the clipboard comes out.

The survivors—what was left of us, anyway—were split into groups of ten and huddled together like nervous penguins in bergen's, boots, and bad life choices.

Then the DS dropped the next treat on us:

The Combat Fitness Test.

Eight miles.

Twenty-five kilos strapped to your back.

Two hours to get it done.

No shortcuts. No stops. No sympathy.

The pace wasn’t outrageous—unless your feet were already half-blister, half-mush—but it weren’t exactly scenic either. Just endless Welsh countryside: hills, mud, angry sheep, and the sound of ten blokes wondering what exactly they were trying to prove.

Again, we lost a few.

Some to blisters.

Some to despair.

And one lad who, I swear, just disappeared mid-march. Blinked, looked up, and poof—gone. Might’ve walked into a hedge and joined the badger population for all we know.

Now here’s the twist: every man had to carry a map and compass.

At any moment, a DS could materialise beside you like a surprise maths teacher from hell and snap:

“You, where are we?”

“Show me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Show me.”

And if you fluffed it?

Boom—you took point.

No argument. No delay. You were suddenly the map god, dragging nine tired souls through Welsh nothingness, silently praying you didn’t navigate everyone into a disused quarry or a river.

I saw one poor sod spin in three full circles trying to find north before just muttering, “Erm…” and getting marched off into oblivion.

Johan and I stayed sharp—silent, steady, and accurate. Didn’t show off. Didn’t fumble. Just nodded, pointed, and kept walking. Be the grey man. Blend in. Stay useful. Don’t cock it up.

Simple enough.

In theory.

By the next Wednesday drill night, map reading had been quietly retired—presumably because if you couldn’t navigate by now, you’d already walked yourself out of the squadron.

In its place?

Weapon handling.

Because naturally, if you can’t find your way, you might as well learn how to shoot something out of frustration.

Add to that the usual helping of PT—always more PT.

Circuit after circuit, sandbag carries, squats until your thighs begged for mercy.

One of the DS actually smiled as he said, “Just a short one tonight.”

It lasted ninety minutes.

Short, maybe, on mercy.

And just when you thought your body might finally adapt, they hit us with the next nugget of joy:

The hills. Every other weekend.

Like some kind of sadistic National Trust membership—come for the views, stay for the joint pain.

We’d spend the next couple of months getting lovingly soaked by the British weather while not being shouted at, which somehow made it worse. The silence was deafening. Every stumble, every wrong turn—it was all logged in quiet judgement.

And on one particularly invigorating outing, they chucked in the basic swim test.

Picture it:

Forty-odd blokes, stark naked, shivering in a line like a condemned meat raffle, waiting to jump off a five-foot platform into what felt like freshly melted snow.

There were goosebumps on our goosebumps.

Even the DS looked cold—and they’re usually carved from stone.

The task?

Jump in, swim round the edge of the pool three times.

No screaming. No sinking.

Ideally both.

Johan and I just smiled through the shivers. We’d done worse at Lympstone, where the water’s colder, the rules stricter, and the PTI's genuinely enjoy watching you suffer.

But for some of the lads, it was their epiphany moment.

That realisation that maybe, just maybe, they’d made a terrible life choice.

And then, just as teeth were still chattering and dignity lay soggy at the bottom of the pool, came the follow-up:

“Before the end of the course,” the DS said, far too cheerily, “you’ll be expected to pass the combat swim test:

Full kit... Rifle... Webbing... Bergen... Forty metres.

Then hand it all up, swim 200 metres in combats, and finish by treading water for five minutes like you’re sunbathing in the Brochure From Hell.”

Lovely.

Those first couple of weekends on selection were what the DS lovingly referred to as a “gentle shakedown.”

Now, what they actually meant was:

Let’s find out who turned up thinking this was a fitness boot camp run by Bear Grylls—and who’s actually got the grit to keep going once the blisters bleed through the socks.

No shouting. No drama. Just long days, heavy kit, relentless hills, and the quiet certainty that someone was always watching, clipboard in hand, mentally noting if you hesitated tying your bootlaces.

Johan and I were in decent nick—not just because we were ex-Marines and military masochists by nature, but because we’d kept up the graft.

We weren’t drinking much. We weren’t partying.

We were training like it was a second job—and one that came with no sick leave and no fan mail.

The girls weren’t slacking either. Vinka and Marlin were deep into their work with the TA Intelligence Corps—language drills, analysis exercises, occasional creepy briefings that ended with them saying things like “We can’t talk about that.”

Honestly, I think they were having more fun than we were—less mud, more maps, and just as many secrets.

Between selection prep, the TA, and family life ticking over, none of us had proper jobs.

Didn’t need to.

With our redundancy payouts and pensions coming in, the bills were covered, and we suddenly had the rarest gift of all: time.

The houses—immaculate.

Not in a smug, show-home way… but close.

Vinka had turned IKEA shopping into a tactical operation, and Johan had declared war on “any door that wobbles or squeaks.”

So the cupboards shut like bank vaults, the bathrooms sparkled, and even the garages were suspiciously well-organised.

Inside?

Two gleaming GS 850s—waxed, tuned, and ready to roar.

And a pair of trusty Volvos, always parked facing out like we were expecting a tactical getaway.

The only thing missing? A reason to use them.

It was during one of those long, suspiciously productive lulls—you know the sort, where you’ve cleaned the garage, alphabetised your Allen keys, and started threatening to grout the bathroom—that we were struck by divine inspiration:

“Let’s buy some old motorbikes and do them up.”

It was that, or take up knitting—and let’s be honest, oily hands and skinned knuckles are far more our style than crochet hooks and tea cosies.

So we started asking around. Bloke at the rugby club—big lad, played second row and drank Guinness like water—mentioned this chap he knew, lived out near Codicote, who apparently had a shed full of “bits.”

Bits in our world could mean anything from a rusted BSA frame to a pushbike with illusions of grandeur. Still, curiosity and a mild addiction to anything with pistons, got the better of us.