Earning the Sand Beret | TA SAS Continuation Phase, SERE & Parachute Wings | The Parallel Four

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven of The Parallel Four charts the final push from SAS Continuation Phase to that quiet, perfect moment of earning the sand-coloured beret. After the brutality of Camp and Tactical Questioning, Stephen and Johan face the standards game: urban ops, comms, weapons, med, and planning under pressure—where one missed radio check can bin you. Then it’s on to Brize Norton for balloon jumps, Hercules exits, PLFs and finally parachute wings; followed by the Combat Survival & Interrogation (SERE) course—cold, hungry, hunted, and holding the line.

Amid the grit, there’s heart: Vinka’s pride, a kitchen-light homecoming, and two veterans rediscovering normal—tea, toast, and tinkering with the MV 500—before promotions to Lance Corporal and joint exercises with the TA Intelligence cell. It’s the blend this series does best: military realism, dark humour, and the tenderness of coming home.

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 Seven.

We slumped at the kitchen table—fluffy robes, trackie bottoms, socks with questionable elasticity—and sipped tea like it was the elixir of the gods.

No one said much.

Just the occasional groan.

A faint mutter.

And the occasional comment like, “Did that woman actually laugh at your—?”

To which the only response was a slow nod and a haunted look.

Now, unlike some poor sods—who had to rock up to their actual jobs on Monday morning, pretending everything was fine while blinking into their cornflakes—we had the luxury of sleeping in, groaning intermittently, and staring into the void with toast crumbs on our jumpers.

We’d made it.

Camp was behind us.

And many weren’t so lucky.

Especially those who’d failed Tactical Questioning.

Because there were no second chances.

No appeals.

No “Well, he tried his best.”

If you broke—that was it.

just gone.

SAS selection doesn’t care about potential.

It’s not your mum...

It’s not your therapist...

It’s not even the Army...

It’s like one of those old-school teachers we used to fear in the ‘60s—absolutely no sympathy, zero tolerance, and a glare that could curdle milk at twenty paces.

Then came the final hurdle:

The infamous Continuation Phase.

This wasn’t about just surviving anymore.

This was about proving you could do the job.

Really do it.

We were told—very calmly—that this phase would be completely different from the horror show we’d just limped through.

Less “run until you’re sick,” and more… well, cerebral.

No more being screamed at by psychos in camouflage.

No more crawling through sheep fields at midnight wondering if your boots were still on.

This was all about instruction and testing.

Thinking.

Planning.

Precision.

Weekly drill nights became sacred.

Miss even one, and you were gone.

No excuses.

Even if your cat exploded, or your leg fell off, or you’d been kidnapped by a rogue Soviet circus—it wouldn’t matter. You’d be binned without a second glance.

As one of the DS put it—with that usual deadpan charm:

“It’s the Special Air Service, not the Slightly Inconvenient air service.”

Hard to argue with that.

Every other weekend was intensive.

Scenario-based.

Methodical.

They drilled us in everything from urban ops to vehicle extraction, hostage recovery, intelligence handling, and communications—all the clever end of the business that separates the scalpel from the sledgehammer.

Johan and I knew the drill now.

Stay sharp.

Stay invisible.

Turn up early.

Say little.

Watch everything.

The attrition rate didn’t slow.

Blokes who’d made it this far—good lads, tough lads—started getting binned for small mistakes.

A missed radio check.

A botched room clearance.

Wrong kit on the wrong day.

It was brutal in a different way—colder, almost.

Because now we weren’t being tested on effort.

Now it was all about standards.

And the standard was… flawless.

The following months?

Jam-packed doesn’t even begin to cover it.

We were learning at a rate that made basic training look like finger painting.

Chemical warfare?

Oh yes.

Turns out, CS gas is basically like breathing angry bees, with the added bonus of tears, snot, and the strong urge to peel your own face off.

Fun times.

Advanced first aid?

Think less “St John Ambulance” and more “how to stitch your mate’s leg back on with a bootlace, a dirty sock, and a prayer.”

Then came the full-fat stuff:

SAS tactics

Night navigation, again… always again.

Recce patrols

Ambush drills

Signals

A deep dive into all the skills that basically turned you into a one-man Swiss Army knife—except with more attitude and fewer corkscrews.

Every weekend was something new, something harder, something that could get you binned if you cocked it up.

And then came the grand finale:

The written and practical exams.

Because after all that action, all that hardship, they still wanted to know if we could spell.

We revised like university students cramming for finals.

Except instead of Red Bull and biscuits, we were running on...

Black coffee...

Paranoia...

And the looming threat of failure hanging over us like a cloud full of bad dreams and clipboards.

The tension was unreal.

Even Johan—who could usually navigate a jungle blindfolded with a teaspoon—was fidgeting.

One bloke actually vomited during the radio procedures practical.

Another fell asleep while demonstrating a trauma dressing.

But when the dust finally settled…

Four of us were left standing.

Me.

Johan.

And two other blokes who looked just as amazed as we did that they’d survived.

We didn’t cheer.

Didn’t cry.

Just nodded.

Shook hands.

And went for the strongest pint we could find that wasn’t also illegal in several countries.

There was no grand parade.

No brass band, no fireworks, no blokes with clipboards weeping with joy.

Just the CO, standing there with a slight smile, a firm handshake, and a casual:

“Well done, lads.”

That was it.

No speech.

No ceremony.

Just a row of us—four tired, battered men—receiving our sand-coloured berets with hands that still hadn’t quite stopped shaking.

And in that moment, it hit us.

We were in.

No fanfare.

No fuss.

Just a subtle nod. A quiet moment.

A simple gesture that said:

You’ve earned it.

Welcome to the Regiment.

It was perfect.

Exactly how it should be.

Because if you’d made it this far, you didn’t need applause.

Just that beret.

That handshake.

and the knowledge that, from now on, everything had changed.

The drive home was quiet.

No music.

Just the hum of the road and the occasional creak from the kit bags in the back.

Johan and I barely spoke.

Not out of awkwardness—just… contentment.

The kind that sits in your chest like a small, steady flame.

We didn’t need words. We’d lived it. Survived it.

Earned it.

By the time I turned onto our road, the sun had dipped low—one of those golden hours where even the Volvo looked heroic in the rear-view mirror.

And then I saw her.

Vinka.

Standing in the doorway, wrapped in her navy cardigan, arms crossed against the evening breeze—but that smile?

That smile could’ve stopped traffic.

She didn’t wave.

Didn’t come running.

Just stood there—watching, waiting, and holding something in her hand.

My beret.

The new one.

Sand-coloured.

Still stiff from the packet, but already carrying the weight of what it meant.

I got out slowly, legs stiff, eyes stinging from more than just wind.

She stepped forward, took one look at my face, and reached out with both hands—one resting gently on my cheek, the other offering up the beret like a crown made of cloth and quiet pride.

I didn’t say a word.

Couldn’t.

She slipped it into my hand, and whispered,

“I knew you would.”

And just like that, it all caught up with me.

The hills. The silence. The gas. The doubt. The sheer, bloody stubbornness it had taken to get here.

I pulled her in, buried my face in her neck, and let out a long, shaky breath.

Not quite a cry.

Not quite a laugh.

Just the release of a man who’d come home from something that nearly broke him.

Inside, the kettle was already on.

The lights were warm.

The kids were asleep.

And on the kitchen table—next to a box of biscuits and a single malt—was a note in her handwriting that simply read:

“Welcome home, Trooper.”

Later that night, when the last cup had been emptied and the fire was burning low, Johan and Marlin slipped quietly out the front door—home to theirs next door, leaving the house still, warm, and just ours again.

Stephen and I stayed where we were—tucked under an old tartan blanket on the sofa, limbs entangled, the kind of closeness that needs no words. His body was heavy beside me, not with sleep, but with everything he’d carried through those long, brutal months.

The fire crackled, low and tired. Outside, a breeze teased the windows. Inside, only our breathing.

I shifted slightly, resting my hand on his chest, feeling the slow, steady thump beneath my palm.

“Stephen…”

“Mm?” he murmured, eyes half-closed.

“I watched everything.”

He blinked down at me, puzzled.

“I mean… through the Int cell. We were tracking the process. Reports, assessments. The numbers. We didn’t know who was who—not by name—but I knew it was you. You and Johan. Every time.”

He stared at me. No smile. No joke. Just quiet surprise.

“I saw how hard it got. How many fell away. I saw the notes from Tactical Questioning, too. Not the recordings—just the summaries. But I knew. I knew what you were going through.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away, blinking slowly.

I reached up, cradled his face in both hands, and pulled him gently to me.

“I’ve never been more proud of you,” I said softly. “Not because you passed. Not just because you made it. But because you never stopped being you. Quiet. Steady. Brave. Stupidly stubborn. But always you.”

His throat moved, but no words came.

“You didn’t just survive, Stephen. You belong there.”

And that’s when I felt it—the faintest tremble in his shoulders. A warm drop landing on my wrist.

He gave a shaky breath, tried to speak, but only managed, “Bloody hell…”

I smiled gently. “It’s alright.”

He laughed once—more breath than voice. “Crying. In a dressing gown.”

I kissed his forehead. “Better than crying in a bivvy bag.”

He pulled me close, wrapped me in his arms like he never wanted to let go again.

We didn’t speak after that.

We didn’t need to.

We just held each other while the fire faded, wrapped in a silence that wasn’t empty—it was earned.

The morning came slowly.

No alarms. No boots thudding across floorboards. No urgency, no drills.

Just the steady glow of light slipping through the curtains—soft, golden, and welcome.

Mum had the twins for the night—her idea, bless her. “You two need some time,” she’d said, already bundling up the bedtime toys like a woman on a mission.

And for once, we didn’t argue.

So now, with the house silent and still, I woke first—curled beneath Stephen’s arm, our blanket bunched around us like a fort made of tartan and second chances.

His breathing was deep. Steady. The kind of sleep I hadn’t seen in him since before selection started.

I stayed like that for a while. Listening. Watching.

His face—no tension. No weight. Just calm.

The kind of calm that doesn’t come easy, not to men like him.

Eventually, he stirred.

A yawn. A stretch. A groan that sounded somewhere between ancient pirate and dying tractor.

“Still alive, then?” I whispered, my smile hidden against his chest.

“Mmm,” he mumbled. “What day is it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He sighed, that deep, contented kind of breath. “Best answer I’ve heard in weeks.”

We moved eventually—slow and reluctant—padding into the kitchen in dressing gowns, hair a mess, slippers optional.

The kettle went on.

The radio hummed softly in the background—something jazzy and low.

The toast popped up.

And just like that, we were home.

Stephen leaned on the counter, tea in hand, staring out the window at the dew on the grass and the quiet world waiting to begin again.

I slid my arms around his waist from behind and rested my cheek between his shoulder blades.

He didn’t say anything. Just reached down, found my fingers, and gently laced them through his.

And in that quiet kitchen, with the birdsong outside and the warmth of the kettle behind us, I felt it—

Peace.

Earned. Deserved. Real.

With no questions left.

No tests ahead.

And—for once—no children crying, no one calling “Mum,” and no one needing anything from us but this.

Just the two of us.

Still standing.

Still us.

Late morning, bit of sun warming the garage roof, and Johan and I were back out in the sacred temple of spanners and coffee mugs—our shared garage shrine to chrome, rubber, and four-stroke dreams.

The MV 500 was up on the stand, tank off, bits of carburettor laid out on the workbench like surgical tools. Smelled like fuel and ambition. And maybe a bit of toast, courtesy of Vinka earlier.

I wiped my hands on a rag and squinted at the wiring loom like it had personally insulted me.

Johan leaned over the frame, spanner in one hand, mug of coffee in the other. “So… what now?”

I shrugged, pulling a bit of grit from under my fingernail. “Pick the kids up from school in a couple of hours. Bit more work on the MV if we’re lucky. Maybe take it for a spin if she decides not to explode.”

He nodded thoughtfully, twisting a bolt into place. “Big plans.”

“Massive,” I said, deadpan. “Might even wash the car later if I’m feeling wild.”

We both grinned.

For a second, it was quiet—just birdsong, the clink of tools, and the low creak of the garage roof in the breeze.

Then Johan spoke again, a bit softer. “You reckon that’s it? We’re done now?”

I didn’t answer straight away.

Just stared at the MV’s polished tank catching the sunlight.

Our reflections warped and shimmering across the chrome.

“I think…” I said finally, “we’ve earned a bit of normal. Whatever that looks like.”

He gave a small nod, not quite a smile. “Yeah. Normal’s underrated.”

We finished our coffee. Got back to work.

Nothing urgent. Nothing looming.

Just two mates.

A couple of spanners.

And a few precious hours before the school run.

Since Johan and I were still blissfully unemployed—our mortgages paid off, the kids safely stashed at school, and the girls off playing secret squirrel with the TA Intelligence mob—we found ourselves with something truly dangerous on our hands:

Time.

Unstructured, glorious, dangerous time.

Now, most normal blokes in our position might’ve taken up gardening, done a bit of DIY, maybe joined a bowls club.

But we’re not normal blokes, are we?

So naturally, we did what any sane, semi-retired, war-hardened lunatics would do:

We signed up for every course going.

First on the hit list?

Parachute training.

Yep.

The one thing we’d somehow avoided all these years.

Despite all the tabbing, yomping, shooting, swimming, marching, navigating, and various unpleasant forms of tactical suffering—we’d never jumped out of a plane.

So we fixed that.

We filled in the forms, ticked the boxes, passed the medical, just and a few weeks later found ourselves standing outside No. 1 Parachute Training School at Brize Norton, staring up at the sky like it owed us an explanation.

A rite of passage, they called it.

I called it:

“Voluntarily falling out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft with nothing but a bedsheet and a smile.”

Johan grinned as we stood in the kit room, trying on harnesses.

“Excited?”

“I was… until I realised the last bloke who packed my chute probably went home early for tea.”

He chuckled. “We’ve done worse.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But at least back then we were getting danger money and a decent mess dinner at the end of it.”

It all started, as most daft things do, with ground drills.

There we were—grown men in harnesses, flailing around like we were being attacked by invisible wasps.

Endless PLFs—Parachute Landing Falls, for the uninitiated.

Basically a glorified way to hit the ground without immediately snapping your ankles.

By the end of the week, we looked like broken Action Men.

Elbows scuffed, shins bruised, dignity missing in action.

And just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse…

Came the balloon drop.

Now, if you’ve never stood in a tiny metal basket, 800 feet in the air, suspended by what looked suspiciously like a repurposed war time barrage balloon, let me paint the picture for you:

Quiet countryside stretching out below.

Occasional sheep bleating like they’re watching their insurance premiums go up.

And some cheerful airborne instructor saying,

“Right then, lad. Just step off into the nothing, please.”

The nothing.

As in, absolutely nothing.

I swear, when that chute opened, my stomach went south and everything else shot north.

Johan later said he felt like a human yoyo—up, down, and mildly traumatised.

Neither of us enjoyed it.

But we survived.

Even if we hit the ground like newborn giraffes, legs wobbling, limbs flailing, trying to remember how to stand upright without swearing.

Thankfully, jumping out of a Hercules was a bit more military and a lot less Victorian fairground ride of doom.

The proper stuff—noise, speed, and that sudden, wind-punched silence when you step out of the door.

Six daylight jumps, two at night.

No dramas, no kissing rivets. 

No tangled chutes.

Just a solid helping of adrenaline and enough bruises to make sitting down optional for a week.

And with that done, we finally earned the SAS parachute wings.

But only on our Number Twos, blues, and mess dress.

In combats?

Just the standard para wings.

Because obviously, if you survive selection and throw yourself out of a plane eight times, you still need something to keep you humble.

Tradition, apparently.

Or possibly just a long-running regimental in-joke.

Then came the Combat Survival and Interrogation Course.

Or as we affectionately called it:

“The Course From Hell With Extra Mud.”

If we thought Camp was bad…

This made it look like a spa retreat for mildly anxious accountants.

We were dumped in the middle of nowhere—somewhere so bleak even sheep refused to live there.

Wearing what can only be described as threadbare pyjamas, handed a dead rabbit, if you were lucky and told to survive.

On sod-all sleep, in sideways rain, with blokes hunting us who looked like they’d stepped straight out of a Cold War horror film.

Faces painted. Eyes dead.

One of them actually growled.

It was hide-and-seek meets SAS survival Game.

We moved by night, slept in ditches, drank rainwater off leaves, and spent one glorious afternoon trying to cook moss.

The rabbit—when we got it—was stringy, undercooked, and tasted like betrayal.

And just when our stomachs were digesting their own lining, we were “captured.”

Again.

Dragged into another round of Tactical Questioning.

Because apparently, once just wasn’t enough.

Only this time, it made the last one feel like an awkward tea party at your nan’s house.

The stress positions were back.

The cells were colder.

And the interrogators? Even more sadistic.

One of them—dead serious—looked me straight in the eye and said,

“Tell me about your feelings, Stephen.”

I nearly wept on the spot. Not from trauma—just from sheer emotional confusion.

Johan and I came this close to cracking.

Honestly?

It wasn’t the pain.

It wasn’t the cold.

It wasn’t even the humiliation of being stripped to your pants in front of a woman named Corporal Frostbite.

It was the hunger.

By Day Four, I would’ve confessed my entire life story—including my childhood bike theft—for a bacon sandwich.

No mustard. No ketchup. Just bread and pig and dignity restored.

But somehow… we held on.

Just.

And when it was over?

We passed.

Barely.

The DS didn’t even speak. Just gave a nod that said, “Congratulations. You’re alive. Somehow.”

We stumbled out of that place looking like post-apocalyptic scarecrows, limbs twitching, eyes haunted, mud in places mud should never be.

And Johan—mad as ever—looked at me, utterly straight-faced, and said:

“Never again.”

I nodded.

“Unless,” he added, “they offer biscuits.”

I considered it.

“…Chocolate Hobnobs?”

“…Maybe.”

Over the next couple of years, Johan and I were somehow busier than ever.

Which was impressive, considering we were technically veterans—albeit the kind who could drop off the radar, build a comms relay in a hedge, and navigate a forest at night using only moss and spite.

We bounced from one course to the next like a pair of blokes with a military training loyalty card.

One week: Long-range reconnaissance in the pouring rain.

The next: “How to disappear in a bog in under ten seconds” a surprisingly practical skill in Norfolk.

Then came the explosives course, which was—hands down—my favourite.

There’s just something magical about blowing stuff up with full permission, no paperwork, and a bloke next to you saying,

“Yeah, you’ll be fine as long as you don’t cross the wires like that—oops, never mind.”

We also got reacquainted with Morse code.

Now, I hadn’t touched Morse since basic signals back in the Corps, but it turns out it’s like riding a bike—

Only with more beeping and fewer grazed knees.

We dived headfirst into signals again, learning to operate every blinking, buzzing, battery-draining bit of comms kit the Regiment had tucked away in its secret war chest.

Some of it looked like it had last seen action in the Boer War.

One of the radios actually clicked when you turned it on, like a kettle coming to life.

And somewhere along the line—between jungle lanes, urban hides, and one very unfortunate moment involving a smoke grenade and Johan’s eyebrows—we were both promoted to Lance Corporal.

It wasn’t a big deal.

No ceremony, no brass bands.

Just a quiet word, a new stripe, and a nod that said:

“Well done, lads. You’re no longer the new boys. Just the slightly-less-knackered old ones.”

And you know what?

That suited us just fine.

We ended up doing a lot of joint exercises with the girls—

who, by this point, were fully embedded in the TA Intelligence Cell and loving every second.

Picture the scene:

Johan and me, cammed up head to toe, crawling through hedgerows like Action Men well past their best-before date,

knees creaking, faces painted, trying not to swear when a bramble finds its way somewhere personal…

While Vinka and Marlin?

Strolling about in immaculate combats, clipboards in hand, radios clipped just so, looking like they were directing traffic at an MI6 picnic.

Not a hair out of place.

Not a drop of sweat in sight.

And every now and then—just for fun—one of them would casually raise an eyebrow over the radio and say,

“Stephen, dear, you’ve crawled past your objective again…”

And the worst part?

They were right.

They always were.

But the best part?

We were getting paid to do it.

All of us.

It felt a bit like we were playing army in the woods with your best mates—

except now it came with pensions, medals, and the occasional bit of live ammunition to keep things interesting.

There’s something oddly satisfying about conducting a textbook recce patrol, handing over your notes…

…only to hear your wife say,

“Well done, love. Only four spelling mistakes this time.”

Honestly, I think Vinka enjoyed the exercises just to grade my grammar.

Still—between the four of us, we’d somehow built this odd little dream team:

two mud-covered maniacs in the bushes, and two clipboard-wielding queens of calm, running circles round the DS and looking fabulous doing it.

Not bad for a bunch of veterans playing at soldiers, eh?

Still, between the four of us, we’d somehow built this odd little dream team:

Two mud-covered veterans, creeping about hedgerows like we’d never left,

and two sharp-as-bayonets intelligence specialists, running the show with radios, clipboards, and the smug confidence of people who knew they were the cleverest in the room.

We weren’t civvies.

We were retired service personnel—still in the game, just without the daily inspections and ironing boards.

Playing soldier? Hardly.

This was muscle memory and mindset.

We’d just swapped the regular grind for weekends with extra purpose.