From Kabul to Chepstow: The Ride Home, Mess Nights & One Last Toast | The Parallel Four

From Kabul’s dust to the Hook of Holland ferry, this episode of The Parallel Four takes you on the ultimate ride home — a journey through friendship, service, and the humour that keeps veterans ticking.

After months in Afghanistan, Stephen, Johan, Vinka, and Marlin trade sand for sea air, riding their bikes through Europe before rolling into the Battle of Britain Dinner Night — medals shining, laughter flowing, and stories only service life can tell. Expect real-life military camaraderie, Sergeants’ Mess traditions, and behind-the-scenes banter from those who’ve lived it.

Then join the Poachers and Vikings in Chepstow for one unforgettable Regimental Boxing Night — hosted by none other than CSM Tim Heale. Pride, respect, and riotous laughter mix with heartfelt goodbyes as Tim takes his final bow in uniform.

This episode blends authentic military life, rugby-style brotherhood, and travel across Europe in the 70s, 80s, 90s, and 00s. Perfect for those who love true stories of service, family, adventure, and humour.

🔔 Subscribe for more: military life stories, Cold War Germany, rugby, skiing, deployments, and life after the Army.

Transcript

We spent a night in the Netherlands — not so much a scheduled stop as a tactical decision. After days in the saddle our backsides were staging open rebellion, and the promise of a real bed was too tempting to ignore.

It turned out to be a perfect detour. The little town we stumbled into had canals that glittered in the evening light, cheese so strong it practically needed its own passport, and a bar that welcomed us like old friends. The bartender sized us up — four leather-clad, road-weary travellers — and asked if we were a retired rock band.

I leaned on the counter, grinned, and said, “Yeah, mate — world tour, sold out everywhere. You’ve probably got the album at home.”

We didn’t correct him. In fact, Johan added a solemn nod for good measure, and Marlin hummed a bass line. For one night, we let the fantasy ride with us.

Sometimes, it’s nice to be legends — if only to the man pouring your beer.

Eventually, we rolled onto the overnight ferry from the Hook of Holland to Harwich. With the bikes stowed and cabins sorted, we found ourselves out on deck, leaning on the rail as the Dutch coastline slowly melted into the dusk.

A hush settled over us — not awkward, just thoughtful. This trip had been more than a holiday. It was a recalibration, a deep breath after months of holding it in. The open roads, the green forests, the laughter over beer and pastries… all of it had reminded us who we were when we weren’t buried under sand, sweat, and orders.

I slipped me arm around Vinka, eyes on the horizon. “Funny, innit? You go off to fight a war, come back, and what fixes you is a motorbike, a ferry ticket, and a bit o’ proper bacon.”

I smiled, resting my head on his shoulder. He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes healing didn’t look like medals or speeches — it looked like friends, family, and the long way home.

We rolled off the ferry onto British soil, the morning light already carrying that familiar damp tang in the air. By mid-afternoon we were home again — sun-kissed, bug-splattered, and utterly content. The journey had wrung us out and filled us up all at once.

The bikes were parked carefully, each one given a little pat on the tank like a loyal steed finally back in its stable. Saddlebags were emptied in record time — most of it funnelled straight into the washing machine before the dust could settle.

Then came the real welcome: family, arms open wide, firing questions faster than we could answer, hugging us until our ribs creaked, and casting suspicious glances at the pile of Scandinavian souvenirs we’d smuggled home.

I held up a carved wooden troll and announced proudly, “Protection charm. Stops yer socks goin’ missin’ in the dryer.”

Whether they believed him or not hardly mattered. We were home, together, and the world — for a little while, at least — was exactly as it should be.

So ended another epic chapter in our collective adventures. From Kabul’s dust to Oslo’s sparkle to the leafy lanes of England, we had seen a lot, done even more, and — once again — proved that the four of us could take on just about anything. All we really needed was petrol in the tank, air in the tyres, and a decent cup of coffee within reach.

I raised my mug at the kitchen table that evening and grinned. “See? Told ya. Bikes, bacon, and coffee — the real holy trinity.”

British rain welcomed us home — as if the skies had been saving it up especially for our return. With a few days of leave still in hand, we slid back into domestic life. Gone were the roaring bikes and open roads; in their place came heroic battles with clogged gutters, overgrown lawns, and the mysterious smell lurking in the back of the fridge.

I poked me head in, holding up an unidentifiable container at arm’s length. “Darlin’, I think we’ve discovered a new life form. Shall I ring the Natural History Museum or just bin it?”

Somehow, after Kabul and a thousand miles on the road, it was those little chores that made us feel truly home again.

Having booked into the mess for the Battle of Britain Dinner Night, there was one last tradition to tick off before the big evening: a dash to the tailor’s shop. Our new medals from Afghanistan had to be mounted onto our miniatures, ready to wear with mess dress.

The tailor took one look at us, sighed the sigh of a man who had seen too many last-minute panics, and whisked the lot away with a promise they’d be done in time. Johan threatened to improvise with string if they weren’t ready, while Stephen muttered something about a stapler doing the job just as well.

When we picked them up later, perfectly mounted and gleaming, there was a quiet moment of pride. Those little strips of ribbon weren’t just decoration — they were proof of where we’d been, what we’d done, and that the whole team had made it back to tell the tale.

With medals mounted, jackets pressed, and hair curled to within an inch of its life, we were ready for the RAF’s grandest occasion of the year — the Battle of Britain Dinner Night.

The mess looked spectacular. Sandbags flanked the entrance, blackout curtains darkened the windows, and a full swing band stood proud on the stage, playing tunes that could’ve coaxed even the stiffest pilot onto the dance floor. The RAF really did know how to put on a show.

We weren’t alone, either. Simmo and his wife joined us for the evening, completing our little circle. She dazzled in a sapphire-blue dress, and Simmo, well — he scrubbed up so well we almost didn’t recognise him without desert dust on his boots.

The dinner itself was all ceremony and spectacle: silver cutlery polished bright enough to signal aircraft, speeches that balanced reverence with humour, and toasts that made the wine flow almost too freely.

I leaned over between courses and whispered, “Tell ya what, Vinka — Crabs may not know how to pack a bergen, but they do know how to pack a wine glass.”

By the time the band struck up properly, the room was alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and the unmistakable hum of camaraderie. It wasn’t just a dinner — it was a reminder of why we served, and who we served alongside.

After the speeches and toasts, the swing band came into full voice — proper toe-tapping tunes that had half the room drumming their fingers on the tables before the first chorus ended. It didn’t take much for Stephen to drag me out onto the dance floor, grinning like he was auditioning for Strictly. Johan and Marlin weren’t far behind, and before long the four of us were spinning, twirling, and showing off in the middle of the Sergeants’ Mess.

Simmo and his wife cheered us on from their seats, though I could see Simmo muttering into his glass, “Trust that lot to turn a formal dinner into floor-show night.”

We didn’t mind in the slightest. The band kept the rhythm rolling, and the rest of the mess slowly eased back to give us room. Somewhere between a particularly dramatic dip and Johan’s questionable attempt at a Lindy Hop kick, I overheard one of the older Flight Sergeants chuckle, “Didn’t know we’d booked cabaret this year.” His mate replied, “Looks like it’s free with the port.”

Never one to miss a cue, I straightened me jacket mid-spin, winked, and called out, “Ladies and gents — don’t worry, no extra charge for this bit!”

By the time the band wrapped up, the whole mess was clapping and whistling, the atmosphere buzzing with laughter and applause. For one golden evening, we weren’t just comrades-in-arms — we were the entertainment.

When the band finally packed away their trumpets, the real business of the night began: the slow migration to the bar. The Sergeants’ Mess was glowing — polished wood, brass gleaming, and the unmistakable murmur of too many voices trying to tell the best story at once.

Glass of port in hand, I launched into a tale about a “top-secret” Kabul incident involving a goat, a misplaced radio, and Simmo’s trousers. Poor bloke groaned, his wife rolled her eyes, and half the mess leaned in, howling before I even hit the punchline.

Not to be outdone, Johan countered with his favourite about the time Stephen mistook a German general for a hotel doorman on exercise. By the time he reached the part where Stephen offered to “park his car round the back,” tears were streaming down faces and someone nearly dropped their pint.

The hours slipped by in a haze of tall tales, clinking glasses, and the kind of easy laughter you only find in the mess, among people who’ve been there and done it. Somewhere around midnight, Simmo raised his glass. “To absent friends,” he said quietly.

The room hushed for a moment, glasses lifted, heads bowed. Then, just as quickly, the mood lifted again — another joke, another round, the laughter rolling once more.

By the time we finally stumbled back to our rooms, voices hoarse and cheeks aching, the Sergeants’ Mess was still buzzing. It had been a night of pride, of remembrance, and of sheer joy in each other’s company.

Morning crept in with all the subtlety of a brass band. Heads pounded, throats were dry, and the only thing louder than the rain on the windows was the collective groan of hungover sergeants attempting to look respectable.

The breakfast room became a triage centre. Strong tea flowed like medicine, mugs clutched in trembling hands. Bacon sandwiches were consumed with the intensity of men and women who knew their very survival depended on them.

I sat hunched over my plate, eyes half-shut, muttering, “This, right here, is why God invented pigs.”

Johan managed a smile, though he looked like he’d been run over by his own Gold Flash. Marlin and I weren’t much better — though we pretended we were, if only for pride’s sake. Simmo shuffled in with the haunted look of a man who had toasted once too often, his wife smirking beside him.

By the time the last crumb of bacon had vanished and the final mug of tea had been drained, the colour had started to return to faces. The magic of the Sergeants’ Mess cure — grease and tannin — had done its work.

And then, like the professionals we pretended to be, we straightened our jackets, squared our shoulders, and trudged off to work. Another day, another duty — only this time with the faint echo of swing music still ringing in our ears.

The four of us stood in front of the top brass, ready to tell it as it was. So there we are, gentlemen, tryin’ to win hearts and minds while Johan’s havin’ a stand-off with a goat that’s just eaten half our leaflets. Spoiler alert: goat won.

The room chuckled, pens paused mid-scribble. Johan followed, dry as a bone. “Our biggest fight wasn’t with the locals, sir. It was with our own kit.”

That was my cue. I stepped forward, flipping up a slide. “I’ll also speak for Sergeant Simpson here — he spent half his time battling the Adobe system. And the issue wasn’t just that it froze or crashed — it was the wrong version. We asked for the Middle East script pack. What did we get? The standard one. Same thing we’d already seen in Kosovo and Macedonia, where we needed the Central European script pack and still didn’t get it. Procurement ticked the box but didn’t listen to what was actually required.”

The laughter thinned into silence. Generals leaned forward. Pens scratched faster.

Marlin cut through the tension with a straight face. “So, gentlemen, the lesson is simple: goats are more reliable than Adobe. Might be worth looking into them for the next procurement round.”

The room cracked wide open again.

By the end, the questions poured in — serious ones this time. About language, cultural nuance, equipment that actually worked. And we gave straight, unfiltered answers.

Walkin’ out, I whispered, “Blimey, Vinka — bet there’s a desk officer somewhere already writin’ the world’s longest excuse.”

Vinka narrating:

Naturally, with new resources came the infamous procurement process — about as fast and efficient as a sloth doing paperwork. Yet somehow, against all odds, miracles kept happening. Money was actually spent.

First came a brand-new accommodation block — one and a half million quid’s worth of brick and mortar. Twenty-four en-suite rooms, each with radiators that worked and hot water that didn’t vanish halfway through your shower.

I declared it was “better than the Hilton,” though between us, I’d never actually stayed in one.

Then the new office block went up, neatly attached to the old one, giving us proper space at last. The radio studio was kitted out in the existing radio room, transformed into something you’d expect from the BBC rather than our ragtag lot. Right next door, the video editing suite gleamed like something out of a television centre, while Building 2 5 6 at the top of camp became our stores and workshop. Even the print section got its long-overdue facelift, fitted with shelves that didn’t immediately fall off the walls when you breathed near them.

For the first time in years, it almost felt like we were running a proper professional outfit. Almost.

I raised me mug of tea, grinned, and said, “Careful now — we keep this up and someone’ll start expectin’ us to behave like professionals.”

Anyway, the whole procurement process was like ordering a curry and being sent a live goat, a bag of rice, and instructions in Sanskrit. We weren’t allowed to just say, “We need this, this, and one of those.” Oh no. Instead, we had to present a concept — like we were pitching the next blockbuster — while some committee went away to decide what they thought we needed.

The result? A mountain of kit so over-engineered and expensive it probably needed its own security clearance. And most of it was about as much use in Kabul as a chocolate teapot.

Summed it up perfectly over tea one afternoon: “If they’d just asked us, we could’ve nipped down Halfords or PC World, sorted the whole lot over a long lunch break, and saved the taxpayer a fortune. Might’ve even had change left over for a round at the mess bar.”

So, in true military fashion, we endured a couple of “demonstration days,” where the boffins rolled in to parade their latest inventions. The whole thing felt like a car boot sale run by NASA — flashy cases, shiny buttons, blinking lights — and we knew, deep down, that ninety percent of it was destined for the back of the stores cupboard, never to see daylight again.

The big idea was a rapid “fly-away” capability: everything neatly packed in flight cases, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. Some of it was genuinely useful. The rest? Either baffling, broken, or better suited to a Bond villain’s lair than a battlefield.

Did they listen to our feedback? Only in the same way a cat listens when you explain why it shouldn’t sleep on your clean laundry. A polite blink, maybe a stretch… and then right back on the jumper.

On the way out I muttered, “Well, at least the lights were pretty. Shame we’re not fightin’ disco balls.”

Then there were the so-called “Windows Tough Books.” Ruggedised laptops, they told us — built to survive anything from a sandstorm in Kandahar to a spilled brew in the Ops Room. What they didn’t survive was the simple act of being turned on.

The first hurdle was encryption. Booting up required a password the length of War and Peace — and by the time you’d finally typed it all in without a typo, the battery was already giving up. On the rare occasion it actually wheezed into life, you’d click something useful — say, Photoshop. Boom. Crash. Reboot. If you were lucky, it got as far as Solitaire before collapsing in a heap.

We even doubled the RAM. The result? Still slower than a snail dragging a fridge.

I glared at the frozen screen one afternoon and said, “Tell ya what, love — if the Taliban ever get hold of one o’ these, we’ll win the war inside a week. Death by boredom.”

Totally bloody useless.

Then there were the AM transmitters — two of them, because apparently someone thought we were there to set up Radio Luxembourg. Each one needed a mast the size of four football pitches and a tech wizard with nerves of steel to wire it up. Connect it wrong and — bang — you weren’t just off the air, you were six feet under.

We took one look and said, “Thanks lads, but honestly — who even listens to AM radio these days?”

It was complete muppetary. Both transmitters gathered dust, never leaving the shelf, along with half the other flashy, overpriced gadgets Whitehall had blessed us with. Meanwhile, the kit we actually begged for — in triplicate, with covering notes and a biscuit bribe — was still missing in action.

Summed it up at the time: “Only in the MOD, love, would they spend half a million quid on kit that can kill you if you plug it in wrong, and still forget to send us a working printer.”

The final bits of kit turned out to be the real gems: two 4kw FM transmitters mounted on the back of Bedford trucks. Each had a generator rumbling along behind on a trailer, and that setup could even power the Pinzgauers. The Pinzs themselves were fitted out as radio studios, complete with consoles, mics, and enough cables to knit a jumper for Kabul. A twelve-metre mast pulled up behind them gave us the reach we needed.

Now that was proper useful. Not exactly Radio 1, mind you, but it meant we could roll into town, stick the mast up, and be on air before the kettle boiled. For once the MOD handed us somethin’ that worked, instead of another shiny brick to trip over in stores.

They weren’t elegant — more scrapyard chic than BBC standard — but the whole setup gave us a mobile station that actually broadcast. After months of wrangling printers, dodgy fonts, and disco-light gadgets, this was kit we could believe in.

The invite came from Tim, proud as punch in his role with the Vikings: a regimental boxing night down at Chepstow, hosted by the Poachers. “You lot better turn up,” his letter warned, “or I’ll have the RSM send a search party.” So we did — Stephen, Johan, Marlin, and I bundled into the car, headed west, and booked ourselves into the Sergeants’ Mess for the night.

The mess was already buzzing when we arrived — uniforms sharp, boots gleaming, voices rising and falling like surf as old friends caught up and bets were whispered across the tables. The air smelled of polish, beer, and anticipation. Tim was in his element, striding about as CSM, clasping hands, checking details, and grinning like a man who’d staged the whole show himself.

I leaned on the bar, taking it all in. “Blimey, Vinka — feels like the weigh-in for Ali versus Frazier, only with more beer and fewer TV cameras.”

Johan was already deep in conversation with a Viking sergeant, swapping tall tales about past tours, while Marlin and I perched nearby, soaking in the atmosphere. Pride, nerves, anticipation — you could feel it building, ready to spill over the moment the bell rang.

The Poachers’ gym had been transformed for the night. A ring stood proud under blazing floodlights, benches crammed tight with cheering Vikings and Poachers. The air was heavy with sweat, polish, and raw energy.

Then Tim stepped into the ring — not in gloves, but as ringmaster. Microphone in hand, voice rolling across the rafters, he introduced each bout with a flourish. Fighters clambered through the ropes, jaws set, eyes blazing, and the crowd roared like thunder.

Our Tim was born for it. “In the blue corner…” he bellowed, pacing like a prize announcer. Every lad he called in stood taller for it. Every winner he declared got their arm lifted high, Tim’s grin stretchin’ from ear to ear. I nudged Johan and muttered, “See? Told ya. Cape and top hat next. He’s lovin’ this.”

Marlin and I clapped until our palms stung, swept along by the sheer energy of it all. Stephen and Johan were stamping their boots with the rest of the gym, voices booming above the din.

Each bout ended with Tim raising the victor’s glove, the crowd roaring approval. For those few hours, it was more than just a regimental boxing night — it was family, it was pride, and it was Tim at his very best...

We all knew it too. This was his last big duty before leaving the Army. The following night would be his dining-out in the Sergeants’ Mess — full mess kit, speeches, and more port than was safe for civilised society. But that night in the gym? He was the ringmaster, and he owned it.

The following evening the Sergeants’ Messes of both the Vikings and the Poachers came together under one roof, united for a single purpose — to dine Tim out in proper style. It was a rare thing, two messes blending so seamlessly, but it spoke volumes about the respect he carried. He wasn’t just any Sergeant Major, he was their Company Sergeant Major, and they meant to send him off with the honour he deserved.

The dining room gleamed. Silver cutlery sparkled under polished lamps, mess dress uniforms flashed with medals and miniature ribbons, and the low murmur of anticipation filled the air. Petra sat proudly at Tim’s side, radiant in evening dress, her hand resting on his as though to anchor the moment.

I’ll tell ya, it was a sight. Two messes together, the Vikings and the Poachers, shoulder to shoulder, all there for our Tim. Blokes who’d follow him into a firefight, now sittin’ there in red jackets and bow ties, raisin’ glasses instead of rifles. That sort o’ respect — you can’t buy it, can’t blag it. You earn it, day after day, and our Tim had it in spades.

The speeches came thick with laughter, pride, and the occasional lump in the throat. Stories of Tim’s sharp eye, his steady hand, his humour in the darkest moments. The port flowed, the toasts rang out, and every word carried the same message: this was a man who had left his mark.

By the end, there wasn’t a soul in the room who didn’t know they’d been served by one of the best. Petra’s eyes shone — proud, yes, but with that soft sadness of someone about to share him with the wider world no longer.

When Tim rose to speak, the hall fell silent. Every face turned to him, every glass stilled. He spoke simply, without flourish, but with that weight of honesty that had always been his way. He thanked his soldiers, his mess, his family — and when his voice caught as he looked at Petra, it felt like the whole room leaned forward to carry him through it.

That’s the thing about a proper dining-out — it ain’t just about sayin’ goodbye. It’s about sayin’, you mattered here. You mattered to us. And that night, mate, our Tim mattered more than ever.

Once the formalities ended, the whole gathering moved to the bar. Jackets stayed on, ties fastened, the polish of the mess never slipping — but the room was alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and voices tumbling over one another. Petra was radiant, folded seamlessly into the warmth, the pride in her eyes shining brighter than the silverware on the tables.

Then the singing kicked off — as it always does. The Poachers struck first with The Lincolnshire Poacher, boots stamping in time, voices booming so hard the glasses rattled. Not to be outdone, the Vikings roared back with Rule Britannia, the final chorus shaking the ceiling tiles. I leaned to Tim and muttered, “Blimey, bruv, it’s like Eurovision with boots on.”

Tim laughed, that wide grin breaking through his CSM mask, and Petra squeezed his hand. The noise was thunderous, joyous, and steeped in tradition — not rivalry, but respect. One regiment saluting another in the only way soldiers know: song, pride, and camaraderie.

Later, when Tim and Petra joined us in a quieter corner, I raised my glass. “Here’s to our Tim. Survived tours, the RSM, and more kit inspections than I care to count. But now comes the real test.”

He raised a brow. “Go on, then.”

I grinned. “Retirement — with Petra makin’ sure you don’t sit still long enough to gather dust.”

Petra laughed, slipping her arm through his. “He’ll be fine. Between me, Ellös, and finally a little peace, I’ll keep him occupied.”

Glasses clinked once more. Laughter rolled around us, soft and strong at the same time. For Tim, it was not an ending but a passing on — carrying the respect of two battalions, and the love of his family, into the next chapter.