Operation Telic 3: Sandstorms, PsyOps & Surreal Warfare | Real Iraq War Stories from The Parallel Four

Operation Telic 3 — Iraq, 2004. The four return to the desert for another round of chaos, camaraderie, and comedy in uniform. From endless briefings and coffee-fuelled PsyOps meetings at Basra HQ to cross-cultural encounters with Italian, Dutch, and Japanese forces, this episode dives deep into the strange, surreal side of modern warfare.

Join Stephen, Johan, Vinka, and Marlin as they navigate Multinational Division South East, balancing intel work with sandstorms, near misses, and missions that defy logic. Expect laughter in the dust, heartfelt reflections, and that classic mix of military grit and good humour that defines The Parallel Four.

Through Basra’s diesel-scented alleys, Nasiriyah’s pasta-fuelled diplomacy, and the chaos of the Baghdad Green Zone, the story captures what service life is really like: unpredictable, exhausting, and unforgettable.

Perfect for fans of real-life military stories, veteran humour, rugby camaraderie, and travel from Cold War Germany to Iraq.

Transcript

Back in the comforting oven of Basra, we threw ourselves straight back into the grind. First up was liaison with the small team holed up in Basra Palace. They’d somehow managed to turn their accommodation into the world’s saddest attempt at glamping—mosquito nets strung like bunting, dodgy air-con wheezing like an asthmatic donkey, and so much sand in their boots they could’ve started a beach volleyball league.

We also paid a visit to the Main Police Headquarters to meet the Head of Police—a man with a moustache so wide it deserved its own postcode. He sat us down with his inner circle, all solemn nods and elaborate hand gestures, while they listed their “challenges.”

Challenges? More like chapters in a disaster novel. The city was split along Sunni and Shia lines, tribal tensions simmerin’ at boiling point, and half the police seemed to be workin’ for the other half without tellin’ them.

Trying to make sense of it all was like refereeing a punch-up in a hall of mirrors—everyone fighting, no one admitting it, and no clear idea who was on which side at any given moment.

To get a better read on things, we tagged along on a couple of patrols with the Ops Company. Not exactly your average stroll down the high street—more like heavily armoured tea-and-chat sessions, all smiles on the surface with a constant undertone of please don’t explode.

We listened as the locals spoke. Security, of course, topped the list of worries—no one trusted the nights to be quiet. As for the police? Opinions swung wildly between “heroic guardians of public safety” and “armed burglars in uniform.”

Basra itself was something else entirely—fractured, volatile, and emotionally draining. Every day was like spinnin’ plates in a wind tunnel, tryin’ to keep everything from smashin’ while knowin’ full well the gust was only getting stronger.

As our six-month tour limped to a close, we started prepping for the handover to the next lot—keen, wide-eyed types who still thought briefing packs actually changed anything. Bless ’em.

The four of us, meanwhile, were quietly ecstatic. We’d had enough of Iraq to last several lifetimes. Pride in the work, yes—the leaflets, the broadcasts, the locals we’d managed to support. But none of us shed a tear at the thought of heading home. Over a pot of gritty coffee we sealed the deal: never again. Not Iraq. Not if we could help it.

Still, we didn’t leave empty-handed. Our Arabic had improved a fair bit. The essentials, anyway: “wait,” “explode,” and “too hot.” Not exactly poetry, but they got us through. Small wins, as Vinka liked to say.

We rolled back into Chicksands in the last week of April 2004, lookin’ like time travellers straight out of a very sandy apocalypse. Six months of dust and drama behind us, and suddenly—Bedfordshire. Trees, hedgerows, actual green things. Birds singin’. People walkin’ dogs instead of carryin’ AK-47s. Surreal didn’t cover it.

The week that followed was pure military limbo: endless debriefs, handing over kit, and the classic game of “which box does this bit of equipment go in?” Half the time the answer was “not that one,” and the other half was “too late, it’s already been signed off.”

Once we’d squared it all away, the CO gave us the nod for leave. And we vanished like ninjas. May was ours. Sweden beckoned—family, fresh air, and cinnamon buns without a hint of dust in them.

And, of course, a couple of track days. Because nothing says “post-operational decompression” quite like throwing yourself around a race circuit at 140 miles an hour. Therapy, our style.

In a fit of mechanical madness—genius, depending on who you asked—we’d gone and acquired not one but two Suzuki RG500s. Proper weapons. Snarling two-stroke ex-race bikes with enough punch to launch a missile and a riding style that felt like strapping yourself to a caffeinated wasp.

They didn’t arrive alone either. Each bike came with a mountain of spares—fairings, pistons, gears, exhausts—the sort of haul that made the back of the van look like a racer’s jumble sale.

Luckily, we already had the race van and caravan sorted from our CRMC weekends, so the logistics were in hand. The long-wheelbase Sprinter and the trusty caravan formed our mobile HQ: van for the bikes, caravan for the bruises and bacon sandwiches.

This time, though, it was just us four. The kids were off at university, buried in books instead of spanners, essays instead of lap times. Strange not to have them in the paddock, but Team Parallel Mayhem carried on—leaner, louder, and armed with two very fast Suzukis.

Our first proper outing with the new toys was an open pit-lane day at Silverstone. The format was simple: two-hour morning and afternoon sessions, with a cheeky bonus hour in the evening if you hadn’t already rattled yourself into oblivion.

We set off at the crack of dawn, van and trailer loaded to the gills—two RG500s plus the Manx 500 and the MV 500—stopping for a fry-up at Jack’s Hill café on the A5. It’s a rite of passage for any biker worth their leathers, and we weren’t about to skip tradition. Bellies full of bacon and tea, we rolled into the circuit, unloaded the bikes with all the pomp of a touring race team, checked tyre pressures, and strutted over to the safety briefing like we were about to challenge Rossi himself.

Johan, naturally, went straight for an RG500—if there was a bike most likely to spit you off, that’s where he wanted to be. Stephen took the other RG, grinning like a man about to test his own sanity. Marlin and I saddled up the MV 500 and the Manx Norton, both of us daring each other to wring them out properly.

We rolled out of the pits like a formation team us girls leading smooth and steady, Johan snarling behind us, and Stephen already twitching with impatience. The first few laps were all about getting heat into the tyres, lines through the corners, breathing the rhythm of the circuit.

Then the real fun began. The RG500 was a beast—screaming, shaking, alive under me, daring me to twist the throttle wider. Johan was right there, fighting his own dragon, while the girls carved clean arcs through the corners on their classics. For a moment, Silverstone belonged to Team Parallel Mayhem.

We’d all agreed on a gentleman’s twenty laps before pulling in for a breather. The girls rolled in behind me, cool as ever, but Johan was already back and peeling off his helmet, looking like he’d just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson on roller skates.

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

He gave the RG a sideways glare, like it had just insulted his mother. “That thing’s possessed,” he said. “Every time I twist the throttle, it tries to throw me off like a bull with a wasp up its backside.”

Naturally, I burst out laughing. “It’s a two-stroke, mate. It’s meant to try and kill you—that’s half the fun.”

I’d been listening in, half amused, half curious. When Johan said he’d had enough, I offered a swap. “I’ll take it,” I said, swinging a leg over the RG as he gratefully climbed onto the MV for a calmer ride.

Stephen and I exchanged a look, both of us grinning. This wasn’t going to be a sightseeing lap. We were heading out together, side by side, on the two RG's.

Now, the RG doesn’t so much ride as detonate. Below 6,000 revs it’s about as lively as a damp sponge, but once the power band hits—bam—it tries to rip your arms off and send your helmet into orbit. The trick is to keep it screaming, keep it pulling, and hang on like you mean it.

Rolling down the pit lane beside Stephen, the bike snarled beneath me, twitchy, impatient, daring me to give it more. Out on track it was chaos and perfection all at once—the front wheel pawing at the air, the engine screaming like a banshee. Terrifying? Absolutely. Exhilarating? More than anything I’d ever ridden.

We came back in grinning like lunatics. Johan shook his head as if we were both mad, Marlin just laughed, and I swear the RGs sat there cooling in the paddock looking smug.

We squeezed in one more swap before heading to the café for lunch, where we debriefed like proper petrolhead professionals—over egg and bacon baps. Everyone had a tale to tell: how the RG made your heart race and your knuckles white, how the classics felt steady, forgiving, almost civilised by comparison.

After lunch, it was us girls’ turn to wrestle the two-strokes. Marlin took one RG, I claimed the other. Johan hopped onto the MV 500, and Stephen followed on the thumping Manx.

It didn’t take long to see the split. Marlin wrestled with the RG like it was a bad-tempered bull, grimacing every time it screamed into the power band. She brought it back in after a handful of laps, shaking her head. “Not for me,” she declared, with a laugh that said she was happy to leave the lunacy to someone else.

Johan was no keener. He gave the other RG a few hard laps, came back looking like he’d aged ten years, and muttered something about “madness on wheels.” The classics suited them better—steady, predictable, a proper conversation instead of an argument every time you cracked the throttle.

But for me? The RG was pure joy. It screamed, it bucked, it danced through the corners like nothing else I’d ever ridden. I could feel Stephen watching from behind on the Manx as I disappeared down the straight, the bike howling like a banshee. Somewhere between exhilaration and lunacy, I realised I loved it.

And that was it. Team Parallel Mayhem had spoken: Johan and Marlin would stick to the classics, while Vinka and I had found our new addiction. Two-stroke trouble, bottled and unleashed.

After a couple of gentle warm-up laps, Marlin made her choice clear—she stuck to the Manx 500, smooth and steady, happy to let the RGs scream off into the distance. That bike suited her perfectly: classic lines, predictable rhythm, and none of the lunacy waiting in the two-strokes.

Johan, on the other hand, wasn’t having such luck. He rolled in shaking his head, muttering, “It’s like the MV’s got stage fright—doesn’t want to go.” I swapped with him to see for myself, and sure enough, two laps later I was back in the pits confirming it. The MV 500 was coughing and sputtering like a pensioner with a chest infection.

So the afternoon naturally split itself. Marlin stayed happy on the Manx, Johan nursed the MV as best he could, and Stephen and I unleashed ourselves on the RG500s. Side by side down the straights, screaming into the corners, two wild beasts snarling in stereo—it was pure, terrifying joy.

The hours blurred into a mix of gear changes, tyre squeal, and unfiltered laughter. By the time the chequered flag waved for the final session, we were exhausted, exhilarated, and grinning like lunatics.

Back in the paddock, mugs of tea and slabs of flapjack in hand, we agreed on one thing: the RGs were savage brilliance, the Manx was timeless joy, and the MV… well, it needed a bit of TLC before it saw another circuit.

As we lashed the bikes down and packed the van, the conversation drifted naturally to the next CRMC meeting the following week. Different track, same team, same chaos. Team Parallel Mayhem wasn’t slowing down anytime soon.

The following weekend saw us back in familiar territory—the Classic Racing Motorbike Club paddock. After Silverstone’s free-for-all track day, this felt like slipping into an old pair of racing boots.

As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, we got to work setting up camp. Out came the 24x12 awning (army tents really), battered old things that had seen more wind than a North Sea trawler. With six bikes lined up underneath—the MV 350, MV 500, the Manx 350 and 500, plus the two shiny new RG500's—there wasn’t much elbow room left. Looked less like a paddock setup and more like a second-hand showroom run by lunatics.

Naturally, the neighbours couldn’t resist wandering over. Old rivals we’d been dicing with for years leaned on their mugs of tea, shaking their heads.

“What’s this then—have you opened a dealership?” one grinned.

Another chimed in: “You four look far too brown for Bedfordshire. Been sneakin’ off winter testing in Spain, have you?”

We laughed it off, muttering about “just keeping busy,” but the minute the RGs came into view the comments sharpened.

“Bloody hell, RG500s? You’ve lost the plot.”

“They’ll either make you kings of the paddock or patients at A&E.”

They circled the bikes like gulls around a chip van, peering at the spare fairings and stacks of parts we’d lugged along. “What’ve you brought, a rolling workshop?” one of them asked, poking at a box of pistons.

We just smiled. The RGs gleamed under the awning, loud even when silent. The classics sat alongside, steady and proud, like grandparents humouring a pair of unruly teenagers.

By the time the kettle was boiling, the banter was flying thick and fast. Bets were already being placed on who’d break down first, who’d fall off, and who’d come back with a grin wide enough to swallow the visor. We let ’em have their fun. Deep down, we knew once those RGs screamed down the straight, the laughs would turn into raised eyebrows.

By the time the kettle was on and the bacon rolls started circulating, the banter was flying thick and fast. Old rivals cracking jokes, asking if we’d lost our minds, and trying to peek into the spares boxes like kids sneaking a look at Christmas presents.

We just smiled, knowing full well the real fun was still to come—once the bikes were out on track and everyone realised just how much trouble two shrieking RG500s could cause in the hands of Team Parallel Mayhem.

We’d pitched up in our usual spot down by the Hailwood Café, same patch of cracked tarmac we’d called home for years. The awning flapped like a ship’s sail in the breeze, the caravan stood proudly behind it, and the smell of frying onions drifted across from the café as the evening crowd shuffled in for burgers. Felt like we’d never been away.

By the time the sun dipped low, we had the full setup dialled in—awnings staked, toolboxes opened, kettles whistling. Six bikes shoehorned under canvas gave the place a cosy chaos. The classics looked serene, parked neatly like museum pieces. The RGs? They just sat there glowering, two beasts ready to break free.

Old rivals strolled over, pints in hand, leaning on the bikes as though they owned ’em.

“Bloody hell, Parallel Mayhem’s gone big-time,” one laughed.

Another wagged a finger. “Six bikes? You’ll need your own paddock marshal.”

Someone else muttered, “If those RGs start up after dark, I’m sleeping in me van with earplugs.”

We took the ribbing in stride. It’s part of the ritual—banter before battle. They teased us about the spares mountain, about the kids not being there this time, even about the caravan curtains. But under it all, there was that sharp curiosity. Everyone wanted to know how the RGs would behave come morning.

Once the laughter settled, we knuckled down for final checks—fuel topped, tyre pressures set, spanners dancing in the lamplight. Johan fussed over the MV, muttering about carbs, while Marlin polished the Manx as if it were silverware. Vinka and I gave the RGs a once-over, hands black with oil, both of us buzzing like kids on Christmas Eve.

Later, mugs of tea in hand, we sat under the awning swapping stories with the neighbours. The jokes rolled on, the air smelled of petrol and frying burgers, and the glow from the café lights spilled over the paddock. The night hummed with that unique pre-race tension—half camaraderie, half competition.

As the stars came out, one of the lads raised his pint in our direction. “Well then—see you lot on track tomorrow. Try not to lap us too often, eh?” Laughter rippled through the group, but we could see it in their eyes. They weren’t just joking. They were waiting to see if Team Parallel Mayhem’s new toys would roar or self-destruct.

Morning broke with the familiar paddock chorus: kettles boiling, spanners clinking, and the occasional cough of a reluctant starter. We rolled the bikes out, the air already thick with Castrol fumes and frying bacon from the Hailwood Café. First up was free practice, the shakedown before the serious business.

Johan and Marlin took the lead, easing the two 350s—the MV and the Manx—onto the rollers. A quick shove, clatter, and roar, and both were alive, settling into their steady rhythms. Out on track they carved neat lines, no fuss, no drama—just the classics ticking along like clockwork.

Then came our turn. Vinka wheeled out the MV 500, I lined up the Manx 500. Onto the rollers, engines barked into life with that deep, thumping growl that rattled your ribcage. Out on track we stretched their legs, enjoying the torque and the rhythm—old-school charm at its finest.

But the real show was still under wraps. When the marshal waved us back in, the paddock went quiet as we rolled the RG500s forward. Onto the rollers they went—sullen, reluctant, then shrieking into life like angry hornets. Two-stroke smoke poured out, stinging eyes, and the whole pit lane smelled like a chemical factory.

And then we were off. Down the pit lane, engines screaming, the RGs didn’t just accelerate—they detonated. The crowd of rivals laughed at first, then went quiet when they realised these beasts weren’t mucking about.

Side by side down the straight, front wheels twitching skyward, banshee shrieks echoing across the circuit. We tore past the 350's like they were standing still, every corner a knife fight between balance, throttle, and nerve.

When we finally coasted back in, smoke trailing and engines crackling as they cooled, we pulled our lids off grinning like maniacs. The neighbours just shook their heads, half laughing, half horrified. “You lot are bloody mad,” one said. And he wasn’t wrong.

Qualifying day dawned with the usual mix of nerves and noise. The paddock was alive—spanners clattering, generators humming, the smell of bacon mixing with two-stroke haze. We were down at the Hailwood Café end, awning flapping in the breeze, six bikes lined up like a private museum that had escaped and gone feral.

The envy was tangible. Rivals wandered over with their tea mugs, pretending not to stare at the RG500s while sneaking sideways glances.

“You lot planning to race or start a fireworks display?” one asked, eyeing the spare pistons stacked in a crate.

Another muttered, “Those things’ll eat you alive before lunch.”

They said it with a smile, but you could hear the edge. They’d seen yesterday’s practice. They knew the RGs weren’t just for show.

Then came the chaos. Our first slot meant dragging all six bikes out in rapid fire. Johan and Marlin were cool and steady on the 350s, rolling out first. Vinka fired up the MV 500, I coaxed the Manx 500 into life. Then came the shriek of the RGs on the rollers—heads turned, ear defenders went on, and the smell of raw fuel rolled across the paddock like a storm front.

On track, the order fell into place. The classics ticked along beautifully, Johan and Marlin riding with their usual precision. Stephen and I held back a moment, then cracked open the RGs. The noise was biblical, the acceleration ridiculous. We tore down the straight like cannonballs, scattering the field in a blur of smoke and banshee howls.

When the flag dropped and we coasted back into the paddock, rivals were waiting—some shaking their heads, some grinning, a few clearly rattled. One old hand muttered, “Bloody hell… looks like Parallel Mayhem’s joined the modern age.”

We parked up, pulled off our helmets, and grinned like we’d just stolen the crown jewels. The envy was no longer hidden—it hung in the air with the smoke. And we hadn’t even made it to the first race yet.

First heat of the day: the 350's. Johan wheeled out the MV, Marlin the Manx, both looking cool and steady as ever. The assembly area was buzzing—lines of 3 50's ticking over, smoke drifting, marshals herding them toward the grid.

On the line, they were calm as statues. Flag up, flag down—clean starts, both of them slipping into the pack with ease. For ten laps they carved the circuit like pros, holding their lines, keeping their nerve. No drama, no mistakes—just tidy, textbook racing. When the chequered flag dropped, they brought the bikes home grinning, steady as you like. A solid start for Team Parallel Mayhem.

Next up: the four-stroke 500's. Vinka rolled the MV out, I fired up the Manx. Different energy here—deeper notes, heavier machines, more muscle. On the grid, the tension built like a drumbeat.

Flag down—go.

The 500's thundered off the line, the whole pack hammering toward the first corner. Stephen was flawless—smooth lines, late braking, carrying speed everywhere. I pushed the MV for all it was worth, holding my own in the middle pack, grinning under the lid. By the flag, we’d both finished strong, the bikes singing happily as we rolled back into the paddock.

And then—the big one. The two-strokes. The RGs. The crowd thickened at the pit wall, everyone wanting to see if we’d survive or self-destruct. Onto the rollers, the RGs shrieked into life—banshee wails, smoke pouring, rivals eyeing us with a mix of horror and envy.

On the grid it was madness—two-strokes snarling, exhaust haze hanging thick. Flag up.

Flag down—detonation.

We rocketed forward, front wheels twitching skyward, the RG's screaming down the straight like missiles. Corners were knife fights, every lap a battle to keep them tamed. The power bands hit like sledgehammers, dragging us down the straights with ridiculous speed.

By the flag, we were exhausted, buzzing, and laughing like maniacs. The RG's had done their worst and we’d stayed on. Back in the paddock, the rivals’ verdict was clear: half admiration, half horror.

“Bloody obscene, those things,” one muttered.

We just grinned. That was the point.

By the time the last chequered flag fell, the paddock was glowing in that soft evening light you only get at circuits—dust hanging in the air, engines cooling with soft ticks, and the smell of burgers drifting from the Hailwood Café. We’d had a day to remember: Johan steady as ever on the MV 350, Marlin smooth and fast on the Manx, both of them clocking solid finishes that had the rivals grumbling into their tea.

The 500 class had been just as good—Stephen muscling the Manx, me pushing the MV like it had been built just for me. We came back grinning, helmets off, sweat streaking, knowing we’d put in races to be proud of. But the real story was the RGs.

Aye. The RGs. At first they’d been trying to kill us—bucking, screaming, clawing at the tarmac. But somewhere in the second heat, something clicked. The rhythm came, the balance settled, and suddenly we weren’t passengers anymore. We were in charge. By the end of the race, both of us were flying, properly flying.

Back under the awning, tea mugs in hand, the rivals wandered over, shaking their heads. “Well, you lot didn’t crash… thought we’d at least win that bet,” one laughed. Another leaned in, eyeing the RGs cooling under their covers. “If you’ve really got the measure of those things, tomorrow’s going to be interesting.”

We didn’t say much. Just exchanged a glance and a grin. For the first time, it felt possible—more than possible. Tomorrow, we could win. Upset the apple cart, shake up the order, prove that Team Parallel Mayhem wasn’t just about showing up, but about finishing on top.

The chatter rolled on into the night—laughs, banter, bits of advice traded like poker chips. But in the back of our minds, Stephen and I were both thinking the same thing: tomorrow, the RGs weren’t just here to play. They were here to conquer.