From Depot to Sergeants | The Real Journey Behind the Uniform

From Depot to Sergeants | The Real Journey Behind the Uniform 🇬🇧

Step inside The Parallel Four Chapter 22 — where recruits become soldiers, drill squares meet DIY chaos, and love and laughter march right alongside discipline. 🇬🇧 From blistered boots at Warcop to fairy lights in married quarters, this is real Cold War Army life: grit, humour, and the families who made it all worthwhile. Expect banter, pride, promotions, and the unfiltered truth about what happens when the parade ends.

British Army training, The Parallel Four, Tim Heale, Depot life, Warcop live firing, Cold War military history, Royal Anglian Regiment, Sergeants’ Mess, Military Family Life, Army humour, 1980s nostalgia, veterans’ stories, British Army traditions.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty Two

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 Two.

Then came the platoon weapons training. Watching one of them try to wrestle a GPMG for the first time was like handing a toddler a sledgehammer and asking them to conduct an orchestra. Arms shook, shoulders bruised, and the noise alone had a few of them blinking like startled owls. But gradually—painfully, sweatily, stubbornly—they got there.

Blistered feet, mud-caked webbing, and pride beginning to show through the grime. They were starting to look less like schoolboys in uniform and more like young soldiers.

The final hurdle was Warcop—a live firing exercise designed to test everything they’d learned, and then some. It was cold, it was wet, and the tea tasted suspiciously like rainwater, but the lads pulled it off. They navigated platoon attacks without tripping over their own rifles, kept their heads down when the rounds started flying, and—miracle of miracles—no one shot themselves in the foot. Which, in depot terms, is practically a standing ovation.

With that done, the hard graft was over. The final couple of weeks were all about parade prep—pressing uniforms, polishing boots until they were small mirrors, and muttering prayers that the belt buckles didn’t betray them on the big day. Even the hardest of the lot—the ones who could recite the entire weapons handling test backwards—suddenly went pale at the thought of their mum spotting a loose thread.

Out of the original intake, we only lost six recruits—two from each section—which, by training standards, was practically a statistical miracle. Or at least nothing that required us to write a formal apology to the Colonel.

We were absolutely clear on one thing: no recruit left our hands unless he was up to the proper standard. It wasn’t just about ticking boxes; it was about the reputation of the Depot and the trust of the Battalions. The last thing we wanted was a company commander ringing up to complain that we’d sent him dead weight. Better a lad be back-squadded for more training than pushed through half-baked. Standards mattered, and we weren’t about to be blamed for lowering them or delivering anything less than soldiers fit for the line.

When the big day came, and the band struck up, it was—truth be told—a bit emotional. You spend 24 weeks turning civilians into soldiers, dragging them through mud, misery, and a mountain of ironing… and suddenly there they are, standing tall, chins up, forage caps brushed perfectly, ready to march off to their units like they’ve been doing it all their lives.

The best bit. Dozens of proud mums and dads came up afterwards, beaming, reaching out to shake our hands and thank us for turning their formerly lazy teenagers into polished, confident human beings. We smiled, nodded, and resisted the urge to say, “You should’ve seen ‘em in week three when half of them couldn’t fold a T-shirt or find their own boots.”

Then came the blessed relief of a couple of weeks off before the next intake. Home time. DIY lists as long as a drill square. Pretending we knew how to use a spirit level. The girls were thrilled to have us back, temporarily, at least—and we were just relieved to take a break from shouting and listen to someone else boss us about for a change.

When Stephen walked through the door after that first platoon passed out, he looked like a man returning from war, tired, dusty, and oddly proud of his shoe polish collection. I gave him a hug, a kiss, and a cup of coffee strong enough to qualify as weaponised, then handed him the list.

He blinked. “What’s this?”

“Your leave programme, darling,” I said sweetly. “Timings are flexible… but the tasks are not.”

There was a dripping tap, a curtain rail that had staged its own escape attempt, and a cupboard door in the kitchen that squeaked like a tortured mouse. Plus, we still hadn’t properly unpacked half the boxes from the move. Not that I was keeping score. I was.

Stephen groaned, but he knew better than to argue. “Right,” he muttered, heading for the toolbox like a soldier approaching a minefield.

Meanwhile, Marlin and I had already coordinated our DIY efforts with military precision—chalk boards, lists on the fridge, and a joint mission to eradicate the last traces of married quarter beige. The twins were entertained with building blocks and bribes of cinnamon buns, and the Volvos had been repurposed for transporting suspicious amounts of paint tins and sample tiles.

The house slowly began to feel more like ours. And Stephen, bless him, slowly remembered which end of a hammer to hold.

Later that evening, with the kids finally asleep and the DIY casualties safely bandaged, Stephen’s thumb and one bruised ego, we collapsed onto the sofa—me with a glass of red, him with a beer and a slightly shell-shocked expression.

The living room still smelled faintly of fresh paint and whatever glue was on those new skirting boards. We’d hung fairy lights around the bookshelf—my idea, of course—and the glow cast soft shadows over the room, making even the mismatched furniture look intentional.

Stephen leaned back, resting his arm behind me. “Y’know,” he said, staring at the ceiling, “we were trained for war zones, not wallpaper paste.”

I laughed. “Yet somehow, you survived both. Barely.”

He turned, giving me that look—the one that started as cheeky and always ended as sincere. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”

I nodded. “From sneaking kisses on icy train platforms to wrangling twins and arguing over where to hang coat hooks…”

He raised his glass. “To love, madness, and flat-pack furniture.”

I clinked his with mine. “And whatever comes next.”

We sat in silence for a while, watching the fairy lights flicker, his fingers gently tracing circles on my shoulder. Outside, the wind rustled the garden hedge. Inside, everything felt still. Not perfect—never perfect—but real, and ours.

It was one of those rare, golden evenings—the kind you don’t plan for but somehow remember forever. Ingrid had kidnapped the children under the noble banner of “quality grand parenting,” which roughly translated to overfeeding, storytelling, and letting them stay up far too late. We didn’t argue. We just smiled, nodded, and shut the front doors quietly behind them.

So there we were—the four of us—in our living room, the scent of wood polish still lingering faintly from a half-hearted dusting session earlier. The fairy lights were on, a record spun lazily in the background, Fleetwood Mac, I think and we all had a glass in hand. Stephen and Johan had cracked open a bottle of single malt they’d been saving since Berlin. Marlin had brought over fresh cinnamon buns. I made a cheese board that may have gotten slightly competitive.

“Can you believe it?” Marlin murmured, curling her feet under her on the sofa. “From Lympstone to Berlin to Bassingbourn... and now we’re talking about school places.”

Johan laughed softly. “And curtain rails. And composting. I used to know the range of a GP MG by heart. Now I know which aisle the nappy rash cream’s in.”

Stephen raised his glass. “At least we still have our bikes. And pace sticks, if anyone needs a gentle reminder who’s in charge.”

I smiled, watching them all—these people I love more than life itself. We’d been through so much together—training, war zones, weddings, births, bad coffee, brilliant wine, missed ferries, early mornings, late-night tears, and too many packing boxes to count.

And now, for just this moment, everything was calm. No crying. No uniforms. No timelines. Just us.

“I wouldn’t change a thing,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else.

Stephen reached for my hand. “Not even the avocado bathroom suite?”

I rolled my eyes. “Well… maybe just that.”

And we laughed. Quiet, contented laughter. The kind that comes when you’re exhausted but happy, and surrounded by the people who truly know you. The kind of laughter that says: we made it this far… and we’re still here.

Not long after they’d gone, a letter arrived from Petra, the neat handwriting on the envelope making my heart jump before I’d even opened it. Inside, she wrote that they’d only been in Northern Ireland a couple of months when Tim’s CO called him in. Out of the blue, he was being offered a posting to the Junior Leaders Battalion down at Shorncliffe in Kent—two whole years as a section commander. There was one slight snag, though: before he could start the job, Tim had to pass the All Arms Drill Course. Petra said he took the news with a grin that was equal parts pride and panic, already muttering about polishing boots until he could see his face in them. She sounded relieved too; Kent felt a world safer than Northern Ireland, and the thought of settling somewhere steady with the baby gave her words a lightness I could feel even on the page. Stephen read it over my shoulder and just muttered, “Not bad for our Tim… not bad at all.”

Dear Tim,

Heard the news from Petra’s letter—Junior Leaders Battalion, Shorncliffe. Two years as a section commander, eh? Not bad for a lad who used to swear he got nosebleeds every time maths homework appeared. I’m proud of you, mate, properly proud.

One small detail though—the All Arms Drill Course. Good luck with that. You’ll be spending more time with a pace stick than with Petra and Sigrid. Just remember: if the RSM shouts, it’s not personal—it’s tradition. Though if you faint on parade, he will take it personal.

Seriously, Tim, you’ve earned this. Shorncliffe will be lucky to have you. Keep your chin up, boots polished like mirrors, and don’t forget which end of the stick is meant for pointing.

See you soon,

Stephen

When Stephen’s reply landed in Kent, Petra read it out loud at the kitchen table while Tim bounced the baby on his knee.

She barely made it through the first lines before grinning—“Not bad for a lad who used to swear he got nosebleeds every time maths homework appeared…” Tim groaned, muttering something about “never living that down,” which only made Petra laugh harder.

By the time she got to the bit about the pace stick, she had tears in her eyes. Tim tried to keep a straight face, puffing out his chest as though he was already on the drill square, but the baby chose that exact moment to burp, and Petra nearly fell off her chair giggling.

Tim shook his head, still smiling, and said quietly, “Typical Stephen—half winding me up, half telling me he’s proud.” Petra tucked the letter back into its envelope like it was treasure, and I don’t think I’d ever seen her beam quite so much.

Next up was Talavera Platoon—another fresh batch of recruits, wide-eyed, full of beans, and utterly convinced they were already halfway to being the next Rambo. Bless ’em.

They rocked up with shiny new kit and dreams bigger than their bergen's, most of them still trying to work out which end of a boot brush to use. Johan and I took one look and exchanged the same knowing glance—this lot had no clue what was coming.

To be fair, they weren’t a bad bunch. Bit soft around the edges, mind you. Not like our days at Lympstone. But then again, no one had it like we did back then—mud, madness, and corporal instructors who thought smiling was a court-martial offence.

Still, we weren’t about to let standards slip, not on our watch. If they didn’t learn how to square away their lockers, bull their boots to a mirror shine, and march without looking like they were trying to catch a bus, then what was the point?

“Discipline,” I told them on Day One, holding my pace stick like a sceptre, “starts with your bed. If you can’t make your bed, you can’t make a section attack.”

One lad blinked and asked what making your bed had to do with battle drills.

“Everything,” I said. “Try folding your duvet under fire, son. Now get on with it.”

To their credit, most of them shaped up quick enough. Some were naturals, some were nose-divers, and some were just confused, but that’s why we were there—to mould the chaos into competence.

By the end of week one, they could at least walk in a straight line, fold a shirt without giving it PTSD, and some had even stopped calling me “mate.” Progress.

One of the true joys of being back in Hitchin—aside from the odd pint at the rugby club and the luxury of knowing where every street led—was Mum. Not for her culinary skills, unless you count toast as haute cuisine, but for her uncanny ability to manage chaos. After raising Phoebe and Susan, two sets of twins were just a minor sequel. She’d usher us out on Saturdays with a firm nod and a parting shot: “Don’t come back unless you’ve scored or you’re limping.”

Which meant Johan and I were free to terrorise the Hitchin Rugby Club again.

Now, let’s get something straight—we weren’t just there for a runabout. We were still fitter than half the first team, and we could run rings around most of the seconds and the young bucks puffing behind us. But we weren’t after club glory—we’d had plenty of that. We played for the love of the game, and maybe a pint or two after.

We rotated through our usual spots—me at 9 or 10, Johan at 15—and still had the timing, the vision, and the legs to pull off the kind of moves that left defenders clutching at air. One game, we ran a textbook switch—me feeding Johan on a late angle—and he cut through their backline like a hot knife through a line of confused teenagers. Pure poetry with a muddy soundtrack.

Post-match, we headed into the bar—blazers buttoned, ties straight, like proper gentlemen of the game. Rugby’s a respectful sport, after all. The muddy boots got left at the door, but the pride came in with us. We leaned on the bar, pints in hand, backs aching in the good way, and faces split in grins.

“Still got it?” Johan said, cocky as ever, despite a graze the size of a dinner plate on his thigh.

“More than got it,” I laughed. “We ought to invoice ’em for the masterclass.”

As our time at the Depot began winding down, thoughts naturally turned to what’s next. The Battalion was due back from Londonderry in October and would be moving to Colchester. And with that came the Big Decision: do we pack up and move into married quarters there, renting out our newly perfected dream homes… or do we commute?

Johan and I floated the idea one evening over dinner, hopeful expressions and all. The girls barely looked up from their wine glasses.

“Commute,” said Marlin.

“Definitely commute,” added Vinka, in that tone that meant the topic was now closed for discussion… possibly forever.

Honestly. They were right. The houses were finally feeling like home. The wallpaper battles had been won, the curtain rods were level, and the kids were happily wreaking havoc at nursery. The thought of boxing it all up again just to live in another set of draughty quarters made everyone’s eye twitch. Besides, with the bikes, we could zip back and forth to Colchester in under 90 minutes—weather, tractors, and military checkpoints permitting.

So come November, Johan and I rolled back into Battalion life like a pair of well-seasoned campaigners—backs straighter, pace sticks swapped for rifles, and a mutual understanding that Depot life had aged us at least ten years, but in a good way. We were promptly assigned to Five Platoon in B Company, and honestly? Compared to the relentless tempo at the Depot, this felt like a walk in the park—just without the walking, and with slightly less shouting.

Sure, there were still exercises where we’d find ourselves crawling through mud, whispering tactical nonsense into the dark while praying not to faceplant a badger. But overall, life had levelled out. We had a rhythm. And miracle of miracles—we had most weekends off.

Once CO’s PT was out the way on Friday morning—basically a compulsory dash around camp in formation, looking like lycra-clad penguins who’d lost a bet—we’d shoot off back to Hitchin faster than you could say “parade dismissed.” By lunchtime, we’d be back in our civvies, back in our homes, and back in domestic bliss—complete with unwashed dishes, DIY disasters, and toddlers using us as climbing frames at six in the bloody morning.

That first Christmas back with the Battalion was a real treat. We managed to talk the girls into coming up for the Corporal’s Mess Christmas Ball, while Ingrid and Harry bravely volunteered to hold the fort and wrangle both sets of twins. Absolute heroes, the pair of them—we owe them a lifetime supply of sherry and earplugs.

The night itself? Magic. There was fizz, food, and a flurry of dance moves we hadn’t used since Blackpool Winter Gardens—some of which probably should’ve stayed there. The atmosphere was spot on. There was just something about a Battalion mess do that hit differently from the Depot’s. Maybe it was the familiarity, the shared history, or maybe it was just not having to dodge the eccentric customs of three different regiments all under one roof.

Whatever it was, the evening was unforgettable—we laughed, we danced, and somehow managed to get through it without anyone losing a shoe, a fight, or their dignity. Well… not completely.

That Corporal’s Mess Christmas Ball felt like a mini holiday—one evening, no children, no sticky fingers, no raisins in my bra, just me, a dress that actually zipped up, and my handsome husband in uniform. Honestly, I think we both nearly cried with relief when Ingrid and Harry took the twins for the night. Brave souls—they deserved medals and maybe a weekend in the Bahamas.

The mess was beautifully decorated—twinkly lights, tinsel draped in military precision, and more polished boots than a Buckingham Palace inspection. The atmosphere had that Battalion buzz—familiar faces, inside jokes, and that lovely feeling of being part of something tight-knit and a little mad. Not like the Depot mess nights, where you never knew if you’d be sat next to a Queensmen or a bloke who thought salad was a threat.

Stephen and I danced like we were back at the NCO’s club in Berlin—only this time with fewer nerves and much better footwork. There was laughter, champagne, and a bit of cheeky flirting that reminded me exactly why I fell for him in the first place. For a few precious hours, we weren’t soldiers or parents—we were just us.

And let me tell you, there’s nothing more romantic than sneaking out early, heels in hand, laughing in the frosty night, knowing you don’t have to get up at 6 a.m. to wipe noses and referee toddler disputes.

This whole “week in Colchester, weekend in Hitchin” routine was ticking along like a well-oiled gearbox—domestic bliss, regular dinners, and the occasional rugby match to remind our joints who was boss. That is, until one Monday morning, just before summer leave, Johan and I got summoned to the OC’s office.

Now, being called to the OC’s office is a bit like finding a letter from the taxman—never a good sign. We straightened our ties, put on our best poker faces, and marched in like we hadn’t just been discussing whether the Naafisausage rolls had shrunk again.

To our surprise, the OC was all smiles. Not in the “I’m about to ruin your week” way—but the “this’ll be fun” kind of smile. Then he dropped the bomb:

“Fancy going on Senior Brecon?”

Without thinking—like two well-drilled parrots—we both blurted out “Yes!” in perfect unison. It was less dignified than we’d hoped, but at least enthusiastic.

The OC chuckled. Not sure if it was amusement or mild concern, but either way, the paperwork was soon flying, and the wheels were officially in motion. Brecon it was.

Over the next month, we trained hard. And by hard, I mean we ran more than a dodgy fridge in a heatwave, swam through stacks of maps and doctrine thick enough to stun a bull, and spent hour after hour crafting fire plans, memorising range safety procedures, and discovering just how many ways you can say “suppressive fire” before someone calls for a medic.

By September 1983, we were reporting in for Senior Brecon—the Army’s answer to a boot camp fused with a tactical university, only with more shouting and fewer tea breaks.

It was seven weeks of unrelenting graft. Dawn till well past dusk, every day was a blur of sweat, mud, and instructors with voices like air-raid sirens. They weren’t there to teach so much as to break you down, then watch what was left crawl its way back up.

We learned how to run a platoon-level live firing range without accidentally launching anyone into orbit, how to mentor junior officers without throttling them, and how to write training programmes that kept soldiers awake (a miracle in itself). There were endless nav ex’s across the Beacons—soaked to the skin, packs cutting into your shoulders, boots chewing through your feet—and always with the clock ticking.

Most importantly, we learned how to function on four hours’ sleep, two cups of Naafi coffee, and the kind of dread that comes from knowing the DS were lurking in the heather, stopwatch in hand, waiting for you to trip over your own bergen straps.

And yet, thanks to our prep—and, let’s be honest, our years of prior suffering—we breezed it. Not easily, but steadily. We passed Senior Brecon with distinction, again, managing not to lose a single recruit, map, or shred of sanity in the process.

By the end, we were leaner, meaner, and armed with the terrifying knowledge that yes, we could now be trusted to run a platoon… and keep the junior officers alive in the process. More than that, though, passing Senior Brecon with distinction marked us out—it wasn’t just another course ticked off. It put us firmly on the map as leaders worth following, and in the eyes of the regiment, that respect mattered more than any certificate.

Back at the Battalion, the brass wasted no time. Promotion to Sergeant. Boom. And with that came our own shiny new platoons in C Company. It was like being handed the keys to a brand-new car… except this one came with thirty sweaty blokes, a Himalayan mountain of paperwork, and a platoon commander who looked like he still needed a permission slip to stay out past 9 p.m.

Our new lieutenants had just rolled off the Sandhurst production line—all shiny boots, over-polished cap badges, and an unshakable belief that Napoleon was misunderstood. Thankfully, the other platoon was anchored by a proper Sergeant and an officer who knew what they were doing. And up top, our Company Commander and Sergeant Major were legends—the kind of leaders who could command respect just by walking into a room… and knew when to look the other way if a “creative” training solution was required.

Adjusting to life as Sergeants took a bit of getting used to. We had to master that elusive Sergeant’s tone—equal parts drill pig, therapist, and disappointed dad—and learn how to shout orders without sounding like a foghorn on the verge of a nervous breakdown. But once we found our groove, it was like we’d been doing it for years.

We lived in the Sergeants’ Mess during the week—Monday to Thursday, give or take the odd Thursday night curry that made you question your life choices around 3 a.m. Come Friday morning, just after the ritual humiliation that was CO’s PT, we’d vanish in a cloud of exhaust fumes, engines growling as we roared down the A120 like a pair of leather-clad homing pigeons.