Into the Gulf: Farewells, Scuds & a Desert QRF Ambush, SAS Drivers, Int Cell & The Beast

Chapter Thirty-One carries The Parallel Four from the quiet pain of family farewells to the sand-blown chaos of the First Gulf War. After a wrenching goodbye, the team mobilises: Vinka & Marlin head into the Intelligence Cell (maps, intercepts, strike timings), while Stephen & Johan up-scale at Hereford, take charge of an Unimog nicknamed “The Beast,” and roll with a half-squadron of Pinky Land Rovers. From Brize Norton to a cavernous C-5 Galaxy, then straight into the UAE and onward to the Saudi–Iraq border under air-raid sirens and Scud alerts, the tempo never lets up.

Mission brief: slip behind enemy lines, cut comms, smash infrastructure, disrupt and disappear. In the black of the desert, the lads guard the FRV… until a QRF barrels in. Cue a berserker countercharge: GPMG roaring, M203 thumping, vehicles going WHUMP in fireballs—and a patrol saved. The aftermath? Quiet nods, a fast exfil, and a hard-earned Military Medal each.

This episode blends combat driving, SAS Int, desert logistics, and the brittle humour of soldiers at war—tea in dented mugs, letters from home, and stars over a hostile horizon.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirty One

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 Thirty One.

The moment hung still… then the driver gave a nod.

“Time to go.”

We climbed aboard, bergan's thumping down, a last glance through the window as the kids waved, arms high and brave. Then the unit gate passed behind us.

Nobody said a word for the first mile.

Then Johan muttered, “Well… that was harder than I thought.”

And in the hush that followed, I looked across at Vinka—tears quietly sliding down her cheeks, just like mine.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

You train for everything—desert heat, long days, sudden ambushes.

But you never really train for waving goodbye to your children.

You just do it. Hope you’ve given them enough of your heart to carry while you’re gone.

In August 1990, just as most people were arguing over charcoal vs gas and complaining about the soggy British summer, Saddam Hussein decided to spice things up by invading Kuwait. Because apparently, the world didn’t have enough going on.

Cue the start of the First Gulf War—and, as luck or perhaps sheer madness would have it, the four of us got tapped on the shoulder.

Vinka and Marlin, now seasoned Sergeants and already with glowing praise from their time in Northern Ireland, were called up for Intelligence support with the regular SAS. No big surprise there—between their language skills, their ice-cool nerves, and their ability to terrify a man with a single look, they were naturals.

Johan and me? Well, we were never the types to let an adventure pass us by. Especially one with danger money and a tan included. Along with a couple of other lads from the Squadron, we were asked to mobilise and support the Regiment as drivers. Not chauffeurs, mind you—we weren’t ferrying generals about in leather-lined Rovers. No, this was combat driving: sandstorm navigation, cross-desert recovery missions, and dodging Scud missiles like it was a new Olympic sport.

Once we’d signed on the dotted line and convinced the Ministry of Defence that we were, in fact, still fully functional human beings—albeit a little more worn-in than their usual recruits—we headed off to Stirling Lines in Hereford for a spot of what they called “up-scaling.”

Now, up-scaling is just the Army’s posh way of saying, “Here’s enough kit to fill a small warehouse—good luck remembering where you packed your socks.”

Weapon-wise, Johan and I were handed M16s with M2 o 3 grenade launchers slung underneath like we were auditioning for Commando II: Desert Mayhem. Add in Browning 9mm pistols for the closer-than-you’d-like encounters, and we were starting to look dangerously competent.

The girls—being smarter and, let’s be honest, far more photogenic—had the standard SA80 rifles and Brownings… but somehow managed to make webbing and cam cream look like fashion statements. Seriously, if there’d been a Vogue: Tactical Edition, they’d have graced the cover.

We spent the next couple of days on the ranges blasting away, zeroing our weapons, and getting back into the groove. Even at Hereford, the wind kicked up dust like it had a personal vendetta. Sand was already sneaking into magazines, barrels, and places it had no right to be—and we hadn’t even seen the desert yet.

Then came our trusty steed: a big, grumbling Unimog, which Johan and I took charge of like a pair of proud dads at a school science fair. Not exactly glamorous, mind you—no chrome, no creature comforts, and the suspension had all the charm of a brick in a tumble dryer—but this beast would become our dusty mobile home for the duration.

We kitted it out to the rafters—supplies, rations, jerry cans, water drums, tools, spare tyres, and enough cam netting to open our own surplus store on the side. Every inch of storage space was crammed with something mission-critical… or probably-expired ration packs that even the rats wouldn’t touch.

Then, at last, the green light came.

We moved off under the cover of darkness, in that classic sneaky SAS style

…or at least, as sneaky as a convoy of roaring V8 Pinkies and diesel trucks lumbering out of camp in the dead of night can be.

Our destination: RAF Brize Norton.

Our ride: a C-5 Galaxy aircraft so massive it looked like it could swallow a small town, a rugby pitch, and still have room for pudding.

Watching them load the entire Squadron—vehicles, kit, weapons, crates of who-knows-what, and all of us—onto that absolute beast of a plane was nothing short of surreal. It was like watching a military version of Tetris, just with less techno music and more shouting.

I half expected someone from Air Movements to start charging for excess baggage.

One bloke tried to sneak on with a second Bergen—“It’s just snacks,” he said.

We didn’t ask.

The girls boarded with their game faces on, calm and sharp-eyed, already slipping into mission mode. Johan and I, on the other hand, were busy clocking where the best seat cushions were and mentally noting where the snack crates had landed.

Once everyone was in and strapped down with enough webbing to anchor a ship, the engines kicked into life—a deep, thunderous rumble that rolled right through your boots.

Someone behind us muttered,

“Well, this beats a two-week package holiday to Benidorm.”

We didn’t laugh. Not because it wasn’t funny—but because it was true.

This wasn’t a holiday. This was something else entirely.

And just like that, we were airborne—bound for the United Arab Emirates and whatever desert-flavoured mischief awaited us on the far side.

We all arrived in-theatre around the same time—four very serious-looking Brits dragging far too much luggage and wearing that unmistakable glint of “we’re up to something” in our eyes.

It didn’t take long for the separation drill to kick in. The girls were whisked straight into the Intelligence Cell—and judging by their grins, you’d think someone had handed them front-row tickets to a mystery thriller.

They were in their element: maps, satellite imagery, radio intercepts, secure lines buzzing with Arabic and acronyms—and, naturally, industrial-strength coffee. Within hours, they were cross-referencing strike timings and tracking Iraqi troop movements like they were sorting out a dinner plan. Cool, clinical, and utterly in control.

Meanwhile, Johan, the other lads, and I were handed off to the motor pool, where we were reacquainted with our beloved Unimog's—still grumbling like it had a hangover—and a fleet of other vehicles that looked like they’d escaped from a Mad Max reboot. Bits held together with duct tape, bullet holes patched with optimism, and dashboards that hadn’t seen a working dial since the Falklands.

We’d barely slung our bergen's down when, at 0600, we flipped on CNN—because obviously, that’s how we found out about major world events.

And there it was.

Baghdad lit up like bonfire night on steroids.

The Allied bombing had begun.

Shock and awe had arrived—and judging by the look on the CNN anchors’ faces, even they were shocked and awed.

A few hours later, we were summoned en masse to the cookhouse.

Not for bacon butties, tragically—but for a briefing.

What we walked into could only be described as the largest gathering of moustaches, war faces, and sandy kit since the Second World War. If you’d dropped in blindfolded, you might’ve assumed you were at a casting call for The Great Escape 2: Desert Harder.

And then—up onto a battered trestle table climbed the man himself, the Director of Special Forces.

Dressed like a khaki-clad messiah and wielding the kind of stare that could start a bush fire, he barked:

“Gather round, lads!”

You half expected him to pull out a hat full of raffle tickets or start selling meat for the mess.

Instead, he confirmed what CNN had already told us—cheers for the spoiler, telly—and then dropped the real bombshell:

DLB—General Sir Peter de la Billière—had just been given the green light.

And not just by anyone. By Stormin’ Norman himself—General Schwarzkopf.

The mission?

Get behind enemy lines. Cause mayhem. Disrupt. Destroy. Disappear.

Or, as he so elegantly put it:

“Be very British. Very sneaky. And very disruptive.”

We didn’t cheer.

But we didn’t blink either.

The crowd thinned out slowly, boots scuffing across the dusty floor, murmurs drifting away like steam from the tea urns. Johan wandered off with a couple of the other lads, still mulling over the details. I stayed behind, standing near the back, until I felt Vinka’s hand brush against mine.

We didn’t say anything at first.

Just stood there, side by side, soaking in the weight of it all.

The cookhouse felt colder somehow, now that the adrenaline had faded.

She glanced at me, her voice low but steady.

“So, you’re going, then. With the half squadron.”

I nodded.

“A bit of a stroll, nothing fancy. Just behind enemy lines, poking the hornet’s nest and legging it before they notice.”

She didn’t laugh.

Not this time.

“Promise me you won’t do anything heroic,” she said, folding her arms across her chest like a barrier against the heat—and the fear.

“No daft heroics. Just get in, do your job, and come back to me. To us.”

I reached for her hand again, this time holding it properly.

“You’ve seen me run, love. I’m not built for heroics. I’m built for disappearing quickly and complaining about sand.”

That earned a little smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You come back with all your fingers, all your toes,” she whispered, “and no holes where there shouldn’t be holes.”

I leaned in close, brushing a kiss to her forehead.

“Only holes in my socks, sweetheart. That I can’t promise to fix.”

We stood like that for a moment longer, surrounded by the echo of chairs scraping and the faint clink of cutlery. The storm was coming—and we both knew it—but for now, we had each other, and that was enough.

Still stuck in the UAE, we were in a bit of a holding pattern—that special kind of military limbo where you’re expected to be ready for action at all times, but mostly you just end up drinking tea, repacking your bergen, and pretending to tidy kit whenever an officer wandered past.

Then came the word we’d been half-expecting, half-dreading:

Wheels up.

We were flying north to the Forward Mounting Base, right on the Saudi–Iraq border.

What we weren’t told was that we’d be landing slap-bang in the middle of a five-star panic.

As the wheels touched down and the rear ramp began to creak open, the base erupted.

Air raid sirens kicked off like a rave in a metal bin, lights flashing, klaxons wailing.

Blokes were legging it in all directions, some shouting, most fully togged up in NBC kit, looking like they’d just escaped from a dystopian horror film.

Gas masks, rubber gloves, and absolute mayhem.

We hadn’t even unbuckled yet.

Word came through fast: Iraq had just launched its first Scud missiles at Israel.

Everyone was bracing for more—and not entirely sure where they were aimed next.

Johan, ever the master of understatement, just stood there, eyeing the chaos with raised brows and a dry cough.

“Well, that escalated quickly.”

Eventually, the panic subsided—mainly because the missile landed somewhere else, and the world didn’t end.

The headless-chicken routine eased into a more disciplined head-down shuffle, the sort of organised chaos soldiers fall back on once the immediate threat has passed.

We found a corner in what could generously be described as a half-built tent city—canvas flapping, poles half-secured, and dust getting everywhere it had no business being.

There, with a hexiblock burner and a dodgy mess tin, we brewed up the most life-saving cuppa tea we’d ever tasted.

Then, with kit stacked, rifles cradled, and the desert chill creeping into our bones, we lay back under the stars—eyes half open, minds wide awake, wondering what sort of chaos we’d be contributing to come daylight.

We didn’t know exactly where we were going, or how we’d get there.

But we knew one thing for sure:

Iraq was about to have a very bad week.

Marlin and I, were having a thoroughly frustrating time of it in the Int Cell.

Trying to squeeze usable intelligence out of coalition sources was like trying to knit a jumper with cooked spaghetti—slippery, pointless, and deeply unsatisfying.

Every snippet we got was either days out of date, so vague it could’ve described any army on Earth, or buried under more “Top Secret” labels than a James Bond script. You’d need a chainsaw and a NATO clearance badge just to peek at half of it.

No one seemed to know anything for certain.

Where were the Iraqis?

What kit did they have?

How many were there?

Were they fighting fit—or one dodgy stew away from surrendering?

It was all speculation, guesswork, and the occasional intercepted radio message complaining about the lack of decent tea or how someone’s boots didn’t fit.

Still, Marlin and I soldiered on—surrounded by maps, radio logs, field reports, and more acronyms than should legally be allowed in a single tent.

They were caffeinated to the eyeballs, running on adrenaline, sarcasm, and stubborn Swedish resilience.

By midweek, even the lads in the Signals tent knew to tread carefully—lest they fall victim to a perfectly worded putdown that would haunt them for years.

A day later, Johan and I were summoned—the kind of summons where the officer doesn’t bother sitting down, and you know you’re about to get volunteered for something… fun.

Turns out, we were part of a half-Squadron op, and they needed both us and our trusty Unimog.

Apparently, the fact we’d driven it without crashing into anything or blowing it up had earned us the grand title of “experts.”

You’d think we’d invented the thing.

The lads had nicknamed it The Beast, and honestly, it suited—

now bristling with every bit of kit that could growl, boom, or belch diesel.

A GPMG sat up front like a mechanical snarl.

Our M16s, M203s, and Brownings, rode shotgun, tucked neatly by the seat—just in case someone decided to get clever at a checkpoint.

The back?

That was Wile E. Coyote’s dream lorry—crates of explosives, demolition charges, water, fuel, spares, ration packs for a fortnight, and a few suspicious tins labelled “chicken something”.

Basically, if it went bang, or kept something that went bang running, it was in our truck.

We weren’t just the drivers anymore.

We were the logistics, the firepower, and—if needed—the getaway plan.

The Squadron itself looked like the lovechild of a scrapyard and an armoury.

We had eight V8 Pinky Land Rovers, each packed with four blokes and more attitude than a nightclub bouncer on a Friday night.

Painted a dusty, sun-faded pink that screamed “camouflage, but make it fashionable,” these beasts were built for war—and they knew it.

There were two dirt bikes slung on the back for reconnaissance—

or, more realistically, for some lucky sod to look heroic leaping dunes like a desert cowboy.

Then there was us—in the Unimog, rumbling along dead centre in the convoy, right where the precious cargo gets tucked in like a favourite child.

Not glamorous, but well-protected.

All in, we were thirty-six lads with enough firepower to make the Pentagon raise an eyebrow.

The Pinkies were bristling with GPMG's, 50 cals that could knock a barn down from across a county, and grenade launchers for when diplomacy had left the building.

We even had a couple of Milan anti-tank systems riding shotgun, and enough 66mm LAW rockets to turn anything with tracks into a smouldering modern art exhibit.

No banners. No bugles.

Just a rolling storm of diesel, petrol, dust, and highly trained bad intentions.

If that wasn’t enough, Johan and I were also the ammo mules.

Every time someone needed a bit more belt-fed love or another box of boom sticks, guess who got the friendly knock on the cab window?

Yep—us.

We were basically the quartermasters of carnage, handing out destruction by the crate.

Grenade rounds, ammo belts, spare barrels—you name it, we shifted it.

And if anyone asked?

Oh yes, we absolutely loved it.

Strangely enough, it was the first time since joining the military that hauling jerrycans and crates of ammunition in 40-degree heat actually felt like a privilege.

We weren’t just along for the ride anymore—

we were fueling the storm.

Our mission was simple—at least on paper.

Sneak behind enemy lines,

sow chaos,

smash up comms infrastructure,

cut fibre optic cables like a pair of overzealous BT engineers,

blow up vehicles and equipment,

and generally scare the living daylights out of the Iraqi forces to shatter morale.

Basically, we were the desert’s version of a really bad hangover—loud, disorienting, and prone to showing up where we weren’t wanted.

The only caveat?

Try not to get caught.

No pressure.

It was a rare lull in the noise and heat—

a moment of stillness in a place that seemed to hum constantly with tension.

Stephen and I had managed to carve out a corner in the cookhouse, tucked away near a fan that did more rattling than cooling.

He brought over two mugs of tea, strong and sweet, and sat opposite with a tired smile.

No need for big words. We were both running on instinct and habit by that point—

but there was comfort in simply sitting together, even for ten minutes.

I reached into my blouse pocket and pulled out a little stack of letters—Nils and Vera’s handwriting unmistakable, slightly smudged, a bit crumpled.

They must’ve been held up somewhere en route, postbags shuffled between wrong tents and right intentions.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Post from home?”

I nodded. “Ja. Finally. They wrote these nearly two weeks ago.”

I opened the top one carefully, as if it might crumble—Vera’s letter, full of little stories from school, her excitement over a new library book, a funny sketch of Otto in the corner with exaggerated glasses.

Then Nils’—more to the point, fewer flourishes, but full of questions.

“Are you safe?” “Do you have proper food?” “Have you seen any camels?”

Stephen chuckled at that one.

“I write to them every night,” I said quietly. “Even if it’s just a few lines. I don’t know how often they get them... but I want them to know we’re thinking of them.”

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “They know, love. They absolutely know.”

We sat in silence for a bit, tea cooling, letters spread between us like tiny lifelines to Hitchin.

Outside, boots crunched past the canvas wall and somewhere, a generator droned on.

But inside that moment, there was just us, a stack of late letters, and the unspoken promise that no matter how far we were flung across this sunburnt war zone, we were still a family—

and we’d be home again.

We’d managed to nick a few minutes together—just the four of us.

Someone had scrounged a crate to sit on, another a half-bent folding chair, and I think Marlin was perched on a jerry can.

Classy, I know. But out there, under the desert stars, it may as well have been a five-star hotel.

Johan had his boots off, socks steaming, bless him. “If I get trench foot in the desert,” he muttered, “I’m suing someone.”

Marlin passed him a biscuit, dry as a sandbag, and leaned her shoulder gently into his. “You’ll be fine. You’re just pre-nostalgic.”

Vinka and I sat cross-legged on a poncho, sharing a mug of tea between us. She’d tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and was staring up at the stars like she was memorising them.

“Looks just like the sky back home,” she said softly. “Except the air smells like diesel and everyone’s armed.”

“Apart from that,” Johan added, “perfectly romantic.”

We all chuckled, but it was short-lived.

There was something unsaid, hovering between us, heavy in the warm night air.

We were on the edge now—briefings done, gear prepped, weapons cleaned and checked.

Tomorrow, we’d scatter to our separate roles.

No guarantee we’d cross paths again until it was all over.

Vinka turned to me, her voice low, steady. “We’ll stay sharp. We’ll get it done. Then we come home.”

“Amen to that,” Marlin said, raising her canteen like it was fine crystal.

We all joined in, quiet clinks of metal in the dark.

No speeches. No bravado. Just that shared look—the one that says, I’ve got your back.

Because out there, it wasn’t about medals or missions.

It was about each other.

Crossing the border felt a bit like slipping through the backdoor of a pub five minutes after closing—quiet, tense, and buzzing with adrenaline.

No one said a word unless they had to. Just the low thrum of engines, the hiss of radios, and the occasional curse when a headlight flickered or the Unimog’s brakes squeaked at the wrong moment.

It took two nights of crawling across flat, open desert, navigating by stars and sheer stubbornness, dodging patrols, and whispering insults at our maps that seemed to mock us with every wrong turn.

When we finally reached the final lay-up point, Johan and I got cracking—topping off fuel tanks, passing out water, and handing over explosives like it was Bonfire Night with a tactical twist.

Then it was nods, murmured good lucks, and the quiet clink of gear as the lads slipped into the black—off on their moonlit stroll to take out a major comms compound.

We were left guarding the Final Rendezvous Point, parked up on a stretch of desert so flat you could see the heat haze off your own shadow.

Just us, the vehicles, and the endless horizon.

We wrapped ourselves in jackets, cradled lukewarm brews, and tried not to nod off.

Because while the earth beneath us wasn’t shifting,

the world most definitely was.

Then—BOOM! Right on cue, the target compound lit up the night sky like someone had dropped the sun.

Flames danced, shadows stretched, and for one glorious second, we grinned like smug pyromaniacs.

Unfortunately… so did they.

Turns out, an Iraqi QRF must’ve had their cornflakes spiked with adrenaline, because they came at us fast and angry—dust trails screaming, weapons blazing.

Outnumbered, outgunned, and thoroughly annoyed, Johan and I did what any sensible, well-trained soldiers would do:

We charged them.

I slammed the Unimog into gear like a man possessed, its engine growling as we lunged forward.

Johan swung up onto the GPMG, braced himself, and let rip—the gun barking like a demon with a hangover.

I reached for the M2o3, lobbed a couple of 40mm grenades, and watched one land dead centre on a vehicle—

WHUMP!

It went up in a fireball so spectacular Michael Bay would’ve sent flowers.

The Iraqis clearly hadn’t expected a berserker charge from two lunatics in a supply truck.

We blew up a few wagons, dropped a handful of their men, and the rest turned tail, tyres screaming, engines whining.

Can’t blame ‘em, really.

Johan was yelling like a Viking, and I was grinning like I’d just won the meat raffle at a biker pub.

As luck would have it, the raiding team jogged back in just as the last of the attackers were disappearing over the horizon, probably in search of fresh underwear and a quiet place to rethink life choices.

Still catching their breath, they found us surrounded by smoke, shell casings, and the smouldering remains of what used to be a few enemy vehicles.

We quickly briefed the patrol commander—half-shouted, half-laughed through adrenaline-fuelled grins—before bundling everyone back into the wagons.

There was no time to savour the moment. We had to get the whole convoy rolling again before the Iraqis scraped together a Plan B involving more blokes and bigger guns.

That ambush could’ve gone sideways fast, but instead… it cemented our legend.

Apparently, charging a QRF in a supply truck and saving an entire patrol earns you a bit of recognition.

Johan and I were each awarded the Military Medal for decisive action under fire.

Not that we were after medals—but we didn’t exactly turn them down either.

After that, every FRV left behind had extra security—two dirt bikes and a Pinky Land Rover on overwatch.

Just in case someone else fancied playing hero with a box of grenades and a grin.