Medals, Mothers & the Mess: From Gulf War Grit to Brands Hatch Grid | The Parallel Four

Chapter Thirty-Three brings The Parallel Four home: dusty kit, fierce hugs, and the quiet pride only families and regiments understand. Stephen & Johan return to a surprise promotion and the fallout of desert legends—an MM from Her Majesty, a low-key TA medals parade, and the reality check of admin in triplicate. In the Int Cell, Vinka & Marlin—already Mentioned in Despatches—reveal how they steered missions with maps, intercepts, and ice-cool judgement while watching their blokes improvise heroics in a Unimog.

Back in Blighty, normal life kicks back in at full tilt: mums running the home front, four grammar-school stars smashing languages, Sea Cadets, and ballroom; vets rugby on weekends; and the gang’s next obsession—classic racing. With Manx Nortons, MV Agustas, and Triumphs polished to perfection, the crew hit Brands Hatch, pass scrutineering, and (after a leather-wrestling montage) get invited into classic club racing. Because of course they do.

This episode blends medals and mayhem, kitchen-table love and track-day thunder—service, family, and the itch to keep pushing.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirty Three

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 Three.

The girls, meanwhile, were legends in their own right—still in the Int Cell, turning chaos into clarity, holding the line with wit sharper than a commando’s bayonet. We knew their fingers were in every mission plan, every target list, every cheeky ambush we pulled off.

And somehow, through all that madness, we still found time for a brew. Because, let’s be honest—if you’re gonna go halfway across the world to stir up trouble, you might as well do it with a hot cuppa in hand.

When we finally rolled back into the base in Saudi—dusty, bearded, and smelling like the bottom of a ration tin—we were greeted with a rather pleasant surprise: a signal had come through informing us both that we’d been promoted to Corporal just before we’d deployed. Classic military timing—give you a stripe when you’re already halfway to Baghdad in a truck full of explosives. Still, a stripe’s a stripe, and after six weeks of living like feral desert rats, we weren’t about to complain.

Johan just stared at his sleeve, muttered something about “should’ve asked for a pay rise instead,” while I tried to remember if we were supposed to salute ourselves now. We were still scratching our heads over that when two very smug, desert-polished goddesses appeared out of the shadows—Sergeants Heale and Heald, looking as fresh as if they’d just stepped out of a salon and not an Int Cell bunker.

“You two are bloody idiots,” Vinka snapped before I could open my gob. “What did we say before you left? No heroics. No charging into enemy fire. No bloody Viking impressions in a Unimog!”

Marlin nodded, arms folded tight. “Honestly, what part of ‘just support the mission’ translated to ‘become a legend".

We braced for a proper roasting—but instead, they both stepped forward and pulled us into tight hugs, faces buried in dusty jackets.

“But,” Vinka whispered, voice cracking just slightly, “we’ve never been prouder.”

“Not even a little bit,” Marlin added with a tearful grin, “just don’t ever do that to us again.”

Turns out they’d had eyes on all our antics the whole time. Thanks to their role in the Intelligence Cell, they’d read every report, seen every patrol log, and even received a cheeky commendation or two on our behalf. They knew about the Unimog charge, the comms compound, the stakeouts, the booby traps—and the slightly overdramatic Milan missile moment.

We tried to play it cool—shoulders back, bit of swagger, a casual “Oh that? Just another Tuesday.” But let’s be honest: we dined out on that story for weeks. Maybe months. Still are, really.

Even the lads started referring to us as “The Supply Truck Twins”—though we quickly rebranded ourselves as “The Desert Cavalry” after one too many jokes about sandwiches and spanners.

Around that same time, word filtered through about Bravo Two Zero—one of our patrols had been compromised behind enemy lines. Only one of the lads managed to escape, legging it across half of Iraq and into Syria like some kind of SAS marathoner on a death-defying fun run. Blisters the size of dinner plates, dehydrated, and still running on fumes and pure grit. The rest? They turned up on CNN a few weeks later, looking battered, bruised, and defiant, lined up in front of the world’s media and a couple of grumpy-looking Iraqi generals. It hit us like a punch to the gut. A brutal reminder that this war wasn’t all banter and sandstorms—this was deadly serious, and not everyone got to write their story over a pint back home.

Vinka told us how they’d been glued to their screens and intelligence feeds throughout the campaign, juggling real-time footage, intercepted comms, and the occasional panicked American asking how to pronounce “Basra.” Once things kicked off properly, the feed started flooding in—AWACS, high-altitude spy planes, and drones all piping back footage of the chaos we were creating. Marlin reckoned she could see Johan’s bald patch from 30,000 feet, to which he muttered something about “aerodynamic efficiency” while trying not to blush.

But jokes aside, it was serious work. Halfway through the campaign, the intel flow finally went from a trickle to a torrent. With it, the we were able to shift patrols with sniper precision—steering firepower and sabotage like it was a real-life game of ultra-lethal chess. And while they were lobbing grenades out of a Unimog and kicking up half of Iraq, we were in the shadows, moving the pieces. I said it was the first time I truly felt like the brains of an operation, rather than just the translator or the token pretty face with a rifle. And judging by how well the ops went, I wasn’t wrong.

Once the war fighting phase wrapped up and the Iraqi Army did a runner out of Kuwait—leaving behind a trail of burning oil fields, busted tanks, and what can only be described as Saddam’s unwanted garage sale—we found ourselves in the final, soul-sapping stage of any military op: admin. Yep, turns out even war ends with forms in triplicate.

We spent a few dusty days sorting vehicles, scrubbing down weapons, and handing back enough signed for kit to kit out a battalion—though somehow, only a couple of tent pegs and a suspiciously expensive compass went walkabout. With the paperwork reluctantly signed and backs slapped all round, we got bundled onto another Galaxy, our old friend from Brize Norton, for the ride home. Nodding off mid-flight, boots off and smelling like a compost heap, we landed back in Blighty and clambered onto a long, creaky coach headed for Hereford.

There, we were debriefed, demobbed, and—finally—given a bit of well-earned leave. We’d made some cracking mates in the Regiment, swapped more than a few brews, and come home with sand in every crevice and stories we’d be boring our grandkids with one day. What we’d forged out there—through grit, diesel fumes, and a touch of unfiltered lunacy—wasn’t just a tour. It was brotherhood. And maybe, just maybe, we’d earned a few days with our feet up.

Shortly after we returned to Hitchin—sandy, knackered, and still coughing up desert dust—we were greeted not with fanfare, but something far better: our mums. The true heroes. They’d wrangled the kids, run the house, and kept the home fires burning without so much as a ration pack or a shouted “STAND TO!” in sight. If there were medals for babysitting under extreme conditions, they’d be wearing them with oak leaves and a clasp marked “Patience.”

A week later, all six of us who’d deployed were invited down to the TA Centre for what they called a “low-key ceremony.” Which in TA-speak meant lukewarm tea, squashed custard creams, and a turnout in best No.2's. But this one had real heart. The CO himself made the trip—sacrificing his Wednesday afternoon golf game, no less—to pin our Gulf War Medals on our chests during a drill night parade. He gave a short but rousing speech, thanking us for our grit, our service, and our complete disregard for sunblock. And then came the real surprise—he relayed that the Director of Special Forces had personally passed on his thanks.

That wasn’t all.

Vinka and Marlin—calm, clever, relentless in the Int Cell—were both awarded a Mention in Despatches for their work during the campaign. The room practically burst with pride as their names were read out. I swear Johan and I stood a little taller, even if we were still finding sand in places we daren’t mention. Two Swedish sergeants, fluent in five languages and sharper than most generals, grinning with quiet pride as the room applauded.

From a man who usually communicates in grunts and eyebrow twitches, that was practically poetry.

Then came the big day.

Johan and I were to be awarded the Military Medal by Her Majesty The Queen.

So naturally, we made it a full-on family affair. Not too full, mind—parents weren’t allowed, rules and all that, but the eight of us were there in force: me, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, and our four not-so-little ones—Nils, Vera, Otto, and Olivia. And we were all looking sharp. The grown-ups in our pristine No.2 dress—pressed, polished, and trying to pretend we weren’t just a bit nervous. The kids were decked out like miniature royalty: Nils and Otto in smart jackets and polished shoes, the girls in matching dresses and ponytails so tight you could pluck violin notes off ‘em.

We caught the train to London the night before and checked in at the Special Forces Club. Vinka insisted we all do a full walk-through of the ceremony—bows, curtsies, no waving, no saluting, and definitely no dabbing. Vera was so good at the curtsy she did it every time someone passed in the hallway. Otto tried to salute the concierge. We ended up in a four-way pillow fight, half rehearsal, half giggle-fit, with Vera trying to curtsy mid-swing. It was chaos—and exactly what we needed to take the edge off.

Next morning, it was hair brushed, uniforms perfect, medals packed safely. We caught a couple of taxi's to Buckingham Palace, and when the cabbies clocked our medals and the kids’ solemn little faces, he shook our hands, said, “You lot are something else,” and refused the fare. “From one Londoner to another, cheers for what you did.” That little moment nearly broke us.

We were dropped off at the North Gate and greeted by a member of the royal staff so polished he looked like he’d stepped straight off a £5 note. Clipboard in hand, tailcoat perfect, he ushered us across the forecourt like we were royalty ourselves. The kids walked wide-eyed, taking in the grandeur like it was Hogwarts meets fairy tale. Nils whispered, “Do you think the Queen’s got a secret passage?” Vera just shushed him with a “Shh, she might be listening.”

Inside the Long Gallery, we were briefed with military precision: No chatting unless addressed, bow or curtsy when you’re called up, stand straight, and under no circumstances attempt to fist-bump the monarch. Olivia, bless her, raised her hand and asked, “What if I sneeze in front of the Queen?” Clipboard Man didn’t blink. “You will sneeze quietly, miss, with grace.” She nodded like she’d just been handed the Crown Jewels.

We adults joined the formal procession into the ballroom while the kids were escorted to a little gallery overlooking the proceedings—front row seats, box of tissues included, just in case.

Johan went up first. Immaculate. Back straight. Parade-ground perfect. He bowed, accepted his medal, and exchanged a few words with Her Majesty, who gave him one of her famous small smiles and a nod that said she understood far more than she let on.

Then came my turn. I stepped forward, tried not to trip on the carpet, bowed as rehearsed, and approached. Her Majesty pinned the medal with a practiced ease, looked me square in the eye, and said—quiet but firm—“We know what you did. It was brave work. Necessary.”

I blurted—because I was me—“You’d have done the same for your mates, Ma’am.”

She actually chuckled. Honest to God, the Queen chuckled. “Perhaps I would,” she replied. And that smile... you never forget a smile like that.

Behind me, I could feel Johan’s smug grin burning into the back of my head and could practically hear Vinka muttering, “Don’t you dare wink.”

Later, in the inner courtyard, we gathered the kids and posed for photos by the gates. Vera asked if the Queen had smelled like lavender, and Otto demanded to know if my medal was real silver. Olivia wanted to draw a picture of Her Majesty and give it to her next time. Nils just looked up at me and said, “I’m proud of you, Dad.”

I’ll tell you this—for all the dust, noise, chaos and fire of the Gulf, that was the moment that nearly broke me.

The four of us— Stephen, Johan, and Marlin and me—were still active in the TA, not quite ready to trade in our boots for slippers just yet. We’d taken every chance to expand our skill sets—earning full sailing qualifications, skippering expeditions for the Regiment and the local cadet units, and even becoming certified Nordic and Telemark ski instructors. Let’s just say, if it involved braving the elements and telling people where to go, politely or otherwise, we were qualified for it. We weren’t chasing medals anymore, but we were still very much in the thick of things—teaching, leading, and occasionally showing the young ones how it’s really done.

In between fieldcraft lectures and brew breaks, Marlin and I took great pleasure in teaching the SAS lads a few moves from Akadio—part martial art, part mayhem—leaving even the toughest blokes flailing like tipsy giraffes in slow motion.

At home, the kids were thriving. All four—Nils, Vera, Otto, and Olivia—were now at the grammar schools, continuing the legacy with gusto. Between them, they were hoovering up top marks in just about everything, especially languages and history. As proud parents, we beamed through every parents’ evening like we’d just won the lottery, even while quietly wondering whose genes were responsible. Certainly ours—not if you asked our old teachers, anyway.

They also shared a surprising passion for ballroom dancing. The school still did the traditional exchange setup: boys visiting the girls’ grammar, and the girls returning the favour. It was exactly the same when Johan and Stephen had experienced all those years ago—awkward at first, but by the end of the year, they were waltzing and quickstepping like little Fred Astaires and Ginger Rogers. They even roped us in for the occasional practice session at home, much to our delight.

I still smile when I think of it—our four, just eleven years old, proudly turning up in their little Sea Cadet uniforms. Stephen and Johan had that glint of recognition in their eyes, like they were watching their own boyhoods replayed, only this time through Nils and Otto. The boys couldn’t get enough of the boats, forever soaked to the skin but laughing like gulls, while Vera and Olivia marched about with such determination you’d think the Navy itself was depending on their drill. Marlin and I had never gone that route ourselves, but seeing them take to it so naturally, so full of pride and belonging, well… it filled me with a quiet joy I can’t quite put into words.

As for us old lads, weekends still meant rugby. Johan and I would pull on our kit for the Vets or 2nd XV whenever numbers were low—which, let’s be honest, was most weekends. We weren’t exactly match-fit, but we still had the moves, the vision, and the cheek. The blazers and ties only came out for the clubhouse bar after the game—where the bruises were soothed with bitter, banter, and a bit of post-match stretching that looked suspiciously like groaning.

Nils and Otto were never happier than when they had a ball tucked under their arms and mud on their knees. School rugby gave them plenty of chances to shine, but it was at the club where they really came alive, charging about in their black-and-gold jerseys, grinning ear to ear as if every scrum was a grand final. They had the knack too: Nils quick with his hands, darting like Stephen in his youth, and Otto built like Johan already, hard to stop once he got moving. Sunday mornings became a ritual of boots, blazers, and sideline cheers, and I swear the lads carried the pride of the whole family each time they trotted out onto that pitch.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t headline-grabbing. But it was ours. A life with purpose, with love, with just enough chaos to keep it interesting and after all the madness we’d seen, from Northern Ireland to the desert, it felt like we’d landed exactly where we were meant to be.

With all the gear and—miraculously—some idea, we hired a van to ferry our prized two-wheeled beauties to Brands Hatch. Three were strapped to the trailer like they were off to a royal wedding, while the fourth nestled inside the van, snuggled up to a battalion of spanners, toolboxes, and enough WD-40 to drown a small engine. Johan and I took the lead, channelling our inner Grand Prix legends, while Vinka and Marlin followed behind in the car, probably giggling at how seriously we were taking it all.

On arrival, we were waved into our garage space like VIP pit crews—though it took us three attempts and a bit of arguing over hand signals to park straight. Then came the sacred ritual of unloading the bikes, which we did with all the reverence of archaeologists brushing sand off Tutankhamun’s nose.

With everything set up and the van parked, we began the battle to get into our racing leathers. It involved squatting, swearing, and the sort of contortions that would’ve made a yoga instructor wince. Once zipped in and mildly breathless, we wheeled the bikes over for sound testing, half-expecting the officials to turn us away on the grounds of being “too bloody gorgeous to risk.” But they passed—roared, actually—with flying colours.

That out the way, we strolled over to the briefing room, joining forty-odd fresh-faced hopefuls all buzzing with nervous energy. The instructor walked in, looking like he ate carbon fibre for breakfast. Johan leaned over and whispered, “We might be the only ones here who remember when these bikes were brand new…” I stifled a laugh, looked around at the sea of Lycra-clad youth, and replied, “Yeah—only now, we’re the antiques.”

The morning briefing was like being back in a very polite version of boot camp—only this time, nobody was shouting and we were all wearing leather instead of camouflage. The organiser stood at the front with the calm authority of a school headmaster who’d traded chalk for checkered flags. He explained how the day would run: two hours of track time in the morning, another two in the afternoon, and we could come and go as we pleased—as long as the green flag was flying. When the chequered flag came out, that was our cue to stop pretending we were Mike Hailwood reincarnated and return to the pits for tea, biscuits, and a humble reality check.

Then came the flag lesson, which felt oddly nostalgic—like learning semaphore all over again, but without the risk of being made to run around with a bergan full of bricks. Yellow flag—slow down, something’s gone pear-shaped up ahead. Red and yellow stripes—there’s oil, debris, or possibly a pigeon with a death wish on the track. Red flag—stop everything and head back in, no heroics allowed. Blue with a yellow stripe—someone faster is behind you and yes, there will be someone faster behind you, so move over and let them feel superior. The dreaded black flag—you’ve been naughty, and now must face the Race Official’s Clipboard of Judgement, usually delivered with the same look the Sergeant Major gave you when you accidentally set fire to the cam netting.

Johan raised a hand during the Q&A bit and asked if there was a flag for “slightly embarrassed but still very keen.” The organiser blinked, then grinned and said, “That’s usually indicated by steam coming from your ears and your mates laughing in the paddock.”

One bloke, moustache and all—looked like he’d stepped straight out of a 1976 Silverstone paddock—wandered in, gave the bikes a slow appreciative nod, and asked, “So why aren’t you racing these beauties properly then?” We looked at each other, blinking. “Racing?” we echoed, like school kids being asked why they hadn’t thought of something very obvious. We were still high from the morning’s laps, still buzzing from the thrill of it all—and suddenly this moustachioed messenger from the motorcycle gods was dangling a whole new adventure in front of us.

He leaned against the tool bench, completely at ease, and told us about the Classic Racing Motorcycle Club, how they’d help us get race licences, join the novice class, and take these beasts out in proper competition. “It’s the same track, just with timing and a bit more testosterone,” he said with a grin, helping himself to a second digestive from our open packet like he’d earned it. “And don’t worry, you lot look like you’ve still got some fight left in you.”

By the time he finished his second biscuit and wandered off to critique someone else’s carburettor settings, we were already halfway through the membership forms. Johan muttered something about it being a terrible idea and grinned like it was Christmas morning. Vinka simply said, “Well, if we’re doing it, we’re doing it properly,” and pulled out her notepad to start a training schedule. The jam sandwich debrief turned into a strategy meeting. One minute we were weekend warriors with pretty bikes—the next, we were racers in training, with oil on our hands, fire in our bellies, and the distant sound of a chequered flag calling our names.