From SAS to PsyOps | Sailing, Skiing & the Secrets of a Forgotten War Cache | The Parallel Four

From SAS to PsyOps | Sailing, Skiing & the Secrets of a Forgotten War Cache | The Parallel Four

Ride with us through a true-to-life adventure that blends real military stories, sport, and travel. In this episode we uncover a forgotten EOD weapons cache in France (now at the Imperial War Museum and tied to SOE history), earn Yachtmaster Offshore and lead a British Army sailing expedition from Kiel to Damp, Sønderborg, Aarhus, Roskilde Fjord, the Viking Ship Museum, Copenhagen and Tivoli, before looping past Fehmarnsund—with a cheeky stop at Legoland Billund. Then it’s Arctic grit: Nordic/Telemark skiing, Newtontoppen (Svalbard), polar-bear watch, and a pilgrimage via Rjukan/Hardangervidda where we meet hero Joachim Rønneberg. Back home we step into 15(UK) PsyOps, re-badge Royal Anglian Regiment, climb through Sergeant/Staff/Colour Sergeant ranks, and keep family, rugby, and translation work (yes—Harry Potter into Swedish & German) front and centre.

Expect Special Forces insight (SAS/Intelligence Corps/PsyOps), ’70s–’00s Germany postings, fieldcraft, camaraderie, sailing, skiing, rugby, and warm, funny, honest family life. If you love military memoir, veteran storytelling, and travel in war zones and wild places, you’re in the right place.

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#MilitaryStories #BritishArmy #SAS #PsyOps #Rugby #Skiing #Sailing #Germany #Berlin #Svalbard #Rjukan #VikingShipMuseum #Copenhagen #ImperialWarMuseum #SOE #VeteranLife #TravelStories #RealLifeAdventure

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirty Six

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 Six.

Back at the Regiment, we gave the CO our debrief on the forgotten weapons cache, nestled in Claude’s barn like a particularly dangerous vintage wine collection, only with a far higher risk of detonation. His eyes lit up, not from the danger, but from the historical value.

Within a week, we were on our way back to France, this time with two Royal Engineer officers from EOD in tow, each sporting more letters after their name than our combined school reports. After securing the necessary nods from the French authorities and solemnly promising not to blow up anything too scenic, the engineers got to work.

Anything judged unstable was dispatched in the traditional EOD fashion, reduced to a satisfying fireball somewhere in the French countryside. The rest, now certified safe, lightly dusted, and smelling faintly of grapes, was crated up and sent to the Imperial War Museum. They were delighted, promptly using it in an exhibit on the Special Operations Executive.

I’m still not sure what Claude was more pleased about, finally being rid of the cache, or becoming an unofficial footnote in British wartime history.

Back in the UK, never ones to sit still for too long, unless perched on a motorbike or with a glass of Médoc in hand, we decided it was high time to tick another box on the “mad things to do” list. The target this time: sailing qualifications at the Joint Services Adventure Sail Training Centre in Gosport.

A few weeks of wrangling ropes, squinting at charts, and perfecting the fine art of not capsizing, we emerged proudly clutching our Yachtmaster Offshore skipper and Cruising Instructor certificates. In other words, we now had just enough official paperwork to look dangerously competent.

The Regiment, spotting an opportunity, promptly encouraged us to start organising sailing expeditions for the lads. Before long we were taking boats out from the British Kiel Yacht Club, a cracking little setup tucked away on the Baltic. Then came the big idea: a two-week sailing expedition around Denmark.

Think Das Boot meets Carry On Sailing, with slightly better catering and a lot more tea.

We were issued the holy grail of adventure training logistics: a thick stack of cash in lieu of rations and two trusty minibuses. With twelve unsuspecting blokes from the Squadron crammed in alongside every conceivable combination of waterproofs, kit, and biscuits, we set off for Kiel.

Our first night was spent in a German camp where the British Kiel Yacht Club kept a dedicated block, complete with beds that looked like they hadn’t been disturbed since the Cold War, and possibly still carried the faint aroma of Bratwurst and floor polish.

The next morning, fortified with a hearty breakfast and a safety briefing that included no fewer than four repetitions of “don’t fall in” which, naturally, made everyone more determined to push someone overboard, we were handed the keys, well, tillers, to four boats. Gear stowed, sails ready, we eased out through the narrows at Laboe, the masts swaying gently against the sky.

Our first destination: the harbour at Damp, where we’d overnight and begin the slow transformation from slightly confused soldiers to vaguely competent sailors.

The next morning, we waved goodbye to Damp — which, true to its name, had provided a night of steady drizzle, hoisted the sails, and charted a course for Sonderborg. The breeze was perfect, the sea cooperative, and best of all, there were no signs of mutiny… yet.

By late afternoon we were tying up alongside the wall on the town quay, spirits high and bellies rumbling. We set off into town like a small raiding party of seafaring Vikings in search of spoils and stumbled across a Mongolian barbecue advertising all you can eat.

They should have known better.

Two hours later, the kitchen staff were moving in slow motion, the chef looked like he’d aged a decade, and the owner was muttering darkly about never accepting military bookings again. We tipped well, offered cheery waves, and promised to write. Then we rolled, quite literally back to the boats, full of meat, morale, and the smug satisfaction of having won a battle no one else knew was being fought.

We slipped the quay at Sonderborg like a crew of seasoned smugglers, or at least that’s how we liked to picture ourselves and loitered near the bridge like teenage lads outside a chip shop, waiting for it to open. When it finally lifted, with all the pomp and ceremony of a royal salute, we eased through and motored up the narrow channel, waving at bemused locals sipping coffee in their back gardens.

Once clear of the houses, we raised sail in the Little Belt like old sea dogs and caught a cracking breeze north toward Aarhus. The sun was warm, the sea was gentle, and for the third day running, nobody fell in. Always a bonus.

That night, as our fledgling tradition now demanded, we headed into town for dinner and a few well-earned beers. We’d already worked out that cooking dinner on the boats was about as much fun as ironing socks and far less tasty. Breakfasts and snacks on board were fine, but come evening it was far better to let the locals feed us while we concentrated on the important things… namely beer and tall stories.

Feeling bold or maybe just a little för mätt, as we say when you have eaten far too much, we decided to challenge the lads: chart a course into Roskilde Fjord. It is not the easiest water to sail, more like a puzzle where every wrong move puts you in the mud. With eyes glued to the charts and yes, I saw one or two pretending not to look at a certain map app on their phones, we zigzagged our way toward the Viking Ship Museum.

To everyone’s surprise, even our own, we arrived without getting stuck, lost, or sunk. We moored up feeling like conquering Norsemen, which, being Swedish, I will admit felt rather natural.

The museum was wonderful. The lads walked around the ancient ships with big eyes, running their hands along the tarred planks, asking the guides all sorts of questions. By lunchtime, several had decided they must be direct descendants of Leif Erikson. I smiled and let them enjoy their fantasy — because sometimes, a little bit of Viking spirit is exactly what a crew needs.

The next morning, with Viking dreams replaced by a few sore heads, we carefully retraced our way out of the fjord and set course for Copenhagen. We had planned a few days there, part culture, part… let us say, kontrollerad kaos.

The city did not disappoint. We walked the ramparts of the Citadel, took the obligatory photo with the Little Mermaid, still looking slightly annoyed and, yes, much smaller than anyone expects and wandered the cobbled streets with just enough purpose to look like we knew where we were going.

In the evening we went to Tivoli Gardens, where a few bands were playing. We sang along terribly, danced even worse, and had an absolutely wonderful time. One of the lads swore it was “the best cultural education” he had received since failing his GCSEs. I am not sure if that is a compliment or a confession, but I took it as both.

Eventually, with heavy hearts and slightly heavier bellies, we set sail again. We looped south past Gedser and cut across through the Fehmarnsund Strait, our little fleet slicing through the water like a pod of dolphins… if the dolphins were slightly off course and prone to tea breaks.

We reached Heiligenhafen just as the sun dipped, the harbour lights winking us in. Over one last supper and the obligatory round of “who snored the loudest” we knew the adventure was nearly done.

The next morning, timing was everything. We had to cross the German military ranges before they started shelling the coastline for practice. Nothing makes you more punctual than the thought of live artillery fire.

We made it through without incident and pulled into Laboe for fuel, tired but triumphant. Back at the British Kiel Yacht Club, we returned the boats, mostly in one piece and stood for a moment, looking back over a voyage of dodgy charts, good laughs, questionable cooking, and the best company you could wish for.

The lads called it the finest “holiday” they’d ever had in uniform. So did we.

On our way to Esbjerg to catch the overnight ferry back to Harwich, we made a crucial tactical stop: Legoland, Billund, så klart, of course. Some of the lads claimed it was for the children, but judging by their wide eyes and ridiculous grins, I was not convinced. There is something about giant Lego sculptures, tiny cities, and the strange joy of stepping on a brick barefoot that awakens the inner child… or perhaps the inner sadist.

We had a tight window, ninety minutes before the ferry, so it became a military operation: dash through the gift shops, a quick assault on the rollercoasters, and strategic photo opportunities with oversized plastic pirates. By the time we boarded, we had bags of Lego, one very happy man in a Viking helmet, and absolutely no shame.

The ferry docked at 0900 sharp, and by lunchtime we rolled back into Hitchin. The lads gave the minibus a token rinse with the pressure washer, returning it to the MT looking only slightly dustier than before and declared the whole expedition a success.

Nobody got lost, sunk, arrested, or married. For us, that counted as a resounding win.

Ever the gluttons for cold punishment, we decided it was not enough to just enjoy skiing no, we had to qualify as Nordic and Telemark ski instructors. This, of course, meant more opportunities to go galumphing around Scandinavia with skis on our feet and silly grins frozen to our faces. 

We led a few expeditions in Sweden and Norway, but the crown jewel — or maybe the crown icicle — was our guided climb of Newtontoppen on Svalbard. Getting there wasn’t a holiday; it was a political statement to frost. We rattled over the pack in snowmobiles until our teeth rattled in time with the skis we’d lash to our packs, then strapped on touring skis and hauled pulks up long, wind-scoured slopes where the snow had been baked into ridges like old rope. Tents tried their best to become part of the landscape — flapping like bin liners in a gale — and the little primus stoves coughed black coffee into cracked mugs while our fingers slowly remembered where they belonged.

At night we kept watch in shifts, scanning the white for movement and listening for anything that didn’t belong — the occasional creak of glacier ice, the distant cry of a seabird, and the soft, impossible padding that set your teeth on edge because out here the isbjörn really does walk the map. We slept with a flare gun and an uneasy sense of humour, the sort that turns fear into a joke sharply barricaded behind a locked grin. The summit itself — Newtontoppen, Svalbard’s highest peak at about 1,713 metres — was a cold, impossible cathedral of wind and light; the view stole your breath even before the air did.

It was biblical cold and stubborn joy all wrapped together: white horizons that made you feel very small and very alive at once. Compared to skiing to the North Pole it was cheaper and only slightly less dangerous — you still went to sleep with one eye open and a flare gun within reach, because in Svalbard the night has teeth and the bears keep very good hours.

One of those trips that still makes my chest tighten — the good kind and the stubborn kind — began at Rjukan, under the hulking bones of the old Vemork plant. We lashed modern cleverness to our backs: GPS tucked beneath wool, straps cinched, batteries layered like talismans against failure. Then we set off onto the Hardangervidda, where the wind seems to have a personal grudge against exposed eyebrows. It felt absurd and reverent in the same breath: us, muttering about satellite reception and spare chargers, following a route that once carried men hauling explosives on wooden sledges in weather that would have had our phones sobbing into their cases. The snow underfoot sounded different too — not the crisp snap of novelty but the low, tired groan of something that has seen winters enough to be wise.

We bunked down in the same little huts those men had used. The timber had an honesty to it: joints that creaked with memory, a smell of old wood, and the faint, stubborn warmth of many shared breaths. You could almost hear the past leaning in the corners — muffled curses in half a dozen languages, the scrape of boots, the low jokes that keep fear at bay. Small things set us off laughing in that ridiculous, necessary way: Johan trying to colour-code our ropes by NATO chart and ending up looking like he’d knitted a hammock; Stephen doing an overblown wartime impression and then apologising to the hut for getting the accent wrong; Marlin staging a one-woman culinary coup against freeze-dried nastiness, producing something that was equal parts Scandinavian stew and tactical defiance. We laughed to keep our toes from giving up, certainly, but also because humour is the polish we use to keep honour from going brittle.

Walking that line left room for quiet moments too. At one hut we found a cigarette tin with initials scratched inside — small, human things that make history personal — and we passed it around like a relic, each of us imagining the hands that’d held it. On the plateau the light did an odd thing: it made every track look like a question, and every answer smaller and braver for having been asked. There is a humility in following someone else’s footsteps across that kind of country; you learn that heroism is often a practical, awkward business, full of rope burns and bad coffee and decisions made because there was simply no other sensible option.

Oslo felt unreal after the plateau — civilisation soft as a duvet — and fate, in a rare and generous mood, arranged the rest. Joachim Rønneberg was speaking that evening. He walked in, tall in stature but carrying a presence you don’t notice until the room leans in to hear. He spoke plainly, with the steadiness of a man who’d slept with the story in his bones; there were no grand flourishes, no attempts to polish the edges. Afterwards, over coffee that somehow tasted too ordinary for the moment, we listened as if someone had handed us permission to remember. He deflected praise with the sort of modesty that makes you want to argue with him and then ashamed that you’d even tried. Meeting him felt like receiving a quiet benediction — a reminder that courage often arrives in ordinary clothes, performs extraordinary things, and then goes about the business of being human again. I went to bed that night with the peculiar, satisfying ache of having walked the same snow, shared the same air, and been granted the company of a living legend.

Back home in ’95 — ink on the reports barely dry and the sergeant’s stripes still smelling faintly of the tailor’s chalk — Johan and I stood grinning like schoolboys while the squad joked that we’d need bigger biceps to carry the extra cloth. We’d earned every inch of those chevrons: long nights on ranges, sodden kit, arguments with maps that didn’t care how tired you were. Not long after, Vinka and Marlin climbed the next rung: Staff Sergeant. I watched them take that little crown and saw it settle heavier than any badge ought to, but because it carried the quiet trust our seniors had put on their shoulders. There was the usual banter — My new swagger, Johan pretending to faint at the thought of extra paperwork — but when the uniform ironing and the toasts were done, there was a solemnness there too. Standing together afterwards, the four of us a ragged, ridiculous, stubborn little band, I felt a swell of pride that wasn’t just for the stripes on my sleeve, but for the long road we’d all walked to earn them: the drills, the near-misses, the mugs of bad tea at stupid hours, and the friends who’d stayed the course.

Not to be outdone, Johan and I somehow blagged our way onto the training team — which, truth be told, meant we swapped being the ones who used to get shouted at for the peculiar honour of earning the SAS training team’s famously silent disapproval. They never shout; they just raise an eyebrow in a way that makes grown men rethink their life choices. In a rare fit of administrative enthusiasm (and because someone let slip that the CQMS course came with “tea and biscuits”), we put our names down for the Company Quartermaster Sergeant course and, not long after, the Regimental one. The CQMS was gloriously dull and fiendishly useful: stock numbers that could make you weep, ledgers that needed prayer, and the art of making a manifest behave itself. The Regimental course turned that into strategy — stores management at scale, running the big store, and a few crafty tricks for getting kit out without starting a minor war with supply.

There were small heroic lessons too: the perfect way to roll a blanket so three will fit in a locker, how to label a box so no one “borrows” its contents forever, and the science of dispensing bog roll during a sudden personnel surge without inducing panic. We practised with clipboards and spreadsheets with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for disarming ordnance. By the time the paperwork was signed, we were both qualified for Colour Sergeant — the tailor’s bill and the mess’s raised glass confirmed it. Still, between you and me, we reckoned we’d be content handing out blankets and bog roll in some draughty store long before the sashes ever called us in. Joke aside, we’d learned how to keep a battalion moving when things went sideways — and that meant we were ready. Always.

We had never given up our translating work, not even after the weddings and babies and all the chaos that came with them. We slowed down, yes—children and rugby trophies and the odd whispered operation will do that—but the work never truly left us. Then one afternoon in the summer of ’97, Marlin and I came home bursting, clutching a parcel as though it held the crown jewels. Inside was a commission that made us both squeal like schoolgirls: we had been asked to translate Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone into Swedish and German, barely a months after it first appeared in English. It felt like someone had handed us the keys to another world.

Within the hour, we had locked ourselves away in the study, armed with teapots, biscuit tins, and a reckless amount of excitement. For days, the house only knew the sound of pages turning and our whispered testing of spells in two languages at once. Then, almost before we realised, the manuscript was finished, polished, and on its way back across the sea. The bonus was kind, the trust even more so and before long, the rest of the series followed. J.K. Rowling may have woven the magic, but it was Marlin and I who carried it across Europe, word by word, spell by spell..

That same year, a major shift happened closer to home the TA SAS unit and Int Cell upped sticks from our beloved Hitchin and relocated to Chicksands, just up the road near RAF Henlow. The place had history: once a Cold War-era American listening post where, rumour had it, they’d spent more time eavesdropping on Soviet tea orders than anything of actual strategic value. The Yanks had long since packed up and gone home, leaving the place eerily neat and oddly well-stocked with coffee machines.

The Intelligence Corps moved in after Templer Barracks in Ashford shut its gates, and with them came a handful of other outfits, including the intriguingly titled 15(UK) Psychological Operations Group. To us, the name sounded less like a military unit and more like a brainy pub quiz team with access to leaflets, loudspeakers, and possibly a smoke machine.

Around this time, Vinka, Marlin, Johan and I were nudging forty-two, which, as our CO delicately put it, meant our Special Forces days were “coming to a natural conclusion.” Unless, of course, we fancied competing in the veterans’ division, which sounded about as appealing as running the Commando course in carpet slippers.

He suggested we take a stroll down to their office and have a word with the new PsyOps unit. So we did and they practically rolled out the red carpet. Apparently, two ageing sergeants with far too many stories and a knack for getting things done were exactly what they were after.

There was just one catch: we’d have to give up our SAS cap badge. A tragic moment, like handing in your favourite boots, the ones moulded perfectly to your feet, but we knew the score. Special Forces careers have an end date. Life, as always, carries on.

As luck would have it, one of the regular Ruperts in the new PsyOps outfit turned out to be Johan’s old platoon commander, now a Major with a fair bit of clout. He leaned in and said, “You know, lads, there’s no reason you couldn’t be re-badged Royal Anglian again. Not back to battalion, mind, but under the Regiment itself. Keep it in the family.”

Well, that struck home. Our roots were bootnecks — Royal Marines through and through — but our proudest soldiering days had been with the Poachers, the 2nd Battalion, The Royal Anglian Regiment. To wear that badge again, even just at regimental level, felt like slipping into an old jacket that still fitted perfectly.

So instead of faffing about with letters, I simply picked up the telephone and rang my old platoon commander — now sat comfortably as the Regimental Secretary. He answered all stiff and proper: “Regimental Headquarters, Secretary speaking.”

I said, “Alright, Boss, it’s Stephen here — your old Platoon Sergeant. Don’t hang up, I’m not after bail money!”

He nearly choked laughing. “Stephen? Bloody hell, I thought you’d be a Colonel by now… or banged up!”

So I gave him the short version: Johan and I, ex-Poachers, done our stint with Them, and now sliding into PsyOps at Chicksands with Major Bruce. Only snag was we needed the paperwork straight — which meant swapping the sandy lid back for a Royal Anglian cap badge. “Any chance of you sorting that before someone sticks us in the RAF Regiment by mistake?”

There was a pause, then the old man chuckled. “You two back under the Royal Anglian family, eh? Christ help us all. Alright, leave it with me. I’ll get the forms moving before anyone realises what they’ve signed off. But Stephen…” His voice dropped to that familiar parade-square growl. “Try not to embarrass the Regiment. PsyOps has enough of a reputation without you and Johan stirring the pot.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course, lad! Absolutely. Leave it with me — I’ll have the paperwork done faster than a sergeant-major on inspection day.” And true to his word, within a fortnight we were stood there, re-badged Royal Anglian under the Regiment, and bumped up to Colour Sergeant as well. From SAS grit to PsyOps slick, we were back in business — just with fewer bangs and more brains.

That was it — the last word from him. A one-off reminder of where we had come from, and the weight of the badge we were about to wear again.

Vinka and Marlin didn’t need to swap anything; they were Intelligence Corps through and through. For them, it was simply a matter of nudging the paperwork along, making sure their new assignment lined up under PsyOps. No fuss, no drama, everything by the book — as ever.

In the end, though, the result was the same: four of us, almost ex SAS, now stepping into 15(UK) Psychological Operations Group.