The Parallel Four Book Three – Chapter One: From SAS to PsyOps | Real Military Life Stories

Welcome to The Parallel Four Book Three – Chapter One: From SAS to PsyOps — a true British Army life story of transition, loyalty, and friendship. Join Stephen, Vinka, Johan, and Marlin as they move from the shadows of Special Forces into the secretive world of 15(UK) Psychological Operations Group at Chicksands — where words, radios, and persuasion replace rifles and grenades.

Set in the late 1990s, this gripping chapter captures the humour, camaraderie, and emotional weight of life after the SAS. From re-badging to the Royal Anglian Regiment, polishing medals, and rediscovering Mess life, to preparing for new missions in Bosnia and Kosovo — it’s a story about purpose, pride, and belonging.

If you love true military stories, British Army history, Cold War intelligence, and tales of veterans adapting from combat to communication, this is your channel. Expect laughs, nostalgia, and real insights into the human side of service life — from rugby fields and mess halls to PsyOps radio trucks and NATO operations.

Subscribe for more real stories from the ranks — where courage meets chaos, and friendship endures every posting.

Transcript

Chapter One

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.

“It mattered, more than Stephen admits. From Lympstone as Marines, to proud Poachers in the 2nd Battalion, to the Regiment again at Chicksands — it was not just cap badges and paperwork. It was belonging. A circle closed. I teased him, of course — ‘from bang-bang man to leaflet man’ — but really, I saw how much it meant to carry the Regiment’s badge again, this time with Colour Sergeant stripes on his sleeve.

And I think he knew too — that sometimes, words and persuasion can move mountains where bullets cannot.”

“Maybe so, love… but just between us, I still keep me boots polished — just in case it all kicks off again.”

Truth be told, Johan and I hadn’t worn our Number Twos since the day we had our MMs pinned on. They had been stuffed in the back of the wardrobe ever since, smelling faintly of mothballs and stale beer from the mess bar.

So when PsyOps told us we’d be briefing senior officers and standing smart on parade, it wasn’t simply a matter of brushing them down. We needed the full works: Number Twos re-cut, Blues squared away, and Mess Kit brought back up to standard. And on top of that — our medals. They needed proper mounting, and the miniatures sorting too for mess dress.

So off we marched to the camp tailor, arms full of old kit and a box of medals rattling about. The tailor took one look at us and nearly fainted. “Colour Sergeants, are you? More like scarecrows,” he muttered. Next thing we knew, pins were flying and the tape measure was whipping round us like a lasso. “This tunic’s shrunk, sir,” he said to Johan.

“Shrunk?” I replied. “It’s his belly that’s grown!” Nearly split my sides — until he said the same about mine.

“Oh, it was wonderful. Stephen scowling as the tailor tugged at seams, Johan desperately sucking in his stomach. Meanwhile, their medals were sent away to be mounted — ribbons neat, bars shining, miniatures ready for the Mess. Marlin and I, of course, already had our uniforms perfect: collars straight, caps gleaming, every detail in place. So we simply sat and watched, enjoying the show.

When the lads finally tried everything on — Number Twos with medals glinting, Blues crisp, Mess Kit immaculate — they looked magnificent. Soldiers, yes, but also proud husbands. For me, it was pride. For them, I think it was relief they still fit into the trousers.”

“Oi, cheeky. I’ll tell you what — once the medals were mounted properly and the tailor had worked his magic, we did scrub up sharp. Even the missus had to admit it. Not bad for a couple of old warhorses. Of course, it came with a price — new kit bills, medal mounting bills… bloody expensive business, looking this good.”

With the Group still wet behind the ears, things were a little… rustic. Out in Bosnia, there was already a small detachment running Radio Oxygen — pumping out peace and harmony from a disused steel mill in Banja Luka. The “Metal Factory,” they called it. Nothing said stability quite like a bloke with a microphone perched between rusting girders and pigeon droppings.

Back in Blighty, we were up to our eyeballs in new kit. It felt like Christmas morning — only instead of toys and train sets, we were unpacking Bedford four-tonners converted into mobile print shops and radio stations. Generators were bolted on the back, aerial rigs stood taller than lampposts, transmitters loomed the size of refrigerators. We had cameras galore, more boxes than the Quartermaster’s stores, and enough extension leads to trip up half the Corps.

There were Land Rovers too — brand new, straight off the line. A proper upgrade from the battered old bone-shakers we had been rattling around in for years. The only problem was, none of us had the faintest idea what half the gear actually did. We would plug something in, lights would flicker, sparks would fly, and some poor soul would shout, “Don’t touch that cable, it’s live!” It felt less like PsyOps and more like the circus had come to town.

“Stephen makes it sound worse than it was. Yes, there were sparks — sometimes. The equipment was new and often confusing, but we learned quickly. We had engineers, we had manuals — although Stephen only read them when something was already smoking.

Still, there was a sense of excitement. This was different to soldiering in the field. Here, our weapons were cameras, radios, words, broadcasts. We were building something new — and even if it looked like chaos, it felt like the beginning of something important.”

“Important all right — as long as we didn’t electrocute ourselves first. Still, can’t complain: shiny new Land Rovers and enough kit to fill Wembley. Not bad for a couple of old warhorses learning to play DJs.”

“At that point, the whole Group could barely fill a minibus. Eight regulars, plus the four of us, and ten TA. That was your lot. Not exactly the size of a world-class propaganda machine — more like a village cricket team with delusions of grandeur.

It didn’t matter though. There was a mountain of work to be done, and we were all roped into full-time man training days. Pretty much a second job, except with shinier acronyms and the odd NATO badge to flash about. Half the time I didn’t know if I was in the Army, the Int Corps, or a travelling circus.”

“Our saving grace was family. The mums — Ingrid and Stephen’s mother — were angels. They stepped in without fuss, looking after the children while we dashed off to save minds, influence hearts, and sometimes create a little chaos across the world.

Not that the children really needed it any more. They were grown, nearly all at university, more than capable of fending for themselves. Yet it gave us comfort knowing there was someone at home making sure they ate more than toasties and Pot Noodles.”

“Fair play — the mums kept the whole show on the road. Without them, we’d have been knackered. Ingrid with her calm Swedish hands, Mum with her bottomless teapot. Between the two of them, the kids were fed, watered, and looked after. Which meant me and Johan could go swanning about with our NATO lanyards, pretending we were important.”

“Pretending?”

“Oi, steady on, love. We were vital. Just… maybe not quite as many of us as NATO thought.”

“The Group had taken over the old American PX — a proper Cold War relic. Back in the day the GI Joes stocked up on chewing gum, blue jeans, and peanut butter. Now it was our HQ. Romantic, eh? Out back was a loading dock where one radio truck and a print wagon lived permanently. The third bay opened out onto a flat patch for rolling kit about on pallet trucks — if you could find one not already pressed into service as a chair or a makeshift bar.

Inside the dock stood a big steel mesh cage for sensitive kit. It looked official enough, but honestly? More like a cross between a hamster cage and Fort Knox on a budget. Still, it was home. For a bunch of ex-bootnecks, spooks, and language nerds, it was the perfect place to launch psychological warfare — one dodgy leaflet and one questionable radio broadcast at a time.”

“Pushing through the first set of double doors felt like entering Narnia — if Narnia had been decorated by the Ministry of Defence and smelled of old paper and printer toner.

On the left was the print section — a cavernous beast packed with presses, ink drums, and reams of paper stacked like sandbags. At the back sat a little store room where the good kit was supposed to live. Things went missing from there with clockwork regularity, only to reappear weeks later behind a filing cabinet. Next door was the Radio and TV section, with its jungle of cables, knackered monitors, and at least one video deck that only worked if you gave it a good kick in the ribs.”

“I preferred the classrooms. Four of them, neat, clean, bright. The ‘academic wing,’ they called it. Stephen called it ‘PowerPoint Purgatory.’ I admit, after a week of courses in there, I agreed.”

“Carrying’ on down the corridor was the admin hub — sacred ground of lost forms and passive-aggressive post-it notes. Then came the CO’s lair — smelled of quiet authority and strong coffee. Lined up after that were the 2IC, the Adjutant, the Ops Officer jugglin’ five jobs, and finally the Quartermasters. One dealt with general stores, the other with technical kit, and he guarded it like it was the Crown Jewels. If you wanted anything from him, you needed three signatures, a solid alibi, and probably a goat for sacrifice.”

“Beyond that, the auditorium. A grand space, sometimes a lecture theatre, sometimes a social hall. Chairs stacked, bunting hung, and suddenly it became a ballroom of sorts. To either side were lecture halls. The left warmer in winter, the right closer to the kettle. We had access to both — convenient, unless you opened the wrong door and interrupted a chef explaining how to cook for two hundred men under shellfire.”

“It was a patchwork HQ, no question. But like all good ops, we expanded — colonised new corridors, annexed offices, and covered the walls with so many whiteboards you’d think we were plannin’ the moon landing. It weren’t posh, but it was ours. For a minibus-sized PsyOps unit tryin’ to look important, it did the job.”

“We all settled into Group life quicker than you could say ‘influence operations.’ One minute we were ex-commandos and spooks staring at a mountain of strange kit, the next we were knee-deep in the dark arts of persuasion — leaflets, radio, telly, the lot. PsyOps was unlike anything else in the Army. Part soldiering, part marketing, and a fair bit of madness thrown in.”

Then the CO piped up one morning: “We need a recruitment campaign. Bring in new blood.”

Right, says we. Cue the classic military brainstorm: flipcharts, marker pens, and a plate of biscuits liberated from the Officers’ Mess before anyone noticed.

The head shed gave us their wishlist. The ideal candidate? Oh, nothing too difficult — just a mix of James Bond, David Attenborough, and David Brent. Easy! Piece of cake. Someone who could blow up a bridge, narrate a wildlife documentary, and run a staff meeting — all before elevenses.

So we started thinking outside the ammo box. The campaign was aimed at the unusual suspects: eccentrics with charm, linguists with a passion for leaflets, anyone who knew their way round a printing press or a radio mic. The target audience? Trade magazines. Soldier, Jane’s Defence Weekly, PR Week — because apparently that was where half the eccentric geniuses of Britain were hiding over their Weetabix. If you wanted brilliant, strange, and just a bit unhinged — that was where you found them.

“It sounds ridiculous, but it worked. The adverts were unusual, a little cheeky, and very clear that this was not normal soldiering. We were not looking for bayonet charges. We were looking for brains, for languages, for creativity. And slowly, they came — the right kind of odd, the kind who belonged in PsyOps.”

“Yeah. The Army wanted square pegs. We went and found the odd-shaped ones — and hammered ’em in anyway.”

“One unexpected perk of being in the Group? We were actually allowed — no, encouraged — to use the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess. After years as C Squadron’s shadowy outliers, lurking at the edges like ghosts at a feast, suddenly we were in the secret club.

What a club it was. Lunches were first class, the bar well stocked, and the functions? Pure carnage — bad dancing, tall tales growing taller with every bottle uncorked. The Mess had a cracking mix too: regular staff from the training wings, plus a steady stream of course attendees. There was always someone new to impress, confuse, or thrash at darts. For once, we weren’t the odd men out. We were right in the thick of it — the weird, wonderful, slightly off-centre beating heart of British military influence.”

One lunchtime Vinka had received a letter from Petra:

“One evening, after supper, I opened a letter that had just arrived from Sweden. Petra’s handwriting — neat, careful, and a little hurried at the ends, as if the words were chasing each other out of her pen.

I read it aloud so we could all share it.

‘Tim has finished his tour as the RQMS of the Battalion,’ she wrote, ‘and has now been posted to Stockholm as part of the British Embassy staff. His Swedish has improved so much — it is all we speak at home now, and he insists on practising even when I tease him for his accent. This posting is for two years, and they have given us a lovely flat. Life here is good, calm, and perhaps the first time in years we feel truly settled. Bosnia was hard on him, very hard, but Cyprus afterwards gave us both some breathing space. He has done well for himself, climbing step by step until now he is Sergeant Major. I am proud of him.’

I folded the letter and smiled. There was a warmth in Petra’s words, a sense of peace. For Tim, who had carried so much weight through soldiering, and for Petra, who had always kept his fire steady, it felt like a well-earned chapter. A home, a language mastered, a life in balance. Two years of breathing space in Stockholm — and they deserved every moment of it.”

“Stockholm, eh? Poor sod. I bet his Swedish still sounds like he’s orderin’ pie and mash in Bethnal Green. Petra probably has to translate his translations.”

“No, he’ll get it. You can hear it in her words — she sounds happy. Content. I don’t think I’ve ever read a letter from Petra that felt so… settled.”

“Then it is good. He has Petra, he has his family, and now he has a flat in Stockholm. That is a posting to be grateful for. And Sergeant Major — that is no small thing.”

“Ja. For once, life is kind to them. Long may it last.”

“Of course, that meant dragging the old Mess Kit out from the wardrobe. That glorious rig that spends ninety-nine per cent of its life hiding in a garment bag, whispering about port-fuelled nights and dodgy quicksteps.

Johan and I carted ours down to the tailor’s to get the crowns sewn on. And here’s the miracle — neither of us had put on a single pound. Not one! Years of bacon butties, gallons of beer, and mess dinners by the dozen… all balanced out by sheer adrenaline and hauling bergens the size of small cars. Slipping back into that Mess Kit felt like greeting an old friend. Scratchy, aye, but dependable.”

“I watched him preen in front of the mirror like a peacock. He says ‘scratchy and dependable,’ but I think he enjoyed it far too much. He and Johan strutted out of the tailor’s like kings, collars stiff, crowns gleaming. For me, it was charming — to see them so proud. For them? I think it was the thought of good wine and a decent dance floor again.”

“Oi, cheeky. But she’s not wrong. After years skulking in the shadows, it felt bloody marvellous to stand tall in Mess Kit again — medals clinking, port flowing, and a dance floor begging for bad moves.”

“The girls, naturally, had their Int Corps mess kit squared away already. None of this scarlet splendour like me and Johan. No, theirs was all understated glamour: olive green jackets with sandy lapels and cuffs, sleek black silk blouses, long flowing skirts, and that sand-and-red sash at the waist. They looked as though they had just stepped out of a Cold War spy film — the glamorous, devastatingly competent kind. Next to them, me and Johan looked like a pair of ceremonial doormen. Smart doormen, mind you. Proud ones. But still.

The Summer Ball was our first proper outing together in full rig, and it did not disappoint. We had even booked a transit room on camp so we could ‘fully commit to the revelry’ — which is Army code for drink like fish and not worry about driving home.

As we arrived, the camp photographer was waiting. Click-click — first Johan and Marlin, then me and Vinka, then the four of us lined up together. I won’t lie — we looked the business. Like the final four contestants in some stylish espionage-themed reality show. All we needed was theme music and a slow-motion walk down a corridor.”

“Stephen grumbles, but I saw how proud he was. Scarlet jacket, crowns newly sewn, medals shining. He stood taller than ever, even if he joked about being a doorman. And together, the four of us did look… striking. Perhaps a little like spies, perhaps a little like film stars. But for once, we belonged. Not shadows in the background. Not hidden. We were at the heart of the Mess, ready for a night to remember.”

“And remember it we did. At least… most of it.”

The Summer Ball Dance

“The band struck up a waltz, and somehow the four of us ended up out there — just us, two couples on the floor. Me with Vinka, Johan with Marlin. Everyone else stayed put, glasses in hand, eyes on us. For a second I thought, blimey, we’ve stitched ourselves up here.

But then… it just flowed. Johan and Marlin glided like they were born to it. Vinka in her tailored olive and black silk, moving with that effortless grace, guiding me more than I guided her. And me? Well, I managed not to tread on her toes — which, for a lad from Hitchin, counts as a victory.

Round and round we went, just the four of us, medals catching the light, sashes swaying, scarlet and green sweeping the floor. It weren’t just a dance — it was a statement. After years skulking in shadows, here we were, front and centre, the whole Mess watching in silence.

When the music stopped, there was a heartbeat of quiet… then applause. Real, proper applause. Not for technique — no, Fred Astaire I ain’t — but for the sight of us. Four soldiers, four friends, still standing tall after everything, turning a ballroom into our battlefield for one more night.”

“It was not about the steps. It was about being seen. For so long, our work had been invisible, hidden. That night, in our mess kit and Int Corps finery, we were not shadows. We were part of the heart of the Mess. And Stephen did not tread on my feet — which, I must admit, was another small miracle.”

“Oi, cheeky. I told you, love, I was a natural all along. Took me thirty years, but still.”

A Colour Sergeant from one of the training wings leaned over, eyes catching the light off their miniature medals.

“Those miniatures are something else. Mind if I ask what they’re for?”

“Northern Ireland, Mention in Despatches. First Gulf, Mention in Despatches. And the VRSM. We don’t flaunt them, but… they mean something.”

“Yes. Each one has a story. Friends, moments, memories. We wear them not for ourselves, but for those who are not here.”

The Mess member nodded respectfully, then glanced at Stephen and Johan.

“And you two? Quite a spread, even in miniature.”

“Ahh, just the usual. Commando Dagger, SAS Wings on the sleeve, Military Medal, Northern Ireland, First Gulf, VRSM. Nothing a good tailor can’t mount on a bar without complainin’.”

“He calls it ‘usual.’ It wasn’t. But we don’t boast — we just wear them, and remember.”

“Then here’s to you four. A finer example I’ve not seen.”

Stephen (clinking glasses, winking at Me):

“Cheers, mate. But don’t tell the CO — he still thinks we’re just leaflet printers.”

“Now, bein’ a Tri-Service Mess, every branch took their turn hostin’ functions — and none of ’em did it quietly.

The RAF kicked things off with their Battle of Britain Night — all silver service and class, speeches just long enough to justify the gallons of wine flowin’. Very civilised, very blue-uniform.

Then the Navy weighed in with Pickle Night. Now that was somethin’ else. Whole room pretendin’ to be defaulters, punished with endless tots of rum. Absolute carnage. Beautiful, nautical-themed carnage. Half the Mess ended up singin’ sea shanties, the other half sleepin’ under the tables.

The Army, true to form, kept it traditional with a Waterloo Dinner. Mostly an excuse to shout ‘King’s Shilling!’ at random intervals while tryin’ not to slop gravy down your mess kit. Subtle as a sledgehammer, but good fun all the same.

And that was just the staples. We had Dining-Out nights, the Summer Ball, the Christmas Draw with raffle prizes that got dodgier every year, Burns Night with the full pipes and haggis dragged in under great ceremony, and the legendary Officers versus Sergeants Mess Games Night — which usually ended with someone claimin’ victory and someone else claimin’ sick leave.

Once a year we even hosted the Corporals’ Mess. That was guaranteed bedlam. Lads and lasses lettin’ off steam, laughter echoing round the walls, and the Sergeants tryin’ not to look too shocked. A proper calendar, it was — social life that could give Sandhurst a run for its money.”

“For me, it was fascinating. Each service brought its own traditions, its own chaos. I think the Navy’s rum nearly killed Stephen once or twice, and the Army’s gravy nearly ruined his medals. But together, it gave us rhythm, community, and laughter. It was not only about leaflets and radios. It was about living. And in that Mess, we truly did.”

“She says ‘living.’ I say survivin’ the raffle without takin’ home a garden gnome in RAF colours. Still, we wouldn’t have missed a single one.”

“Back in the real world, Kosovo was heatin’ up fast. Tensions bubblin’, sparks flyin’, and everyone knew it weren’t long before boots and berets were headin’ east. Our CO — clever bloke, always one step ahead — already had us down as willing. Truth be told, we were itchin’ for it. After all the training, kit sortin’, and mess dinners, we wanted to get back in the field where it mattered.

So come October ’99, a small team from the Group was wheels-up for Pristina. They took a radio truck, a transmitter, and the holy trinity of every PsyOps outfit: black coffee, cynicism, and gaffer tape. Within days they had the station on the air — music, announcements, carefully crafted lines slipped between the pop songs. BBC Radio with a hint of persuasion, you might say.

Locals came onboard quick. Presenters trained, voices polished, and before long it was Kosovars themselves speakin’ calm and steady into the mics. The sound of stability in a land still cracklin’ with tension.

And it worked. Worked so well that HQ started mutterin’: ‘We need a full PSE here — Psychological Support Element.’ And who better to step up than us four? Marines, Poachers, Int Corps, SAS, now PsyOps. We had the stripes, we had the languages, and we had the will. Easy decision, really. We volunteered before they’d even finished askin’.”

“It was not just volunteering. It was commitment. We knew the risks, but we also knew the need. People were frightened. Communities were breaking apart. Our work could not stop it all, but it could help steady hearts, give voices of reassurance, show that someone cared. For me, it was the heart of PsyOps: not manipulation, but support. And to do it together — the four of us — felt right. Always together.”

“Yeah. Always together. From scarlet mess kit to steel huts in Pristina. Quite the honeymoon trail, eh?”

“Now, Pickle Night weren’t all rum and ribaldry. It started proper. The Mess transformed into HMS Pickle, flags hangin’, tables rigged as guns, and the ceremony to match. When it came to the despatches — those famous words carried back from Trafalgar — we followed the naval way. No standin’ to attention, no Army stiffness. We sat, glasses in hand, and listened with respect, as sailors would’ve done under low beams and hammocks.

One by one, the despatches were read out — solemn, proud, remindin’ us why we were there. For a moment the noise faded, powder monkeys hushed, and even the Black Spot kept his trap shut.”

“And then Vinka took her turn. Up she got, heels clickin’ on the deck, her voice carryin’ clear with that Swedish lilt, readin’ Nelson’s words like they were brand new. She had the whole room spellbound. For that moment, she weren’t just part of the gun crew — she was HMS Pickle, bringin’ news home. Even Johan puffed up like a bosun with a brand-new ship.”

“It was humbling. To read those words, to sit among friends and comrades, and to feel the weight of history in the room. For a little while, the laughter stopped, the chaos paused. We were connected — to sailors, to tradition, to sacrifice. That is the part I will always remember… before the rum.”

“Aye, before the rum. Cos once the Loyal Toast was drunk — sittin’, as the Navy do — the solemnity gave way to sheer bedlam. And that, my friend, is when Pickle Night really began.”

“Once the Loyal Toast was downed — sittin’, as the Navy do — all that solemn dignity went straight overboard. The Captain’s Table was open for business, and the Black Spots had a field day.

Accusations flew across the deck faster than cannon shot. Blokes dragged up for ‘unauthorised pudding consumption,’ ‘failure to splice the mainbrace correctly,’ and my personal favourite — ‘conduct unbecoming of a powder monkey’. Punishment was always the same: a tot of Pusser’s Gunpowder Rum. Black as midnight and meaner than a Chief Stoker on pay day.

Didn’t take long before our gun crew got targeted. Funny that, eh? First Johan, hauled up for apparently ‘smuggling contraband gin disguised as aftershave.’ He protested, of course, but one tot later he was back at the table, eyes waterin’ and grinnin’ like a fool.

Then Marlin was up, accused of ‘insubordination by wearing heels higher than regulation issue.’ She downed her tot smoother than any sailor I’ve ever seen — then gave the prosecutor a wink that near floored him.

Me? I got done for ‘dereliction of duty in failing to secure my ship’s biscuit’ — which some thieving sod had pinched off my plate. One tot later, I was swayin’ like a mast in a gale.

“…And then — the coup de grâce — Vinka herself. Turns out she’d been the Black Spot all along. Dobbing us in one by one, with no shame and a wicked smile. But then, whether from guilt or from too much rum, she only went and dobbed herself in!

‘Mutiny!’ I roared, wavin’ my arms about. Took my punishment tot with what I thought was stoic dignity. Though, truth be told, I was apparently salutin’ a curtain on the way back to my seat. Looked like an Admiral, in my defence.”

“Oh, I felt wicked. First I accused Stephen of crimes he could never have committed — like eating salad — then I sent Johan up for smuggling gin when it was clearly someone else. Even Marlin was not safe. And I enjoyed it far too much. But after the third or fourth, I felt a little guilty… or maybe it was the rum.

So I thought: if you are the Black Spot, then you must be fair. And I stood up, pointed at myself, and cried, ‘Guilty!’ The whole Mess roared. When they poured my tot, I took it with a smile. It was justice — and maybe a little penance for stitching up my friends. But I will admit… it tasted just as bad as theirs.”

“Fair play, love. You stitched us good and proper — then stitched yourself for balance. Can’t say fairer than that. Still — salutin’ curtains ain’t a good look.”

“Better than falling asleep in your soup, dear.”