From Battlefields to Brands Hatch: True British Army Life, Racing, and the RAF Mess Ball | The Parallel Four Book Three

In this unforgettable chapter of The Parallel Four, follow Stephen, Vinka, Johan, and Marlin as life after Kosovo shifts from war zones to racetracks and regimental halls. From high-speed triumphs at Brands Hatch to glittering nights at the RAF Battle of Britain Dinner Night, this is real British Army life told with humour, heart, and history.

Watch the team trade PsyOps radios for roaring Nortons and MVs, pulling off back-to-back one-two finishes that leave veteran racers speechless. Then join them at the Mess Ball — uniforms sharp, medals gleaming, swing band playing — where Army meets RAF in a dance-floor showdown that proves camaraderie never retires.

Expect true-to-life military stories, rugby-team banter, veteran wit, and the spirit of those who served from Cold War Germany to Kosovo and beyond. Whether it’s racing at full throttle, raising a glass in the Mess, or laughing through the chaos of post-deployment life, The Parallel Four captures the pride, love, and mischief behind every medal.

If you love authentic veteran storytelling, British Army humour, rugby, skiing, travel, and classic motorbikes, this is your next must-watch chapter.

Transcript

“From the next pitch over, one of the neighbouring racers leaned across, still shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You lot call this fun? Blimey — you’ve just given half the grid a kicking and made the rest of us look slow. Some of the old hands won’t sleep tonight.’

That set the four of us laughing, and soon others drifted over, drawn by the noise and the smell of strong tea. The banter rolled on into the evening: stories swapped, exaggerated hand gestures mimicking last-corner heroics, and the occasional good-natured jibe about ‘bloody amateurs showing the big boys how it’s done.’

As the sun dipped and the paddock lights flickered on, the four of us sat back in our chairs, tired but glowing. For the first time since leaving Kosovo, it felt as though we weren’t merely surviving life — we were living it flat-out, throttle wide, with the best company anyone could ask for.

Sunday morning dawned crisp and cool, perfect racing weather. Johan and Marlin wheeled their 3 50s down to the assembly area, both looking calm yet sparking with quiet energy. Their grid slots from Saturday put Johan fourth on the second row and Marlin right behind him in fifth — prime position to cause trouble.

Engines fired up, a clattering orchestra of Manx Nortons and BSAs bouncing off the pit wall. Visors down, gloves tightened. Johan leaned over, gave Marlin a steady thumbs-up. She flashed one back — then leaned forward as though she were about to steal someone’s lunch.

Lights out — they launched. Johan hooked a rocket start, diving into Paddock Hill in third. Marlin barged her way into fourth, elbows sharp enough to make the veteran beside her think twice.”

“The race settled into a furious rhythm. The front two — seasoned racers with more silverware than sense — tried to pull clear, but Johan and Marlin stuck to them like burrs on a blanket. Johan was poetry: smooth, precise, never wasting an inch. Marlin was pure firecracker: deep on the brakes into Druids, knee skimming the tarmac at Graham Hill, scaring the big lads stiff.

By halfway, it was a four-bike freight train — two old hands up front, Johan stalking, Marlin snapping at his heels. Lap after lap the gap stayed razor thin. The crowd leaned forward, sensing something was brewing.

Final lap. Into Surtees, Johan showed the front wheel, unsettling the leader. Marlin seized her moment — slingshotting out of Clearways, tucking low, throttle pinned. Johan was right behind her, catching the slipstream.

Four bikes thundered down the Brabham Straight, engines howling, elbows out. At the line, it was chaos — Marlin’s Norton half a wheel ahead, Johan’s front wheel practically nudging her rear tyre. The old guard crossed a breath behind, both shaking their heads as if they had just been mugged by a pair of youngsters who had not read the script.

The paddock went wild — Johan and Marlin had pulled off the upset of the weekend, a breathtaking one-two finish that left everyone buzzing.

Back in the pits, one of the ‘big boys’ stomped over, red-faced but grinning. ‘Bloody hell — where did you two come from? Thought I had that wrapped up.’

Marlin grinned, tugging off her gloves. ‘Clearways, mate. Always check your mirrors.’

Johan clapped the man on the shoulder, deadpan as ever. ‘Do not worry. We are only doing this for fun.’

The veteran just groaned, threw up his hands, and stalked off to find a beer, leaving the rest of us in fits of laughter.”

“The winners’ enclosure at Brands was alive with noise — engines cooling, cameras clicking, the tannoy echoing across the paddock. Johan and Marlin rolled their bikes in together, both flushed and grinning, helmets tucked under their arms. The marshals waved them forward, Johan to the second-place step, Marlin to the very top.

The children were already there, having slipped through the ropes with all the stealth of a commando raid. Vera clutched Nils’s hand tightly, Otto and Olivia craned over the railings, eyes shining with excitement. No one stopped them; in fact, their presence only made the crowd smile wider.

The announcer began, as always, in reverse order. ‘Third place — number 42…’ The applause rippled. Then came the call: ‘Second place — number 76, Johan!’ A cheer went up, the children bouncing and shouting as he stepped onto the podium, raising his little silver cup high. He leaned down just far enough for Vera to touch it, her face lit with pride.

Finally, the voice boomed again: ‘First place — number 74, Marlin!’ The loudest cheer of all. She climbed to the top step, lifted her trophy overhead, and the enclosure erupted. Otto and Olivia clung to her legs, grinning up at their mother as though she had just won a world championship.

For a moment it was pure theatre — the four of them together on the podium, trophies gleaming, children cheering, the crowd clapping along. Stephen leaned toward me, mug of tea in hand, and murmured with a crooked grin, ‘One–two at Brands Hatch. Not bad for a pair of bloody amateurs.’

I just smiled, my chest aching with pride. For once, it wasn’t about medals, missions, or ranks. It was about family — about proving to ourselves, and to everyone watching, that we belonged out there.”

“By the time the 500s were called to assembly, the children were still fizzing from Johan and Marlin’s podium. Nils and Vera clung to the railings, chanting, ‘One–Two! One–Two!’ as though sheer willpower might bend the race in our favour. Beside them, Otto and Olivia joined in, their voices carrying over the paddock, faces bright with mischief and pride.

Stephen and I rolled up, the Manx and the MV growling in harmony, deeper and fiercer than the 350s had ever sounded. Helmets on, visors down, engines ticking impatiently as the marshals waved us into line. The grid was packed with seasoned names, men who had been racing these beasts for decades. I could feel their eyes on me, weighing me up, wondering if Saturday’s win had been luck.

Lights out. Eight laps. No time to think.

I launched clean, the MV biting hard, and slotted into second by Paddock Hill. Stephen muscled through the midfield, elbows sharp, dragging the Manx into fourth by Druids. Lap after lap we pushed, the front pack trading places like boxers in a ring. Graham Hill was sparks and knees, Surtees a battlefield of braking duels, Clearways a gauntlet of throttle and nerve.

Half distance, and I saw my chance. The leader drifted wide at Surtees — just a fraction, but enough. I dived inside, held the line, and powered out with the MV singing beneath me. Clearways, Clark Curve, then down the Brabham Straight in clean air. For the first time, I was leading a 500 race outright.

Behind me, Stephen fought like a man possessed. Two laps from the end, he outbraked one of the veterans into Druids, then took another on Cooper Straight, the Manx snarling like it had something to prove.

Final lap. My heart hammered, every corner etched into muscle memory. Druids — steady. Graham Hill — committed. Surtees — smooth. Clearways — full throttle. The chequered flag waved, and I crossed the line first. Victory.

A roar went up as Stephen stormed home seconds later in second place — a one–two. Husband and wife, side by side again, proving lightning can strike twice in a weekend.

The winners’ enclosure was chaos. The announcer’s voice barely cut through the cheering: ‘Second place — number 72, Stephen!’ He lifted his cup with a grin as wide as I had ever seen. ‘And the winner — number 70, Vinka!’ I raised mine, children already clambering onto the steps. Nils and Vera clung to me, eyes wide with pride, while Otto and Olivia dashed to Stephen, tugging at his sleeves as though he were a conquering hero.

Two families, two one–twos, four trophies shining in the sunlight. Stephen leaned across, trophies clinking, and murmured, ‘Double miracle, love. They’ll never believe this back at camp.’

I smiled through the noise, through the laughter, through the pounding of my heart. ‘Let them doubt. We will just do it again.’”

“By Sunday afternoon, the glamour had well and truly worn off. The trophies were polished just enough for a quick photograph in front of the bikes — four grinning fools pretending we were the factory works team — but then it was straight back to reality. Bash-down time.

The 24x12s came down the way all army tents do: with much swearing, a missing mallet, and Johan insisting the poles used to fit better ‘in Germany.’ Marlin vanished inside one canvas wall and reappeared out the other with the peg bag, looking as though she had wrestled a tarantula. Stephen, naturally, took charge of loading the bikes into the van and trailer — backing them in side by side, fussing over the straps as though he were lashing down the Crown Jewels.

I checked the tyre pressures one last time, partly out of habit, partly so I did not have to argue with Johan about whose turn it was to fold canvas. Around us the paddock was a sea of cheerful chaos — caravans being hitched, vans coughing into life, neighbours leaning on mudguards to swap stories about ‘next time.’ Someone shouted across, ‘You lot off already? Leave some silverware for the rest of us next month!’

We laughed, mugs rattling in the sink of the caravan as we pulled out of the paddock and onto the road home. My leathers still smelled of petrol and victory. The trophies clinked together on the table, and I caught Stephen’s grin in the mirror.

We were not professionals, not by a long shot. But that weekend at Brands? It felt legendary.”

“The next morning, after the dust and petrol smells of Brands had barely faded, the house was alive with packing chaos. Leathers were still draped over chairs, trophies lined up proudly on the table, and in the middle of it all the children were stuffing rucksacks for Sweden. Nils and Vera buzzed with talk of cousins and jetty swims, Otto and Olivia argued over who would sit by the window on the plane, and Ingrid stood calmly in the doorway, her bag already packed, her face patient as ever. When the car finally pulled away, loaded with children and excitement, the house fell strangely quiet. Stephen and I stood in the doorway, tea mugs in hand, exchanging a look that was equal parts relief and ache. After weeks of noise, the silence felt enormous, but comforting too, knowing they were off to make their own summer memories with family.”

“The very next day — because apparently none of us understood the concept of rest — we set off on our long-planned three-week bike tour, a proper loop through Britain’s finest scenery and inevitable rain showers. The preparation had been a saga in itself: four riders fettling machines as if for the Isle of Man TT, arguing endlessly over which bikes would make the cut.

The final line-up was set: I on my trusty Triumph Thunderbird, Marlin on her racier Bonneville, Johan astride his beloved BSA Gold Flash, and Stephen gleaming proudly on his Norton Commando — polished to showroom shine if one ignored the occasional rattle.

The route was ambitious: West Country lanes scented with cider orchards, the sweeping passes of Wales, twisty Yorkshire Dales roads where sheep served as both obstacle and audience, and finally a lazy roll back south with nearly two thousand miles showing on the clocks. Miraculously, not a single mechanical failure.

That is not to say it was all smooth. A downpour outside Brecon left us looking like drowned cats, we locked horns with a Yorkshire landlady who swore blind that ‘bikers bring mud,’ and Johan led us fifty miles off course in Devon thanks to his instincts — which turned out to be pointing him unerringly toward the nearest pub.

Yet the bikes purred, and so did we. We looked the part too: vintage leathers, boots with sea socks rolled over the tops, and white silk scarves flapping like extras in The Great Escape. Helmets were our only concession to modern life — not through choice, but because hospitals prefer brains kept on the inside.

Every stop became a show: children pointing, old bikers nodding, men in flat caps swearing their uncle once had ‘one just like that, only faster.’ Petrol, tea, banter, and endless roads — the sort of ride that leaves you sunburnt, exhausted, and utterly certain you would do it all again tomorrow.”

“Back at the Group after our well-earned leave, we were technically TA again — part-timers on paper, but in truth we were still clockin’ in most days. Man training days had become our bread and butter, and between that and the fact none of us could sit still for long, it weren’t much of a stretch to be back in uniform. Within a week the rhythm felt familiar again: phones ringin’, printers clatterin’, and us slippin’ back into our corner like we’d never been away.

Then came the summons. The CO wanted ‘a quick chat.’ Which, as any soldier knows, usually means somethin’ slightly terrifyin’. We filed into his office — four mugs of tea already laid out, biscuits dead centre on the desk. That was either a good omen, or the bribe before bad news.

He smiled at us the way only senior officers can, like he was about to say he’d flogged the family Volvo and bought a Ferrari. ‘Well done in Kosovo,’ he says. ‘You didn’t just survive — you made PsyOps look glamorous. Fancy doing this full time?’

I nearly spat me tea out. Glamorous. If only he’d seen us at three in the morning, knee-deep in mud, arguin’ by torchlight about whether to print ‘urgent’ in 14-point font or 16. Still, flattering to hear — and more than that, it was real. This weren’t just a pat on the head. It was an offer.

We looked at each other over our mugs, that tiny spark of ‘are we really doin’ this?’ flickerin’ between us. And in that moment, I knew the answer. ’Course we were.

We tried to play it cool when the CO laid the options out, like we were weighin’ up wine lists instead of life choices. Nod here, frown there, a couple of thoughtful ‘hmms.’ But truth was, we’d already made our minds up before he’d finished talkin’.”

“Home Commitment sounded safe enough — stay in the UK, steady hours, no surprises — but it also sounded about as thrilling as guard duty in a supermarket car park. Full Commitment, on the other hand, meant diving back in properly. The pay, the kit, the medical, the chance to actually matter again. Risks, yes — but we’d lived with risks our whole adult lives.

So when the papers slid across the desk, we signed them like it was a foregone conclusion. Colour Sergeants and Staff Sergeants on Full Commitment from 1 October 2000. We smiled, shook hands, tried to look professional. Inside though? We were buzzing. Back in uniform, back in the fold, back where we belonged.

On 1 October, we dutifully marched ourselves back to Chilwell — again — like schoolboys returning after swearing blind they’d never darken the gates. Thankfully, our MATTs from Kosovo were still in date, which meant we didn’t have to spend two weeks watchin’ grown men fail a BFT in slow motion. Small mercies.

The real miracle, though? The paperwork was done before lunch. In Army time, that’s the equivalent of spotting a unicorn in the cookhouse. By early afternoon, we were officially told: report to your unit tomorrow. Just like that.

And so, with a few signatures and a handshake, we were back — full-time, full pay, in uniform, with proper job titles and, best of all, dental cover. It felt oddly momentous and faintly ridiculous at the same time. One minute we were the oddballs of PsyOps, the next we were salaried oddballs with medical benefits.

Before heading off to Chilwell, we treated ourselves to one final hurrah: the annual Battle of Britain Dinner Night at the Mess. And credit where it’s due — the RAF knew how to put on a show.”

“The front entrance had been done up like a 1940s air raid shelter — sandbags stacked high, dim lighting that made everyone look ten years older, and a smell somewhere between mothballs, damp, and nostalgia. They’d even roped in the Shuttleworth Collection for props: flying helmets, maps yellowed with age, and a propeller so rusty it probably retired the same week as Churchill. Walking through it felt like stepping onto a set halfway between Dad’s Army and Strictly Come Dancing.”

“Inside, the ballroom had been transformed into a wartime village hall. Bunting swayed from the rafters, ‘Dig for Victory’ posters lined the walls, and a Glen Miller-style swing band filled the air with brass so bright it made the silverware look dull. The dance floor lay in the centre like a jewel, surrounded by tables dressed fête-style, each place perfectly set. Our table was shared with three other senior ranks and their partners — easy company, glasses soon filled, conversation flowing without effort.”

“The RAF had thought of everything — waiter service meant no elbows at the bar, no sergeant-major roar for last orders. At eight sharp we were marched into dinner. Thankfully, the buffet had come a long way from powdered egg and spam. Plates piled high, pints refilled, and the band struck up again. That was our cue.”

“I’ll tell you what — me and Johan thought we looked the business in our scarlet Mess Kit. Jackets sharp, crowns sewn on, medals clinkin’ — the whole nine yards. But then the girls walked in. Vinka and Marlin in their Int Corps rig — olive green jackets with sandy lapels and cuffs, sleek black silk blouses, long flowing skirts, and that red-and-sand sash at the waist. Subtle, sharp, devastatingly smart. Next to them, we looked like a pair of over-decorated doormen.”

“Stephen grumbles, but I saw how proud he was. Scarlet jacket, collar stiff, medals shining in the light. He and Johan stood taller than ever, shoulders back, as if the years had fallen away. For Marlin and me, our uniforms had their own elegance — not the bright flash of scarlet, but a quiet strength. Together, we made a picture: two Poachers turned PsyOps, two Intelligence women, and perhaps, for one evening, four friends who could almost forget the weight of service. We belonged. And on the dance floor, we shone.”

“At one point, the RAF band gave us the full swing treatment, and suddenly the four of us had the entire floor to ourselves. Whether everyone else thought we were part of the evening’s entertainment or just didn’t fancy competing, I’ll never know — but we ended the routine to a round of applause and a cheeky bow all the same. Back at the table, one of the RAF lads muttered, ‘Trust the Army to turn it into a competition.’ Johan, deadpan as ever, came back with, ‘You started it — we just finished it.’ The room cracked up.”

“I should have seen it coming. The two Flight Sergeants at our table had been eyeing Marlin and me all evening — not in a disrespectful way, but with that look which says: ‘Right, we’re not letting the Army show us up without a fight.’ As soon as the band struck up In the Mood, they sprang to their feet and offered their hands. Naturally, we said yes — what else could we do? Besides, it was far too good an opportunity to tease Stephen and Johan. Off we went, gliding away in the arms of our newly emboldened RAF partners.”

“Not to be outdone, me and Johan turned to the Flight Sergeants’ wives with mock gallantry. ‘Care for a dance with proper partners?’ we asked, grins wide enough to split our faces. The ladies didn’t hesitate — they knew a chance for mischief when they saw it. And just like that, the dance floor became a battlefield.

On one side, us Poachers waltzing with RAF wives, smug as you like. On the other: RAF blokes twirlin’ our girls about, determined to prove they had more rhythm than a brass section. The band cottoned on and started throwin’ in flourishes, eggin’ us on like it was a proper contest. I tell you, it weren’t dinner night anymore — it was Strictly Come PsyOps.”

“By the end of the tune, the whole Mess was in stitches. The RAF lads claimed a draw, we claimed an outright victory, and the wives declared themselves the real winners. Personally, I think the applause told its own story.

Later at the bar, over pints and prosecco, the Flight Sergeants tried again to claim victory. I just smiled sweetly and said, ‘Bless you both, but let’s be honest — Marlin and I were doing the leading out there.’ They laughed, a little sheepish, while Johan and Stephen raised their eyebrows in that ‘told you so’ way only husbands can manage.”

“Then the wives leaned in, all conspiratorial, and dropped the hammer: ‘Actually, your lads were much better dancers — smooth as anything.’ Nearly made the two RAF blokes choke on their drinks. Me and Johan tried to play it cool, of course, but the smug grins sort of gave us away.

I caught Vinka’s eye as she sipped her wine, and I knew exactly what she was thinkin’: Army one, RAF nil.”

“Once the dancing wound down, the stewards swept in like clockwork and the port parade began. Decanters glinted under the lights as they worked their way along the tables, each one passed left with all the solemnity of a church service. By then, the laughter had softened to that warm hum you only hear in a good Mess — glasses clinking, friends leaning close, the kind of noise that says: this is exactly where you’re meant to be.”

“The toasts began, formal and proud. The Queen, the Regiment, the fallen. Voices rose as one, a chorus of loyalty and remembrance that pulled the whole room together. For a moment there was no RAF, no Army, no Navy, no competition — just service, shared sacrifice, and respect. It touched me, as it always did. Even after years in uniform, it never failed to make my chest tighten.”

“Of course, the solemn bit never lasts too long. Once the port had done a lap or two, the banter started bubbling again. Stories grew taller with every glass, medals got shinier with every retelling, and by the time the cheese boards came round, someone at the back was already leading a chorus of Roll Out the Barrel. Typical RAF — can’t hold their drink and their pitch at the same time.”

“I watched Stephen, Johan, and the others laughing together, their cheeks flushed, their hands gesturing wide as they exaggerated tales. For once, there was no weight of operations, no looming deployment, no whispers of the next posting. Just comradeship, music, and a sense of belonging. A night where the past and the present blended together — duty remembered, joy embraced.”

One of the Flight Sergeants, his eyes roaming across the table, finally gave in to curiosity. He nodded toward Stephen and Johan, noting the SAS wings and Commando dagger stitched high on their upper arms, and the gleaming line of miniatures on their chests — the Military Medal, Northern Ireland, UN Cyprus, First Gulf, and Kosovo.

“All right,” he said, “what’s the story there? Wings, dagger, medals — not exactly leaflet duty, is it?”

“It is not so mysterious as it looks,” I replied. “Stephen and Johan began as Royal Marines, then moved to the Poachers, 2nd Battalion The Royal Anglian Regiment. The Commando dagger marks their start, the wings their years in Special Forces. The medals, Northern Ireland, Cyprus, the Gulf, Kosovo... Johan and Stephen’s Military Medal, they tell their own story.

Marlin and I came up differently. We were Intelligence Corps from the very beginning. Ours was the quieter path — languages, analysis, but always close enough to the danger. Our medals reflect that: Northern Ireland with a Mentioned in Despatches, the 1st Gulf with a Mentioned in Despatches and Kosovo. Marlin too has her own citations. Same route, but in the end, we all stood on the same ground.”

For a moment the Flight Sergeants just nodded, their earlier rivalry dissolving into a respectful silence.

“Don’t let her dress it up too neat. Most of those medals came with rain, dodgy grub, and me fallin’ in a ditch somewhere. The shiny bits just stop the Mess Kit lookin’ too bare.”

That earned the laugh it needed, the moment easing into the clink of glasses and the easy hum of a Mess in full swing.