The Shocking Truth About Winter Warfare

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirteen

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 Thirteen.

Back in Plymouth, we’d already taken the plunge into joint finances. Johan and I covered the flat—rent, housekeeping bills, petrol, food, and anything else that came with a receipt and a groan. We weren’t exactly rolling in it, but we made it work.

The girls, true to their Scandinavian instincts, ran our little household like a well-oiled precision watch. Every penny they earned from translation gigs went straight into a savings account, along with anything left over from the weekly housekeeping budget—which, astonishingly, was quite a lot.

I still don’t know how they did it. Give them three carrots, half an onion, and a suspicious-looking tin of beans, and they’d plate up something that tasted like it came from a restaurant in Covent Garden. Gourmet magic on a budget of pennies.

We’d all come from modest beginnings—none of us strangers to hand-me-downs or dinners bulked out with stale bread—and we knew the value of a pound. We folded every one of them twice before letting it go, kept one eye on the future and the other on supermarket discount shelves.

There was a quiet pride in it. Not flashy, not loud. Just us, building something real, one careful step at a time.

The rest of the year flew by in a flurry of training courses, new qualifications, and the occasional muddy exercise in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Camouflage, chaos, and more acronyms than a government memo.

But somehow—between route cards, ration packs, and lectures about how to sleep standing up—we managed to carve out proper time with the girls. Real time. The sort that didn’t involve kit bags or cleaning rotas.

We found a local Aikido dojo just outside Plymouth, and it wasn’t long before we were part of the furniture—black belts gleaming, teaching certificates in hand, throwing blokes twice our size across the mats with a polite nod and the occasional, “Sorry about your shoulder.”

Now, Johan and I weren’t exactly queuing up to be rag-dolled for fun, but we did train with them regularly—running along the coast path, hitting the gym, lifting weights while pretending we weren’t just trying to impress them. They kept us on our toes. Literally.

Especially when Vinka, without warning, demonstrated a textbook wrist lock on me mid-conversation.

I yelped, she giggled, and I ended up apologising for... well, I’m still not entirely sure what. But I definitely meant it.

Romance, yes—but with a healthy dash of self-defence.

As this was our second stint in Norway, Johan and I were treated to some “advanced” Arctic driver training—because clearly, skiing around the fjords with rifles on our backs wasn’t extreme enough.

We graduated from four-tonne Bedfords to the mighty BV 2 o 2 Snowcat—a machine that looked like someone had crossed a tank with a liquorice all sorts and then dared it to climb a mountain in reverse. It had rubber tracks, a cab that rattled like a biscuit tin full of spanners, and a turning circle that required permission from Oslo to complete. Naturally, we loved it.

We’d already ticked off most of our other driving qualifications after returning from Easter leave the year before—motorbikes, Land Rovers, and even the glorious old Leyland DROPS wagons, which handled like stubborn rhinos on a wet parade square.

So this Snowcat lark was just the cherry on the icy cake.

The grand finale of the course? Towing squads of shouting Royal Marines behind us on sleds through the forest—like some deranged Commando version of Santa’s sleigh run. The rules were simple: stay upright, don’t hit a tree, and for the love of Queen and Country, no sudden braking unless you enjoy watching lads cartwheel into snowdrifts.

I’ll admit—we may have taken a few corners slightly more enthusiastically than strictly necessary. Just to hear the colourful language fly past with the snow.

Great fun.

In June 1976, Tim’s battalion was posted back to England from Germany, landing at Jillingham—which, depending on your outlook, was either a reward or a punishment. Some saw it as a return to civilisation. Others saw it as a reminder that not all of England was worth returning to. Still, it was home soil, and that counted for something.

Once they were settled in, Tim and a few of his equally oil-stained comrades discovered a new love—motorbikes. But not just any old bikes. Oh no. Tim and his mate Danny were staunch British bike purists. None of that “rice burner” nonsense, thank you very much. Japanese bikes were fast, reliable, and well-made—which is exactly why they weren’t interested.

With Ron’s help—Mum’s ever-patient, ever-bewildered husband—Tim managed to get his hands on a Triumph Trophy 2 50. And what a machine it was: a gleaming monument to British engineering pride… until you actually tried to ride it.

That bike blew more head gaskets than a curry house toilet and left an oil trail longer than the M1. It coughed, spluttered, and wheezed like an asthmatic dog in a sandstorm. Tim couldn’t go ten miles without stopping for an impromptu rebuild or to tighten something that had rattled loose and made a break for freedom.

But to him, it was perfect.

Meanwhile, his mates Harry and Bob—both tragically more practical—had gone Japanese. Harry rode a whisper-smooth Honda 400 Four, the sort of bike that purred like a kitten on warm milk. Bob, on the other hand, had a Suzuki GT3 80 that sounded like a chainsaw being serenaded by a choir of angry bees. Different strokes.

Another mate—whose name escapes me, but whose Suzuki X7 250 is forever etched in history—kindly lent it to Tim on the morning of his bike test. The Triumph, true to form, had thrown another mechanical tantrum and was sulking in a pool of its own fluids.

Now, Tim, never one to let logic get in the way of enthusiasm, jumped on the borrowed Suzuki, popped a wheelie before he’d even reached second gear, and very nearly wiped out the examiner.

Unsurprisingly, he failed the test.

On the bright side, he did earn himself a place on the examiner’s unofficial list of “Most Memorable Near-Death Experiences of the Month.”

The very next day, in a glorious act of mechanical self-liberation, Tim wheeled his treacherous Triumph into the dealer’s yard and swapped it—probably with a ceremonial middle finger—for a far more reliable Honda 250 G5.

It was love at first kickstart.

Smooth gears, no oil leaks, and a head gasket that didn’t self-destruct under pressure. It was like going from dating a drama queen to marrying a Swiss accountant.

A couple of months later, Tim passed his motorbike test—this time keeping both wheels on the tarmac and all examiners upright. Flushed with success and a false sense of financial security, he immediately upgraded to a Suzuki GT550.

Unfortunately, it had a drinking problem. Not alcohol—petrol. That thing guzzled fuel like a stag party let loose in a brewery. His wallet couldn’t keep up.

So, with a wince and a few painful partings of funds, he upgraded again—this time to a Suzuki GS750, which he promptly declared “the one.”

And, to everyone’s surprise, he actually kept it.

Meanwhile, the girls had levelled up to full-time, fully qualified translation ninjas. No more part-time jobs or odd bits on the side—this was the big leagues now. They were bona fide professionals, hammerin’ away at complex documents from our Georgian flat, mugs of tea in hand, and the occasional colourful Swedish curse whenever a dialect tripped ’em up.

The setup was neat as you like. The Swedish firm they worked for kept an office in London—handy for payments and keepin’ the tax man happy. The girls would get an assignment through, crack on with it, then drop the finished job back in the post. A week or so later, another fat envelope would arrive along with a tidy sum in the bank.

And when I say tidy, I mean suspiciously tidy. We used to joke they were secretly decoding state secrets or workin’ out the hidden meanings behind IKEA diagrams—the kind with no words, just pictures of a sad bloke holding an Allen key. Whatever it was, it paid well enough to keep us comfortable, with the odd splash-out on decent wine and groceries that hadn’t been through twelve rounds in the bargain bin.

For me and Marlin, it was more than just a job—it was proof that we’d found our footing. The London office made things simple, and it meant we could live and work in England without fuss. We liked the rhythm of it: assignments in, translations out, steady pay. Reliable, honest work.

We didn’t boast, not our style. The work spoke loudly enough. To see the words flow from Swedish into flawless English—or the other way round—was its own kind of pride. It gave us independence, a sense of being equal partners with the boys, not just waiting at home while their world turned. And if now and then that income meant a nice bottle of Bordeaux with supper, well—we’d earned it.

Johan and I returned to work after a glorious Easter leave, still a bit saddle-sore from skiing and smug from being freshly minted Arctic heroes. Life back at the flat had fallen into a kind of blissful rhythm—shared breakfasts, low-stakes arguments about who’d left the milk out, and daily amazement at how four fully grown adults could lose so many socks in such a small space.

We were just getting into the swing of domestic bliss when the Royal Marines did what they do best: ruined the plan. Out of the blue came the announcement—our troop was being shipped off on a four-month deployment. No discussion, no warning. Just a new set of orders, delivered as cheerfully as if someone was handin’ out raffle tickets.

Cue a collective sigh that could’ve rattled the windows.

That night, I broke the news over supper. Vinka laid her fork down and gave me that look—calm as a millpond, though I could see the storm behind her eyes.

“Again?” she asked, voice soft. Not shocked, not angry—just that mix of sympathy and exasperation only a Marine’s wife can carry.

“’Fraid so, love,” I muttered, stabbing the spuds. “Four months away. Some windswept corner no one else wants. We’ll be playin’ war games while you’re here fightin’ the real battle with tax forms and leaky taps.”

She smiled at that, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I knew it would come,” I said, even as my chest tightened. “It always does. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

He tried to shrug it off, that old Cockney bravado. “We’ll do what we always do. I’ll give you a kiss on the platform, look dashing in my beret, then spend the next four months cursing the Corps for the privilege.”

I reached across the table, held his hand. “And I’ll do what I always do. Keep the flat running, send letters, and make sure there’s a warm bed waiting when you come back.”

“Just don’t run off with the postman while I’m gone,” I grinned, squeezing her hand.

She rolled her eyes. “More likely I’ll run off with your laundry basket. At least that doesn’t vanish for months at a time.”

We both laughed, but the weight of the coming goodbye sat heavy between us. We’d been here before, and we knew the drill—Royal Marine life didn’t give much room for planning. But with her hand in mine, I reckoned I could face whatever windswept rock they sent us to.

With our kit packed tighter than a bride’s suitcase on honeymoon, Johan and I were herded onto a coach and bussed over to Devonport, where we boarded HMS Fearless. She wasn’t the most glamorous vessel afloat, but she had character—and a permanent whiff of diesel and wet socks that reminded you this was definitely not a cruise.

We slipped out of Plymouth Sound like a grey ghost heading south, bound for Gibraltar for a bit of light top-up shopping—by which I mean loading up on fuel, crates of rations, and enough toilet roll to supply a three-day music festival.

From there, we steamed into the Mediterranean, all sun, salt, and steel, ready to begin our next joyful “holiday with rifles”—also known as a multi-nation beach landing exercise. Nothing says international cooperation like storming a pretend beach in full combat gear while trying not to trip over an Italian marine in speedos.

Now, this wasn’t your average beach holiday. Forget cocktails and sun loungers—this was scrambling out of landing craft at full pelt, trying not to trip over your own webbing or take a bayonet to the backside. We charged onto beaches day and night, soaked to the skin more often than not.

Sometimes it was surf spray, sometimes it was someone else’s boot to the face—but hey, at least the water was warm. Unlike Norway, where getting wet meant your manhood retreated somewhere near your spleen, here you only had to contend with chafing and the occasional jellyfish auditioning for a horror film.

It was exhausting. It was chaotic. It was exhilarating.

We did get some decent shore leave, mind—and the highlights were well worth the effort. In Malta, as we sailed into Valletta Harbour, I was struck by the sheer layers of history carved into the stone around us. You could still see the scars from the Second World War—shell damage and pockmarked facades now framed by cranes and scaffolding, as the island quietly stitched itself back together.

Johan and I spent hours wandering through the old town, weaving through sunlit alleyways and along the edge of the Grand Harbour, marvelling at how resilient the place was—and how hard it was to find a decent coffee that didn’t cost your entire days pay.

We were granted a few days’ R&R in Cyprus, which, predictably, meant drinking like fish and frying like bacon. Most of us made a beeline for the nearest beach, where we alternated between pretending to sunbathe and actually passing out under borrowed umbrellas, reeking of sun cream and whatever the local lager was called.

Unfortunately, not everyone managed to stay within the friendly lines of acceptable behaviour. A small, ambitious group decided to turn their time in Ayia Napa into a sort of low-budget crime drama. The details remain hazy—intentionally so—and have since been officially filed under “regrettable decisions.”

Whatever they did, it was serious enough that those lads were banned from going ashore in Barcelona, and instead got stuck with onboard guard duty for the rest of the trip.

Poetic justice, really—they ended up guarding our flip-flops while we sipped sangria on Spanish cobbles.

Moral of the story?

What happens in Cyprus doesn’t stay in Cyprus when your sergeant finds out.

Rome came with a few official functions, which meant we had to look vaguely presentable, keep our hands out of our pockets, and try not to accidentally dip our medals into the hors d’oeuvres. Once the speeches, handshakes, and forced smiles were out of the way, we slipped into our civvies and embraced our inner gladiators.

By that, I mean we joined the throngs of tourists swarming the Colosseum, snapping photos and pretending to know what we were looking at. Johan and I stood there, imagining ourselves in tunics, waving swords, and wondering how long we’d last against a lion.

(Answer: not long. Especially after lunch.)

Getting around the city was another kind of gladiatorial sport entirely. Our Roman taxi driver—who may well have raced chariots in a past life—drove like he was late for his own funeral. Lanes were optional, indicators were a myth, and speed limits seemed to be more of a dare than a rule.

It was like riding a dodgem in a hurricane.

But somehow, by the grace of Saint Christopher or sheer dumb luck, we survived the white-knuckle journey back to the ship with our limbs—and more importantly, our sandwiches—still intact.

Barcelona gave us a sweet little stroll down memory lane. Johan and I wandered hand-in-hand—not literally, I might add—down Las Ramblas, retracing the same route we’d taken during our Grand Tour all those years ago.

We even found the same little bar we’d eaten in back then. It hadn’t changed a bit—still charming, still overpriced, and still serving sangria strong enough to clean carburettors. We raised a glass to old memories and new bruises, and quietly agreed we were both ready to head home.

The nostalgia was strong… but the call of home was stronger.

This time, by some divine miracle, there were no delays, no engine failures, and no international incidents involving missing flip-flops. We sailed back into Plymouth in mid-August, sun-kissed, salty, and very much ready for leave.

After sorting out our kit, tackling the mountainous laundry pile, and surviving the usual flood of post-deployment admin, we officially kicked off three glorious weeks of summer leave on the 25th.

And not a moment too soon.

If you ask me, our so-called honeymoon began long before we packed the car. It started with the freedom Marlin and I had carved out with our translation work—flexible hours, good pay, and the blessed ability to say, “Yes, we can take two weeks off,” without anyone in Sweden or London raising an eyebrow. The company had offices in both, which made life simple: London for payments and paperwork, Sweden for the mother tongue and the big contracts. Between the two, we could live and work in England without fuss, and that was a gift we weren’t about to waste.

The boys called it a road trip, but to us it was more like a coronation—our chance to finally see the country we’d chosen as home. Up until then, my map of Britain had three dots: Hitchin, London, and Plymouth. A little like visiting Italy and saying you’ve experienced it because you once saw a vending machine at Fiumicino Airport. No, this time we would see castles, lochs, tearooms with too many scones, and all the hills and hedgerows in between.

We planned it properly, of course—sprawled out in our Georgian flat, the smell of overcooked pasta filling the room, drawing routes on the back of a takeaway menu while Stephen and Johan argued over mileage. Marlin and I smiled sweetly, then quietly took charge of the itinerary. Husbands may grumble about maps, but wives know where the best scones are.

Before we could start our grand adventure, though, there was one last hoop to jump through: citizenship. We had been through so many little trials already—letters, interviews, proof of residence, and the kind of forms that seemed designed to test not your identity, but your patience. But at last, on the first day of leave, we walked into the Plymouth Registry Office to finish it.

It felt oddly anticlimactic. A few signatures, stern photographs, a clerk rummaging through drawers for the right rubber stamp, and then—just like that—it was done. Years of waiting and hoping, reduced to a satisfying clunk of ink on paper.

We were hugged, congratulated, and handed paper cups of tea so weak they looked frightened of the milk. Still, to us, it tasted like belonging.

When the passports arrived—fashionably late, of course—we laughed out loud. Now we were truly British with National Insurance numbers: we could queue politely, moan about the weather, and argue earnestly about which brand of tea was superior. God save the Queen indeed.

And so, with shiny new passports tucked away and the boys loading the boot with more kit than sense, we set off. Our honeymoon, our road trip, our adventure—whatever you wished to call it—it was finally ours.

While Johan and Stephen were still trying to recover from NATO rations and remember where they’d last left the car keys, Marlin and I had spent weeks plotting the perfect route. Every stop planned, every pub investigated, every picnic spot ruthlessly vetted. The boys thought it was spontaneous. Bless them.

We’d booked the hotels, chosen the pubs, and even printed off real maps—paper ones, with highlighted routes and colour-coded “points of interest.” The men translated this as: “places we’ll be dragged through before we’re allowed a pint.” Which was, frankly, accurate.

The car was packed with military precision (probably because we packed it), and off we went like the Royal Touring Command, armed with snacks, thermos flasks, and more optimism than sense.

First stop was Dartmouth: cobbled lanes, sea air, and just enough naval history to keep the Marines distracted from the bakery windows. Stephen swears a spaniel outside the bakery saluted him. I didn’t argue—it’s kinder not to when he’s in that mood. We did the castle, Greenway House, a ferry, a steam train, and somehow survived Johan trying to order bouillabaisse, which ended with him receiving… olives. I nearly drowned in my wine.

From there it was on to Wales: Crickhowell, The Bear Hotel, creaky staircases, and a landlord whose moustache looked like it had survived two wars and a pub brawl. He gave us walking routes and warned us which paths would end in bogs or sheepdog trials. Naturally, we chose both.

We hiked Pen e Fan—minus bergen's and sergeants shouting in our ears. The boys pretended to be mountain goats, Marlin and I showed them what actual goats looked like. Priceless. Twenty miles later, Johan was still reporting the distance on his orienteering watch like a man running a personal marathon commentary. We ignored him and ordered pints.

Offa’s Dyke was more civilised: rolling hills, no bogs, and a landlord who doubled as Welsh Gandalf with a Land Rover. He dropped us in Pandy, picked us up in Hay-on-Wye, and somehow managed to look smug about it. We returned with books we’ll never read and feet that were miraculously blister-free.

Bala was supposed to be the easy part—just a quiet paddle on the lake before the real work began. The canoes looked harmless enough when they were dragged down to the water, though the lifejackets smelt like damp barns and the paddles felt like they’d been borrowed from a scout hut. Within minutes, though, my proud Marines were zigzagging about like lost ducklings. All that “instinctive seamanship” they bragged about? Useless in a Canadian canoe. I sat in the bow trying not to laugh too loudly as they barked orders at each other, only to end up going round in circles while a pair of children skimmed past us as if they’d been born with paddles in their hands.

Mount Snowdon. We picked the Pig Track because the name made us laugh. How wrong we were.

The climb was beautiful, yes—but then came the knife-edge section. Narrow as a church pew, drops on either side that made your stomach flip, and a breeze strong enough to make you reconsider every life choice. Marlin and I trotted across with the grace of mountain goats. The boys, on the other hand, looked like two overgrown deckchairs in a gale.

Stephen muttered Swedish curses he definitely didn’t know the meaning of, Johan whimpered—quietly, but I heard it—and both clung to the rocks as if we were scaling Everest instead of a Welsh peak. I did what any supportive wife would do: smiled sweetly and walked a little faster, just to watch his face. Priceless.

By the time we reached the summit, we felt triumphant and mildly traumatised. And then, of course, we were greeted by flip-flop tourists fresh off the summit train, sipping tea like they’d just popped out of Marks & Spencer. Life is unfair.

By then the boys had discovered that our training routine” (running, aikido, gym, occasional yoga) had left us leaner, stronger, and far bendier than they were comfortable with. Their attempt at yoga ended with Stephen stuck in Downward Dog looking like a collapsed deckchair, while Johan begged for Deep Heat. We were gracious about it. Very gracious.

And then… Blackpool. Las Vegas with more seagulls, fewer Elvises, and a lot more chip wrappers. The landlady at our B&B looked ready to call the police until Johan said the magic words—“Royal Marines” and “honeymoon.” Suddenly, we were upgraded from “potential hooligans” to “national treasures.” Extra sausages at breakfast, posh teabags, best rooms in the house, and the dubious honour of reminding her of her third husband. We decided not to ask.

Her advice? “Go to the Tower Ballroom.” So we did.

Picture it: parquet floors, a Wurlitzer wheezing bravely through the foxtrot, silver-haired couples gliding like ghosts, lavender talc in the air. And us—slightly underdressed, slightly sunburned, but determined. Johan bowed, Marlin curtsied, and I hauled Stephen onto the floor before he could give me another speech about his knees. We weren’t perfect, but we were in love, and that counts for more than timing.

Later, up in the Tower, the sea stretched forever, the fairground twinkled below, and for once, Stephen didn’t make a joke. He just held my hand. I thought: perhaps this is what honeymoons are meant to feel like—slightly ridiculous, unexpectedly magical, and entirely ours.

By the time we’d finished with the ballroom, the Winter Gardens, and a frankly alarming number of custard slices, we were practically locals. Stephen started nodding at tram drivers like long-lost cousins, and Johan had memorised the pie selection at the corner café. We’d stretched a couple of nights into a small residency.

Of course, there was a price to pay. Our carefully plotted itinerary—colour-coded by Marlin and me with military precision—took a direct hit. By the time we packed our bags and pointed the car inland, we had to admit defeat: Bakewell would have to wait. No tart, no scenic detour, just a guilty glance at the map and the knowledge that we’d swapped heritage pastry for sequins and foxtrots.

Sarcasm aside, it wasn’t the worst trade in the world. But still—if you ever hear me complain about missing out on Bakewell tart, blame Blackpool.