The Drama of Driving Through the DDR to West Berlin

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Fifteen

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 Fifteen.

Meanwhile, Tim was living his best life down in Jillingham—short exercises, regular pub visits, and just enough soldiering to keep the sergeants happy without breaking a sweat. He’d even been promoted to Lance Corporal, which suited him down to the ground. Golden boy, they called him, CO thought he could do no wrong. Didn’t hurt that Tim had that easy charm, the sort that made even the crustiest major grin like he’d just discovered sherry at elevenses.

His battalion had just been tipped for a two-year posting to Berlin, and when I told him Johan and I were hanging up our green berets, his reaction was immediate:

“Why don’t you just join the Army and come to Berlin with us? You’ll love it, beer’s cheap, uniforms itch less, and nobody makes you ski uphill.”

He wasn’t wrong and because Tim was the golden boy, he had no trouble slipping into the CO’s office for “a quiet word.” Next thing you know, he’s waving bits of paperwork at me like they’re winning lottery tickets. Compared to the glorious faff that was Royal Marines admin, the Army transfer process was practically a handshake and a wink, probably because they were desperate for anyone who already knew which end of a rifle went bang.

The Easter sun shone kindly on us that morning in Sweden, as if even the heavens had decided Petra and Tim were simply meant to be. The little village church glowed with flowers, family, and that kind of quiet joy that squeezes your heart in the best way.

Papa walked Petra down the aisle, chest puffed out like he was leading a parade, while Marlin and I followed close behind in our matching dresses, doing our best not to trip over lace—or our own emotions. At the altar stood Tim, handsome and only slightly terrified in his blues, and right beside him, just as he’d promised, was Stephen, steady and proud as best man. Johan caught my eye from the pews, wearing the sort of grin that told me he knew exactly when Stephen’s stiff upper lip was about to wobble.

After the church bells faded, the whole village gathered in the hall for the wedding breakfast. Long tables were set with flowers and candles, and the smell of herring and ham mingled with strong coffee and the promise of schnapps later. There was laughter, clinking glasses, and that happy din of voices that makes four walls feel too small.

Stephen went first, standing tall but with that glint in his eye that told me he was holding himself together by sheer stubbornness. He spoke about Petra—how she’d walked into Tim’s life and never really left, even when distance and duty tried their best. Then he turned to Tim, and his voice softened. He reminded us all that life hadn’t made it easy for his little brother—the break-up of their parents had hit hard, and that cruel injustice at school, when a bully’s lies left Tim carrying the punishment, had shaken him more than he ever let on.

But through all that, Stephen said, Tim had never lost his kindness, his loyalty, or his heart. He called him the brother he’d never had to look for, because he’d always been right there. Then he thanked Petra, for being the light that had carried Tim through. By the time he sat down, there wasn’t a dry eye left in the hall.

Then Tim stood, cheeks pink and hands trembling just enough to betray him. He looked straight at Petra and said she’d always been the one bright constant, even when life had pulled them apart. He admitted he hadn’t always been brave enough to hold on—that his own doubts, the hurt from his parents splitting, and that awful injustice at school had stopped him writing, had kept him from visiting in those summers when he should have.

But through it all, he’d never stopped thinking of her. He swore he’d known since that first Easter in Hitchin that she was the only girl he’d ever love. Then he turned to Stephen, called him his compass, and said plain as day he wouldn’t be standing there without him.

And that was it—the floodgates opened. Tim, Petra, me, we were all in tears. Even Johan gave up pretending to clear his throat and just let them fall.

For a long moment the hall was wrapped in silence, broken only by sniffles and the shuffle of handkerchiefs. Then Papa Erik stood, clearing his throat in that way he always did when he was about to say something important. He raised his glass high, eyes shining.

“To Petra and Tim,” he said, voice firm but thick with pride. “May their love outlast every storm, and may they always find their way back to each other, no matter how far they wander.”

Glasses lifted all around, the words echoing back in a chorus. And just as the tears threatened to start again, Lars banged the table with a grin.

“And may Tim finally learn that if you love a Swedish girl, you’d better get used to very strong coffee and very cold winters!”

The hall erupted with laughter, the perfect release after all those tears. Petra leaned into Tim, both of them laughing through damp cheeks, and I thought to myself there couldn’t have been a more perfect send-off before we all headed for England.

When the cheers and toasts finally died down, it felt like the hall itself was glowing with love. It was hard to imagine leaving it all behind for England in just a couple of days, but the memory of that breakfast—those words, those tears—would travel with us wherever we went.

Two days later, we did it all again in Hitchin—this time with less incense and more paperwork.

The registry office had all the charm of a council meeting hall, complete with a signing table that looked like it had hosted everything from Women’s Institute raffles to am-dram Macbeth.

When Petra signed her name with elegant Swedish flair, Tim leaned in, tongue poking out like a schoolboy, and promptly snapped the pen in half. The registrar didn’t even blink—just produced another with the weary efficiency of someone who’d seen worse (and probably once had to accept a groom’s signature in crayon).

Afterwards, Tim and Petra moved into their new married quarter in Jillingham. It was a modest little house with squeaky floorboards and so much love in the air it practically seeped through the walls.

Stephen and Johan reported to the Queen’s Division Depot for a couple of weeks of familiarisation, swapping their Marines’ ways for a crash course in Army drill. The parade square was the same hard tarmac, but the pace and polish were different — slower, sharper, more deliberate. Between sessions with the drill sergeant, they were marched through stores for new uniforms, measured and kitted out until they looked every inch the part. It wasn’t long, though, before their old habits slipped through; a quick about-turn with too much snap, a salute that carried just a shade of naval swagger.

We handed back the keys to the flat and drove to Jillingham, where the battalion had kindly booked us into a hotel for a few days. It was meant to feel like a honeymoon, but really it was a holding pen—shared with a dozen soldiers’ families. Breakfast chatter wasn’t “sunsets and dreams” so much as “rations and border crossings.”

Then came our turn—we’d all been picked for the advance party to Berlin. One car, four of us, and a road trip that came with a security briefing fit for a Cold War thriller.

“Don’t take photos. Don’t wave at the Russians. And whatever you do, don’t get out of the car.”

Romantic, isn’t it? Nothing says true love like sharing a back seat with two kit bags, a thermos of bad coffee, and the knowledge that every watchtower you pass has a rifle trained in your direction.

The grand Berlin adventure began with a thrilling session of “How Not to Start World War Three,” otherwise known as the mandatory Military Police border briefing.

The four of us, plus a handful of other battalion families, were herded into a windowless room that smelled faintly of instant coffee and Cold War paranoia.

A stern corporal, armed with a map pointer and all the charm of a retired geography teacher, gave us the full rundown. Step one: follow the route precisely—no scenic detours, no shortcuts, not even for a petrol station with half-decent loos.

Step two: do not, under any circumstances, wave at the East German police, make eye contact, or—heaven forbid—ask them for directions, no matter how lost or desperate you were for a wee.

And if anything went wrong? Sit tight, don’t panic, and wait for a Russian patrol or the RMP to come and fetch us. Comforting, really. Nothing says “family road trip” like the looming possibility of an international incident.

With nerves only slightly frayed and the car freshly serviced, Johan, Marlin, Stephen and I, plus four other vehicles set off from Jillingham in convoy. It looked less James Bond and more Carry On Cold War.

Destination: Dover. The ferry to Ostend delivered its usual mix of diesel fumes, lukewarm tea, and children being sick into paper bags. The only drama came from a Belgian lorry driver who didn’t understand the sacred British art of queuing.

Once ashore, we settled in for the long haul eastward. Berlin wasn’t doable in one shot—not unless we wanted open mutiny—so the MOD booked us into a transit hotel in Braunschweig.

The drive was a slog: eight hours, five near-misses, more coffee stops than I care to admit, and one emergency dash to a roadside ditch courtesy of Johan’s questionable egg sandwich.

Still, we made it—bleary-eyed, slightly giddy, and ready for the final push.

Next morning, well-rested and lightly caffeinated (thanks to a coffee that could’ve stripped paint), we rolled out in convoy again. An RMP escort took the lead—stern chaperone vibes, like a school trip no one had asked for.

Destination: the infamous Helmstedt crossing. Checkpoint Alpha. Suddenly, it all felt very real. This wasn’t just another European jaunt; this was a passage through the Iron Curtain.

The admin alone could’ve sunk a battleship. Papers, permits, vehicle inspections, passport checks—each step carried out with all the warmth of a tax audit. Then came the official Transit Travel Pack. It sounded like something you’d hand to bored children on a long journey, but in reality it was a dense wad of forms, instructions, maps, and dire warnings.

We were told—repeatedly—not to lose it, fold it, or doodle on it. I tucked mine into the glovebox like it was a sacred relic. Welcome to East Germany. Mind your paperwork.

I was elected designated paperwork handler, apparently because I had the most trustworthy face—or perhaps because Johan still couldn’t find his wallet half the time.

So off I marched, clutching the precious Berlin Travel Document, four passports, and a sheaf of ID cards like a woman about to negotiate a hostage release.

Even though I was in civvies, protocol demanded a proper military salute. The Russian sentry, complete with fur hat and an expression carved from stone, returned it with a snap sharp enough to cut glass.

Then came the slow inspection. He peered at every page like NATO’s deepest secrets might be scribbled in the margins. I tried to look both friendly and entirely unremarkable.

Eventually, he handed everything back without a word—just another salute. I responded in kind, starting to feel as though we were rehearsing Swan Lake with rifles.

Then came the Russian admin office. I dutifully placed our documents in the designated tray.

A man behind the glass stamped our BTD with all the joy of someone cancelling Christmas, then shoved it back without so much as a nod.

Bureaucratic ballet complete, we were waved on. One step closer to Berlin.

Back I went to the sentry. More saluting. Honestly, it was like being back on the drill square—only this time with fewer shouted insults and far more geopolitical tension.

He gave our paperwork one final glance, then looked at us as though deciding whether we were spies, defectors, or smugglers of contraband Toblerone.

Apparently we passed muster, because with a curt nod and a flick of the wrist, he waved us on and just like that, we were in.

The infamous Berlin Corridor stretched out ahead—103 miles of grey tarmac slicing through the DDR. Forests and fences pressed close on either side, broken only by the occasional watchtower that made you sit up straighter even in the back seat.

The rules were crystal clear, drilled into us like gospel: no unscheduled stops. No wandering off the Autobahn. No trying out your schoolboy German on the border guards.

Absolutely no schnitzel breaks.

We were to follow only the signs marked “Transit West Berlin,” drive at a sensible pace, and speak only English—clipped, polite, and utterly devoid of anything that might be mistaken for friendliness.

Waving? Out of the question. Apparently even looking cheerful was frowned upon.

Inside the car, you could feel the shift. Conversation dwindled to the odd nervous joke, the kind that falls flat before it even lands. Marlin sat with her nose practically pressed to the window, watching the endless fences blur by. Stephen, hands clenched on the wheel, had gone all stiff-upper-lip and silent, jaw ticking like he was concentrating on keeping the car in a perfectly straight line.

Johan drummed his fingers on his knee, the way he always did when he wanted to look relaxed but wasn’t fooling anyone. And me? I had the paperwork back in my lap, checking it every ten minutes like the Russians might suddenly materialise and demand to see my filing system.

We looked like four tourists on the world’s least cheerful package holiday—minus the postcards, minus the souvenirs, and very definitely minus the smiling.

Checkpoint Bravo—the grand finale in our little Cold War conga line—brought more of the same. Stacks of paperwork, the return of solemn salutes, and enough document shuffling to start a bonfire.

The British Military Police, looking as sharp and suspicious as ever, inspected our Berlin Travel Document like it might spontaneously combust. Once they were satisfied we hadn’t sparked a diplomatic incident, defected, or tried to smuggle out an East German road sign as a souvenir, we were waved through.

And just like that, we were in. West Berlin.

The four of us let out a collective sigh that could’ve deflated the tyres. The girls clapped, grinning like kids on Christmas morning, and Johan even managed a little celebratory honk of the horn—strictly against regulations, of course.

The car had survived. Our nerves were only mildly frayed and I—despite juggling stamps, salutes, and Soviet suspicion—had managed not to land us on anyone’s watchlist.

Mission accomplished: Operation Get-to-Berlin-without-Causing-an-International Incident was officially a success.

Crossing into West Berlin was like stepping out of a black-and-white film straight into Technicolor. One moment it was all fences, watchtowers, and bleak grey stretches of tarmac; the next, streets bursting with colour, shop windows spilling over with goods, and the hum of traffic and chatter everywhere.

It felt almost indecent, that sudden shift. As if the city was deliberately showing off—bright signs blazing, cafés spilling tables out onto the pavements, and flower boxes dripping red geraniums from every balcony. And it worked—we were dazzled.

Stephen leaned forward over the wheel like he was afraid to blink in case it all vanished. Johan kept muttering “Unbelievable” under his breath, as though repeating it might make sense of it. Marlin had her head swivelling so fast between shopfronts I thought she might strain her neck.

And me? I just sat there grinning, soaking in every last detail—the smell of street food drifting from a corner stall, the flash of summer dresses in the crowd, the sheer aliveness of it all. After hours of silence and suspicion, Berlin seemed to explode with colour and noise.

We’d made it. Safe, sound, and on the right side of the Wall.

Once we’d survived the bureaucratic gauntlet at Checkpoint Bravo, we rolled through Berlin’s West side like weary victors and made our way straight to Montgomery Barracks.

First stop: the guardroom, where we presented our orders like schoolboys handing in overdue homework. Then came the Families Office—though calling it that was generous.

It sounded homely, like it might offer tea and biscuits. Instead, we got a Sergeant from the Green Howards who looked like he’d been carved from granite and issued a clipboard at birth. His moustache alone could’ve run a parade.

With a grunt and a nod, he marched us off like a one-man band, rattling out instructions as he went—key collection, heating settings, bin days—all while weaving between buildings like he owned the place. And to be fair, moustache permitting, he probably did.

And then—miracle of miracles—we were shown to our new quarters.

Not only were we actually entitled to married quarters (some divine admin fluke, we assumed), but the best bit? Ours were right next door to each other. The girls practically squealed with joy. After years of shared digs, ferry cabins, and one terrifying landlady in Blackpool who believed toast was a luxury, we finally had proper homes.

German-built, solid as tanks, with radiators that could roast a bratwurst at ten paces… and windows that gave us a panoramic view of the Berlin Wall, almost.

Strange comfort, that. But to us? It was bliss.

The next morning, with a spring in our step (and a strong German coffee in hand that could strip paint), Johan and I reported to the Orderly Room looking sharp—pressed trousers, polished boots, and the smug glow of men who’d just survived Soviet bureaucracy.

The clerk behind the desk barely looked up as he scribbled our names onto the big list of “Arrivals Who Must Now Be Useful.” The Battalion was taking over from the Green Howards, who were already halfway packed and clearly delighted to be heading home. Their moustachioed Sergeant in the Families Office had set the tone—stern, clipped, and entirely uninterested in our survival.

And where were we posted? The Families Office. Yes, the very same one we’d just been through. Only now, instead of being on the receiving end of clipped instructions and hairy moustaches, we were behind the desk—clipboard-wielding experts in the fine art of controlled chaos.

Our mission? Help the new arrivals settle in, move single lads into the barracks, and decode the sacred scrolls of quarter-allocation paperwork, which had seemingly been typed by a half-blind clerk using a Bulgarian typewriter during an earthquake.

The place was a war zone. Boxes everywhere. Kids chasing dogs, dogs chasing each other, and bewildered families wondering where on earth the nearest Naafi was.

The Green Howards, of course, drifted through it all with the serene expressions of men already halfway out the door. They’d done their two years, packed their bags, and were practically humming “So Long, Farewell” from The Sound of Music. One of them even gave me a cheery wave with a box marked “Kitchen — Probably Explosive” as if to say, “Good luck, son, she’s all yours now.”

We Royal Anglian's—the Poachers—marched in with our best parade-ground smiles, blissfully unaware that we were inheriting every leaky tap, dodgy radiator, and set of neighbours with very firm opinions about bin day etiquette.

It was like changing shifts on a sinking ship: one crew rowing frantically for shore, the other climbing aboard with clipboards, whistles, and the misplaced confidence of people who hadn’t yet realised how deep the water was.

One poor soul was adamant that the Re me had hijacked his sofa. Another demanded to know if his allocated flat had a bath, a balcony, or preferably both. Johan and I just smiled, nodded, and got stuck in.

Welcome to the Army. Same madness, new BFPO number, BFPO 45 Berlin.

Petra touched down at RAF Gatow to the sight of a small welcoming party—Stephen and Johan standing there like a pair of smug brothers-in-law who already knew something the rest of us didn’t.

They’d been roped into helping the Families Office settle the new arrivals, clipboards in hand, looking very official. But when Petra was handed her keys, I raised an eyebrow. Ground floor, same block as us, directly beneath Johan and Marlin. Too neat. Too convenient.

Petra was delighted, of course. The thought of being just one flight of stairs away from Marlin and I made her feel instantly at home. Still, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that the boys had quietly shuffled a few papers behind the Families Office desk. Stephen had that particular glint in his eye—the one that usually meant mischief hidden under layers of “nothing to see here.”

Several other wives and toddlers spilled off the flight, and the lads did their best impressions of “helpful squaddies”—lugging suitcases, pointing people vaguely in the direction of the Naafi, and generally making themselves look indispensable. Petra, calm and quietly amused, let herself be swept along and was soon unlocking her new front door.

Meanwhile, Tim was somewhere in Belgium, astride his GS750 and full of enthusiasm—until the RMP at the border took offence at his paperwork and his sideburns. Apparently both were “non-standard.”

A bit of cheek, some convincing, and a sergeant’s weary shrug later, he was waved through. By the time he pulled up outside the block—sweaty, dusty, and triumphant—Petra was already halfway through reorganising the cupboards. Johan leaned over the balcony above with a grin that said, “Welcome to Berlin, mate.”

It wasn’t until much later—after wine, schnitzel, and a fair bit of teasing—that Stephen and Johan admitted it. With chuckles and no hint of shame, they confessed that yes, they’d fixed it. Of course Petra and Tim had been given the flat directly below Johan and Marlin.

“Seemed the sensible thing,” Stephen said, as though he’d just performed a public service rather than bent the Families Office paperwork for his own amusement.

Sensible or not, I was secretly grateful. Family stacked neatly on top of one another, under one roof. In a city split down the middle by walls and wire, it felt like our own little fortress of home—especially knowing Petra could work alongside us too, since we were all with the same translation company.

By the end of August 1978, the full might of the Battalion had thundered into Berlin like a well-organised invasion, with slightly more tea breaks. Johan and I were posted to 3 Platoon, A Company, the very same as Tim. This either spelled seamless teamwork or glorious chaos, depending on who you asked or how much sleep we’d had.

Our initiation began, as tradition demanded, with the ceremonial gauntlet of “meet the chain of command.” First up: the platoon sergeant, square-jawed, regulation hair cut, and a permanent expression that said “I’ve seen things.” Then came the platoon commander, fresh from Sandhurst, polished like a regimental boot, and barely older than us. After that, the Company Sergeant Major: gravel-voiced, built like a wardrobe, and capable of silencing an entire parade square with a single exhale. And finally, the company commander, a refreshingly normal bloke, whose firm handshake and dry wit suggested he’d survived both Belfast and Burns Night dinners.

He marched us, with only slight theatrical flair off to the CO’s office, where the Colonel gave us the obligatory handshake, a once-over that could spot a crooked belt from ten paces, and a brisk “Don’t embarrass us in front of the Brigade.” All very reassuring.

In a shining example of either bad timing or a practical joke by the gods of Army scheduling, it was decided that Johan and I were perfect candidates for the upcoming Junior NCO course, starting in precisely one week. Clearly, someone had spotted us smiling and thought, That won’t do. Tim was already a Lance Corporal and gave us a heads up what to expect.

The course kicked off with the Basic Fitness Test, designed to filter out the unfit, the unprepared, and anyone daft enough to have schnitzel and gravy for breakfast. Johan and I, had no bother at all—barely broke into a sweat. Came in under nine minutes without even trying, truth be told. Could’ve gone quicker, but we weren’t about to start showing off on day one. Best to let the staff wonder just how much more we had in the tank.

What followed was a whirlwind of learning how to be a Lance Corporal, less heroic battlefield leadership and more shouting at people while holding a clipboard. We practised giving and receiving orders like miniature generals, learned to direct fire, plan section attacks, and, of course, build the sacred model sand tables: those intricate dioramas of death made from cat litter, chalk, and desperate creativity. There were also lectures on everything from communications to “motivation techniques” read: yelling constructively.

And drill… oh, the drill. Marching, wheeling, halting, and saluting like our careers depended on it, which, apparently, they did. At one point, I accidentally saluted a dustbin. Johan insisted it was a recycling bin and therefore a legitimate target.

Still, we made it through, scruffy, sleep-deprived, but somehow sharper than when we began. The next generation of junior leaders, ready to take charge… or at least loudly pretend we knew what we were doing.

They also trained us in the mystical arts of duties, how to perform them without looking like you’d rather be cleaning latrines with a toothbrush, and the sacred role of Guard Commander, which mostly involved pretending you were in control while secretly calculating how long you could stay upright without falling asleep.

After six relentless weeks of marching, model trees, ambush diagrams, barking orders, and trying not to giggle during fieldcraft lectures, we finally emerged, sore, sharper, and slightly more shouty—as proud graduates of the Junior NCO course. Our reward? Promotion to the dizzying heights of Lance Corporal, or as we cheekily dubbed it, Corporal Lite.