Mess Hall Mishaps You Won't Believe!

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Sixteen

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 Sixteen.

With this new rank came the privilege of joining the hallowed halls of the Corporals’ Mess. Our induction included a firm handshake, a lukewarm pint, and a deadly serious welcome brief from the RSM himself, who, as Mess President, had a moustache you could lose a boot in and a stare that could make wallpaper peel.

The rules were clear: no spilling gravy on the mess silver, never ever sit in “that” chair, apparently last occupied by a VC recipient or possibly a ghost, and absolutely no mischief involving the port decanter, especially if it involved flaming sugar cubes or impromptu toasts to Her Majesty’s corgis.

We stood there, polished boots and all, trying not to look like schoolboys who’d just been let into the staffroom. We were Lance Jacks now, officially responsible, technically trustworthy, and only slightly terrified.

With a bit of extra cash in our pockets and the girls continuing to rake it in translating top-secret Swedish documents about flat-pack furniture, missile guidance systems, and the intricacies of social democracy, we decided the time had come to bid a fond, oily farewell to our noble old Volvo P1 4 4. It had been a faithful steed: steady, sturdy, and just moody enough to remind us it had character. But after one last heroic puff of blue smoke and a worrying clunk from somewhere in the gearbox, we knew it was time.

Enter Berlin’s glorious tax-free military car scheme. Like kids in a particularly well-guarded sweet shop, we marched into the dealer and, after much chin-rubbing and tyre-kicking, we splashed out on not one, but two brand spanking new Volvo 244 Turbos, top of the range.

Oh yes. Nothing says “we’ve made it” like matching Swedish tanks with turbocharged engines, leather seats, and the smug satisfaction of knowing you got them at a discount. Johan and Marlin chose a dark green beauty with black leather, a car that practically growled “stand aside, peasants.” Vinka and I went for dark blue with black leather, elegant, stealthy, and just serious enough to make customs officers squint when we crossed borders.

We paid cash, almost every pfennig of our hard-earned savings, because if you’re going to pretend to be respectable grown-ups, you might as well go all in and as we drove off in convoy, windows down, stereo on, and exhaust notes humming like a barbershop quartet of finely-tuned pistons, I couldn’t help but grin.

From borrowed bikes and ferry rides to turbocharged Volvos and leather upholstery—we’d come a long way, mate.

Not long after settling in, Tim and Petra decided it was time for a proper set of wheels. They came back from the dealer grinning like teenagers, Petra clutching the keys to a brand-new black VW Beetle. Small, sleek, and—according to Petra—“perfectly practical.” Tim, of course, claimed he only agreed to black because it matched his GS750. We knew better—he just liked the idea of his wife’s car and his bike looking like part of the same company.

Berlin, as it turned out, was a brilliant place to squirrel away cash. Between the Overseas Allowance, subsidised beer in the Mess, schnitzel that cost less than a packet of cigarettes, and the glorious absence of any ankle-biters draining our bank accounts, we were living rather handsomely.

In fact, most months we didn’t even touch our base pay—our wages just sat there in a quiet corner of the bank, multiplying like well-behaved rabbits. The girls’ translation work kept rolling in too—classified documents by day, crosswords and novels by night—and they were bringing in a tidy sum, all without ever leaving the comfort of our perfectly heated, East-facing flats.

Petra, meanwhile, had taken firm control of Tim’s finances. She kept him on a short leash when it came to spending, balancing the books with the same calm efficiency she brought to her translations. Tim liked to pretend he was still in charge, but everyone knew Petra was the one holding the purse strings—and their savings account proved it. Not that he didn’t try the odd manoeuvre: the occasional “mystery parcel” of motorbike parts would appear at the block, but Petra always caught him out. She had a sixth sense for spotting missing Marks.

Add in the fact we’d sworn off frivolous spending, give or take the odd pair of glittery dance shoes and the essential Swedish skincare I insisted on, and within a few months, we’d patched up the hole left by the twin Volvo purchases.

At this rate, we joked, we’d be able to buy a castle in Sweden… or at least a very posh shed with a sea view and enough space to swing a sauna. Either way, we were on the up.

We rejoined Three Platoon as section second-in-commands, which basically meant we’d earned the sacred right to carry a clipboard and occasionally bark orders with exaggerated confidence—usually timed so someone important happened to be walking by.

Day-to-day life in Berlin wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady: a rotating circus of guard duties, weapons cleaning, boot inspections, and maintaining a perfectly neutral expression while listening to yet another briefing on East German border etiquette.

But the real heartbeat of our week? Rugby. Sweet, glorious, bone-rattling rugby.

If Berlin was grey, rugby was technicolour. Our first training session with the battalion team felt like coming home—one part fitness trial, one part full-contact therapy session. We came off the pitch bruised, breathless, and grinning like loons.

The coach, bless him, nearly wept when he clocked our CVs: three blokes who could rotate between scrum half, fly half, and full back without missing a beat, all with boots like howitzers. We weren’t just back—we were in our element.

Tim? He was already a legend on the Battalion team. He’d sung our praises to the coach before we’d even set foot on the pitch, making us sound like the missing pieces of a championship puzzle. Turns out, he wasn’t far wrong.

After a few weeks of drills, bruises, and enough colourful language to turn the air blue, we were finally ready for our first big match, against the mighty Welsh Guards. Word got round, and soon it seemed like the whole battalion had downed tools and turned up to watch, whether out of genuine support or just to dodge a day polishing something pointless.

The match? An absolute belter.

Taken from the Match Report in The Berliner News: Royal Anglian's vs. Welsh Guards – The Berlin Grudge Match

The scene was set: a crisp autumn afternoon in Berlin, the pitch at Montgomery Barracks freshly chalked, and the whole battalion turned out to watch. The stands and touchlines were packed—off-duty squaddies, NCOs, officers, even a few brave souls from the Families Office who’d heard about “that match” three years ago and didn’t want to miss the sequel. And oh yes—so had the Welsh Guards.

Still smarting from their 1975 defeat, they arrived full of fire and fury, their pack heavier, their boots sharper, and their scrum-half with a chip on his shoulder big enough to need planning permission. Word had it they’d even cut back on fry-ups in the mess to improve their fitness. Dangerous talk.

But we were ready.

From the very first whistle, you could feel it in your bones—this wasn’t just rugby, this was war in short shorts. Marlin, Petra and I stood shivering on the sideline near the CO, scarves pulled tight, as the whole battalion roared their lungs out. The first twenty minutes were brutal: scrums collapsed like drunks at a dance, rucks turned into wrestling matches, and the air turned blue with words I’m fairly certain you won’t find in any English dictionary.

But then, right on cue, Tim did what Tim always did—he lit the fire. From a stolen line-out deep in our half, the ball zipped through quick hands—Stephen to Johan, Johan out wide—and then, with that flick of the wrist, it found Tim. He cut through the Guards’ defence like a bayonet through custard. Try. Converted. 7–0. The CO gave a sharp nod, and Marlin squeezed my arm so tight I nearly lost feeling.

The Welsh came back swinging—big carries, pick-and-go, mauls that seemed to last a lifetime. They scraped three points from a penalty, but that was about as good as it got.

Half-time came with the score still tight enough to worry. That’s when Petra, never one to miss her moment, sidled up and introduced us properly to the CO. He was a tall, stiff-backed man with a stare sharp enough to cut glass, but Petra breezed in with a grin.

“Don’t worry, sir,” she said, nodding toward the lads catching their breath. “Second half, they’ll bring out their party trick. I guarantee you’ll get your win.”

The CO arched an eyebrow. “Party trick?”

Marlin chuckled. “Let’s just say the Welsh won’t know who’s who until it’s far too late.”

The CO gave a thin smile, muttered something about “bloody showmen,” and went back to his tea.

Sure enough, five minutes into the second half, it began. The quick shift, the sleight of hand, the sudden swapping of positions mid-flow. One second the Welsh thought they had Johan pinned, the next he’d flicked it to Stephen, who’d looped round to feed Tim, who wasn’t even meant to be there. Absolute confusion—red shirts colliding like clowns in a circus. By the time they untangled, Tim was already over the line. Try number two, converted, 14 3. The battalion erupted, and Petra’s grin said it all: told you so.

They weren’t done. Another phase, another switch. Johan smashed their fly-half in a tackle so hard I felt it from the touchline, ripped the ball, and in two strides was under the posts himself. 21 to 3. Then Stephen picked up a loose ball, spotted daylight, and went charging through—legs pumping, the Welsh full-back flapping like a broken gate. Try number four. 28 to 3.

And just when the Guards’ shoulders finally slumped, the boys twisted the knife with one more party-piece special. Johan dummied left, Stephen cut inside, and somehow the ball popped up in Tim’s hands. He was grinning even before he touched down. Hat-trick. 33 to 3.

The whistle blew soon after, though you’d have thought it was the end of the world from the Welsh faces. The post-match handshake was as frosty as a Berlin winter. Their captain managed a grunt, their scrum-half muttered something about “luck” and “ref bias,” but the scoreboard told the truth.

Man of the Match? Tim, officially. But as Marlin leaned in, clapping her hands raw, she whispered what we all knew: it had taken all three of them to tear the Welsh apart. And when Petra shot the CO a look that said, See? Told you so, I swear I saw the corners of his mouth twitch into the faintest smile.

The CO. Positively glowing. Pride. Schnapps. Bit of both, maybe. Either way, the boys had secured their spot as golden lads of the Corporals’ Mess. From that point on, the gravy was warmer, the port flowed freer, and even the RSM offered a rare grunt of approval—high praise indeed.

Later that evening in the Corporals’ Mess, the place was buzzing like a hornet in a pint glass. True to his word, the CO had a barrel put on—proper German beer, the good stuff—and even wandered in himself for a quiet glass, which set tongues wagging all night.

The atmosphere was electric; you’d think they’d just won the Five Nations, not a regimental grudge match.

Then the girls swept in—dressed to the nines and grinning like cats who’d just pinched both the cream and the saucer—absolutely bursting with pride.

I was telling anyone within earshot and a fair few who weren’t, “Did you see my Stephen? Like a gazelle he was—if gazelles could tackle like freight trains!”

Marlin was waving a beer around like a cheerleader’s pompom, declaring Johan’s try was “the most elegant bit o’ footwork since Fred Astaire tap-danced through a minefield.”

And Petra? Well, Petra was practically interviewing Tim for Match of the Day with a pretend microphone, putting on her best BBC voice: “So tell us, Tim love, how did it feel to crush their little Welsh hearts again?”

Stephen went crimson on the spot, trying to hide behind his pint as though it might suddenly grow big enough to shield him. He muttered something about “just doing my job,” which only made the lads around him cheer louder.

Johan, by contrast, basked in it—lifting his glass to every toast, grinning like the cat that got the cream. When Marlin called him “my Fred Astaire of the try line,” he actually gave her a little bow, which set the whole table roaring.

And Tim? Well, he leaned straight into Petra’s nonsense interview, nodding solemnly at her imaginary microphone. “Yes, thank you, Sue Barker,” I said in my best mock-serious tone. “The lads dug deep, the crowd was magnificent, and frankly, it was an honour to shatter a few Welsh dreams in the process.” That earned him a round of applause, three cheers, and a shower of beer froth.

By the time the barrel was half-drained, the Mess was a storm of laughter, songs, and the kind of backslapping camaraderie you can’t fake. Victories come and go, but nights like that—the glow, the noise, the pride—stuck with us.

The lads glowed, sweat, beer, and pride all mixed into one. They didn’t need medals; they had us, their very own fan club, doing PR better than the BBC. At one point the CO raised his glass, gave a sly nod toward the boys, and muttered just loud enough for us to hear, “That little party trick of yours, keep it for the big matches.”

Somewhere between the third round of toasts and the first mangled attempt at a rugby song, one of the lads leaned over to us girls with a grin. “You know, you three… your fellas are batting way above their station. What on earth are you doing with them?”

There was a beat—just long enough for Stephen, Johan, and Tim to stiffen like they were back on parade. Then we pounced.

I shot back sweetly, “Community service. Somebody has to keep them house-trained.”

Marlin raised her glass and added, “Cheaper than keeping actual pets. Less fur, slightly more mud.”

And Petra, bless her, delivered the knockout blow with a grin sharp enough to cut glass: “Well, someone’s got to make sure they remember which way round to hold a knife and fork.”

The whole table erupted. The lads groaned, the CO nearly spat out his beer, and the poor lad who’d asked looked like he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

And that was the night, we sang, we danced, we laughed until our cheeks hurt. When we finally spilled out into the cold Berlin air, the six of us arm in arm, we were still buzzing, voices hoarse but hearts fit to burst. That win wasn’t just theirs, it felt like ours too.

Berlin duties, meanwhile, were a right mixed bag, part paint-drying boredom, part cloak-and-dagger theatre. Most of the time you were stood at the front gate trying to look menacing while checking IDs like a disgruntled nightclub doorman, or sat on fire watch hoping no one flambéed the sausages in the cookhouse again. But just when you thought the highlight of your week was issuing a camp pass to someone’s nan, along came the juicy bits: Spandau Prison and the Flag Tours.

Spandau was bonkers. A whole prison for one old Nazi, Rudolf Hess, who wandered about like a confused librarian. We’d man the towers, shuffle visitors through like Cold War ushers, and rotate guard shifts with the Russians, Yanks, and French, all while pretending it wasn’t completely ridiculous.

But the real star turn? The Flag Tours into East Berlin. We’d swap the Rovers for sleek black Opel Imperials, Union Flags bolted to the bonnets like we were hosting Eurovision behind enemy lines. Then we’d roll through East Berlin like VIPs on a Sunday drive, all very official, all very polite, and trailed, of course, by the KGB in a smoky Trabant with a bloke holding up Pravda like it was doing a day job. We always waved. They never did. Probably didn’t want to crumple the newspaper.

We’d cruise past Soviet monuments, East German barracks, and those grim apartment blocks that looked like they’d been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against windows—and joy.

We’d nod sagely, scribble in our little black books, half the time just our lunch orders and every so often pull over to inspect a “point of interest” with exaggerated curiosity.

One of us would hop out, peer through binoculars at a radio mast or a barracks wall, while the other snapped a few photos—strictly regulation, of course—just to see how twitchy our tails would get.

If we were feeling particularly cheeky, we’d throw in a little wave. Reactions ranged from the icy glare to a frantic scribble in a notepad, but never—never—a wave back.

We were the Union Flag on wheels, the parade ground in motion, and for those two surreal hours, the most conspicuous undercover tourists in Berlin.

Course, it wasn’t all stiff faces and serious note-taking. Every now and then, we’d slip in a bit of mischief—just to keep ourselves entertained.

One time, Johan stopped dead outside a Soviet barracks, pulled out the binoculars, and started studying the place like he was planning to buy it. Proper serious face, not a twitch of humour. I, naturally, played along—hunched over my notebook, nodding like I’d just spotted an armoured division hiding behind the washing lines.

Couple of minutes later, an East German patrol car crept up behind us, two blokes inside doing their best impressions of thunderclouds. Johan, cool as you like, handed me the binoculars and muttered, “Your turn.” So I had a good long look… straight at their windscreen.

Could’ve cut the air with a bayonet. They glared, I smiled sweet as sugar, then dutifully jotted something down in my little black book. Truth be told, it was just “Ham roll or cheese roll tomorrow?” but they didn’t know that.

Eventually, the patrol gave up and drove off, no doubt convinced we’d uncovered the Warsaw Pact’s master plan. Johan and I just about burst trying not to laugh until we were back in West Berlin.

Back at Checkpoint Charlie, still buzzing from our little performance outside the Soviet barracks, Johan and I couldn’t resist telling the tale. We were halfway through the bit about the patrol car creeping up when Vinka folded her arms, gave me that look, and said, “So… while the rest of us were trying not to get arrested, you two thought it would be funny to play spies with ham rolls?”

Marlin just shook her head, muttering something about throttling Johan in his sleep, while Petra—ever the diplomat—tried to smother a laugh behind her hand.

Didn’t matter how much we protested it was all in the name of “morale,” the girls had us dead to rights. From that day on, every time we pulled out the black notebooks, Vinka would whisper, “Cheese or ham?” and Marlin would hum the Mission: Impossible theme.

Going over into East Berlin for fun felt like the most rebellious thing you could do in Number Two Dress without actually starting an incident.

Technically it was allowed, closely monitored, and utterly bizarre—like stepping through the looking glass into a parallel world where everything was just a little greyer, a little quieter, and a lot more suspicious.

But that’s what made it thrilling. For us—and especially for the girls—it was part Cold War tourism, part date night with a side of geopolitics.

We weren’t crossing over to make a point; we went for the sheer novelty of it. One minute you’re sipping coffee by the Ku’damm, the next you’re in a café where the sugar comes in one lump, if you’re lucky and the background music is a marching band on loop. Weird, wonderful, and oddly romantic in that “we might be tailed by the Stasi” sort of way.

Vinka once whispered, “This is like being in a spy film… only with worse cutlery.”

Marlin, not to be outdone, tried to flirt with our Stasi tail by dropping her napkin three times. He didn’t flinch, but we’re fairly certain he blushed.

As for the food? The goulash had “character,” the bread rolls doubled as self-defence weapons, and dessert was usually a choice between grey cake—or no cake.

But we didn’t care. It was romantic in its own bonkers way—clinking glasses of suspiciously sweet sekt while trying to guess if the waiter was KGB.

Every outing felt like a mission, but instead of gathering intel, we were collecting memories. And possibly indigestion.

One evening we decided to go full Cold War theatre—literally. We booked ourselves into a concert hall on Unter den Linden, the kind of place where the chandeliers sparkled just enough to distract you from the cracks in the plaster, and the ushers looked like they moonlighted for the border guards.

The concert itself? Incredible. A full symphony orchestra, Beethoven played with such power it rattled your bones, followed by a choir that made the hair stand up on the back of your neck. For those two hours, the music swept us away, and you almost forgot the Wall, the barbed wire, and the grey-suited shadows lurking behind.

It was everything around it that turned into pantomime. Our tails sat three rows back in matching suits, whispering into notebooks with all the subtlety of villains in a Christmas panto. I nudged Stephen and muttered, “They’ve missed their cue.” Johan, without missing a beat, whispered back, “Oh no they haven’t.” Marlin nearly fell off her seat trying not to laugh.

At the interval, the sekt was warm, the pretzels brick-hard, and the toilets had a queue that felt like border control. We toasted anyway, Petra raising her glass and saying, “For music and madness.”

Walking back afterwards through East Berlin’s dimly lit streets, the sound of the choir still lingering in my ears, I realised how strange and wonderful it all was. The music was unforgettable. The rest was absurd. But together, the mix made for one of those nights you treasure—ridiculous, dangerous, and romantic all at once.

And I knew then what I would later whisper to Stephen: “These nights… they’re what bind us. We’ll forget the queues and the bad sekt, but we’ll always remember being here, together.”

It reminded me, in its own strange way, of midsummer at home in Sweden—music, laughter, the feeling of being bound together by something bigger than ourselves. Only colder, greyer, and watched from the shadows.