The Most Surprising Duty in West Berlin!

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Seventeen

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 Seventeen.

Among all the weird and wonderful duties handed out in West Berlin, there was one that stood head and shoulders above the rest. Not because it was dangerous or dramatic, but because it came wrapped in polish, protocol, and a surprising dash of luxury.

Most city tasks meant standing about in draughty gatehouses, saluting anything that moved, or looking stern in a sentry box while trying not to nod off. But this? This was different.

The British Military Train—affectionately known as The Berliner—was the crown jewel of Cold War soldiering. A diplomatic and logistical lifeline running from West Berlin to Braunschweig, it wound its way through 110 miles of East Germany with all the pomp and paranoia you’d expect from an era where even a sideways glance could start a war.

But the crème de la crème of Berlin duties was, without a doubt, riding The Berliner.

Yes, it meant dragging yourself out of bed at some ungodly hour to report to Charlottenburg Station by 0600. But once you were aboard the Pullman-style carriages, all was forgiven.

Breakfast arrived on fine china with proper silverware and tablecloths—none of your army-issue tinned bacon here. The train carried its own Officer or Warrant Officer in charge, plus a Sergeant and a Corporal fluent in Russian to handle the diplomatic ballet with the Soviet border guards at Potsdam and Marienborn.

Then there was the guard detail. That was us lot—usually a Lance Jack and three squaddies armed with SLRs, SMGs, or the trusty old 9mm Brownings. Just in case things got lively. They never did.

Our main job was to chain and padlock the carriage doors when the train stopped at East German border stations. That was mostly to stop any enthusiastic locals hopping aboard mid-pudding and requesting political asylum.

Once the train was rolling, though, it was all rather civilised. As we passed through Magdeburg, they served a cracking breakfast—proper restaurant-quality stuff, prepared by the same company that catered for the Orient Express.

It was surreal. Sitting there in your beret, polishing off a full English while Soviet tanks trundled past outside your window. It might’ve been a Cold War, but we were dining hot.

The full pantomime on The Berliner took about an hour of meticulous saluting, document-stamping, and grim-faced nodding at each end. But in between? It was all white-linen tablecloths and waiter-served wonders.

You’d cruise smoothly through the East German countryside like Cold War royalty, sipping coffee from real china while a Soviet guard scowled at you through a spotless window.

And just when your dessert spoon clinked the bowl, you’d do the whole passport-palaver again at the West German border. On the return trip? Same again—back to paperwork and pantomime.

It was like being trapped in a particularly polite loop of, “Yes, Comrade, thank you, Comrade, here’s my paperwork, Comrade.”

Word got round that the food was so good, some lads actually volunteered for the duty just for the meals. Imagine that—queueing up to play Cold War courier for a slice of apple strudel and a decent roast.

Now, if you fancied taking family along for the ride—showing off your top-tier, espionage-adjacent day job—it was surprisingly simple.

Step one: grovel to your Platoon Commander for a day off. “It’s for my Mother, sir—she’s always wanted to meet a Russian border guard.”

Step two: fill out the Movements Office form with everyone’s names, passport numbers, and an emergency contact who wouldn’t rat you out if it all went sideways. Then wait for your shiny Berlin Travel Document to arrive, like a kid at Christmas.

Step three: set your alarm for stupid o’clock to catch the minibus to Charlottenburg station, ready for a 6 a.m. rendezvous with international bureaucracy.

Easy. Nothing says quality family bonding quite like customs inspections and being side-eyed by a Soviet with a clipboard.

When my mum and Ron came out to visit us for a couple of weeks, I thought I’d give ’em the full Cold War experience—silver service, stern Soviets, and a scenic trundle through the glorious greyness of East Germany aboard the British Military Train.

We gave them the standard safety brief: stay in your seat during the border stops, don’t chat to anyone in a furry hat, and above all, try to look like you belong in a Bond film, not Carry On Espionage.

All was going swimmingly until just before Potsdam, when Mum decided she couldn’t wait and dashed off to the loo. Unfortunately, right as she settled in, the train hit the brakes, the guards locked the carriage doors, and there she was—trapped in the bog with nothing but Soviet paranoia and a flimsy lock between her and an international incident.

Nearly an hour later, she shuffled back into the dining car, stiff-legged and red-faced, muttering, “I thought I was going to end up in Siberia!” We howled. Even the Russian sentry cracked a grin. Best train ride we ever had.

With Mum and Ron in town for their Berlin visit, we did what any good lads would do—we pulled out all the stops. After the now-legendary military train fiasco, Mum would not stop telling people she was nearly abducted by the Soviets while mid-wee, we made sure the rest of their trip was a bit more… relaxed.

We met up with Tim and Petra a few times, picnics by the back lake, a wander through the Tiergarten and even a cheeky visit to the Allied Museum where Tim gave his own commentary, most of it wildly inaccurate but highly entertaining. Petra, ever the translator, quietly corrected him in three languages while smiling sweetly. Ron, bless him, took a shine to the Berlin beer and declared every pint “a proper drop,” which, coming from a man who thought Watney’s Red Barrel was exotic, was high praise indeed.

What struck me most, though, was how seamlessly Petra fitted in. Not just with Tim, but with all of us, like she’d always been part of the family. Ron and Mum already thought of her as a daughter, which made those evenings out feel less like holiday catch-ups and more like proper family do’s. It reminded me of home, of Stephen, of the whole mad journey we’d all been on.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, between Petra’s gentle smiles, Ron’s boozy toasts, and Mum giving Johan a knitted scarf “because he looked peaky”, I realised we weren’t just living abroad. We were building something here. A proper life. With all the chaos, cock-ups, and comfort that came with it.

One of the perks of being posted to Berlin, aside from dodging full-on war, was that life was relatively easy-going. You had your duties, your drills, your daily dose of Cold War paranoia, but for the most part, it was cushy compared to yomping through the Highlands or dodging bricks in Belfast.

That said, every now and then, some bright spark in HQ decided we needed to stay “sharp,” which translated into “let’s scare the living daylights out of them at 2 a.m.” Enter: midnight madness. One minute you’re dreaming of schnitzel and Marlin’s bubble bath, the next, the tannoy’s blaring, lights are flashing, and you’re legging it to the armoury with your boots on the wrong feet.

Uniforms were optional, apparently, well, that’s how it looked when one poor sod rocked up with no trousers, just his smock and a rather breezy pair of Regimental Y-fronts. Someone else turned up in a towel and webbing. I kid you not.

The grand operation? Load up like it was D-Day, storm down to the Havel, and paddle across the flipping lake in the dark on landing craft, all to dig ourselves into the muddy banks of the Grünewald Forest. It was all very dramatic, map readings, whispered commands, someone falling out the boat. We were halfway expecting the Soviets to pop out of the trees and offer us tea out of pity.

But of course, the Russians never showed, probably took one look through their binoculars at our dishevelled, half-dressed lot and thought, nah, not tonight, comrade.

To make the whole escapade even more unforgettable, we were treated to a moment of pure comedy gold, one that would go down in Berlin Battalion folklore.

So there we were, clambering aboard the landing craft like a ragtag bunch of amphibious misfits, mud, mist, and moaning aplenty, when one of the Sergeant Majors, no names mentioned, but let’s just say eggs had more medals than some platoons, made his grand entrance.

He was trying to stride aboard like Montgomery at El Alamain, but as he stepped off the bank, there was a mighty whoops, a flailing of arms, and splash!, his beloved SMG arced through the air like a flying fish and vanished straight into the ogg in.

Silence.

Then a muffled, “Oh… bollocks.”

We tried to keep straight faces, honestly we did, but the sight of a Sergeant Major holding a torch, peering mournfully into the black water while muttering about “the Queen’s property” nearly finished us off. One lad actually fell off the boat laughing.

Diving team was called in next morning, and when they finally fished it out, jammed between a rock and a rotting boot, it looked more like a rusted trombone than a weapon of war.

He still hasn’t lived it down. Any time someone’s slow on parade or misplaces a kitbag, someone always pipes up with, “Could be worse, least you didn’t baptise your SMG.”

Classic.

We kicked off the Aikido club at a family day, figuring a bit of show-and-tell might drum up interest. Of course, Stephen, Johan, and Tim were voluntold as our crash-test dummies—three strapping Royal Anglian rugby legends marched onto the mats looking far too smug for their own good.

We gave them a fighting chance, but it didn’t take long before Marlin had Johan flat on his back, Petra had Tim tied into something resembling a sailor’s knot, and I’d dropped Stephen so neatly he lay there blinking at the ceiling like he’d misplaced his own boots. The crowd roared, kids squealed, and the wives clapped like we’d just put on the headline act.

That should’ve been warning enough, but a handful of young lads from the barracks fancied showing off. They strutted in all puffed chests and cheeky grins, determined to impress us. Ten minutes later they were red-faced, wheezing, and shuffling off the mats with the grace of three-legged donkeys.

The best part? Watching Stephen, Johan, and Tim lean on the sidelines, pints in hand, taking the mickey. “Smooth landing, sunshine,” Johan called as one lad flopped down in a heap. “Don’t forget to bow on the way out!” Stephen added, while Tim shouted, “Ten out of ten for style, none for execution!”

By the end, only a small core of wives stuck around, determined and grinning. And that’s how our Aikido club began—discipline, laughter, and three very smug husbands who’d found a new hobby in heckling anyone daft enough to volunteer.

A few nights later in the Corporals’ Mess, the Aikido display was still the talk of the block. The young lads were keeping their heads down, still nursing bruised egos and a few actual bruises. Stephen, Johan, and Tim were milking it for all it was worth, telling anyone who’d listen how they had heroically survived being thrown about by their wives.

Then the RSM strolled in, pint in hand, moustache bristling. He listened to the banter for a bit, then cut through the noise with that parade-ground voice of his. “Enough of the comedy. Those three ladies showed more discipline, control, and presence on those mats than half you lot in the gym. That deserves respect.”

The room fell quiet for a bit, then the cheer went up—proper loud, pints banged on tables, lads grinning and nodding. Marlin flushed pink, Petra looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole, and I just sat back with a smile. For once, we weren’t just the wives. We were part of the regiment’s story, and the RSM had made sure everyone knew it.

Later that night, when the noise had dipped and the Mess was back to its usual low rumble of darts and dodgy jokes, Stephen nudged me with his elbow.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” I said. she raised an eyebrow.

“That wasn’t just the RSM being polite. That was him putting you lot on the map. Doesn’t hand out respect like that unless it’s earned.”

There was no swagger in his voice, no show. Just that steady pride I’d first fallen for back in Hitchin. Ex-Marine or not, now a Corporal in the Poachers, Stephen knew exactly what weight the RSM’s words carried in a room full of soldiers.

He gave me a small smile, lifted his pint, and added, “Not just proud as your husband, Vinka. Proud as a Poacher. You did us all credit tonight.” For me, that meant more than any cheer in the Mess.

One of Berlin’s little joys was access to the PX's—the American and French versions of military Aladdin’s caves.

The French PX was, predictably, wall-to-wall wine, cheese, and a suspiciously large selection of aftershave. We were perusing a shelf full of claret one afternoon when a dashing French officer sidled up and whispered reverently, “The wines from Médoc, monsieur… they are… how you say… superbe.”

He looked oddly familiar. Handsome in that classic French way, cheekbones sharp enough to slice brie and an accent smoother than a silk cravat. Possibly someone I’d seen in a film… or maybe from some hazy memory buried under layers of drill and boot polish.

I gave him a polite nod and turned back to the pressing matter of choosing between cheap but passable and passable but cheap. Just a fleeting moment, easily forgotten… yet somehow, it lingered.

Now, the American PX was in another league altogether. It had everything: Levi’s, ghetto blasters, cowboy boots, baseball mitts, ten-gallon hats—the lot.

Walking in felt like stepping onto the set of a John Wayne western, if someone had swapped the horses for shopping trolleys. The place even smelled like freedom and barbecued optimism.

The restaurant? Oh, that was a cholesterol cathedral—burgers the size of car tyres, fries served by the shovelful, and enough ketchup to respray a Mini.

Every Saturday morning, the Battalion laid on a couple of coaches to shuttle the troops over. Less a shopping trip, more a tactical supply run: part fashion recon, part fast-food ambush.

And the best bit? You didn’t even need a car. Berlin’s public transport ran so bang on time you could set your new PX-bought digital watch by it. And some did—usually while wearing a Stetson and humming the Star-Spangled Banner.

One of our favourite haunts in Berlin was the mighty KaDeWe, Kaufhaus des Westens, a department store so posh it practically oozed bratwurst-scented sophistication. Think Harrods with fewer cravats and a lot more cured meats. Just round the corner was the famous Blue Church, which we always pretended to admire thoughtfully, mostly while inhaling flaky pastries. Come winter, the whole square transformed into a snow-globe scene, complete with fairy lights, roasted chestnuts, and a postcard-perfect ice rink.

Vinka, Marlin, and Petra glided out onto the ice like they were auditioning for Swan Lake on Ice. Elegant, giggling, and showing off just enough to make it look effortless. Meanwhile, Tim, Johan and I held down the important job of rink side spectators, glühwein swapped for bottles of Berliner Pils, the bench creaking under our combined weight and smugness. “I could do that,” Tim muttered at one point, nodding at Petra’s perfect spin, “but only if I was being chased by a bear. On roller skates.”

We didn’t move much. Just clapped when appropriate, offered dramatic coaching tips like, “Yes, more twirling!” and kept the coats safe with the dignity of men who knew their ankles weren’t built for that sort of nonsense. It was proper festive magic, with bratwurst.

Just as Tim boasted, loudly, I might add, that he could skate just as well as Petra, Vinka, ever the instigator with that mischievous glint in her eye, turned to him and said, “Ja? Prove it then, Poacher.”

Tim blinked. “I was clearly speaking metaphorically,” he replied, mid-sip of his Pils. But it was too late. Petra was already waving him over, Marlin trying not to laugh, and Vinka, arms folded, nodding toward the rental hut like a queen laying down a royal decree.

Minutes later, our brave hero emerged, boots swapped for blades, wobbling toward the ice like Bambi in a gale. “Don’t wait up,” he muttered to us, the smug confidence replaced by a growing sense of regret. He stepped onto the rink… and instantly resembled a baby giraffe trying to tap-dance on marbles. Petra swooped in, grabbed his hands, and tried to lead him around like a ballroom partner, only to be yanked off balance as Tim performed a dramatic, unintentional pirouette, arms flailing like he’d just touched an electric fence.

The girls were howling. We weren’t much better. Johan nearly choked on his beer, and I had tears in my eyes, not from emotion, but sheer, glorious comedy.

To Tim’s credit, he stayed upright… mostly. “See?” he gasped as he reached the edge again, cheeks red and pride dented. “Didn’t fall once.”

“No,” said Vinka, handing him back his bottle. “But you did invent three new moves. The Flying Flail, the Reverse Windmill, and what I believe was called ‘Oh God, Save Me’.”

Tim raised his beer in salute. “You’re just jealous of my style.”

Best day at the rink ever..

One particularly posh highlight came when we were honoured by a visit from the Deputy Colonel-in-Chief of the Regiment—none other than Her Royal Highness. Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester. The girls were beside themselves, fluttering round the Corporals’ Mess like debutantes at a garden party.

The moment came to be presented, we curtsied so gracefully you’d think we’d been rehearsing for weeks. We had. Conversation flowed as if we were old chums at a tea dance. Marlin, ever the diplomat, explained the contrast between life with a Royal Marine and life in the Army.

“It’s lovely having them home every evening,” she smiled sweetly, “instead of wondering if they’re halfway up a frozen fjord or digging latrines in a Cypriot thunderstorm.”

Her Royal Highness nodded with sage politeness, though I rather think she was quietly grateful she hadn’t shackled herself to a bootneck either.

The girls floated on cloud nine for days, endlessly reliving the moment. Vinka even started practising her curtsey in the hallway again. “Just in case she pops round for tea,” she winked.

I told her not to bother—if the Duchess did turn up in Berlin, she’d more likely want a gin and tonic than a display of etiquette. That earned me a look sharp enough to pin me to the spot. Still, I caught her sneaking another curtsey in the mirror the very next morning.

Our little slice of Berlin paradise came with a surreal backdrop. We lived in a block of four tidy flats, just a stone’s throw—if you were a javelin thrower—from the infamous Berlin Wall. On the other side lay a vast Russian training ground, home to a tank regiment with enough T-54s and T-55s to start their own demolition derby. A few T-72s lumbered about as well, like Soviet rhinos in a permanent bad mood.

They loved firing up their engines during our dinner hour, no doubt to remind us they were still there. Intimidating? Hardly. We just turned up the radio, popped another cork, and carried on with the meatballs. Nothing ruins a meal quite like Cold War posturing.

Our flats were on the second floor of a solid, Cold War-era block with all the charm of a concrete shoebox but the reliability of a fortress. The front doors sat opposite each other, perfect for popping round to borrow tea, sugar, socks—or the occasional bit of marital advice.

Inside, the layouts were mirror images. A wide entrance hall, ideal for tripping over boots. One side held the kitchen, surprisingly modern, the other the toilet, even more surprisingly separate. Beyond that stretched a roomy living area with a balcony overlooking the car park and children’s play area, usually alive with the sound of small humans screaming as if bees had declared war.

A corridor off to the side led to three bedrooms and a main bathroom. Since we’d arrived in Berlin with little more than our uniforms, wedding rings, and a trusty can opener, we sensibly chose fully furnished quarters. They came complete with pots, pans, curtains, cutlery, bedding, and even matching pillowcases—finally, no more borrowing the neighbour’s spoon.

The real fun began when the food parcels arrived. You’d hear the rattle of tins in a cardboard box and know you were about to play culinary Russian roulette. Labels were faded, tins dented, and the contents anyone’s guess—chicken soup or peaches in brine? Only one way to find out.

We turned it into a bit of a challenge. Marlin once conjured up a whole meal out of “assorted savoury items,” and somehow we survived it. Tim swore he’d discovered a tin of steak and kidney pudding dating back to the Suez Crisis. “Still good,” he insisted. Petra put her foot down and wouldn’t let him open it anywhere near the flat.

Berlin, of course, was one giant Cold War chessboard, and food stockpiling was part of the game. Warehouses brimmed with tinned meat, powdered mash, dried eggs, dehydrated carrots, and enough UHT milk to float a destroyer. But food, like soldiers on stag duty, doesn’t last forever. So instead of letting it expire in some NATO bunker, the powers that be decided to flog it to us married quarters at knock-down prices.

The system was weirdly efficient. A notice went up on the Families Office board with a list of whatever was on offer, usually described with the subtlety of a mystery novel—“mixed savoury (unspecified)” or “dessert-type (assorted).” You ticked the boxes, dropped off your form, and a week later a pair of squaddies would roll up in a Land Rover, clipboard in hand, delivering your “haul.”

They unloaded it crate by crate like it was Christmas morning—except instead of toys and sweets, you got corned beef, tinned celery, and packet soup thick enough to grout a bathroom. We girls treated it like a sport: comparing haul sizes, swapping items, and coming up with recipes that could make dried egg and powdered mash look almost respectable. It wasn’t fine dining, but it kept the wolf from the door—and occasionally even impressed the neighbours.