Military Christmas Party Secrets REVEALED

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Eighteen

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 Eighteen.

The night of the Corporals’ Mess Christmas Ball was one for the books, but this wasn’t a medals-and-military-rig affair. Oh no, this was civvies night, suits only and we’d all turned out like extras from The Sweeney meets Saturday Night Fever. Johan, Tim and I cut sharp figures in our matching navy pinstripe suits from Burton’s, tailored a few years back and still crisp enough to slice bratwurst. Even Tim had one, though his tie sat slightly crooked, thanks to Petra fussing over it every five minutes.

As we entered with the girls on our arms, the room seemed to stop. Vinka in midnight blue, Marlin in deep red, Petra in forest green, they looked like they’d swept straight off a Paris runway. Heads turned. Drinks were spilled. One poor signals corporal walked square into a pillar trying not to stare. We might’ve strutted in feeling dapper in our pinstripes, but once the girls appeared, it was clear who the real showstoppers were. Even the CO did a double take, and the RSM nearly dropped his port.

The Mess had gone full festive, tinsel, candles, mistletoe in very strategic places, and a band belting out everything from Bing Crosby to Boney M. When the dancing began, we didn’t just shuffle, we swept the floor. Years of ballroom at school, not to mention that unforgettable time in Blackpool, suddenly paid off. We moved with such elegance the floor cleared just to watch, the band softening their tempo as if they knew they were accompanying a show. Toasts were raised to absent friends and new memories, and somewhere between the cheese board and the schnapps, even the RSM cracked a smile, before leading a conga round the pool table, tinsel trailing behind him like some glittery regimental standard.

As the night wore on and the band shifted from sedate swing to full-on foot-stompers, the dance floor turned into a joyous battlefield of elbows, high heels, and some truly questionable footwork. Tim led Petra out first, all puffed-up confidence, trying his best Fred Astaire impression. He managed just enough grace to avoid breaking her toes, though if you squinted, it looked more like Fred Astaire after three schnapps. Petra didn’t care, she beamed at him like he’d just won the Five Nations.

Johan and Marlin were naturals, of course, she glided like silk, he grinned like a kid on Christmas morning, and together they looked like a couple plucked straight off a film poster. Show-offs.

Then it was my turn. I dragged Stephen up, all confidence and sparkle. “Come on, Corporal” I purred, “show me what those big boots can do.” He obliged, bless him, though I’ll admit my toes took a few direct hits, four, but who’s counting. Still, I kept laughing and twirling like we were back at the Winter Gardens. At one point, one of the lads tried to cut in, but one look from me, half flirt, half danger and he suddenly remembered he had somewhere else to be. Sensible.

Meanwhile, the bar had descended into chaos. A game of “guess the port” had broken out, which mostly involved getting steadily more pickled and wildly more incorrect. The RSM kept appearing like some Victorian ghost with a wine habit, glowering just long enough to restore order before slipping away again, port decanter in hand.

Then came the toast. Someone called for absent friends, those posted away, those on duty elsewhere and for a moment the whole room stilled. Glasses rose, eyes softened. It was brief, but it mattered. A rare sober breath in an otherwise gloriously un-sober evening.

Then the band struck up a waltz, and everything shifted. The rowdiness melted, the fairy lights seemed to twinkle just that bit brighter, and I found myself resting my head on Stephen’s shoulder. We moved together with an elegance that surprised even us, all those years of ballroom drilled into us at school, and that mad week in Blackpool, suddenly paying dividends. The floor cleared as if by instinct, leaving us centre stage. For once, it wasn’t about showing off, it was about feeling like we belonged, the two of us, spinning through the glow of Christmas lights while the rest of the Mess watched in silence.

When the music ended, the applause that broke out wasn’t for the band, it was for us. I whispered to Stephen, “If they’re still clapping when the music stops, darling, it’s not showing off, it’s a public service.”

By the end of the night, even the RSM was leading a conga line round the pool table, tinsel streaming behind him like some glittery regimental standard. And as we girls linked arms in the cold Berlin air afterwards, heels in hand, cheeks aching from laughter, I thought, if this is soldiering, I’ll take it.

The six of us spilled out onto the cobbles and wound our way back through camp, the fairy lights from the Mess still glowing behind us. Boots and heels clattered against the frozen pavement as we headed for the back gate, where the duty guard gave us a knowing grin before waving us through into the quarter patch.

Tim, still buzzing from his hat-trick and half a barrel of beer, tried to twirl Petra under the lamplight. She squealed, half-danced, half-stumbled, and only just avoided toppling into a snowdrift. Johan draped his jacket round Marlin’s shoulders and muttered something smug about “best footwork since Fred Astaire.” She snorted, tugged the jacket tighter, and reminded him he still had two left feet even when sober.

Stephen tucked my arm into his and whispered, “Think they bought it? That waltz, like we knew what we were doing?” I kissed his cheek and said, “Darling, if you keep stepping on my toes like that, I’ll have to put you back in training.” He grinned, pretending to limp.

We must’ve looked a sight, three couples weaving our way through the frosty streets of the quarter patch, laughing, teasing, and stopping every few steps to retell the same joke as if it were brand new. Soldiers, wives, friends, no medals, no pomp, just us, wrapped up in the glow of Christmas lights and each other.

And somewhere between the Mess and home, I realised that nights like this, the laughter, the banter, the sheer joy of belonging, were worth more than any victory on the field.

When Mama, Silvi, Papa, and Lars came to Berlin for the holidays, we decided to show them the city in proper Cold War style—just with a Christmas sparkle on top.

Everywhere you turned, fairy lights glittered, market stalls crowded the squares, and the air was thick with the smell of roasting chestnuts and bratwürst.

For the grand event, we took them on the British Military Train, The Berliner. Papa looked doubtful about trundling through East Germany, but curiosity got the better of him.

The journey was all grey fields and grimmer stations until we reached Braunschweig, where the gloom suddenly melted into twinkling lights, festive music, and mugs of hot Glühwein. That was the moment everyone cheered up—especially once bratwursts and market charm replaced the memory of our East Berlin lunch, a bowl of something pretending to be soup, served by people who looked like they’d just graduated from the Stasi school of hospitality.

Christmas that year felt different, like the flat itself had stretched to hold us all. Ten of us squeezed round the table: Tim and Petra, Johan and Marlin, Stephen and me, Papa and Mamma, Lars and Silvi. The room hummed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the familiar chaos of family gathered far from home.

We had gone all out, determined to show them what a proper British Christmas looked like. The roast beef came out pink and perfect, the potatoes so crisp you could probably smash a window with one. There were buttery carrots, Brussels sprouts that no one dared admit to liking, and stuffing with enough sage to start a herb garden. A lake of gravy ran through it all, thick and rich enough to float a canoe. Dessert was no safer: the pudding went up in a whoosh of flame so fierce Tim nearly lost an eyebrow, Petra shrieking in perfect time with the carols playing on the radio. It was noisy, messy, and soaked in too much wine—exactly as it should be.

When the plates were cleared and glasses filled again, Marlin caught my eye. I knew it was time. My heart thudded like a drum, but I slid my hand into hers under the table and sat a little taller in my chair. “We’ve got something to share,” I said, my voice calm though my pulse wasn’t. “Marlin and I… we’re both expecting.” For a moment, smiles spread and the first cheer began to rise—until I added, “And not just one baby each. Twins.”

The room froze. Jaws dropped. Forks hung in mid-air. Even the pudding stopped steaming. Then Lars, staring at me as if I’d grown horns, muttered “Herregud,” before pouring himself a schnapps so large it probably needed planning permission.

I still remember the way the midwives laughed, shaking their heads as if they’d stumbled into a fairy tale. Two couples, two sets of twins, all in the same ward, within the same hour. Double trouble, squared. They joked about running a sweepstake for who would go first, but in the end it was almost a photo finish. Marlin squeezed my hand, eyes fierce and shining, and I thought: so this is what courage looks like. When I heard that first cry, sharp and pure as new winter air, my heart stopped—then raced faster than it ever had on the rugby pitch. Another cry followed, and then another. Four tiny voices, four brand-new lives. For a moment I thought the world itself had shifted.

It was like something out of a surreal military fairy tale—the medical staff couldn’t quite believe it either. Johan and I had started the day cool as ice—“We’ve done riot training for Northern Ireland, mate, how hard can this be?”—but by mid-afternoon we were in scrubs, roped in as part of the delivery teams, and sweating like recruits on parade. One of the midwives shoved a tray at me and barked “Hold that,” while Johan got handed scissors and a crash course in cutting cords. We didn’t faint, didn’t bolt, didn’t disgrace ourselves—but we were both wide-eyed, hearts hammering, trying not to drop anything important.

Then… the sound. That sharp, beautiful cry that hit you like a thunderclap wrapped in joy. Then another. And another. And—yep—one more. Four tiny lungs doing their best to make up for lost time. Nurses smiling, doctors nodding, and us—two gobsmacked dads—grinning like lunatics, still holding onto our borrowed kit as if it were live ordnance. The girls were beaming, exhausted, radiant. And suddenly, the Cold War and its greyness outside felt miles away. Inside that ward? We were the luckiest blokes in Berlin.

And if that wasn’t enough, Tim—ever the overachiever—only went and added to the madness. Petra fell pregnant the following May, as if she’d synced her calendar with the stork, and nine months later they welcomed a gorgeous baby girl into the very same British Military Hospital. By then the midwives were joking about giving us loyalty cards, one free birth for every five.

So there we were, five little ones in tow—three girls, two boys—all squawking in a mix of Swedish lullabies and Hertfordshire sass. It felt like we’d accidentally founded an Anglo-Scandi dynasty. Johan reckoned we ought to design a family crest: two prams, a rugby ball, and a bottle of schnapps on a field of nappies. Vinka said it should just be a giant kettle with a sign that read “Do not disturb—ever.” Either way, life had changed forever… and truth be told, we wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Berlin was already a brilliant posting—sausages, PX privileges, and the occasional Cold War pantomime—but with babies in our arms, grandparents visiting whenever they could, and a Christmas that would have made Dickens jealous, it felt positively golden. Even with the sleepless nights, the flat was alive with warmth and laughter. I thought we’d finally reached a rhythm, but soldiering doesn’t pause for prams. Before long, Stephen and Johan were packing their kit bags again, this time for the dreaded Junior Brecon course.

Now, Junior Brecon wasn’t your average course. It was a notorious NCO crucible, designed to separate the merely keen from the truly committed, or the clinically unhinged. Forget strolls through scenic hills; this was more “sprint up Pen E Fan with a bergen full of regrets” while bellowing section orders into sideways rain. We learnt how to plan and deliver field lessons, run live ranges without setting anyone on fire, and shout “STAND TO!” like our lives depended on it. They usually did.

Still, having slogged through Commando training on the sloppiest parts of Dartmoor, we weren’t exactly strangers to misery. And with a shared fear of letting the side down, or worse, giving the Marines a bad name, we grafted hard and passed with distinction. Returning to Berlin with our shiny new Corporal stripes, we were greeted like conquering heroes… well, by the girls at least. Tim just shoved mugs of tea into our hands and said, “Took you long enough.”

Not that he could talk. A few months later it was Tim’s turn to face the Brecon hills. He left with that grin of his, claiming he’d be back in no time, though Petra told me he’d packed half the pantry in his bergan just in case. The course ground him down like it does everyone, but Tim came back leaner, sharper, and with a new stripe stitched proudly to his sleeve. Petra cried when she saw him in uniform, though whether from pride or relief that he’d survived Pen y Fan, I’ll never know.

I won’t lie, Junior Brecon nearly broke me. The hills never ended, the rain came sideways, and every time I thought I’d cracked it, some staff sergeant would appear and shout me back to square one. But somewhere between the night nav and the final attack, I realised I belonged there. When they handed me that Corporal stripe, I knew I’d earned it the hard way. And walking back into Berlin with Petra waiting? Worth every blister.

Now, it’s not every day you get told, “Right lads, you’re re-enacting a 19th-century colonial dust-up in front of thousands—including a brass band, NATO officers, and possibly a rogue elephant.” But that’s exactly how the Berlin Military Tattoo briefing began. Our platoon commander, barely containing his glee, ran through the plan like he was directing a West End musical rather than a military pageant. “We’ll have smoke, we’ll have thunder flashes, and yes—actual cavalry. Don’t cock it up.”

The Olympic Stadium itself was an imposing beast, all stone grandeur and looming history. Marching onto that hallowed ground, knowing Jesse Owens once tore up the track there while Hitler fumed in the stands, gave the whole thing a surreal buzz. Only instead of running shoes, we had bayonets. Instead of glory, we had the very real risk of tripping over a sandbag in front of half of Berlin.

Backstage—if you could call a draughty shed full of sweaty men in scarlet tunics “backstage”—was pandemonium. Turbans were being pulled straight, a cannon wheel was still refusing to cooperate, and the Support Company lads were comparing stick-on moustaches like they were auditioning for a dodgy musical. Marlin, Petra, and I had been roped in as the unofficial “make-up department,” armed with powder, brushes, and enough glue to keep a moustache factory in business. Between us, we had more fun than sense—Petra perfecting a soldier’s eyeliner like it was Covent Garden, Marlin giggling every time a moustache slipped sideways, and me telling one lad he looked more like a lost waiter than a warrior.

Meanwhile, the boys—now freshly minted Corporals—were running about trying to impose some order. Stephen was barking about rifle drill, Johan was dragging two blokes back into line like a sheepdog with new recruits, and Tim was darting around with a clipboard as if that might magically make the chaos behave. Heroic grimaces were plastered onto faces whether the lads wanted them or not.

The rehearsals for the Tattoo had always been a bit shambolic—wrong entrances, rifles forgotten, and one poor soul who managed to trip over his own bayonet and nearly skewer the Quartermaster—but nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared us for the family rehearsal… with elephants.

Yes, elephants. Somebody thought it would “add authentic colour.” What it added was slapstick carnage.

At first, it looked fine. Pipes and drums droned away, the “Sikh troops” looked splendid in their turbans and suspiciously shiny moustaches, the elephants plodded dutifully behind the troops. Then came the first volley of blanks.

Trumpet! One elephant let out a screech like a fire engine with toothache, spun on its heel, ears flapping like sails in a storm, and bolted straight through the “British line.” A fake cannon went down, a tent collapsed, and two Support Company lads hit the dirt like extras in a spaghetti western.

The second elephant—clearly the cautious type—refused to budge at all. It stood rooted to the spot, waving its trunk furiously, ears twitching, and backing slowly into the regimental band. The trombonist, to his eternal credit, tried to keep playing even as he was nudged note by note into a hedge.

At that point one of the handlers dashed across the arena, yelling in German and waving a bunch of bananas like a market-stall trader. Chaos followed. Turbans flew, a moustache sailed majestically through the air and landed square on a drum major’s helmet, and the lot of us collapsed in laughter. Marlin was bent double, Petra was wheezing like a punctured accordion, Tim was swearing he’d never volunteer for “support staff” again, and I had tears rolling down my face.

Johan whispered, “We’re all gonna die… trampled by a zoo escapee in front of our in-laws.”

I just stood there, bayonet at the ready, and thought: this is it… this is what military glory looks like.

Thankfully, after a few minutes of chaos—and one brave private who offered up his leftover bratwurst as a peace offering—the elephants were calmed down. Barely.

And thus concluded the most ridiculous rehearsal in British military tattoo history. Even the RSM, who normally looked like he chewed gravel for breakfast, was caught chuckling behind his clipboard.

By the night of the actual Tattoo, we were all wound tighter than boot laces on inspection day. The Olympic Stadium was packed to the rafters—Berliners, top brass, and more diplomatic uniforms than you could shake a ceremonial sword at. The floodlights bathed everything in theatrical glory, the pipes and drums echoed off the stone like thunder, and even the elephants looked mildly apologetic as they took their marks with a resigned shuffle. Probably sedated. Possibly bribed with bananas.

When our cue came, we charged on like proper redcoats—bayonets fixed, moustaches stuck on with industrial glue, and marching like we’d done this since birth. The smoke, the shouting, the crack of blank musket fire—it all came together in a glorious, slightly bonkers spectacle. From the stands, we could just make out our girls cheering like we were off to storm the beaches. Johan gave a perfectly-timed dramatic tumble, Tim staged a heroic advance, and I nearly took out a French officer’s hat with my bayonet on the final salute.

And when the last echoes of the bugle faded and the crowd roared their approval, we knew we’d done it: pulled off the most ridiculous, wonderful, elephant-adjacent battlefield recreation in Tattoo history.

After the Tattoo, spirits were sky-high—mainly because no one had been squashed, skewered, or spectacularly flung by an elephant trunk. The CO was so pleased he even cracked a smile, which in itself was more shocking than the mock charge of the 10th of Foot. You could practically hear jaws hitting the parade square.

To celebrate, the Corporals’ Mess threw a bit of a bash. It started civilised—jacket on, polite small talk about parade formations and elephant droppings—but that only lasted as long as the first tray of schnapps. Then, predictably, it descended into a glorious cross between a ceilidh, a conga line, and a wildlife documentary gone rogue.

Someone, not naming names, but their surname rhymed suspiciously with “meal”, recreated the entire battle on the buffet table using salt shakers for the infantry, a pepper pot for the cavalry, and a pork pie for the rogue elephant. He even roared. The RSM nearly choked on a sausage roll laughing—though he’d deny it to his dying breath.

Vinka and Marlin, both dressed to the nines—one in glittery black, the other in dazzling silver—claimed victory in the unofficial waltz-off. Petra held up scorecards made from beer mats while Erik, already three schnapps deep, shouted, “Ten points to the Vikings!” Johan and I were last seen in the corner, bayonets in hand, arguing about the best way to roast bratwurst on parade-issue weapons. Tim, naturally, was holding court near the bar, explaining to a wide-eyed sapper how to herd elephants using only a bugle and confidence.

It was a night to remember… although large chunks of it still remain classified under “hazy but heroic.”

As the night wore on, the Mess took on the feel of a particularly spirited village fête—with better tailoring and worse singing. Someone had smuggled in an accordion, no one owned up, but it had Johan’s fingerprints all over it, before long, there was an impromptu rendition of “Roll Out the Barrel” that somehow segued into a polka version of Land of Hope and Glory. The girls were in stitches—Marlin declared it “brilliantly bonkers,” while Vinka threatened to get her father to send over a reindeer horn band for next time.

Meanwhile, Lars had cornered the Company Sergeant Major and was attempting to explain, in half-Swedish and half-Würzburg Riesling, the finer points of elk hunting. The CSM, baffled but polite, nodded along while sipping schnapps and possibly reconsidering his life choices. Silvi and Anna, ever the practical ones, took over the buffet table like seasoned field marshals, making sure no pork pie was left behind.

Petra, elegant as ever, perched on the arm of Tim’s chair, feeding him bits of stollen cake and pretending not to notice that he was using cocktail sticks to reenact the Battle of the Bulge with the cheese cubes. He had a paper hat from a Christmas cracker skewered on one of his epaulettes, and a smug grin that only comes from knowing you’ve survived both a Royal visit and an elephant stampede in the same month.