The Mysterious Letter Before The BIG Test

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter One

A Chronicle of Friendship, Love, War, Adventure, and Destiny

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 Five

Night before final test week. My kit was squared away, my boots were drying over the heater (again), and I was lying on my bunk staring at the ceiling like it owed me an answer. My whole body ached like I’d been run over by a particularly aggressive rugby team—and then reversed over for good measure.

That’s when I spotted it.

A letter.

Tucked into the top flap of my bergen, folded neatly, written in that unmistakable handwriting—sharp, slanted, a little dramatic. Classic Vinka.

I opened it carefully, like it might detonate.

Dear Recruit Number 0734, that’s you, by the way,

If you are reading this, it means you’ve made it to the final week. Well done. You are not dead. This is excellent progress.

Now listen—this part will test everything: your strength, your courage, your ability to function without adequate tea. But I know you. You’re stubborn, fast on your feet, and too proud to fall over in public.

You have already impressed me more than I’ll ever admit out loud.

So get out there and finish what you started. Be the Royal Marine I know you are. And for the love of Sweden, don’t trip over anything dramatic. Unless there’s a camera.

I’ll be waiting, Sergeant stripes polished and tea on standby. Yours always, love... Vinka.

I stared at the paper for a long time. Read it again. Then again.

And just like that, the aches faded a bit, the dread shrank down to something manageable, and my chest filled with this quiet, solid feeling—like I’d already made it, because someone out there already believed I could.

Cheers, Vinka.

I needed that.

Test week kicked off with the stuff of legends: the infamous Endurance Course. Six miles of Devon’s angriest terrain—nature’s way of saying, “Still think you’re tough, do ya?” We’re talking tunnels barely wide enough to breathe in, muddy water up to your eyebrows, and hills so steep they felt personal.

Picture being chased through a haunted swamp by a team of angry gym instructors with stopwatches and unresolved trauma—yeah, you’re halfway there.

The clock was set at 73 minutes. Seventy-three bleeding minutes. No pressure—just your entire career, dignity, and dreams of green beret glory hanging in the balance.

Halfway through, I lost a boot to a bog. Just womp—gone. For a moment, I genuinely considered hopping the rest of the way like a muddy pirate on a tight schedule. But then, outta nowhere, Johan reached down mid-stride, yanked it out of the swamp, and hurled it at me like a Viking chucking a war hammer.

It hit me square in the chest, nearly knocked me flat, but I got it back on and kept moving. I was drenched, filthy, my lungs were filing official complaints—but I crossed the line with less than two minutes to spare.

And I’ll be honest…

I was grinnin’ like an idiot.

Because somehow—I’d done it.

Next up: the Nine-Mile Speed March.

Sounds almost civilised, doesn’t it? A pleasant jog, maybe a bit of banter?

Yeah, no.

Try it with a full set of webbing, a rifle slapping your hip like an angry metronome, and the weight of your ancestors—plus their unresolved trauma—on your shoulders.

The rule was simple: ten minutes per mile. Miss the time cut-off and you’re off the course faster than you can say “blistered regret.” No exceptions. No sympathy. Just the clock, your lungs, and that voice in your head screaming, “Why am I like this?”

The pace? Relentless. The terrain? Unforgiving. By mile seven, my knees were tryin’ to file for retirement and my spine had turned into a question mark. Johan looked possessed—driven by a cocktail of caffeine, spite, and whatever rage lives in the heart of a Swede denied breakfast.

We crossed the finish line just in time—lungs heaving, faces salt-crusted, thighs vibrating like washing machines on spin cycle.

No cheering.

No celebration.

Just a nod from the corporal, a muttered “well done,” and the knowledge that somehow—we’d survived another one.

Day three: The Tarzan Assault Course. Thirteen minutes of flying, flailing, and questioning your life choices—all while dressed like a tactical Christmas ham.

It started off with a zip line. Now, on paper that sounds like fun—until you realise you’re launching yourself off a tower in full webbing, gripping a rifle, and praying your knees remember how to land. I hit the ground in what can only be described as a controlled collapse, got up, and legged it straight into the next round of pain.

Monkey bars. Thick, cold, coated in despair. I swung onto them like a great ape having an existential crisis—arms burning, breath wheezing, vision going fuzzy. Every rung was a personal vendetta. By the end, my hands felt like they’d been through a cheese grater and come out emotionally damaged.

Then came the Regain from the Hang. You drop off a rope, mid-air, and somehow—somehow—you’re meant to get back on. I slipped off, flailed like I was auditioning for interpretive dance, and hauled myself back up with all the grace of a damp ferret. An instructor below yelled, “Use your arms, not your soul!” which didn’t help, but did make me snort mud up my nose.

And then—the final hurdle.

The Twelve-Foot Wall.

With a rope hanging down like a last-chance lifeline.

I ran at it full tilt, jumped, grabbed the rope, and started climbin’ like my life depended on it—which, let’s be fair, it sort of did. My legs were jelly, my arms were screaming, but I was too close to the end to stop. Somewhere below, Johan bellowed, “MOVE, MATE, OR I’M PUSHING!” and that gave me just enough panic to clear the top.

Rolled over the summit, hit the other side, and crossed the line with a time that wasn’t pretty—but it was enough.

Enough to pass.

Enough to stay.

And enough to make me grin like an idiot through the mud on my teeth.

The final test. The 30-Miler.

Thirty miles across Dartmoor’s finest misery—carrying 35 pounds of webbing, a rifle, and whatever fragments of sanity we had left.

No packs, no tents—just what we needed to fight, survive, and hopefully stay upright. The weight wasn’t outrageous… but after twenty miles of uneven ground, river crossings, and hills that looked like they were designed by sadists with altitude fetishes, every ounce felt like betrayal.

We started at dawn. One of those mornings where the mist clung to your face like a damp dishcloth, and every breath felt like inhaling cold porridge. The first five miles? Not bad. Spirits high, pace solid, banter flowing freely. By mile ten, the conversation had dwindled to groans and grunts. By mile twenty, we were speaking fluent profanity. And by mile twenty-five, no one spoke at all—we just exchanged haunted glances, the kind that said, “Tell my mum I loved her.”

Johan? Still going strong. He moved like a quiet machine—driven by resolve, or maybe just that terrifying Swedish stubbornness. We didn’t speak much, just checked in with the occasional grunt or sideways glance. That was enough.

Each checkpoint was a silent victory. No cheering. Just a nod, a breath, a mental note: Still in this. Keep going.

By mile twenty-seven, time had stopped making sense. I didn’t know what day it was, let alone my own name—but I recognised Johan’s pack swaying just ahead of me, and that was enough to keep my boots moving.

The final stretch was uphill—because of course it was. The instructors stood there like stone-faced executioners at the finish line, stopwatch in hand, eyes like hawks. As we stumbled over the line, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry, vomit, or break into interpretive dance. But we’d done it. Not just completed the test—but crushed it. On time. As a unit. As Marines. Then came the presentation.

We were stood to attention—dirty boots, rifles at our sides, faces crusted in salt and dried sweat—while a senior NCO marched slowly down the line, handing out the coveted green beret like it was forged from legend and stubbornness. When he placed mine on my head, it was like someone had installed a second spine. I stood taller. Felt heavier in the best way. Stronger.

Across from me, Johan caught my eye and grinned—that tired, knowing grin that said, “We did it, mate.” And we had. Step by aching step. Together.

Then, from somewhere behind us, someone muttered, “Bet it clashes with your eyes.”

And we all cracked up—Marines to the core, still laughing, even on the edge of collapse.

The celebration? Nothing fancy.

Just a curry in town, a round of beers, and the kind of back-slapping that could bruise a rhino. No speeches, no banners, no brass band waiting at the gates. And we didn’t need any of that.

We had each other.

We had our green lids.

And we had the quiet, unshakable knowledge that we’d survived something most people wouldn’t even dare try.

We were battered, bruised, borderline broken—but we were Royal Marines.

And that was enough.

And as I lay in my bunk that night, utterly shattered, every muscle aching… I smiled. Because tomorrow, I’d write to Vinka and tell her the best four words I’d ever earned the right to say:

“I’m a Royal Marine.”

For the next two weeks, we became the reluctant stars of Strictly Come Marching. No glitterballs, no costumes—just relentless drill under the unforgiving gaze of parade ground gods.

Day in, day out, we stomped across the square like metronomes in boots. Quick march, slow march, about-turn, rifle drill—repeat until delirium set in and the square started looking like a dance floor built by a sadist.

Our rifles became extensions of our arms—silent partners in this exhausting choreography. Our boots, once stiff instruments of medieval torture, had moulded perfectly to our feet, like bespoke leather socks... forged in fire. The square itself had grooves worn into it by generations of pain—and we were busy adding a few more.

Blisters? Long gone. Our feet had evolved into something between hooves and hardwood flooring. My boots, which once chewed my heels like angry badgers, now felt so comfortable I half expected them to start doing my taxes.

It was mind-numbing, repetitive, and utterly unforgiving.

But it was the final polish—the last shape before the big day.

The pass-out parade was coming.

And we were gonna march like gods.

During my one-to-one with the Troop Commander, something strange happened—I snapped to attention so sharply you could’ve mistaken me for a wind-up toy. It wasn’t even conscious anymore. Just pure instinct. But also, yeah… genuine respect.

There I was, standing tall in my freshly awarded green beret, trying not to beam like a kid who’d just won a lifetime supply of ice cream. I felt ten feet tall. Maybe twelve. The green lid perched on my head wasn’t just a hat—it was a crown. A proper one. Earned, not issued.

I tried to keep my face neutral, I really did.

But apparently my cheeks had other plans.

I probably looked like a constipated Cheshire Cat, lips twitchin’, eyes twinklin’, and muscles stuck between parade face and pure glee. But I didn’t care.

I was a Royal Marine.

And no expression in the world could hide that.

The Troop Commander reviewed my scores with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for bomb disposal or a dodgy curry order. I stood there, spine straight, trying not to sweat through my freshly ironed shirt, while my heart thudded out a full drum solo beneath my ribs.

Then he started reading.

High marks.

Across the board.

Turns out, the very instructors who’d screamed at me until my ears wilted had written glowing reports. Who knew that kind of industrial-strength sadism came with compliments? It was surreal. Like finding out a shark’s been secretly rooting for you this whole time.

I left that office walking on air. Not marching. Not limping. Floating.

I wanted to shake every one of their hands—not just because I respected them, but because for once, I could finally do it without being screamed at for breathing too loudly.

And then came the cherry on the camo cake.

My posting was confirmed: Forty Commando, Plymouth.

Home of legends.

And now… home of me.

Before we could strut off into our green-bereted futures, there was still one last rite of passage to get through: the much-anticipated—and slightly dreaded—Passing Out Parade.

It was like the royal wedding of recruit training. Precision, pageantry, and enough boot polish to blackout Devon. Tickets were limited, so I’d invited Mum, Tim, and—of course—Vinka. Johan brought along Harry, Ingrid, and Marlin. The powers-that-be had kindly seated them all together, like a support group for emotional wrecks.

I clocked them instantly.

There they were in the stands—our little fan club—craning their necks like a pack of eager meerkats at the zoo, each desperate to spot their lad without accidentally cheering the wrong one.

Mum had her tissues out before we’d even marched on.

Tim looked like he was about to shout “Encore!” at the wrong moment.

And Vinka? Eyes sharp, back straight, scanning the parade square like she was about to command the whole operation.

It was brilliant.

It was terrifying.

And it was real.

Even before the fanfare began, I clocked Mum—dead centre, front row, dressed to the nines in a navy-blue suit with white piping that she’d tailored herself. She looked like she was either about to address Parliament or launch a new battleship. And honestly? I’d have voted for her. Twice.

What really floored me, though… was Tim.

The lad had cut his hair. Voluntarily.

That alone deserved a standing ovation. But he’d also turned up in full Army Cadet Battle Dress, corporal stripes, polished to within an inch of its life, looking like he was about to reenact the Normandy landings single-handedly. My little brother—suddenly dapper. Who knew?

Ingrid was resplendent, regal even, with that quiet Scandinavian elegance that made her look like she belonged on banknotes. Harry? Sharp as a bayonet. Looked like he’d been dressed by a Savile Row tailor with a military fetish. Straight back, collar like iron, and the proudest eyes on the square.

And then there were Vinka and Marlin.

If anyone could make Swedish No.1 uniforms look like haute couture, it was those two. They wore them with that effortless Scandinavian poise that made everyone else—myself included—look like background extras in a particularly low-budget school nativity. They were radiant. Powerful. Stunning and Sergeants.

I nearly forgot to breathe.

And in that moment—seeing them all there, together, dressed to kill or salute—I realised just how far we’d all come.

And just how much further we still had to go.

The band marched onto the square, breaking the icy silence with the first blare of brass—and thank heavens they did. Not just for the music, which was actually pretty decent, but because it gave me something to focus on other than the alarming fact that I could no longer feel my toes.

We’d been standing like statues, frozen in place while the dignitaries took their sweet time. I was starting to wonder if I’d been permanently welded to the ground. So when we finally marched off—hallelujah—blood returned to my legs with all the grace of a firework in a letterbox. The pins and needles were biblical. I briefly entertained the idea that my boots were full of hedgehogs.

Still, I knew the drill. Every beat, every step, every turn—drilled into us over those endless weeks of Strictly Come Marching. That muscle memory kept me focused. Well, that and trying desperately not to lock my knees and faint like Private Sponge from Dad’s Army.

Because as proud as we all were, let’s be honest—standing completely still, in full kit, holding a heavy rifle, pretending not to itch, twitch, or desperately need a wee…

It’s less parade discipline and more Olympic-level endurance sport.

We were packed into the parade stands like sardines in respectable coats—me in full Swedish No.1s, Marlin beside me with posture so perfect she could’ve been balancing a teacup. I scanned the square until my eyes locked on him. There he was. My Stephen. Shoulders squared, jaw set, boots striking the tarmac like he was born to it.

Mum nudged me, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that had clearly seen a few good cries already.

“He looks so grown up,” she sniffled. “Doesn’t he look grown up, Tim?”

Tim, looking absurdly proud in his Army Cadet Battle Dress, nodded solemnly. “Like a proper action figure. Only sweatier.”

I chuckled. “You should’ve seen him in training letters—blisters, bruises, and enough laundry to warrant its own barracks. But yes… he does look good.”

Mum leaned in. “You think he saw us?”

“Probably not yet,” I smiled. “He’s doing that thing where he tries not to smile. Very serious. Very Marine.”

Just then, Johan marched past too—stoic and striking, like something out of a Nordic war film. Marlin gave a tiny gasp, like someone had pressed ‘play’ on her heartbeat again. I gave her hand a quick squeeze.

“I still don’t know how they survived it,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone.

Tim grinned. “Because they’re stubborn as goats. Same as you two.”

Mum nodded, eyes fixed forward. “It’s pride, darling. They’ve earned it. You all have.”

And in that moment—watching our boys, hearing the music, feeling the crowd’s energy—I realised she was right. We weren’t just spectators. We were part of this. A little family forged through training, distance, letters, and love.

And I couldn’t have been prouder.

The sun had turned the parade square into a gleaming mirror of heat, and even the brass buttons on my No.1 dress uniform felt like they were conducting electricity. Still, I sat tall—jacket on, collar crisp, not a crease out of place. Sergeant now. No squirming allowed.

Next to me, Tim was fidgeting like a squirrel in a sauna. He’d done his Army Cadet tunic proud—everything pressed, polished, and tucked just right—but the poor lad was clearly roasting alive.

“You alright, tin soldier?” I whispered, glancing sideways without turning my head.

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Trying not to melt.”

“You’ve done well,” I said. “Looking very sharp. Shame Petra couldn’t make it.”

His face froze for a second—like I’d just mentioned a ghost.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “She’s away. With her mum, I think. Family stuff.”

I nodded, letting a moment pass.

“You still writing to her?” I asked, as casually as I could.

He didn’t answer straight away, just stared at the far corner of the square where the band was assembling.

“Sometimes,” he finally muttered. “Not as much now. Don’t know if she’s still… y’know…”

“Interested?” I offered gently.

He gave a small shrug, then scuffed his shiny boot along the wooden slat in front of us. “Maybe I waited too long.”

I gave him a nudge with my elbow. “Nonsense. You’ve got time, Tim. You’re not being posted to Mars.”

He cracked a smile. “True.”

I glanced back to the parade ground. “Besides, if she’s anything like me, she’s just waiting to see if you’ll write again.”

He looked at me then, properly, and for a moment I saw the same mix of nerves and hope I’d seen in Stephen the night he kissed me goodbye at the airport.

“Think so?”

“I know so,” I said. “Now sit up straight. This is a big moment—and you’ll want to remember every second.”

He squared his shoulders and nodded. “Thanks, Vinka.”

The band struck up, sharp and proud. The parade was about to begin.

As the parade reached its crescendo, we marched in tight formation directly past the stands—shoulders square, boots hammering in perfect rhythm, like a human metronome with attitude. And then—boom—a wall of sound hit us.

Cheers erupted like we were rockstars at Wembley. It was deafening, echoing off the buildings and bouncing round the square like pride turned into noise.

And then—above it all—came Harry’s unmistakable bellow. Half cheer, half Viking war cry. “JOHAN! YEAH, LAD!” It nearly broke my composure. I might’ve let the corners of my mouth twitch upward for a fraction of a second—which, in Marine terms, is basically bursting into song and throwing confetti.

Immediately after our final march-off, we handed in our rifles—gently, weirdly tender, considering how much we’d sworn at them over the past few months. My hands felt strangely empty. Like I’d lost an argument with a very heavy friend.

Meanwhile, our families were being herded into a massive white marquee nearby, already alive with the sound of clinking cups, sloshing tea urns, and buffet trays groaning under the weight of sausage rolls and finger sandwiches built with military precision.

I was due to meet Mum and Vinka in there—assuming they hadn’t already made off with the egg and cress and started interrogating someone about the napkin folds.

Back at the block, the atmosphere was oddly emotional—like the air had changed. The same walls, same lockers, same creaky beds, but now everything had a strange weight to it. We’d made it. And now… we were leaving.

We swapped contact details with all the ceremony of wartime lovers heading off to the front—scraps of paper, scrawled addresses, promises scribbled in biro. “Write soon.” “See you out there.” “Don’t die, yeah?” Bold vows made half in jest, half in hope.

We were all being posted to different units, scattered across the Corps like shrapnel. But we knew—everyone knows—the military world’s small. Boots always find each other again, usually in a muddy field, during a monsoon, with someone shouting about ammo counts.

Still, it was bittersweet.

Saying goodbye to the blokes we’d spent months sweating, swearing, and surviving with felt like tearing pages out of a book that wasn’t finished yet.

But if shared misery breeds brotherhood, then we were blood brothers a hundred times over.

And somehow, despite everything…

I already missed ’em.

A ragtag crocodile of newly qualified Royal Marines emerged from the block, dragging kit bags that looked like they’d doubled in size overnight—probably just from absorbing all our broken dreams and sweat. Some lads wore theirs front and back, like overloaded Sherpas on a military gap year. Others had duvets slung over their shoulders like capes, and paired with the thousand-yard stares, it gave us the look of battle-worn superheroes… or very lost laundry couriers.

A few had even strapped their ironing boards to their backs. I kid you not.

Apparently, the emotional trauma of leaving them behind was too great. One lad had his wrapped in clingfilm like it was some priceless heirloom. Fair play.

Me? I couldn’t wait to ditch mine. That battered metal rectangle had witnessed more tears, blisters, and starchy breakdowns than any sane piece of furniture should. I left it propped lovingly against the wall—still warm from its last inspection—as a parting gift to the next poor soul who’d be shouted at for creases in their collar.

May it terrify them as it once terrified me.

With my kit unceremoniously crammed into the boot of Mum’s trusty old car—somehow still held together with duct tape, maternal optimism, and the faint whiff of burnt clutch—I made a beeline for the marquee.

And then I saw her.

Vinka.

Sergeant Vinka Rask, to be precise. Freshly promoted, pressed uniform sharp enough to slice through regulations, green beret at that perfect tilt… and utterly breathtaking.

Protocol? Out the window.

I didn’t walk—I charged. Scooped her up like a returning war hero—though, truthfully, I probably looked more like an overexcited spaniel that’d just escaped from quarantine. I spun her in the air, heart pounding like a drum solo, and kissed her right there in front of everyone.

Full uniform. Full public display. Full-on court-martial bait.

It was only once I’d come up for air that my brain reminded me—she’s a Sergeant now. I’d just lip-locked a superior rank in front of a marquee full of witnesses. Brilliant.

A few feet away, a clipboard-wielding Sergeant Major stopped mid-step and stared at us like he was trying to decide whether to shout or applaud. Next to him, a young Marine nearly choked on his sausage roll.

The Sergeant Major cleared his throat, muttered, “That better be some kind of tactical demonstration…” then narrowed his eyes at Vinka’s stripes, “…Sergeant.”

Vinka, without missing a beat, stood at ease and said calmly, “Just confirming his airway is clear, sir.”

The Sergeant Major stared for a beat, then walked off shaking his head and muttering something about “Nordic confidence” and “bloody parade day.”

I briefly considered pretending I’d choked on a vol-au-vent. But no one was stopping us now.

And honestly? If you’d seen Vinka in that uniform, you’d have done the same.

Fuelled by adrenaline and dangerously high levels of emotion (and possibly sausage rolls), I tackled the buffet like a man who’d just been rescued from the jungle. I moved through vol-au-vents with military efficiency and may have committed low-level war crimes against a defenceless plate of pork pies. The tea was piping, the cake slices were generous, and for a brief, beautiful moment—I was king of the spread.

Just as I was contemplating a second sortie on the scotch eggs, Mum and Vinka executed a textbook pincer movement. One minute I was mid-bite, the next I was being herded toward a line of other bewildered Marines for the dreaded photo op.

Apparently, the photographer’s assistant had trained in hostage negotiation, because I was given no choice but to stand, grin, and not blink through three painfully awkward poses. One serious. One smiling. One “look proud but also approachable”—whatever that means when you’re dead on your feet and smell like parade-ground victory and pastry.

Still, experience had taught me that when both Mum and Vinka gave you the look—you either obeyed… or prepared for a cold night on the sofa. Possibly for life.

Once the photographic evidence had been secured and the last sausage roll tragically claimed, we joined the slow procession of cars inching their way off the base.

What a day.

What a life.

What an utterly knackered, salt-streaked, but glorious feeling.

Leave beckoned.

And with it?

A soft bed. Civilian food.

And absolutely no kit inspections.

Heaven.

To no one’s surprise—at least in the family—Vinka and I were now officially “a thing.” Mum claimed she knew the moment Vinka's first letter to me back in junior school. “That girl had you smitten before you could spell ‘girlfriend,’” she’d said, shaking her head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Same went for Johan and Marlin. Ingrid and Harry had apparently been placing bets since the ski trip. And Anna? She’d been quietly journaling their inevitable union like a royal court scribe documenting the next heirs to a Scandinavian throne.

The forces, mind you, were none the wiser. As far as our instructors were concerned, we were just four linguistically gifted oddballs who drank too much tea, knew far too many languages, and always managed to return from leave looking suspiciously better rested than anyone else.

But among us—our chosen family—the truth had been obvious for years. We were pairs. Natural, effortless, and anchored to each other like compass points.

And in that quiet knowing, there was strength. The kind that carried us through every muddy mile and homesick night.

After two weeks of glorious civilian freedom—where the only inspection I had to pass was Vinka checking if I’d actually shaved—we reported for duty at Stonehouse Barracks in Plymouth on the 1st of September, 1973. Fully-fledged Royal Marine Commandos now: green lids gleaming, boots broken in, chests puffed out (and stomachs just a little rounder thanks to Vinka’s heroic catering).

Marlin and Vinka had headed back to their unit two days before us—no doubt leaving behind a trail of flustered officers, baffled admin clerks, and at least one deeply traumatised sergeant major wondering how two Sergeants could cause so much organised chaos in under forty-eight hours.

For Johan and me, Stonehouse felt like the real beginning. Not basic training, not the dream of the Corps—but the life of it. We weren’t wide-eyed recruits anymore. We were part of the machine now. Armed not just with rifles and webbing, but with actual confidence—and, God willing, better mattresses than the medieval torture slabs we’d survived back at Lympstone.