The EMOTIONAL Reunion That Will Change Your View of Soldiers Forever

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twelve

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 Twelve.

We left Lieutenant Dyer’s office with all the subtlety of blokes trying not to skip. A weekend off the leash in Voss—with permission to see our wives? That was rarer than a dry sock in a snow trench.

“Right,” I said, “phone box. Now.”

Johan was already ahead of me.

We jogged to the camp’s little PX hut, where the wind cut sharper than a sergeant’s sarcasm. Round the back was the phone booth—battered, British Army green, and half-frozen shut. I yanked it open with a grunt, and Johan stuffed a pile of change into my hand.

“You go first,” he said. “You’re the talker.”

I grinned and spun the dial—Plymouth number, freshly memorised. A few clicks, a long crackling pause, and then—

“Hallo?” Vinka’s voice, sweet and unmistakably hers, purred down the line.

My heart nearly burst.

“’Hello, my Swedish sensation,” I said, doing my best not to sound like a lovesick fool standing in a snowdrift in his thermals. “Got a proposition for you.”

There was a pause. Then, suspiciously: “You’re not trying to talk me into posting you biscuits again, are you?”

I laughed. “Better. How d’you fancy flying to Bergen on Friday and meeting us in Voss for a weekend of unmilitary activity—including hot showers, real beds, and me in knitwear?”

She squealed. Actually squealed. Then shouted something in Swedish I couldn’t make out, followed by Marlin’s voice hollering in the background.

“We’re both in,” Vinka gasped. “Oh, Stephen—yes, yes!”

Johan was already next to me, mouthing ‘What did she say?’

“She said yes,” I whispered, handing him the receiver like it was a sacred relic.

He barely got a word out before Marlin’s voice lit him up like a torch. I watched as the frost melted right off his features.

“Alright, tactical briefing time,” I said, trying to sound serious through chattering teeth. “You’ll need to get yourselves to Heathrow, then fly to Bergen. From Bergen, hop on the train to Voss—should be about an hour and a half. ETA: Friday evening. Rendezvous point, Fleischer’s Hotel, just outside the station. No parachutes required.”

To our eternal surprise—and mild suspicion—everything actually went to plan.

No one missed a connection. No luggage was lost to the aviation abyss. And not a single official confused Bergen with Birmingham, though Marlin did end up explaining what a fika was to a bewildered customs agent.

Come Friday evening, there we were—standing by the tracks at Voss station, looking like two scruffy Royal Marines trying very hard to look casual in borrowed civvie jackets that didn’t quite fit. I’d managed to wrestle my hair into something approaching tidy, and Johan had even splashed on a hint of aftershave. Just enough to make us smell less like pine sap and misery.

Then the train rolled in, hissing steam into the snowy dusk.

The girls stepped off, and for a moment, time did that thing it sometimes does in films—slowed down, went soft around the edges. Vinka wore that red hat again—my red hat—and a knitted scarf I recognised from one of our first Christmases together. Marlin had her long dark hair tucked into a fur-lined hood, her eyes already locked on Johan like a heat-seeking missile.

We looked at them. They looked at us. Then all four of us burst into ridiculous, happy laughter and charged into a tangle of hugs, kisses, and muffled “You’re freezing's!”.

Fleischer’s Hotel stood proudly just behind us—a grand old place with spires, wood panelling, and that odd Scandinavian blend of Gothic charm and holiday brochure cosiness. Inside, it smelled of log fires, cinnamon, and a whiff of old leather from the armchairs that probably hadn’t moved since the ‘30s.

We’d booked two rooms—side by side, of course—with beds that didn’t deflate when you rolled over and duvets thick enough to muffle a snoring Royal. The breakfast buffet was legendary—eggs, herring, bread rolls the size of helmets, and little pots of jam that somehow made you feel like royalty. The evening meals? Worth the trip alone. Hot stews, cold beers, and a dessert trolley that deserved its own parade.

As Vinka slipped her hand into mine that night, warm from the fire and still giggling from dinner, I thought: This. This is why we do it.

Because love, like snow, makes even the coldest places feel like home.

Saturday was pure bliss.

We hired skis and spent the day swooshing—well, gliding and occasionally tumbling—down the slopes with the girls, laughing like teenagers on a school trip. Vinka was poetry in motion, of course. Marlin, competitive as ever, tried to race Johan down every run. He let her win twice, then cheekily overtook her backwards, arms folded, with a grin that nearly earned him a ski pole to the shin.

We stopped for hot chocolate at a little cabin halfway up the mountain—steaming mugs, flushed cheeks, and the kind of cosy warmth that made your heart thump in your chest just from looking at her.

That afternoon, we discovered the hotel had a sauna tucked away on the lower floor—with one-way glass facing the road. Only in Norway. Nothing says “relaxation” quite like sweating half-naked in a towel while watching Volvo after Volvo cruise past, their drivers in bobble hats completely oblivious of the two goddesses and half-naked Royal Marines roasting like Sunday joints behind mirrored glass.

“I feel strangely powerful,” Johan whispered, steam rising from his shoulders. “They have no idea.”

“That’s because if they did,” I muttered, “we’d be arrested.”

And just when we thought the weekend couldn’t get any better, Lieutenant Dyer himself turned up at the hotel that evening. Still in uniform, still pretending it was just a friendly check-in. Truth be told, he looked mildly terrified walking into reception—until the girls appeared.

He froze. Blinked. Smiled. Then visibly pulled himself together.

We invited him to dinner—seemed only polite—and the poor bloke never stood a chance. Between Vinka’s charm and Marlin’s wit, he was soon chuckling away like an old family friend, sipping something warm and strong and utterly enchanted.

We dined like kings that night—proper tablecloths, candles, food that didn’t come from a boil-in-the-bag pouch. Four fairly newlyweds, one unexpectedly charming platoon commander, and not a snow drill or SLR in sight.

And as I looked across the table, at Johan beaming, at Marlin laughing, at Vinka’s hand resting on mine—I thought, This might just be the best weekend of my life.

We’d actually invited him for a reason, beyond just showing off our far-too-good-for-us wives. Johan and I needed his help navigating the thorny paperwork of British citizenship for Vinka and Marlin. They were already permanent fixtures in our lives, and with postings and deployments looming, we wanted them to have full rights and security—not to mention proper passports that didn’t raise eyebrows every time we flew somewhere.

To our relief, Lt Dyer didn’t bat an eyelid. In fact, he seemed quietly impressed by the girls’ poise, their impeccable English with that sexy Swedish accent, and the quiet steel beneath all that Scandinavian elegance.

Over dinner, between bites of reindeer stew and sips of something local and warming, we explained our situation—clearly, respectfully, and with just enough hope to keep it from sounding desperate. The girls had been living in the UK, working, serving, contributing more than most. But red tape was red tape, and we knew from bitter experience that it didn’t untangle itself.

Lieutenant Dyer listened carefully, nodding now and then, but saying very little until Johan gently pushed the paperwork folder across the table.

He opened it, thumbed through a few pages, and let out a small, thoughtful grunt.

“Well,” he said, placing his cutlery down with quiet finality, “I can’t make promises, but I know a few people in the right offices. You’ve both served exceptionally, and if I can grease a cog or two to help your wives feel like they truly belong, then I’ll damn well try.”

He glanced at Vinka and Marlin with genuine warmth. “Frankly, Britain would be lucky to have you.”

The girls exchanged a look—part surprise, part quiet relief—and Vinka gave his hand a grateful squeeze.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said softly. “We just want to build a life. Properly.”

“And you will,” he nodded. “Leave it with me. Once you’re back in Plymouth, we’ll set the wheels turning.”

It was, in the quiet way of these things, a turning point. Not flashy, not dramatic—just one more piece falling into place in the jigsaw of our strange, extraordinary little lives.

Back in the lounge, we ordered one last drink from the bar—something golden and smoky that warmed your belly and dulled the ache in your bones. The fire popped gently beside us, casting dancing shadows across the polished floorboards and oil paintings of long-forgotten fjords. Johan and Marlin excused themselves early, muttering something about bubble bath reconnaissance and strict silence protocols.

Vinka and I settled into a deep leather armchair by the fire, her legs curled over mine, my fingers tracing lazy circles on her knee. She reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled envelope.

“Oh,” she said, eyes lighting up, “Petra wrote.”

I looked over, curious. “Go on then. What’s the latest from our favourite ice queen?”

“She spent a week with Tim,” I said, unfolding the letter with care. “In Münster. Said it was… intense. Quiet, but deep. He finally opened up a lot more. Told her everything. About his parents splitting up, school, how lost he felt for years. And she listened.”

I whistled low. “That’s a miracle in itself.”

“She said it was healing—for both of them.”

Then she smiled. “But the real highlight? The rugby match.”

“Oh?”

“The B A O R final. Royal Anglian's versus the Welsh Guards.”

Stephen sat up straighter, now properly invested.

“Petra said the whole Garrison turned out for it. Freezing cold, pitch like concrete, proper winter rugby. Tim was at scrum-half—number nine. Controlled the game from the base of every ruck, whipping out passes like a machine, keeping their pack ticking. Scored a cheeky try early on, then set up another with a brilliant break down the blind side.”

“Classic Tim,” “Always did love a bit of flair.”

“Last ten minutes, scores level,” I continued, “the Welsh Guards were pressing hard. But Tim read it—intercepted a loose pass, sprinted thirty metres, and had the nerve to drop a goal from just outside the twenty-two.”

Stephen laughed out loud. “He drop-kicked it?!”

“Yep,” I nodded. “Clean as you like. Petra said the whole crowd erupted. He was voted Man of the Match by both teams. They carried him off the pitch on their shoulders.”

Stephen shook my head in disbelief. “Private Tim Heale. B A O R Final, Man of the Match. Who’d have thought?”

Vinka leaned into me, smile softening. “She said it was the first time she saw him truly believe in himself. Like everything finally made sense.”

I stared into the fire for a long moment. “He’s earned that. After everything.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, her hand in mine, the letter resting in her lap. Outside, snow whispered against the windowpane, soft and steady. And in that quiet moment, I thought about Tim—our Tim—finally finding his feet. And Petra, always stronger than she looked.

It felt like a new chapter had just begun—for all of us.

Petra (remembering):

The cold in Münster that day had teeth. Frost clung to every blade of grass, and the pitch looked more like a frozen battlefield than somewhere anyone should be running at full tilt. I was wrapped in one of Tim’s black and gold regimental coats—massive on me, heavy, warm, and smelling faintly of camphor and him.

The BAOR Final. Royal Anglian's versus the Welsh Guards.

The Guards were easy to spot in their traditional colours—blue, red, and blue, sleeves rolled, jawlines set, looking like they’d already decided the trophy was theirs. But the Royal Anglians—our lot—strode out in black and gold with that steady, silent confidence. And right at the centre of it all, Tim Heale, number nine, scrum-half, already barking orders before the whistle even blew.

The match was brutal from the first collision. Big hits. Scrappy breakdowns. Tim moved like quicksilver, weaving through chaos, bossing his pack around like he’d been born to it. He scored early—a beautiful blind-side dart straight through the guard’s defence. Then he set up another just before the break with a neat switch and an inside ball that split their line wide open.

But the second half… that was war.

The Welsh Guards came back snarling. Levelled the score with ten minutes to go. Then it was blow for blow. Every metre earned in blood and ice. My heart was pounding. Hands frozen around a paper cup I’d long since forgotten to drink from.

Then—final minute. Still deadlocked. Guards pressing again, their pack mauling, creeping toward our twenty-two.

And just like that, Tim read it. Pounced on a fumble like a fox on a rabbit, ripped it clean, and broke away. Thirty metres. Two defenders closing in. Crowd on their feet.

He looked up. Saw the space. Dropped into the pocket.

And with the final seconds ticking down, he struck it—a drop goal. Clean. Straight. Rising like hope through the cold.

The whistle blew the moment the ball soared through the uprights.

Game over.

The touch judges’ flags went up. The Royal Anglian end erupted like a bomb going off—shouting, stamping, tears and laughter all rolled into one.

They mobbed him. Lifted him. Carried him like a king off that icy field.

Tim Heale—Man of the Match, of the BAOR Final.

And that night, in the quiet of his room, medals still clinking in a tin on the dresser, I leaned into him and said, “You were brilliant. You owned that pitch.”

And for once, he didn’t argue. He just smiled—tired, battered, radiant.

“I know,” he said. “I finally felt like me.”

The medal was still lying on the dresser, tucked beside a half-eaten bar of chocolate and his crumpled match shirt. The scent of winter grass and sweat still clung to it—proof he’d been there, on that frozen battlefield, and come out the other side a champion.

Tim sat on the edge of the bed, one sock on, one off, staring at the floor like he was still hearing the roar of the crowd in his ears. His fingers idly traced the bruise blooming across his left thigh, but he wasn’t wincing. Not really. He looked... peaceful. Like someone who’d finally stopped running.

I crossed the room, slow and quiet, and slid my arms around his shoulders from behind, resting my chin against the crown of his head.

“You were incredible,” I whispered.

He gave a small, breathy laugh. “I got lucky.”

“No, Tim. That wasn’t luck. That was years of grit, of hurt, of always coming second—turned into something brilliant. That was you.”

He reached up and covered my hands with his. “It felt different this time. Like... everything lined up. I wasn’t second-guessing. I wasn’t doubting. I just... did it.”

We sat there in silence for a bit, the radiator clunking in the corner, the window fogged with frost. Somewhere outside, a few late drinkers were still celebrating, their laughter echoing off the barracks walls. But in here, it was just us.

“I don’t want this to be a one-off,” he said eventually. “Not just the match. This. You and me. Us.”

I stepped around to face him and knelt down, taking both his hands in mine. “Then don’t let it be.”

His eyes searched mine. Vulnerable. Hopeful. Stronger than I’d ever seen them.

“I want to be better, Petra,” I said. “I don’t want to keep carrying all that old stuff. The fear. The mess. I want to build something new.”

I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Then let’s build it together.”

I leaned forward and kissed her gently, deeply, like I finally knew how.

And in that quiet, simple moment, no medals, no cheering crowd, no frozen pitches—we were just two people, no longer hiding.

We woke late the next morning, limbs entwined, the air warm but the world outside still frosted white. Tim sat up slowly, wincing a little as he stretched—battle bruises worn like badges. I handed him a mug of lukewarm coffee from the flask on the windowsill, and he stared out into the crisp morning light.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you last night,” he said, almost shyly.

I looked up. “Hmm?”

He turned toward me, his face serious but full of something softer underneath. “The Battalion’s being posted back to England. July.”

My breath caught. “Really?”

“Yeah. We’ll be based at Gillingham in Kent. Properly home. No more scrambling for leave, no more long-distance waiting games.” I hesitated, then added, “I was thinking… maybe it’s time we stopped visiting each other and started building something. Together.”

I set my mug down carefully. “You mean like, furniture-assembling, laundry-sharing, key-on-the-hook sort of together?”

He chuckled, that boyish grin peeking through. “Exactly that. One flat. One set of keys. And two toothbrushes.”

I leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “It’s about time, Poacher.”

Later that morning, Münster Hauptbahnhof

The platform was dusted with fresh snow, the air sharp, the sounds of early trains echoing down the tracks. Tim stood beside me, one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other gripping mine a little tighter than usual.

The train pulled in—sighing brakes, clouded windows, warm light within.

I turned to him. “Don’t go quiet on me again, alright?”

He nodded. “Not a chance. I’ll be back in the UK soon. Gillingham. Come July, we’re done with train platforms and rushed weekends.”

We kissed—not dramatic, not tearful—just steady. Strong. Like everything had finally settled into place.

As I stepped aboard and the train pulled away, I watched him standing there—battered, proud, and finally at peace.

This wasn’t goodbye.

This was the beginning of everything else.

Monday morning arrived far too quickly, sneaking up on us like an overzealous drill sergeant with a clipboard and a stopwatch. One minute we were wrapped in warm duvets and tangled limbs, the next we were zipping up coats and pretending not to feel like something inside us was coming undone.

The station platform in Voss was quiet—too quiet. Just the distant hum of the train rounding the bend and the occasional sniffle… not from the cold, but from the collective effort to hold back tears.

And failing, if I’m honest.

Vinka stood close beside me, her gloved hand wrapped tightly in mine, her red hat pulled low over her eyes. She wouldn’t look up, not yet. Johan and Marlin were just ahead of us, arms around each other, forehead to forehead, saying all the things they couldn’t say out loud in front of others.

None of us said much. We didn’t need to.

The train appeared through the trees, rumbling gently into the station like it knew it was breaking four hearts at once.

“I hate this bit,” I muttered.

Vinka finally looked up, her eyes glassy but her smile brave. “So do I.”

I kissed her slowly, like we had all the time in the world. “We’ll be home soon,” I whispered against her lips.

She nodded, blinking fast. “I know.”

The train doors opened with a sigh, like it regretted showing up. We helped them with their bags, even though it felt more like surrendering something precious. Last hugs, last kisses, one last look.

And then they were gone.

As the train pulled out, disappearing into the snowy horizon, Johan and I stood there for a long while, silent.

“Right,” he said eventually. “Back to reality.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, adjusting my bergen strap. “Back to blisters, bergen's, and boiling your socks for fun.”

But even as we walked away, snow crunching under our boots, I felt that fire still burning in my chest.

She was worth every mile..

After waving the girls off on the Monday morning train, Johan and I trudged back to camp just outside Voss, slightly sunburnt from skiing and thoroughly emotionally hungover from all the heartfelt goodbyes. Our legs ached from the slopes, our hearts from the leaving, and our faces still wore the kind of dazed expressions usually seen after surprise PT sessions or wedding proposals.

No sooner had we slung our bergen's down than we were summoned—again—by Lieutenant Dyer. Thankfully, he was still in high spirits, probably buoyed by the excellent buffet at Fleischer’s Hotel. He even greeted us with a rare smirk and a steaming mug of something that definitely wasn’t instant coffee.

“Gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the chairs opposite his desk, “take a seat—before your legs give out.”

We confirmed our grand plan—the one floated between the meatballs and the mousse back at dinner. That, yes, we were deadly serious about helping our wives apply for British citizenship. That, yes, we’d do the paperwork, the interviews, the oath-taking, and whatever else was required short of marching them through Whitehall in parade dress.

To our relief, Lt Dyer saw no problem with it.

“In fact,” he said, sipping his drink with all the air of a man about to use his contacts for good, “once you’re back in Plymouth, I’ll help set things in motion. I’ve got a mate in the civil liaison office who owes me a favour—or two, if you count the time I pulled him out of a snow hole during a field exercise in ’71.”

He promised to help us tackle the mountain of forms and red tape, while keeping the girls’ Swedish passports intact. Dual citizenship, he explained, was perfectly viable under the current rules.

“Which means,” he added with a glint in his eye, “access to both cinnamon buns and digestive biscuits.”

Johan nodded gravely. “The dream.”

And just like that, with a nod and a handshake, the wheels were set in motion.