Wilco: Lone Wolf - book 1: Book 1 in the series (Part of an ongoing series)

by Geoff Wolak

  The next morning it was again raining, so I put my kit on and stepped out with my webbing, and a bit of wood I had grabbed from the armoury, masking tape around it in places. I plodded off towards the airfield and joined the track, head down from the rain, my hood keeping me dry.

  The combined distance of those parts of the track away from apron was at least three miles in my estimation, maybe more, the south leg long and straight. And it was a vehicle track, no chance of running into an aircraft taxiing.

  At the far end a Land Rover pulled alongside. MPs. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing on this track?’

  ‘I’m Wilco, RAF Regiment, and I have permission from the ATC Squadron Leader to use this track anytime.’

  ‘Anytime? It’s supposed to be before 7am?’

  Water dripped off my hood. ‘It’s 6am now, so why stop me? Sergeant.’

  ‘We have to check these things. And what’s with the bit of wood?’

  ‘It’s supposed to weigh the same as a GPMG,’ I shouted out through the rain as I sloshed on.

  ‘How far you run like that?’

  ‘Twenty miles.’

  ‘Twenty miles bollocks.’

  ‘Did you watch me getting shot in the London Marathon?’

  ‘That was you?’

  ‘Yes, and I run twenty miles or more every morning, so get used to it, tell the others.’

  ‘You training for some race?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’

  ‘One of ours is a runner, he uses the track sometimes.’

  ‘Be glad of some company, so tell him. Oh, how many miles is it?’

  ‘Six point four depending on the route. If you go towards the front gate and along then around, six point eight.’

  ‘Thanks, let your mate know about me.’

  ‘Will do, but he won’t keep up with you.’ They sped away, a damp dog sticking his head out the rear.

  I headed towards the front gate and hit a straight road past it and kept going, two very wet laps, and I made a point of just two so that I would not be on the track after 7am, despite what the Squadron Leader had said. For now I would be cautious.

  After a long hot shower I got ready, heading off for breakfast. Sat with my scrambled eggs, a man plonked down opposite.

  ‘You the runner from the marathon?’ came a Scots accent.

  ‘I am,’ I cautiously offered. And I waited.

  ‘I’m in Transport, but me brother is a runner, ran for Scotland schools and then in university. He’ll be crazy to think I’m here chatting to ya.’

  ‘I’m no celeb.’

  ‘You came from the back, and could have tanked tha’ lot ‘em. Next year maybe.’

  ‘There’ll be no next year, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Ya giving up?’ he puzzled.

  ‘Once tripped, twice shot, third time shy. Besides, I might buy way out before then.’

  ‘Why?’ he puzzled.

  I gave him the short version of story over breakfast.

  He shook his head, ‘Fooking disgraceful, aye. But around here they’re nay too bad. My first CO, he was a prick, aye, but this one now he’s fine.’

  I had a new friend in Transport, MacKenzie, and that Friday he suggest I join his gang for a trip to Swindon.

  ‘What about Oxford?’ I asked him over breakfast Friday morning.

  ‘Waste a fooking time. All posh fuckers, expensive as fook as well, and all the girls is studying history and shite. Nay a dumb hairdresser in the entire town.’

  I agreed to tag along, and they had a mini-van, the gang being met at the gate. On the way I got to know them, two Scots, a Welsh lad and a lad from Newcastle; I needed an interpreter at times.

  The good thing was that I sounded English - in Swindon that made a difference, and I found myself chatting to a girl after the lads had spilt her drink. I grabbed a napkin and wiped her cleavage. She had gaped at me, but then smirked. I bought her a drink, a round for her friends, and took a phone number.

  The gang liked their curry more than they liked chasing girls and so dragged me along for a meal, and past midnight we found the hired van and driver in a side street, soon heading back – and fortunately without any punch-ups.

  I was happy and relaxed in their company, and they respected my abilities, so I went to bed feeling better than I had for a while. And I had that girl’s phone number.

  The next day I sat thinking about my fitness, and marathons. I knew that I did not need to run every day to maintain optimum fitness, but what was the key? I had in mind that if I ran four days a week I would be maintaining my fitness, one day spent on capacity, or a longer run.

  Sat with paper in hand I devised a grid on a sheet of paper, and I would work out my average times and distances, a note about how I felt at the end. And how I felt would be the key to knowing if I was slipping. I remembered what my school teachers had said: “You can’t improve something unless you are measuring it or quantifying it.”

  ‘Quantifying,’ I told myself. ‘Quantitative measurement and ... revision.’ I wrote down QMAR, and from now on I would write down my runs, times and how I felt.

  I rang the girl I had met, Sue, and she agreed to a dinner date that evening, and I realised I needed a car. I went to see Mackenzie, knowing that he was on standby.

  ‘We has a pool car, third party insurance, any RAF driver. It’s fine to use so long as you don’t crash, then drive it back and say you crashed yer like. Pay the fuel, it’s always empty.’

  So I picked up the pool car, fuelled it, cleaned it inside and out, and set off at 7pm Saturday night, a half hour drive down to Swindon, and I found the restaurant eventually. I was early, I had left plenty of time, and so had a drink at the bar for forty minutes till she put her head in.

  I stood. ‘Made it then.’

  Sue handed me her coat with a smile and we were seated quickly, soon glancing at the menu, and I maintained my story of being an RAF medic.

  Starters, main course, and we were getting on well. Desert, coffee - and a subtle hint from the staff to go home, and I drove her home, a kiss and a grope, and off she went, plans for next Saturday night.

  Monday, sat in the armoury, I said to the guys. ‘I’ve been looking at this all wrong.’

  ‘Huh?’ they puzzled.

  ‘Friday I met a nice girl, and saw her Saturday for dinner, so ... if I see this as a job – get paid and fuck off home – then it’s not too bad. I get paid to see girls and shag them.’

  ‘Better way to look at it, yes,’ Mickey agreed. ‘If you’re all career focused then the shit you had would fuck with your mind. Do the job, get paid, go home – fuck the promotion and shit.’

  The next morning, at orders, I was assigned to Transport, they needed a driver. I did not argue, and was soon getting loud welcomes shouted as I entered Transport.

  ‘You need a driver.’

  ‘They sent you?’

  ‘I can drive,’ I toyed.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s senior officers, so best behaviour like.’

  I adjusted the seat on a silver BMW 520 and took it out for a spin, getting used to it. I checked the tyre pressure, the oil, the washer fluid, and what was in the boot. I added in my first aid kit, a bottle of water, bog roll, a towel, some chocolate and a fizzy drink. I put two paperbacks in the door recess.

  I then sat in Admin till a Group Captain appeared. A nod from the admin staff, and I stood, the officer’s briefcase taken. ‘This way, sir.’

  It was not raining so we walked to the car.

  ‘Why are you in combats?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m RAF Regiment, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’

  We got in, soon heading out the gate, and heading southwest for the short journey to Lyneham via Swindon. I had studied the map of the area and I knew the UK roads well enough, and we benefitted from signs – that would be taken down in a time of war I guessed. I had images of Russian soldiers following the signs or stopping to ask British housewives.

  At Lyneham they glanced
at the Group Captain and let us in, but I had to follow the signs to Admin.

  ‘Sorry, sir, not familiar with this base yet.’

  ‘Right here, left and along and stop at the end.’ He eased out and I held the door. ‘Be an hour.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  I followed him in and found an Admin corporal. ‘Where do I leave the car for a visiting Group Captain?’

  ‘Outside, left and left and there are spaces.’

  I put the car in a slot for visitors and headed back with my paperback, and sat reading about pre-industrial China.

  An hour later, and I was engrossed in my book, and I missed the Group Captain. He lifted the book and had a look.

  ‘Jesus, what a way to while away your time.’

  ‘I like history, sir,’ I said as I stood, and I took his case, leading him around to the car.

  ‘I need something for my wife, so ... a shop with ...’

  ‘Sir?’ I asked after a long pause.

  ‘Well, flowers are a bit bland.’

  ‘Where do you live, sir?’

  ‘Near Reading, and it’s our anniversary, but we always say we won’t make a fuss.’

  ‘The motorway services near there have lots of things in the shop, sir.’

  ‘It does, I remember. OK, head there.’

  An hour later we stood looking at cuddly animals, collapsible chairs, large boxes of chocolates, torches, all sorts.

  ‘Got the damn grandchildren in the morning as well.’

  ‘Tent, sir, kids love to sleep inside. And how did you meet your lady wife?’

  ‘University. I was in the rugby team, she was doing the oranges.’

  ‘There, thing shaped like a rugby ball, and ... chocolate oranges. She’ll think it romantic, sir.’

  ‘You’re a bloody genius.’

  Outside Reading, I pulled up at his posh house. ‘You taking her out to dinner, sir?’

  ‘Yes, early table booked.’

  ‘I can drive you, sir.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘So long as you let them know tomorrow, I get the time back next week.’

  ‘Well ... if you’re happy with that.’

  ‘No problem at all, sir.’ I felt another day off looming large.

  Two hours later I was parked up around the corner from the restaurant, reading my book. A tap came at the window. Police. I eased out and stretched.

  ‘You a serviceman?’ the first asked.

  ‘Driver. Officer is in the restaurant with his wife.’

  ‘They get drivers like that?’

  ‘Not for out of hours usually, but I’ll get a day off next week.’

  ‘Got any papers for this?’

  ‘Nope. Next silly question?’

  ‘Any ID?’

  I showed them my RAF ID, and they sloped off.

  An hour later and my happy anniversary couple came around the corner. I eased out, opening the door for the Group Captain. We set off through Reading, and soon to a road parallel with the distant motorway.

  Waiting at a junction, a car came head on, a bike from the side, and the bike hit the car side on, a scream from my rear seats, and the bike rider went flying twenty yards through the air and into a billboard, slamming down.

  Engine off, I pulled the leaver for the boot. ‘With me, sir!’ I ran back and lifted the boot, first aid kit grabbed, blanket handed to the Group Captain, and I sprinted over to the rider, lifting the visor.

  Leather jacket undone, I checked and found no pulse.

  ‘We take the helmet off?’ the Group Captain asked as he knelt.

  ‘No, sir, could have a neck injury, and that will make it worse. Right now that helmet might be holding his disks in place.’

  Visor up, intubation tubes out, I awkwardly got a tube in as people stood looking. Pushing on the limp man’s chest I sniffed the tube, not smelling his stomach contents, bag soon attached.

  ‘Two hands, sir, every ten seconds or so, watch his lips for colour.’

  I unzipped his jacket and felt the biker’s ribs through his t-shirt. ‘Have to risk it.’ I began the vigorous compressions, sirens sounding out.

  The Group Captain pumped the bag, I performed the compressions with vigour, ten minutes before a hand came on my shoulder, a paramedic.

  ‘No pulse, no voluntarily breathing,’ I told him. ‘Got a defribulator?’

  ‘Witnesses told me what happened, and I’ll bet his neck is broken. We see this often.’

  We eased back as the paramedic felt into the helmet and test the neck vertebrae. ‘Snapped. Dead instantly. OK, off you go.’

  I unclipped the bag and left the tube, leading the Group Captain away.

  He began, ‘Good effort, but ... well, way he flew through the air like that. You know your stuff. How come?’

  ‘Did all the first aid courses, sir.’

  First aid kit back in the boot, boot closed, I got back in, and glanced over my shoulder at the distraught lady. ‘Bike rider died instantly, Ma’am, he never felt it.’

  I drove them home in silence, and they thanked me on the driveway. Setting off back to Brize I was reflective, and a little mad at that paramedic; he had made no effort. There was nothing to be done, but still ... he could have at least looked interested in trying something.

  I had to stop and puzzle that. I knew there was nothing that could be done, but I knew that afterwards, not before. I had to wonder about my own personality; would I pursue something, even knowing that it was hopeless.

  Back at base I locked the car after taking my stuff out, and Transport was still open. I gave the night duty the story over a cup of tea, and it was now 1am. They wrote up an incident in the log, and the police would probably want us as witnesses, or at least get written statements. I had seen police at the scene, but did they get my registration?

  I hit my pillow just before 2am, and sleep would not come for an hour; I was still wound up, and still not understanding why. I finally wondered if I felt guilty for that biker, and that I was worried about being blamed for his death. Because of prison, would I always worry about be blamed for things, that was the question.

  I woke feeling a little rough, which was not like me, a long hot shower helping. Instead of run, I walked to Transport to look at the rota before breakfast.

  ‘There’s an early pick-up booked for that Group Captain,’ they informed me, but I was not down for it.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Yeah, long drive, RAF St. Mawgan, Cornwall, overnight.’

  ‘No bother,’ I told them, and headed back in the BMW for some overnight kit. Stocked up, I set out early and stopped at the services for a breakfast, getting to the Group Captain’s home a little early.

  He eventually came out and I eased out the car.

  ‘You on again? When the heck do you sleep?’

  ‘I sleep five hours a night, sir.’

  ‘You do? Crickey.’ Bags in the boot, his wife said hello to me before we set off, and on the motorway my passenger fell asleep.

  Down the M4 we glided in light traffic, turning south onto the M5 near Bristol - the traffic now heavy, past Bristol and southwest, the traffic modest.

  My passenger eventually woke and yawned. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, glancing out the window.

  ‘Devon, sir, making good time.’

  ‘Next services, breakfast on me.’

  ‘Sounds good, sir.’ I could eat again, it had been three hours.

  Sat for breakfast in a busy food hall, he asked, ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘Wilco, sir.’

  ‘So how come you only sleep five hours a night?’

  ‘Always did, sir, right from basic training, and the marathon running might add to it.’

  ‘Marathon running?’

  ‘I have been known to enter a contest now and then, sir.’

  He did not figure out who I was, and I did not elaborate.

  Another two hours, motorway followed by dual carriageway followed by “A” road, and we made it to
RAF St. Mawgan, some of our Nimrod maritime aircraft based here, the remainder in Scotland. He directed me in, up a gradient and to the Admin section. He would be in the officers’ mess, I would be ... somewhere.

  After he departed I went an asked about transit, but they had the wrong name down.

  ‘He’s off sick,’ I told them, so they changed the name. I had a key to a door in a wooden hut back down by the main gate, but it was just one night anyhow. I was due to take the Group Captain back at noon the next day, and so drove out the gate without mentioning where I was headed, and the short distance down to Newquay, soon sat on a quiet beach, the sun shining.

  An hour later I was sat having a bag of chips on a bench overlooking the harbour when a tall and mean-looking man stopped in front of me. He had MP written all over him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘You’re supposed to identify yourself first, sergeant.’

  ‘You at the base?’ he puzzled.

  ‘No, I drive the Group Captain, who is in meetings till noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Not supposed to be off-base in uniform.’

  ‘I know, but the Group Captain – he loves shouting at people who screw with me.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Gunner Paul Sampson, Brize Norton.’ It was the name of a serviceman banged up for assault a week ago.

  ‘Your CO will get a letter.’ And off he trotted.

  ‘No he won’t,’ I murmured, and finished my chips, seagulls eyeing me like they wanted to kill me and eat my flesh, but in reality they just wanted my chips. I threw one, a mad fight ensuing as a dozen seagulls loudly fought over it.

  Sat there enjoying the sun, chips finished and fingers wiped, the calls of the gulls reminded me of my youth, a holiday with Uncle Richard, and my first sexual experience. I smiled as I thought back.

  Walking along the promenade in brilliant sunshine, a man noticed my uniform, and I figured it would be another talking to till he spoke with an American accent. ‘You trying to get jankers, buddy?’

  ‘Jankers? You a serviceman?’

  ‘US Marines, at the base, St. Mawgan.’

  ‘There are US Marines at the base?’ I puzzled.

  ‘You not from there?’

  ‘Driver, just down for a night, senior officer.’