by Geoff Wolak
Tomorrow there would be a boat, two dives, and I was keen.
Getting back to the hotel, I bumped into the soldiers. ‘How’s your mate?’
‘He’s in a bad way, kept in hospital, police an all taking statements.’
‘Did you mention me?’ I asked, now worried.
‘No, sir, told ‘em we didn’t know who you were, but them German’s you hit are in a bad way, broken jaws.’
‘They got what they deserved, but never mention me – or you’re dead meat.’
‘Right, sir.’
Up at 6am I went for a swim, my mind on the English Channel, but the water here was calm and warm, the Channel - not so much. I swam out half a mile, swam back, and repeated that, in need of some breakfast at the end, first into the breakfast room.
At the dive centre I got a coffee, finally handed my wetsuit, jacket and tank, flippers and mask, and we walked along the rocks to a small boat moored at the end, and stepped across. Eight of us set off, the owner steering the boat, and we chugged slowly out and around the headland to the left, beyond my hotel.
Engine cut, an instructor dived down and brought up a line, the boat attached to the line. Kit on, tanks tested, flippers on, masks on, I sat on the side with my lady instructor and we fell backwards whilst holding masks.
A blur of air bubbles, and I righted myself, slowly sinking. She swam down, so I followed, trying to remember when to put air in my jacket. I cleared my ears three times before we landed on smooth rocks, and now I put air in my jacket till I hovered over the rocks, an OK signal from the lady, and off we went at a slow pace.
There were not many fish, but we got close to several large octopus, a few fish in the shallow water at the end of the dive.
She signalled for my air gauge. I looked at it, and gave her seven fingers. Holding the anchor line, we inched slowly up it to 5metres and halted, a three minute wait whilst observing the other divers, seen by the plumes of rising bubbles.
Air in jackets, masks off and in the boat, fins off and inside, jacket off - and I clambered into the boat, reaching back for my tank, finally the lady’s tank, and she climbed in.
‘How was that?’ she asked.
‘Fine, no problems.’
‘You have no fear under water,’ she noted.
‘I’m a 1500metre champion.’
‘Ah, so water is natural to you.’
We headed back in – a slow chugging boat, swapped tanks, sat and had lunch, soon onto the second dive, a cave of sorts, more octopus seen.
My instructor said, ‘Tomorrow, if you want, we practise skills and tests.’
‘Fine by me,’ I told her. ‘Better to learn than just swim around.’
That evening I was again sat on the balcony, a pair of English girls on the next balcony and giggling, but I had no interest.
The next day I was sat on the edge of boat after the other divers had entered the water.
‘OK, you have all of the equipment in your hand, air switched off, weight belt held. You go over the side, air on and mouthpiece in, mask on, hit the bottom, weight belt first, jacket on, fins on, adjust the suit and come back up slow.’
‘Oh ... er ... OK.’ Tank tested, regulator tested, all the kit on my left arm, a nod at her and over I went, soon sinking, but I opened my eyes, seeing clearly enough. I cleared my nose on the way down, and hit with my feet. Air tank on, mouthpiece not in place yet, weight belt on and awkwardly fastened, jacket on, and now I put the mouthpiece in, mask on – cleared, fins on, jacket adjusted, and up I went as she hovered in the shallows.
I burst through the surface.
‘OK, good, many people panic like this. Swim to the rocks.’
Out the water onto a smooth rock, kit off, tank off, she pointed me in, and I jumped, clearing my nose twice on the way down, back up a minute later.
‘That was ten metre,’ she informed me. ‘We are supposed to do it in two metre.’
‘Do I get extra points?’ I teased.
I had qualified for Open Water Diver, not sure what that meant, but elected to keep going.
The next day we studied the dive tables again, and I had exams to complete, the answers simple enough. I then had to use a compass and follow a square course, and did OK, to be followed by a night dive.
I arrived back at 7pm, the sun setting, and with torches now we entered the warm water, a myriad of creatures crawling or swimming across the sand, and I had been warned that I would need to find the way back.
When she gave me a hand signal in front of her torch I used my compass and set a direction. Hitting the rocks I swam left and around, and in just nine inches of warm water and gentle waves we eased up, finding the dive centre. Well, the navigation had not been that hard.
For my final day of holiday I sat on the balcony for hours, staring at the inviting ocean, thinking, always thinking, wondering about the future, and did they employ dive instructing pussy lickers down here, and what were the wages?
Back at Brize Norton on a Sunday I reclaimed my room, marks in the door suggesting that someone had kicked it. Inside, I found it all OK, my metal cabinet secure.
On the Monday I ventured to the armoury, to find Bongo sat there. ‘What the fuck you doing here, fat boy?’
‘Nice to see you too,’ he quipped.
Mickey explained, ‘We finally got another man.’
‘Where you been all this time?’ I asked Bongo as I knocked the kettle on.
‘Marham after Catterick. Was OK, but out in the sticks. Then Lossiemouth, which was cold and wet, so I came down here.’
Over two hours we had caught up on gossip and so went to lunch, and he was in a billet near me, but far enough away not to hear the snoring. I would be needed less in the armoury, not that anyone would inform Admin, or even care, but I decided that I would hit the languages more.
I popped into the Education Centre and they were glad to see another living being - they did not get many visitors, and I used the machines for a day, German first. My vocabulary was wide, but I need the syntax right. My Russian friend the spy returned for a day, and we practised, two hours practise down the pub lunchtime.
I was back to swimming, and now it was just a case of dealing with the boredom of distance swimming. I figured I would risk it, and I approached the base commander.
He studied me. ‘You’re trying to get a free holiday to Cyprus!’
‘Well, sir, I can’t train in the ocean here till August or September.’
‘Ten days only!’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Then you swim off Bournemouth beach in the rain!’
Admin sorted out the paperwork, temporary assignment to RAF Akrotiri for sports training, my CO more than pissed off that I had swung a nice little holiday.
I packed my kit, and I queued up in the departure’s area here at Brize Norton, the clerks saying hello when I handed over the paperwork, and I was soon sat on a grey RAF Tristar, the plane older than I was.
In Akrotiri I was given a single room in with the RAF Regiment detachment there, and the next morning I reported to the Fl Lt in charge.
‘What are you here for?’ he puzzled.
‘Remember the silly sod shot in the London Marathon, sir?’
‘That was you?’
‘Yes, sir, and the RAF top brass want more medals, so I won the 1500metre swim, now to try the English Channel in September.’
‘Chilly,’ he noted. ‘So you’re here just to swim?’
‘Swim once a day, sir, a few miles. But if there’s anything else I can be doing, happy to help out. I’m a time-served armourer, and a fully qualified medic.’
‘Both useful. Report to the armoury after swimming.’
‘Yes, sir. But where’s safe to swim?’
‘No idea, go ask someone.’
And I did ask, and I checked the map, and no one knew, but a PTI was keen to help and he had a canoe, and I would be his excuse to use it instead of doing a proper day’s work.
So later that day w
e drove to a point beyond the range, to the beach – deserted, warning signs up about trespassers, and I got my wetsuit on, sun cream on my face, hands and feet, water sipped, and off we set, the PTI following me, and I glimpsed a turtle.
I swam out half a mile before I turned down the coast, counting my strokes, and I knew roughly how many strokes it was per mile. Stopping, I checked my watch and turned around, heading back, aircraft coming in to land overhead.
With three hours clocked we exited the water and sat on the sand.
‘How’d you feel?’ he asked.
‘Fine, Sarge. I get bored before I get tired.’
Enjoying the sun, we sat on the sand for an hour chatting about the London Marathon.
I reported in to the armoury late in the day, and they would be glad of some help; it was not just Brize Norton that was undermanned.
The next day I swam further and faster, trying to tire myself out, five miles clocked before I showered and reported to the armoury. They had GPMGs due an annual inspection so I got to it, finding the lollipop stick they had left inside one as a joke.
Since I woke early I went for a run most mornings, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then swam, afternoons in the armoury – where I was never taxed, and the evenings were often spent in the bar with the armourers.
The weekend came around, and the armourers had hired a villa, eight of us to be in it, in Aiya Napa in the east. After we got there, about 3pm on the Friday, I dumped my kit and got my swimming trunks on.
‘Fooking hell,’ they let out.
One asked, ‘You on steroids or something?’
‘You remember the stupid cunt shot in the London Marathon?’
‘That was you?’
I pointed at the scars.
‘Fooking hell.’
As a rabble we headed down to the beach, which was a stone’s throw away, girls aplenty on the sand. With the guys setting down towels, and eyeing the girls, I went for a swim, out half a mile and back at a fast pace.
Coming out the water, a tall girl with broad shoulders and a great body approached.
In German she began, ‘Olympic standard?’
In German, I replied, ‘No, but 1500metre military champion. I’m training for the English Channel, twenty miles.’
‘You are English?’
‘Yes, just here for a week. You?’
‘Holiday with friends, four days left.’
‘You still swim?’
‘For fun, I was in the German Olympic team at eighteen years old. Now modelling.’
‘You have the figure for it.’
‘And you, you were shot maybe – in the military?’
‘I was shot during the London Marathon.’
‘Ah, my god, that was you. I saw it on the TV.’
‘So why don’t we get some food and chat, someplace with no stupid drunk British men.’
‘I get my clothes.’
I returned to the armourers.
‘Don’t tell us you pulled that bird,’ they complained.
‘Yes, German model.’
‘You fucking cunt,’ they complained, observing her. ‘She got any mates?’
‘Speak any German?’ I teased.
‘A few words,’ they complained.
‘Stick to the British girls, they’re easy.’
Dressed, I met my date and we walked off, the guys staring after us, and she knew a quiet spot, but an expensive place.
‘I only have some money for the beach,’ I told her.
‘I have my card, no problem.’
She enjoyed fresh lobster, I had the chicken, and she could not take her eyes off me – the other diners not taking their eyes off her, several large wines down her throat.
‘Where are you staying?’ she asked.
‘Renting a villa with seven idiots.’
‘Ah, so maybe we drink on my hotel balcony, yes.’
‘Only if you promise to behave.’
Her eyes glinted. ‘And if I don’t behave?’
I leant in. ‘Then I lick your pussy till you beg for mercy.’
‘We go,’ she said, standing and paying.
An hour later, and I was exhausted and sweating, my fit “Madchen” hard to satisfy, but it had been great fun trying. Wine in hand, we sat naked on the balcony in a welcome cool breeze, her legs across mine as we chatted about life and careers.
I stayed the night with her, another marathon sex session in the morning before breakfast and, since she had a hire car, we drove up into the hills. A viewpoint found, a magnificent vista of the eastern end of the island, and we had sex in the pine trees.
A garage come cafe found, we sat on a viewpoint and looked down, getting a tan, and arrived back after sundown. I explained that I needed fresh clothes, so she dropped me off, to meet at the same place later.
The lads were well pissed-off when they saw me, many questions fired. I showered, changed, grabbed all my money from my bag and wished them well in their search for a girl dumb enough to shag them.
After another expensive meal - this time I paid, we strolled along the waterfront for a while, soon back into her hotel and in the shower. This time around I knew what she liked, and so I made her come faster, but it was still almost an hour.
Back to the lads the next day at 9am, bleary faces greeted me, two of the rooms now having hung-over British girls in them that were actually dumb enough to date these guys. I sat on the villa balcony, thinking again, and the hours ticked by, some of the lads sat with me at various points.
Back at Brize Norton, Fl Lt Peters wanted to see me. ‘Did you get much swimming done?’ he complained.
‘Five days, then five days drunken sex, sir.’
‘Well ... those five days swimming is more than I would have credited you with, not a total loss. Anyhow, you’ve not been down on the rota for the front gate, or night patrols, so you are now. Not as a punishment, but it could not be explained why you were left off in the first place, other than maybe someone felt they didn’t want you on the gate – gun in hand.’
‘Does this mean I get treated like a normal enlisted man, sir?’ I teased.
‘Let’s not go that far, eh. Check the rota in here every Monday.’
I checked, and I was down for Friday and Saturday night, which figured; no one else wanted those slots. So on the Friday I signed out an SA80 piece-of-crap rifle, hopefully one that worked, signed for two magazines, and I headed to the gate with a backpack, my camouflage waterproofs in the bag.
In the guardroom I said hello to the duty corporal, an MP who had pissed off his boss. MP’s did not normally pull a shift in the guardroom, and this one was hostile after he realised who I was.
I ignored him as best I could, and backed up the man checking IDs, a cook of all people.
Half an hour later and the Air Commodore drove in. ‘Wilco, what you doing on the gate?’
‘Pulled a shift, sir, they’ve decided I’m to be treated like everyone else. Gun an all. You working late, sir?’
‘Function in the officers mess. I’ll see you on the way home.’
‘Have a good time, sir.’
Off he drove.
‘How come he knows you?’ the cook asked.
‘I’m his usual driver, or one of them.’
A few people recognised me, the base commander stopping to ask about Cyprus on his way out.
At midnight the cook was bored, fed up, and lambasting his boss. At 2am he was downright swearing about his boss. It started to rain, so I put my wet gear on, and I was still there at 6am, when the next team came on. The cook could hardly stand and keep his eyes open, I was fine.
Hamster was rudely woken in the armoury, eventually, my weapon signed back in, ammo counted. ‘You didn’t shoot anyone, boring fucker.’
I shot him a look. ‘Tonight, 6pm. Be awake.’
‘Not likely, I like a rest on the weekends.’
‘A ... rest?’ I shook my head.
I was stiff and so went for a run, a long hot shower to f
ollow, then to bed.
At 6pm I was back at the guardroom, Hamster having been rudely woken again, his “rest” disturbed. Tonight was a different corporal in the guardroom, from Admin, and we chatted for hours, the traffic light, the same cook checking IDs.
At midnight it was just me at the gate, the routine being that I glance at the window and the barrier would lift. A car pulled up, window down.
An Irish accent began, ‘I left me ID in the damn pub, I’ll have to call the police about it in the morning, sorry.’
‘Step out the car please, sir,’ I calmly requested.
‘Step out, what for? I’m an officer, now open the damn gate or it’ll be your head.’
‘Step out the car, sir, after switching the engine off, and we’ll make a call.’
He nudged forwards, angered beyond words. Out of my webbing I grabbed a magazine, rifle up, weapon loaded, and cocked, seen by the window. They called the MPs in a panic.
I aimed at the vehicle, a second car now behind. ‘Step out the vehicle!’ I shouted, taking two steps back.
Whoever was in the car behind got out and moved behind their own vehicle.
‘I’ll crucify you! You’ll be on charges. What’s your name!’
‘Last chance to exit the vehicle, sir, before I open fire! Please step out of the vehicle.’
He revved, and nudged the barrier without damaging it, then figured he would drive around it. That idea was cut short when I put two loud rounds into his front tyre, two in the rear.
I aimed at his head. ‘Last chance, sir, or I will kill you!’
Hands appeared, the door opened, and out he came.
‘Turn around, hands on the vehicle.’
He turned around as I landed a flat boot to his lower back, slamming him into the car as an MP jeep pulled up.
Two MPs ran in. ‘Wilco,’ one stated.
‘This Irish gentleman demands access to the base, no ID.’
‘He what?’ They pinned him across the bonnet. ‘Who are you?’