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

by Geoff Wolak

  It took an hour to make a statement to the police, eight band members hurt, a few on their way to hospital, the manager nursing a broken nose, the barman with a black eye. But the CCTV had recorded everything.

  Trish was left out of it, sat in our room. I eventually knocked, since she had the key.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked, wide-eyed and worried.

  ‘No, but my hand will be stiff and sore tomorrow. I need a hot shower and a good back rub. And where’d you learn to play the piano?’

  ‘Boarding school.’

  ‘You’re good, you should keep at it.’ I stripped off, so did she.

  She said, ‘When you’re forced to do something, like music exercises, you don’t enjoy it.’

  The shower helped, as well her gentle touch, and we kissed under the hot water for ages.

  Out the shower, and in bed, she said, ‘Attacked by sea gulls, called a pervert, now a bar brawl...’

  I laughed. ‘I’m opening your eyes to the world beneath your world. But don’t worry, the Fuzz never got your name. If they ask about the lady in my room I’ll just say you’re a hooker. ’

  She punched me in the ribs.

  ‘Ow, I think I took a hit there.’

  The following week, the weather was forecast to be good, and I asked the PTIs at the Para School about tagging along on a few drops. They had a course in progress, and it was possible. I went to see the CO of the Para School.

  ‘If I say no, are you going to pull some strings?’

  ‘Sir, others do it, so why do you want to say no?’

  ‘Because I want a quiet life, and your name mixed in with quiet life is a misnomer.’

  ‘You’ll not even know I’m here, sir. And yes, I will pull some strings.’

  He sighed. ‘OK.’

  I joined a group of Paras, a few of the PTIs surprised to see me, and we dropped at 1,000ft with no pod. The following day was 1,000ft with the kit pod, and I lived to tell the tale.

  But fate was about to intervene again. The final day, I dropped again at 800ft with the kit pod, and made it down, but shouts had me turn around, two men tangled and spinning, and although their chutes were open they would hit hard. With my own chute discarded I ran towards them, getting there before anyone else.

  One was breathing, the second not as I tore off harnesses. Two PTIs were there a second later, and both knew me, waves given to the RAF ambulance sat there up the range.

  ‘Got a knife?’ I shouted.

  One man did, a box cutter for cutting chord. It would have to do.

  ‘Pen?’ I shouted as I opened the lifeless man’s jacket and then a shirt. A pen was held out. I reached across and checked the second man, his pulse OK, his pupil dilations suggesting a mild concussion only.

  ‘Is that guy dead?’ they asked.

  ‘Soon will be.’ I felt down his ribs. ‘Shit, all smashed to fuck, internal bleeding.’

  Knife extended, I made two cuts into pale skin, the frothy blood flowing, the man still in his large helmet. Pen taken apart, I shoved it in over an inch and sucked, getting mostly fluid, which I spat out.

  ‘Kneel down, get close, this will take three of us!’

  They closed in, another pen found.

  ‘You, suck through the pen, fingers around the hole, in time with him.’ I had the second PTI lay down. ‘When I compress the chest, you suck three seconds and spit, but put your thumb over the end of the pen, keep your fingers around the hole. Ready.’ I leant awkwardly over, nose pinched, head back as the ambulance drew near, I blew four large breaths before starting the chest compressions with one straight arm.

  The PTIs sucked, and spat.

  Nose pinched, I blew four breaths, back onto chest compressions.

  The medic ran in. ‘Wilco?’

  ‘What kit you got?’

  ‘Fuck all.’

  ‘Tubes?’

  He ran back.

  Nose pinched, four breaths, chest compressions. The medic ran back and opened his bag, Paras stood around. Intubation tube out, moistened in my mouth, I got it down the Para’s throat and tested it, bag fitted.

  ‘Keep sucking,’ I told the PTIs as I performed CPR. ‘He’s young and fit, he can make it.’

  Drain taps out, I fitted them one at a time and taped them down, the PTIs getting the harnesses off both men.

  Bag worked, chest compressions now with both hands, the taps issuing fluid, and my Para coughed and opened his eyes. I tore the bag off, getting the tube out before he puked, and I eased him up, his helmet eased slowly off, his neck and vertebrae checked.

  ‘Carry him sat upright! Gently!’ I shouted, and four men carried him, the second man stretchered off, quite a crowd gathered. I jumped into the ambulance with both men, soon bumping slowly over rough ground, onto tarmac roads and picking up speed. And there was no oxygen in the back.

  We sped down to Oxford, not far, the doors soon opened, paramedics emerging with a doctor. I jumped down.

  ‘This man, cracked ribs, internal bleeding, chest drain either side, he was zero heart beat for six minutes but with CPR. Other man is out, but strong pulse and good pupil reflexes, both have impact injuries, parachutes got tangled.’

  My wounded men were led away, the ambulance driver taking me back up to Weston. We found the Paras sat in two rows, being lectured by an officer, PTIs to one side.

  I walked over to the PTIs. ‘You get my chute?’

  ‘On the truck I think.’

  The captain turned. ‘How are my men?’

  ‘One will be off for three months at least, sir, the other may have a spinal injury.’

  ‘And you are...?’

  ‘RAF Regiment, sir.’

  ‘Not a medic?’

  ‘I’m a fully qualified medic, with the RAF Regiment.’

  ‘Never heard of that before, but thanks, quick work back there, and ... unconventional.’

  ‘No decent fucking kit to hand, sir. And if that had happened on a live drop, which of this lot would get the chest drain in?’

  He glanced at his men. ‘First aid training is always useful, yes. Your name?’

  ‘Wilco, sir.’

  ‘Wilco? The boxer?’

  I sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You box, and you’re a fucking medic?’

  ‘Go figure, huh.’

  We boarded the green RAF buses, many firing questions at me about the boxing as we drove back, but the young Paras all fell asleep quickly. That left me and the PTIs at the front, now with a shit load of paperwork.

  At the PTS I had to make a statement, what I saw and what I did, the base commander arriving with a posse.

  ‘Well done, Wilco, looks likes you saved that Paras life.’

  I glanced at the PTS CO. ‘Some people ... didn’t even want me on the jump, they see my as ... bad news.’

  All eyes were on the PTS CO. He said, ‘Why don’t you just rub it in.’

  I told him, ‘Perhaps, sir, you can see beyond rumour and exaggeration and realise that I’m a useful fucker to have around.’

  ‘We appreciate you,’ the Group Captain told me.

  I faced the posse of officers. ‘If anyone needs me ... I’ll be using my skills to guard the front gate.’

  ‘Lose the attitude, or you’ll be on the gate all year.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And well done again. Now fuck off.’

  That weekend I met Trish in our hideout, and we drove up into the Chilterns, quiet riverside pubs sampled and enjoyed, ducks fed, Trish questioning my aim since I always seemed to hit the ducks on the head.

  Life at Brize Norton settled down, and I was enjoying it, and I often stopped Trish on the gate.

  ‘Ma’am, I’ll need to strip search you.’

  ‘You buy me dinner first! And not a bag of chips.’

  I drove the Air Commodore a few days a week, and when the weather was good I would either freefall with Wilmot or hitch a jump with the PTS.

  Four weeks of seeing Trish, and we were settle
d into a pattern, mostly meeting on the weekends, messages left with the landlord of our bed and breakfast, but the universe would never just leave me be to plod along.

  One lunchtime, approaching the canteen, three soldiers walked past me, here on course no doubt. One was a corporal, a boxer’s face.

  ‘You!’

  I stopped, a glance at them. ‘Help you with something?’

  ‘Wilco, right.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You killed my mate.’

  My heart sank, and I felt genuinely sorry for the man. ‘Nature of the sport.’ I turned away.

  ‘You don’t walk away from me!’

  A group of RAF girls halted, puzzling the scene.

  The corporal closed the distance, his mates at his sides, and he was my size. And angered with it. ‘You don’t turn your fucking back on me, cunt.’

  ‘Yeah, watch me.’ I walked on, but was grabbed. Spun around, he threw a punch, a glancing hit as people near the canteen stopped.

  I took out his knee, a back fist to his throat without thinking as his mates rushed in. I stepped back, using the now-choking corporal as an obstacle, a man coming around - suddenly bent towards me, my heavy right hook perfectly placed by accident, and down he went, the third man coming around and lunging at me. Moving to the side I uppercut, snapping his head up and down, and he was out.

  I moved back, now away from the canteen as three green blurs moved in, the first with a flying kick. I moved, but still took a blow to the hip. The man landed awkwardly, a pause, and I hit him square on the chin, a kick down at his knee just before I was struck across the face.

  It was a glancing blow, but I knew I was bleeding. His punch had spun me around, an elbow into his back with all my might and he was hurt bad. Coming full circle, I chopped him in the side of the neck and stamped down on his ankle, a crack heard, a scream issued.

  But I had missed the next man, another glancing punch, but from a guy that was small and light. A kick to the balls, and he bent over. Head grabbed, I smashed his nose with my knee, suddenly knocked sideways, a flying kick to the ribs as I stumbled away.

  I knew I was hurt, my right side now an issue as a six foot eight monster charged at me. I side-stepped him, his own momentum working against him, and spun around, hard left kick to the kidneys, second hard kick in to the ribs, third powerful kick high to the ribs. And I was in boots.

  Hit from behind, I fell sideways into a tree, and if it had not been for the tree I would be on the floor. Another glancing blow, but no power in it, and I left jabbed a young lad, a nose bloodied, a monster right hook to the nose sending him flying.

  Green shapes raced at me, and I moved around the tree. The first around the tree simply tried to grab me. Wrist caught and twisted, thumb in his eye, hard elbow to the nose, a shove back, his head hitting the man behind in the nose, that nose demolished.

  I jumped right, the man on the left grabbing for me but stumbling over his mates. I still had hold of a wrist and yanked it down, hard enough to tear some tendons, my next attacker halted for a moment as he tried to grab his own mate.

  A rising power hook, and I snapped his head back and he went down. Another kick, and I was grimacing, my right side hit again. A punch came in, but I ducked, his punch landing on the top of my head, his hand busted, a yelp issued. But I felt momentarily dizzy, and sick.

  A green blur from the side, and I side-kicked down to a knee, the man stopped short and screaming. Head grabbed, a knee to the face was followed by a second, the man silent. He dropped like a rag doll.

  Final green blur rushing at me, left power jab, and he was knocked back and spun as his legs came forwards, landing on his neck.

  I backed up, now a hundred yards from the canteen, green bodies on the floor, few of them moving, women in blue attending some, people streaming out the canteen, all in blue.

  ‘Wilco!’

  I was in a daze.

  ‘Wilco!’ it came again, suddenly a face, an MP corporal I knew. It sounded like he was talking under water.

  ‘You OK?’

  I had not realised it, but my face was covered in blood.

  He moved me to his jeep, and I fell against the side, the dog barking like mad.

  A girl appeared, her face familiar. ‘Wilco, you OK?’

  ‘You saw what happened?’ someone asked her.

  ‘The soldiers jumped Wilco, I was right there.’

  Lifting up a little, and trying to breathe, I could see a line of green bodies on the floor, more than I could count. I was pushed into the jeep, the dog told to quieten down, and we drove somewhere, I had no idea where.

  Sat down, I was suddenly looking up at the MO.

  ‘Wilco, you hear me?’

  ‘Ugh?’

  ‘Some ice, clean him up, stitch the hand.’

  ‘Were you unconscious at any time?’

  ‘Witnesses said no,’ came a voice.

  My face washed, ice placed on it, my hand was cleaned up, blue cloth down, a smell of antiseptic, two stitches, but I never felt them.

  ‘Flex your fingers for me.’

  I did as asked.

  ‘Hand is broken, wrist OK. Tape it up.’

  A light was shone in my eyes, a finger moved, a cold drink offered to me, a small one.

  ‘Ribs,’ I said.

  Jacket off, shirt off, and the MO tested each rib. ‘Tape him up, maybe a fractured rib, not life threatening.’

  I hadn’t realised it, but an hour had passed, the Air Commodore appearing as I was handed a cup of tea.

  ‘Wilco, you OK?’ He appeared to be horrified about something.

  ‘A bit dazed, sir. Sore.’

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘Soldier, corporal, boxer. It was his mate that died in the ring.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it. Ladies say he threw the first punch, that three of them attacked you, then the others. But they came off worse, much worse, base full of ambulances.’ He sighed. ‘This could have best been avoided, but ... not your fault.’

  An hour later, many a tea downed, I felt better, at least I felt lucid now. My ribs were killing me, my hip throbbing, and when I looked in the toilet mirror I was cut and swollen all over.

  The same MP corporal appeared. He took a moment as I sat in a waiting room. ‘Some of the men you hit, they’re in a bad way, really bad way.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time I left here.’

  He sat. ‘We got statements, plenty of them, even an officer driving past, all saw you backing up, them coming at you. And there were thirteen of them, some big lads.’

  I stared past him, sore all over now, my hand throbbing. ‘I can make a statement tomorrow, when I figure it out, but the corporal with the boxer’s face, he started it. It was his mate that died in the ring.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it. Fucking captain ain’t happy, you put his entire platoon in hospital, and the PTS ain’t happy, course cancelled with half the men missing.’

  ‘Like I said, maybe time for me to go. Can you drive me to my room?’

  ‘Sure, you discharged?’

  ‘No idea.’ I stood, wincing, and found the MO. ‘Can I go lie down now, sir?’

  ‘Yes, take it easy, but be back in the morning.’

  In my block they stopped to stare, a few having seen the fight, and I was helped into my room, the kettle knocked on. Door closed, and locked, I fetched a knife from my webbing. In this state, I would need to use it to defend myself.

  Half an hour later a knock came at the door. ‘Wilco, you in there?’ It was Bongo.

  I opened the door, finding him and Mickey.

  ‘Shit, what a mess,’ Bongo said as he came in, and he was not talking about my room.

  Door closed, they sat on either my metal cabinet or the windowsill.

  ‘We heard the gossip, it’s all over the base,’ Mickey began. ‘Even Hamster is awake and concerned for you.’

  ‘Soldiers jumped me, friends of a boxer I beat, man who died after the fight.’


  ‘Not your fault,’ Bongo protested. ‘That happens sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah, well just as soon as this hand can sign a form I’m gone from here.’

  ‘Come on, can’t leave us,’ Mickey implored. ‘We’re all on your side.’

  I fetched out a phone number. ‘Call Colonel Bennet, ask him to be here in the morning or to send someone.’

  ‘You think they’ll give you some shit for this?’ Mickey asked.

  I took a moment. ‘I have flashbacks to the fight and ... some of the blows I gave were to the throat ... that could be seen as more than self-defence.’

  ‘Bollocks! If ten men attack me I’ll knife the fuckers, nay stick to some fooking rules!’ Mickey snapped.

  ‘I’m trained, and things can be seen differently,’ I told them.

  ‘I’ll call him tonight,’ Bongo promised.

  After the guys had gone I lay down, hurting all over, both saddened and angered at the same time, pissed off, and wanting to kill those men – at least that corporal.

  An hour later, coming back from the toilet, shoes registered, Trish approaching with my next-room neighbour.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘You’re Wilco, yes?’ Trish asked.

  ‘Er ... yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Are you well enough for a quick statement.’

  I glanced at my neighbour. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ I led her into the room.

  Door closed, she got a hand to my face and started crying, and it was good to see her. We hugged, and I melted, and we did not let go for ten minutes.

  She began, ‘I heard the news, and I was still on duty, I could hardly focus.’

  ‘I’m OK, and tomorrow night I’m heading to that B&B, I don’t want to be here for a while.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Soldier whose friend I killed in the ring.’

  ‘Christ. They’re saying you hurt the men badly.’

  ‘They kept coming at me, three at a time. I backed up, maybe I could have run off.’ I sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’ll chat to Colonel Bennet tomorrow, then I may be gone from here.’

  ‘You’ll buy your way out?’

  ‘They owe me leave, so I can go quickly.’

  ‘And then..?’

  ‘No idea, I’m not thinking that far ahead.’