by Geoff Wolak
‘That they do.’
‘What happened to your patrols in the Gulf, I heard rumours?’
‘We demonstrated that we’re not so clever in some areas. One patrol, Bravo Two-Zero, they landed by helicopter in sight of a village, complete cock-up, and when the Iraqi’s turned up they fled, argued amongst themselves and split up. A few killed, a few captured, one made it back.’
‘That’s not a very good advert for the regiment.’
‘Another patrol of jeeps, they spent three days trying to find a way around a sandbank eight feet high. Later, when the patrol leader was binned for disobeying a direct order, they were shown by the RSM that it would take just an hour to dig their way through. Later on, they raided a communications dump that had already been blown up by the Americans. Still, we had some successes, and we managed to keep the cock-ups out of the press.’
‘Scuds destroyed directly by this lot?’
‘None. But about three were destroyed by bringing in an airstrike. And we did destroy the communications cables in many places.’
‘And Rizzo?’
‘He did OK, a few shots fired in anger, no cock-ups, about six weeks behind the lines. He brought in an airstrike that destroyed a Scud. He was a young Para on the Falklands, did well enough there, then Para’s Pathfinders.
‘What you have to keep in mind ... is that they’re just normal people, a bit fitter, some skills, but they want to go home at the end of the day, and many have families. They don’t charge down machinegun nests for the glory of it.’
‘And the troop officer, Captain Marks?’
‘I’ll let you make your own assessment of him.’
I wondered what he meant. ‘How long has he been with you?’
‘Six months.’
‘And...?’ I pressed.
‘He ... has flaws, shall we say.’
I had my medical due in the morning, but we agreed to meet afterwards for some pistol work.
The next day I met the M.O.
‘Wilco, my lad, great to finally meet you. Let’s take a look at that famous body of yours.’
He performed the usual tests, lots of questions about QMAR and my slow resting pulse, talk of The Programme, and then I went and found Sergeant Davies after a lunch break with Smurf and Bob. They informed me that the third guy in the intake had gone home to see his ex-wife, had beaten her up, was arrested, and kicked out the SAS before he was even “badged”. It made for an amusing tale.
Finishing lunch, the guy with the Village People moustache came in, a sneer my way.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked Smurf.
‘That’s Rizzo.’
‘Ah...’ I let out as I stood. I walked right up to him, and then knocked him down before he could react, but I controlled my punch. I aimed to give him a black eye, nothing more. The lads came running, so did Rizzo’s mates - as if to get between us, but all seemed hesitant about trying to restrain me. They lifted a stunned Rizzo up.
‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ one of Rizzo’s mates demanded.
‘That ... was for Sergeant Foster, who was in the same intake as Rizzo here, almost two years back,’ I loudly announced, everyone now listening. ‘But one day Rizzo got jealous, and stamped down on Foster’s ankle, ending his SAS career.’
Rizzo was now listening intently, but saying nothing.
His friend faced him. ‘So you did end his career.’
‘No proof of that,’ Rizzo spat out, unsure of whether to have a go at me or not, his eye red and swelling.
‘Nine months learning to walk again,’ I stated, people now focused on Rizzo more than me.
They led him to a table, and I sat back down with Smurf and Bob, both of whom looked fearful for me, and feared I would be kicked out on day one.
The SSM knocked on Major Bradley’s door and entered. ‘Sir, Wilco just clobbered Rizzo in the canteen.’
‘What? Already?’ the Major asked as he stood. ‘Still, I win the bet.’ He held out has hand and the SSM handed over twenty quid as they walked around to the canteen.
As they entered I stood, so did Smurf and Bob. He approached Rizzo and looked him over. ‘You’ll live.’ He faced me. ‘Wilco, what do you have to say for yourself?’
‘Sergeant Foster gave me £250 to punch that idiot.’
‘He did? Foster?’
‘He was on the same intake as Rizzo, but Rizzo wanted him gone, so he stamped on Foster’s ankle and ended his time here.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember.’ He faced Rizzo. ‘So, I guess he still holds a grudge.’
‘No proof I did nothing,’ Rizzo spat out.
‘And yet ... we can all draw our own conclusions.’ He faced me. ‘Wilco, you are hereby charged with assault, fifty quid fine, a written reprimand.’
‘If I could make a statement, sir, and make myself clear.’
‘Go on.’
I faced Rizzo’s gang. ‘Training is dangerous, I accept that. Going on operations is dangerous, I accept that. Fighting in a war is very dangerous, I may get shot, I accept that. Jogging around the hills I may fall and break my hip, and leave the military, I accept that.
‘But if some fucker ... decides to remove the officers’ right to dismiss me by trying to end my career, I’ll bust them up so badly they’ll never walk again. And if someone stamps on my ankle, I’ll be back for them, and I don’t give a fuck about prison.’
I pointed at the Major. ‘This gentleman makes the choices and the command decisions about who stays and goes, not you lot.’
‘Damn right,’ the Major said, a glance at Rizzo. ‘And a valuable lesson for all.’
After lunch, Richards called me in. I stamped to attention and saluted. ‘Christ, Wilco, you’ve only been here a day.’
‘It was deliberate, sir, and stage play.’
‘Stage play?’
‘I want them to think I’ll clobber anyone for any reason, but we both know I won’t.’
‘And did Rizzo end that man’s career?’
‘He did, but there’s little evidence, and I wanted to make myself clear to them. I don’t mind danger, or accidents, but I mind very much someone screwing with me they way they did with you, sir.’
He took a reflective moment. ‘I didn’t clobber the people who screwed with me, maybe I should have,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You know, over the years I’ve lost a lot of quality sleep thinking back to those times, because I was trying to stick to the rules. Maybe I would have felt better if I had hit someone, or maybe they would have kicked me out.’
‘The men who got away with screwing with you, sir, went on to do it to others. I’ll stop them dead and give then cause to reflect.’
He nodded. ‘I won’t be able to protect you if you go around hitting people.’
‘I won’t, sir, I want a quiet life, but word will spread and those that may have wanted to trip me up may think twice about it. Hopefully.’
‘You’ve made an enemy of Rizzo.’
‘I’ll mend that bridge, and sometimes, sir, best way to make an introduction is to show your strong side first.’
He took a moment. ‘Something I never did.’
Captain Marks also wanted a word, and seem surprised that I saluted and waited in front of his desk. He was about 5’10” tall, black hair, but looked ill-at-ease in a uniform. I could imagine him as a doctor. ‘At ease, Wilco.’
I stood at ease.
‘You hit Rizzo.’
‘He needed to learn a lesson.’
‘Which was...?’
‘Rizzo decided to end someone’s career by stamping on their ankle. I’ve made it clear that if anyone tries that with me I’ll be back for them.’
Captain Marks considered that. ‘Rizzo lacks discipline, but his confirmed kills give him ... credibility with the lads, and the senior officers.’
‘Seems odd.’
‘What does?’
‘Confirmed kills. Apparently, the last two IRA men Rizzo killed were when he was on stag, and he let them walk ri
ght up, and he never woke anyone. If someone else had been on stag they would have got the confirmed kills. Hardly seems right that someone gets the credit because they tossed a coin for stag duty.’
‘I say that often. Perhaps, with you echoing that, things may alter.’
Sergeant Davies remembered Foster, and was no fan of Rizzo. ‘I remember the claims from Foster, but there was no evidence. Still, horrid thing to do, to end someone’s career like that.’
‘I won’t go that way,’ I threatened.
We spent a few hours on pistol drills, wearing a holster and drawing, stuffing a pistol down my trousers and drawing, performing a forward roll and firing, firing left handed, and reloading. I was enjoying it.
Breaking for lunch, I sat with one of the aging armourers, Matt, in a hut next to the range. When I told him I had done the armourers course he adopted me like a long lost son, and we got chatting.
‘Thing about this lot,’ he began, ‘and I’ve seen ‘em come and go, is that what they want ... they want to walk onto some Army base and have the people there look up to them. Great feeling I’m sure, and no fucker ever looked up to an armourer like me, but many of them – they don’t want to do a hard day’s work in the cold and the wet and get shot the fuck up, they want that buzz, that pride, and a stint yer alters their outlook, because being in a wet OP in the Bogside will change yer opinion about how fucking glamorous this is – it aint.
‘If you’s in the jungle – it’s fucking murder, and if you’s in the desert – it’s fucking murder, and if you’s in Norway - it’s fucking cold murder, and if you’s in Armagh – it’s fucking cold wet murder. Theys want to be down the pub with some nice pair of breasts, and they aint, see. Fucking eye opener for some of the glory boys, as I call ‘em. They do two years and get a job in bodyguard, holding some rich Arab’s golden cock pouch.’
I smiled widely.
‘Aye, fucking short timers are the worst, they’s all about the glory, not the fucking hard work. Others, they do the time in the cold and the wet, and no complaining and showing off, no. Some good boys yer, and some right fucking fancy pants.’
‘I’m not sure which category I fit in yet -’
‘You don’t gossip and drink like ‘em,’ he said with a pointed finger. ‘You get up at 5am and run for two hours, rain or shine, and that’s what’s different.’
‘Yeah, I have no woman in a warm and toasty bed to keep me there. No social life, see.’
He grinned. ‘I hears things, and you don’t do too badly with the ladies, lad.’
Sergeant Crab joined me for the afternoon session, Taffy Davies called away.
‘I’ll teach you the psychology of killing first,’ he said, and I wondered if he was going to start talking bollocks. I tried to look interested. ‘If you go to say ... Armagh in Ireland, and you go on patrol, it’s cold and wet, dark, and there’s some fucker out there with a gun trying his best to kill you.
‘Leave any footprints and the farmers will report it, and a young gunman with something to prove will come out after you, looking to make a name for himself, and he only needs the one lucky shot. I think its £25,000 if he kills one of us. So worth it for them.
‘But the thing is, he’s crap. He’s had no proper training, he’s not quite sure if the safety is on or not and how many rounds he has, and he’s more afraid of you than you are of him. Pass him in the street and stare at him, he’ll back off. He lives with his “Ma”, she cooks and cleans for him, and he wanks to a Playboy magazine that he hides from her.
‘Imagine that guy stood in front of you in his pants, and he’s not so scary. When you meet him in the woods he’ll panic for a few seconds, he’ll fumble around and wonder if safety is off, weapon cocked, and then he might aim and fire – and most likely miss by a yard.
‘What you need to do is to recognise that, then to take a step towards him cool and calm, take aim, and kill him dead, not because you are afraid, but because it’s the job we’re paid to do.
‘And, if you don’t kill him, he’ll spend his life setting off bombs and shooting people, and he might shoot a few soldiers, maybe someone you know. When you kill him, it’s the right thing to do.
‘What separates me, and lads here like me, from him, is the training, yes, but also that belief – the knowledge that he’s crap, and that he’s terrified. I’ve served all over the world, and they are all crap, and they are all terrified of us. Maybe a Russian soldier or a Chinese will hold up, but most of those we come across are pretty crap. You ... must never assume otherwise, but you must respect the abilities of someone to accidentally shoot you, because all the bad guys spray it around a bit.
‘What makes a professional ... is that knowledge and belief, and a cool head. Panic gets a soldier killed. Now you, you should already understand some of this, because when a gang of men surround you in a bar you look at them like they’re made of straw, and you assess which one will move first, second, and third, and what they’ll do. Then you act. If you can do that with a gun ... then great.’
I was impressed, and he was right. He went back over drawing the pistol, stance and position, rapid fire, and tricks for cleaning, and I fired more than three hundred rounds.
At the end of the day the SSM offered me a list of flats as I stood in the Admin section. ‘I don’t know the town, sir,’ I told him. ‘OK, where’s there a decent gym?’
‘There are not many,’ he cautioned. ‘There’s one in the town centre above some shops, but it’s full of body builders looking for a scrap.’
‘Forget that one then, sir.’
‘After that there’s a girl’s aerobics class,’ he said with a smile.
‘Getting warmer,’ I said.
‘And then just a few hotels with gyms. There’s the DeVere, and it has a pool, a cafe, a bar, but the gym is more for ladies and businessmen.’
‘Sounds perfect, sir.’
‘It’s not cheap, forty quid a month.’
‘Got a map, sir.’
He found a street map, marked the hotel then some of the flats. One flat was walking distance to the hotel, near a park, and walking distance to the shops and pubs. I rang the estate agent and nagged for a viewing that evening, and she relented.
Smurf and Bob came with me to have a nose, and we found that the flat was the second floor of a house, a steep set of steps up. It was a good size, one double bedroom, a recent coat of paint and a new carpet in the lounge, the kitchen new enough. It had a window opening onto a garage leading down to a wall and a car park – an escape route if I needed one. It was also within my budget, the market around here slow.
‘Are you a trooper?’ she finally asked.
‘Medic, on loan.’ I thumbed to the guys. ‘They’re plumbers.’
‘I can tell a trooper a mile off,’ she said. ‘Dated a few.’
‘And lived to tell the tale,’ I quipped.
‘Drunken wankers,’ she said, a look at Bob – who exchanged a look with Smurf. ‘It’s a six month lease,’ she cautioned me.
‘Be court martialled before then,’ Bob joked.
I shot him a look. ‘I’ll take it, and give a two month bond. Will that ease your concern?’
She shrugged. ‘When did you want to move in?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Oh, well come by the office tomorrow and we’ll sign the papers, but we need a reference from your C.O.’
‘Dealt with our lot much before – work wise?’ I asked her.
She made a face. ‘They all get flats to start, well the single ones do, and I handle flats.’
The next day I asked permission to slip out, and the SSM had no objections, and around here they called this ‘Prime Time’, though fuck knows why, it was time off doing fuck all as far as I could see. There would be a morning meeting for the troop or the Squadron, orders issued, courses noted, but then half the lads would simply go home.
In the estate agents they stared at me in my uniform, and I brought back a form for the C.O. to fill in, then
took it straight back. I went next door to the bank, getting more odd looks, and drew out cash. I could pay the rent by standing order, but the bond had to be cash if I wanted to move in quickly. I got the keys, thanked the lady, and headed back. With my car loaded up, I handed back my key to the SSM and claimed my new home.
Changed into civvies at 4pm, I popped around to the nearest corner shop, not so much as toilet paper in the flat. And I made four trips to that shop, soon stocked up with essentials - beer and food. When it started to get dark I realised that the lounge had a net curtain, but no real curtains. Still, it faced the car park, and peeping Toms would need very good eyesight.
I walked out at 7pm, heading to the DeVere Hotel, and it took just over ten minutes to get there. Its large car park suggested a good number of guests, and inside I found the bar busy. At the reception desk I asked about the gym, and after ten long minutes a guy in a tracksuit came out and led me down a level to the changing rooms; they had a wood finish and were quite posh. I glanced at the showers, fat old men emerging, and we peeked through a glass door at the 20yards pool, a sauna and steam room off to the side.
The gym was a reasonable size, very clean and new, many of these new American treadmills with lots of buttons and displays. They had a free-weights area, a dozen resistance machines, and cross-trainers overlooking the pool. It would do very nicely.
I signed up, filled in the direct debit, but paid cash for the first month, getting a card to show to reception when I came in. I walked back to the flat, got my kit, and drove back to the hotel. They were open till 10pm so I could get a run in, not having exercised much this past week.
I used a pound coin in the lockers, got my kit on – a vest top and tracksuit bottoms, and carried a towel and plastic water bottle into the gym. People stopped and stared as usual, the young girl working there gaping at me.
After stretching I grabbed a running machine facing the pool. I eased up the speed and started running at 8mph, a steady jog. After thirty minutes I was glistening, and the young girl was being a bit obvious. She eventually came and introduced herself.
‘Are you an athlete?’ she asked.