by Geoff Wolak
‘That’s not good,’ Swifty commented before sipping his tea.
‘So what are you not telling us?’ I asked Bob.
He took a moment. ‘It is ... suspected that Mi5 blackmailed the man into becoming a double agent. He ran up gambling debts in Northern Ireland and the UK, that we know, and that was used as leverage to get him to approach the IRA or INLA with the view to making some money – and stopping his house being re-possessed.’
‘I still don’t know why the INLA would trust him,’ I said. ‘I never would, even with gambling debts.’
‘We’re still investigating, but I suspect that Mi5 have hidden the trail well.’
‘Well, Bob, you can be certain, quite certain, that should you ever try and blackmail me ... that your hacked-up rotting corpse would never be found, nor the missing body parts.’
‘I’ll ... keep that in mind,’ he timidly responded, and sipped his tea. ‘You covered the distance there and back without being seen...?’
‘Just lucky I guess.’
That following Saturday night, or Sunday at 2am more accurately, I was rudely woken by the local police.
Monday morning, and I sought out Gutter Snipe, the sergeant looking very sheepish, a bruise on his face, cuts on his hands. ‘Come with me, Sergeant,’ I asked, my tone indicating that following me was not optional.
‘Thanks for what you did,’ he offered as we headed to HQ building.
‘Oh ... don’t thank me yet.’
I knocked on the Major’s door and interrupted him. ‘Got a problem, sir, can you come?’
He adopted a curious frown and left Captain Harris behind, and I led him and Snipe into the CO, not even knocking, the Colonel placing down the phone and looking up puzzled. I closed the door behind the Major.
‘Got a problem, sir,’ I told the Colonel, the Major easing around to be stood next to the Colonel.
I moved quickly, hitting Snipe hard on the side of the face and knocking him into a metal cabinet, a kick to his stomach before he could recover, the Colonel on his feet, the Major stood wide-eyed.
I faced the Colonel. ‘As I said, we have a problem. Saturday night I was woken by the police, and dragged to the station, after Gutter Snipe here beat up his wife.’
‘He what?’ the Major asked. ‘Why haven’t we heard!’
‘Because, sir, I worked a deal with the police.’ I lifted Snipe and broken his nose, slamming him against a filing cabinet.
‘Wilco!’ the Colonel called.
‘You see, sir, he did not just put his dear lady wife in hospital. No. When a nice lady police officer arrived, he put her in hospital as well.’
‘He what!’ the Major exploded. ‘A local policewoman!’
‘Yes, sir, and then ... a local police man.’
‘Why wasn’t he arrested?’ the Colonel demanded.
‘As I said, I worked a deal. That deal being ... that we deal with him, they don’t press charges, it stays out of the press, and ... the local police don’t declare war on us.’
‘They guard our fucking gate!’ the Major shouted at no one in particular. ‘We can’t go around hitting their officers.’
I put Snipe’s leg on his boot.
‘No!’ the Colonel called, but it was too late, I snapped Snipe’s ankle, our sergeant screaming, his screams cut short by a kick to the chest.
‘And the nice lady officer he hit ... was one I shagged, and ... I think maybe he knew that.’ I faced the CO squarely. ‘And if he had hit your lady when you were an enlisted man?’
The Colonel stared back for several seconds, sat, picking up the phone, calling in the RSM with some help. The RSM looked Snipe over. ‘Get him to the MO, then off this base, never to return. Oh, and he has a broken ankle.’
Confused and curious, they lifted a groaning Snipe up and dragged him out. I closed the door.
The Colonel took a moment, a look exchanged with the Major. ‘Can you smooth things over with the local police?’ he asked.
‘I can work hard at it, not least pointing out Snipe’s current health, and you kicking him out. That ... should be enough.’
The Major began, ‘The record will show that, faced with a disciplinary and an RTU, Snipe lost it and attacked the Colonel, Wilco forced to defend the Colonel from a man gone mad.’
The Colonel reluctantly nodded. He looked at me. ‘We could have dealt with him quietly.’
‘No, sir, this needs to be a lesson.’ I turned to the Major. ‘Can we assemble ... everyone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because everyone ... needs to know not to hit local officers.’
The Colonel looked up and nodded to the Major. Half an hour later and most everyone, including officers, signals and intel, were crammed into the Interest Room.
The Major began, ‘Sergeant Snipe has left us, RTU today, on his way to hospital.’
I stood, and waited, the Major nodding. I stepped forwards and turned around, facing the assembled curious faces. ‘Saturday night, Snipe beat up his wife, putting her in hospital – not that I give a fuck. When the police arrived, he put a local police woman in hospital, one I’m close to. He then bust up her male colleague, the local police wanting to give us all some shit.
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, they guard our fucking gate, and we need their help, we don’t need them pulling us over for fun. Snipe will be out of hospital in a few days, back walking in a few months. If he’s still local, I’ll go visit him and express my feelings to him, and he’ll never walk again. Those of you who know him, pass on the message.’
Loudly, I said, ‘Anyone here gets drunk and beats up a local officer, you’ll spend six months learning to walk again.’ I let them think about it. ‘Most are friends of mine, some of the ladies I know personally. Touch one ... and you’ll face me.’
The debate raged as I left the room, soon back to the police station, but at least at a respectable hour. I got curious glances as I entered, and found Constable Moore in the canteen with many officers. They looked mad as hell.
I faced them. ‘The man who attacked your staff has been kicked out of the Regiment, and will be back walking in a few months, after which he will leave the area for good, or go straight back to hospital. On behalf of the Colonel and the Regiment ... I can only apologise, and say that the lads have been warned of severe consequences of assaulting you lot.
‘We hope ... that we can move on from this, and that ... you’ll not tarnish all of us with that man’s actions. Rest assured ... that one of mine assaulting you ... will get a nice long stay in hospital.’
I went and found the senior staff, and apologised at length, giving them the details. They seemed happy enough, so I set off for Gloucester General Hospital. At reception they gave me a ward name, and I eventually found it, soon spotting Constable Liz Massey. I sat next to her, her surprise evident. She waited.
‘The idiot who attacked you has been kicked out the Regiment, and I put him in hospital – he’s probably next door.’
‘Are you in trouble now?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry. And just as soon as you’re out of here I’ll spoil you rotten.’
‘I won’t be going anywhere for a while, not with a face like this.’
‘You will, or I’ll carry you. We have a curry date, flowers and wine, followed by a good long shag.’
She took a moment to study me. ‘I hate flowers, bring me chocolates, Quality Street.’
Off to war, slowly
The drive across to RAF Brize Norton was tiresome, the traffic was terrible, but the ten hour overnight wait was even worse, and I could not even leave the Departures Lounge and see old friends. We were then informed that we’d be leaving from RAF Lyneham down the road, so we all complained and bitched and moaned because we’d be going in a Hercules with our kit and not in a comfy Tristar.
It was 6am when we got there – and the flight centre was closed, not knowing what to do with us and ‘could we come back in an hour’, and we were then informed that the fligh
t would take off when they could find some pilots, because our pilots were on an enforced rest because they had done too many hours this week. That led to lots more bitching and moaning from the lads, another room occupied and called home as our pilots slept in their nice warm beds. We had hard chairs, and a hard floor.
We eventually boarded at 10am, and took off east for a five hour flight, and all Hercules flights were damned uncomfortable. The weather didn’t help, and the pilots managed to find every storm in Europe they could to fly through. Rizzo was sick, so were a few others, Captain Tyler looking green.
The Major met us at the airport in Croatia, he had flown ahead in a nice comfy Tristar, and we boarded two 3-tonne lorries that were older than I was, bumping along uneven roads for three hours till we got to the temporary base. That base turned out to be an abandoned factory just inside the Bosnian border, and it looked like it would fall over in a strong wind.
Intel and Signals were already in residence with their radios and gadgets, red and green lights flashing, as were The Royal Corp of Transport - with trucks and jeeps for us, a helipad marked out. Inside, we found a large central atrium of dusty old tables that looked like it had once been a staff canteen, around it dusty rooms on the lower level. On the upper level, glass-fronted offices ran around the atrium, accessed by a dodgy looking rusted old metal walkway, rusty old metal steps climbed to access those offices.
The CO had an office next to Intel and Signals, the SSM next to him, Tyler next to the SSM – since the SSM had more power and authority than Tyler, certainly more respect. A few of the lads from Stores were already in residence and set-up, as were two lads from the armoury, and six people from Admin.
It was fair to say that there were more Chiefs than Indians. And there were no tasty lady officers from Intel here, I checked, in fact no ladies at all.
Rizzo followed me into a room with four camp beds, so we claimed it, Smurf joining us with Bob. I dumped my kit, and drew a smiley face into the dust on the cracked window.
‘Home from home,’ I quipped.
‘Fucking shit hole,’ Bob complained.
At the improvised armoury, which had bars on the windows fortunately, I claimed my AKM and signed for it, and sat cleaning it as the lads wandered around poking their noses into the various rooms.
By lunchtime the second day we had a canteen set-up, a mini gym with a punchbag and weights, a nominated ‘rest’ area and ‘ready’ area. I had pulled an early stag that first day, and so I got just two hours sleep that first night, still in the same clothes I had travelled over in.
The next morning, and waiting for something to do, I grabbed a tea with Smurf, some dodgy looking local cake, and we sat with two keen young RCT drivers assigned to us for the duration, our jeeps back in the UK and not needed; we were here for helo rescues of downed pilots, or NATO staff that had been kidnapped, as well as some VIP protection roles.
‘Where you from?’ I asked the first lad.
‘Wiltshire.’
‘Big place Wiltshire, can’t you narrow it down.’
‘Small village, in fact eight houses, Lower Copthorne.’
‘So how come you joined up?’
‘Dad was in, still is, clerk at Bulford Camp.’
I nodded. ‘I know it. So, you grew up in married quarters?’
‘And fucking shite they were. I used selotape to stop the draughts in winter.’
‘Might be married and living in one yourself some day.’
‘Not for a long while,’ he said with a smile. ‘I wanna see Germany, Cyprus, America and Belize. Do the world first, meet some chicks, and then settle down.’
I smiled and nodded.
Then he heard someone call me name. ‘Fuck, you’re him, Wilco.’
‘I am, I’m afraid.’
‘He is, I’m afraid,’ echoed Smurf. ‘And I’m afraid whenever he has a gun in his hand. You need to duck a lot.’
I gave Smurf a look, froze, then drew my pistol and cocked it. All eyes were now on me. I stepped to the left, took aim and fired, the loud crack echoing, people panicking.
‘Wilco!’ the Major shouted down. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I lifted a rat the size of a cat, by the tail, people recoiling.
‘Fuck me,’ the Major let out. ‘Any more of those, you kill the fuckers, I have to sleep down there.’
I dumped the giant rat on a table, the lads closing in, and now very wary of the floor under their feet.
‘Wilco?’ the Major called down.
‘Sir?’ I said as I put my pistol away.
‘Did you have that on you during the flight?’
‘Oh, no sir. It wasn’t on me, sir, it was under my armpit.’
The lads laughed, the Major shaking his head. ‘Don’t tell the fucking RAF!’
I sat back down, people examining the giant rat and debating its use as a meal on a survival course. It was certainly big enough for a meal or two.
‘Like I said,’ Smurf began. ‘Always duck when Wilco has a gun in his hand.’
‘The Beast of Armagh they called you,’ the lad said. ‘I was over there last year.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear about me,’ I told him.
‘Yeah you should,’ Smurf countered. ‘He killed twenty IRA terrorists, and wounded lots of loyalists, many with his bare hands – saves on ammo it does.’
They smiled widely. ‘You shot them in the arse.’
‘I shot them in arse ... so that we could take them alive. A good trial is better than a dead terrorist and yet another funeral and a march, because they’re always excuses for a riot.’
‘Wilco?’ the Major shouted down.
I stood. ‘Sir?’
‘Front door, you and your pistol, spare mag, the General wants to see you.’
‘It was just a rat, sir, you didn’t have to report me!’ I shouted up. The atrium reverberated with laughter.
‘You got some bodyguard work. Driver waiting.’
‘Oh,’ I let out. Loudly, I said, ‘Best wash under my arms first, sir.’
‘What? Oh, yes. Do so.’
I had a quick wash and grabbed a clean shirt, checked my pistol – always a spare mag in the holster, sprayed smellies onto me in various places, cleaned my teeth and check my appearance quickly, soon to the waiting driver, a police corporal. He checked his watch as I approached.
‘I just got off a plane,’ I lied. ‘After a two day journey, so I stank,’ I said as I got in. ‘That ... is no way to meet the general in charge of UK land forces, now is it, Corporal?’
‘Suppose not,’ he said as we drove off.
We drove just a mile, the main HQ not far. I had placed on my beret, but had brought a standard green cap for any off-base work. With my SAS beret on I would be more of a target than the general.
The corporal parked up and led me around another shitty factory unit, this one red brick and a hundred years old. It had signs everywhere, each department labelled, a few people glancing at my beret as we progressed. Up the stairs, the corporal saluted a colonel, so did I, and he knocked at a door labelled as “Adjutant, C.O. LFGB-Bos, General Dennet.”
‘Oops,’ I let out, getting an odd look from the corporal as we were beckoned in.
A colonel stood up from behind his desk, two sergeants sorting papers to the side of him, a nice young lady in green attending a radio telex machine.
The colonel approached with a smirk, and I recognised him from Riyadh and Northern Ireland, myself and the corporal saluting. ‘Not like one of your lot to bother saluting.’
‘I know who pays my wages, sir,’ I stated.
‘Which is why you’re here,’ he responded. ‘Need someone we can trust.’
‘And are ... the MPs not suitable for such a task, sir?’ I risked.
The colonel focused on the corporal. ‘How many times have you fired your weapon in anger?’
‘Eh ... none, sir.’
‘That’s why,’ the colonel said. ‘General wanted someon
e with experience, no offence to the MPs. Couple of territorial SAS around here doing the bodyguard bit, or they were, but they were ... annoying. So we let them go.’
I resisted a smile. The colonel knocked on an adjoining door.
‘Come in!’ echoed through the door.
We entered the general’s office, finding six senior officers sat around. I stamped to attention and saluted the General.
‘Wilco, as requested,’ the colonel said, still smirking.
The General walked around, and placed his hands on his hips. ‘Been a few months, and I’ve not read of any incidents with your name on them.’ The officers laughed. ‘Not gone soft, I hope?’
‘No, sir. How are you, and how is the ... eh ... pen pushing going?’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘The pen pushing is ... going along, yes. How’s the business of shooting people in the arse?’
The officers laughed louder.
‘Fulfilling, sir. I rest my head with a clear conscience each night.’
He nodded his head. Returning to his desk, he began, ‘You’re here because you are an oddity. You’re an SAS killing machine, yet you show respect to officers, and you don’t blab. Even the SAS lads complain that you don’t discuss things.’
‘Secrets are for keeping, sir.’
‘At ease.’
I stood at ease.
‘You’ll follow me around, because those two territorial idiots were more a hindrance than a benefit. They farted, smoked where they shouldn’t, and fell asleep a lot. You also have a good working knowledge of ... well everything, and the history of this region, so you’ll come in useful. Sit.’
I sat in the only available chair, took off my beret and swapped it for a green cap.
‘I was wondering about the beret,’ the General said. ‘Would have stood out. Oh, Johny Bristol, mate of yours; call him and ask him about planned trouble from loyalists in Derry, we’ve had a sniff.’
‘Yes, sir. Now?’
‘No, no, but he’s a useful contact, and you are the only person in the British establishment he’ll talk to.’
They discussed operations, staff, supplies, and I had a cup of coffee handed to me by the nice lady telephonist.