Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  I gave the first four places to Rizzo, Smurf, Swifty and Stretch, because they would have bitched and moaned if I hadn’t, and they were all training hard each day, running each morning, as were others lined up for the second and third trials, the Major very pleased that the lads were getting themselves fit.

  Various officers and men from far and wide came to see me, their names added to the list, and I realised that this would take up a great deal of my time. When I mentioned that to the Major and the CO they loudly stated that “This is important, and the whole fucking point of you being here!” and to “Get on with it”.

  It took me and the RSM some long days and late nights to finalise everything, a few lads from the Army’s sniper school assisting for every course, along with an platoon of Welsh Guards helping out, four dog handlers for the day shift, a different four for the night shift, a Range Warden on duty twelve hours in rotation, day and night, a medic on standby – but allowed to sleep, two directing staff on duty at any one time, four in total in use for each course, a chef, one part time armourer and one explosives expert. We did, however, aim to trim the numbers after we got a feel for the course.

  I was chief instructor, and would not get much sleep for the first few trials. And to save on travel time, the candidates and staff would spend the night in huts nearby, kit checked.

  On a cool and crisp Brecon Beacons morning I stepped out to inspect the sky, noting that it would probably rain later. That was a benefit, since we wanted the candidates uncomfortable. After breakfast, the small make-do canteen bristling, several of General Dennet’s staff turned up, Majors and Colonels. I saluted and greeted them, and they informed me that they would observe some of the course and take notes.

  An hour later, and stood outside the range control building, I stood with the RSM, clipboards in hand. Instructors and helpers were dispatched to their positions or told to take it easy, some on the night shift, the dogs barking and ready for some action – ankles to nip.

  With quite a crowd observing, I called forwards the first four candidates; Rizzo, Swifty, Smurf and Stretch, all in kitted out in my sniper clothing, but without facemasks or gloves on yet, AKs in cammo sleeves, basic pipe telescopic sight, webbing on. ‘Gentlemen, you are all familiar with the AK47 and its variants, pistols and grenades, so you have forgone the one-day training that would have familiarised you with those aspects. You’ll notice that there is only one range, so when one of you is on the range the others have tasks in sequence, and they rotate. You will not be together that often.

  ‘Now, you’ll have the chance to stop at any time for injury, and you must report any injuries to us. If we feel that you’re hypothermic or injured and can’t go on you will be stopped. Don’t argue, or you’ll get thumped.’

  They smiled.

  ‘You will listen to the directing staff at all times, follow the instructions, but don’t try and think ahead, and don’t think we’re trying to trick you. Always consider that you are ... alone behind enemy lines, enemy soldiers coming after you, and play at being good soldiers for us.

  ‘You each have the same weapon as I had in Bosnia, the same uniform, the same webbing and ammo pouches, and you’ll note that you have ten full magazines – making you nice and heavy for when you are running. Other magazines will be handed to you, plus you’ll see dummies on the ground, simulating dead enemy soldiers, so take their ammo. Rizzo, don’t steal their watches.’

  They laughed.

  ‘You will see to your left a field with some white tape. When told to do laps you do laps at a steady pace. If told to quicken the pace you do so, and if told to sprint you do so, points will be awarded or deducted. At several points in the laps of the wider circuit, to the right of the range, there may be dogs. If you get bitten, tough shit, you keep going, and no ... you can’t shoot the dogs or the handlers.’

  They laughed again.

  ‘At several points you will be told to stop, then sprint for a gate. Fail to run fast enough and the dog will catch you and ... it may be a few minutes till the handler gets it off you.’

  They now looked worried.

  ‘There will also be ... things we do to make you feel uncomfortable, to simulate being wounded. One of those is cold jelly down you underpants.’ They exchanged looks. ‘Yes, it will be soggy and ... uncomfortable. We also have some Epsom Salts for you, and you’ll be sick. Tough shit. Rizzo, stand forwards. Smurf, left field, Swifty and Stretch, right field.’ I checked my watch as they jogged off.

  The RSM fetched his water bottle, and a perplexed Rizzo stood firm as cold water went down his back, some down his leg. Told to drop his pants, he reluctantly did so, a glance at the observers, a handful of sand tossed in.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ he snarled.

  ‘Wanna quit?’ I asked him.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then shut up. Take position in front of the hut, facing the range.’ As he headed off, I beckoned the observers inside the control room, just about enough room for all of them, not enough chairs. There was, however, a new toilet and wash area courtesy of the Army Engineers, a microwave cooker, tea and coffee aplenty, a gas heater for us.

  I sat on my ‘controllers’ seat, the RSM next to me, the kettles keenly knocked on behind us. I flicked on the newly installed microphone, and blew a whistle twice. ‘All personal not involved in the exercise, clear the firing range! Candidate, if you can hear me raise your weapon.’ Rizzo complied. ‘Excellent.’ I flicked a switch and a target at 100yards popped up. ‘Candidate, make ready your weapon. Kneel. At the target in front, ten rounds, steady but not quick fire. Carry on.’

  After Rizzo had finished, I said, ‘Run to the target, judge your grouping and return.’ And off he went.

  ‘Should he not make safe first?’ an officer asked from behind.

  ‘No, sir, because if he accidentally misfires he loses points,’ I replied without turning.

  Rizzo jogged back, and adjusted his sights.

  ‘Behind you, you will see a shell scrape. Unless otherwise stated you will stay in the shell scrape. In the event of falling artillery or mortars ... do what you think is best. Take position. And candidates are required to count the rounds fired. Click empty and you lose points.

  ‘You may also be asked for the count at various times, get it wrong and you lose points. Adopt a lying position, silencer fitted now, rag over the end, facemask and gloves on now.’

  Rizzo got ready, the RSM ready with his checklist, since each candidate would need the very same targets and sequence. With a finger on the checklist, I said, ‘Candidate get ready, watch for enemy soldiers, engage when seen, one round per target unless the target fails to fall. Standby.’

  I flicked up five targets at 400yards, all knocked down by Rizzo, followed by five at 300yards, then onto 500yards, back to 100yards. Rizzo was 100% so far, the score written down by the RSM.

  Next came timed targets. ‘Candidate, you have two seconds for targets that are close, three for further away, four seconds for targets at 500yards. Standby.’

  The RSM flicked a switch, a plume of mud and dust thrown into the air near the 200yards targets, the blast wave hitting us a second later. Two other simulated artillery blasts were seen, just as I flicked up the first target, the target partly obscured, but Rizzo hit it in time.

  Fifteen minutes later, and Rizzo had only missed seven out of seventy, two magazine swaps done on the count. The RSM smiled, then flicked a bank of switches in sequence, large explosions coming down the range till Rizzo ducked in fear for his life, the smoke wafting off to the right.

  ‘Christ that’s realistic,’ came from behind me.

  ‘Even louder out there, sir,’ I mentioned as Rizzo was pelted with small falling rocks and dust.

  ‘Candidate will move forwards a few feet and kneel!’

  Rizzo jumped up and got ready, wary of more simulated artillery.

  I gave him several targets at 200yards and 300yards before the RSM operated the side-moving targets, the wheeled bogeys unseen b
y Rizzo. Four flicked up at 250yards, each hit.

  Then, as I flicked up targets at 300yards, the RSM hit the simulated mortars, the blast creeping forwards from 500yards. When they got to 100yards Rizzo dived back into the shell scrape.

  ‘He supposed to do that?’ someone asked.

  ‘I would, sir,’ I commented, and the RSM gave Rizzo points for ducking down in time.

  ‘Candidate will move forwards and stand!’

  For twenty minutes Rizzo hit targets rapidly popping up or moving sideways, a few blasts out beyond 200yards worrying him.

  ‘Candidate will unload, make safe, report to the front of the control room.’ I eased up out the seat and we all stepped out.

  Rizzo came around just as Smurf returned, Smurf now panting, his boots muddied. We waited, Stretch and Swifty soon running in, a keen and smirking dog handler hot on their heels.

  ‘Smurf, stand fast, Rizzo right field, Swifty left field, Stretch right field. Yes, you do have to do that again, get used to it.’ Smurf got the water down his back, sand down his pants with a curse.

  He hit a score just under that of Rizzo, a few points deducted for not counting rounds, to which I shouted at him. I also corrected his stance on occasion.

  Stretch was worse again, clicking empty twice and getting shouted at - at length. And he was a bit keen to avoid his own simulated artillery. Swifty did well, best score so far by a few points.

  At 2pm they were all panting, but resolute, till they all got jelly down their pants and down the backs of their shirts, a little sand for effect. Both Stretch and Smurf had been bitten by the dogs, a quick look revealing no blood. And they were told to shut up and get on with it.

  Then it darkened and rained, so they would be wet through soon enough. With the others back in the fields, Rizzo was on pistol work, stood firing at targets 20yards away, artillery causing him to dive down twice. He lost count of rounds fired once, points deducted, a good telling off given. Handed ten dummy grenades, he was required to get them inside hoops placed off to the right from 10yards to 20yards, and he scored eight. When asking about taking a piss, he was told firmly that he was required to pee into his trousers.

  Smurf did OK with the pistol and grenades, a few points below Rizzo, Stretch improving a little, Swifty edging ahead of Rizzo with some determination. As night came on they were allowed a tin of meat, thirty minute break with a cup of tea, and a chocolate bar, again made to pee their trousers as many of the observers headed off to somewhere warmer and nicer.

  With Rizzo on the now-darkened range, just a small area illuminated, the other lads were all given backpacks before being led on an hour’s hill climb. Rizzo was in the shell scrape, and told to make ready, and to wait a target, squinting into the dark. So we let him chill for twenty minutes before popping up a target at 100yards. He got it just in time.

  ‘Wake up and pay attention! I yelled through the microphone.

  We gave him ten minutes before the next target, which he got, and that went on and on. He was chilled, but expected to be completely alert and focused. To end it, we gave him the surprise, simulated artillery that was a bit close, followed by a starburst.

  ‘Targets to your front, open fire!’ I bellowed, ten targets up at once, all knocked down, the time noted.

  He swapped with Smurf, who again got shouted at a great deal, Stretch doing OK, Swifty on the ball. At midnight they looked tired, facemasks off and lined up.

  ‘Any injuries?’ I asked. ‘Anyone want to quit? No? Good, because now it gets tougher. Easy day so far.’

  They moaned.

  ‘If I told you I needed a shit...’ Swifty began.

  ‘You’re not allowed to take down your trousers,’ I said with a smirk. ‘In your pants.’

  ‘Fucking marvellous,’ he complained.

  They all got a four hour hill march through the dark and the rain, back for a warm cup of tea and chocolate bar.

  As the grey dawn came up, Rizzo was trying to move very slowly and quietly through a dense forest, following a white tape. He missed two trip wires, and was a bit loud in a few places, the hidden instructors making notes.

  Smurf was on the range, sniping in the half light at 400yards, but doing OK, the trick being not to shiver as you squeeze the trigger. Stretch replaced him, a reasonable score for someone cold and wet, Swifty again doing well, and Rizzo was back on the range at noon, the Major and Captain Tosh now with me.

  ‘Candidate will see dead enemy soldiers down the range, and may go for their ammo whenever he likes. Next set of targets will all be at three hundred ... kind of. You may stand or kneel in front of the scrape.’

  I flicked up targets at intervals, and after two magazine swaps Rizzo decided to chance it, a sprint forwards. I flicked up two targets at 200yards, which he got before sliding to a halt and down next to a dummy, magazines pinched away. With Rizzo running back, I switch on three targets at 300yards, and he spun and knelt, each hit before he sprinted back, sliding into the scrape. He swapped magazines.

  ‘Not bad,’ I said.

  Half an hour later he repeated that exercise, only now as he came back we flicked on artillery close by, Rizzo having to dive down three times, then get up and shoot. Back in front of the scrape I gave him so many targets he had to go through three magazine changes, but he seemed to be counting in his head because he did not click empty, his score pretty good.

  ‘Well done!’ I offered before he swapped. Easing up, I said, ‘Ten minute break everyone,’ and I stepped out with the Major, Rizzo panting, his face mask off.

  ‘How is it?’ the Major asked him.

  ‘Just like a being in a fucking war, sir, your nerves frayed and your heart going. That fucking artillery is a worry, can hardly shoot straight worrying about it. I’m wet, cold, and uncomfortable as fuck because these shits put sand down my pants, and jelly, and we’re made to piss in our pants as well. And a fucking dog bit me. Twice!’

  ‘Must have smelt the jelly,’ the Major quipped as we laughed at Rizzo.

  Swifty and Stretch came jogging in. Swifty said, ‘Glad of the jogging, be fucking freezing otherwise. And my pants are full of shit, I had to go.’

  ‘Imagine being shot in the arse and the testicle,’ the Major told him. ‘Then complain.’

  At sundown the lads were given Epsom Salts and plenty of water. With Stretch on the range, Smurf and Swifty were both sick, Rizzo seemingly immune so far to noxious chemicals being ingested.

  At 11pm they were all given an hour’s sleep after a warm cup of tea, but they had to sleep outside, wrapped in ponchos and holding their weapons.

  Just after midnight they were woken, Swifty sick again, the lads led inside to clean weapons for fifteen minutes. That preceded a four hour hill march with backpacks as many of us had a kip, this time the pace picked up, the last two miles being a race on tarmac roads that was timed.

  As the dawn came up on the final day they looked cold, tired, and very miserable, Rizzo in the shell scrape first.

  ‘Candidate will concentrate, targets at four and five hundred, seven or eight seconds each, so make it count. Check your sights, get ready. Don’t focus your eyes too hard, let you eyes catch the movement. If you stare too hard and long your sight gets worse.’

  Rizzo got ready, then opened his face mask and puked, quickly taking aim again. Each target was followed by a delay of around eight minutes, enough to make the candidate chilled, and second guessing if he missed seeing the target. Rizzo’s performance was down, his condition – of being very uncomfortable and cold – now taking its toll.

  ‘Stand up, move forwards!’ I shouted, Rizzo a little slow, and we gave him rapid targets at 100yards, a few missed.

  ‘Go fetch some ammo off the dead!’ I shouted, and Rizzo eased cautiously up, soon running forwards. We gave him several targets at 200yards, which he got, some at 300yards – a few missed, some at 500yards, many missed. He was having trouble focusing. He slid down next to the dummy as we hit him with artillery, a few seconds silence b
efore he got up and ran.

  Targets popped up at 200yards, and he got most, but then clicked empty, points deducted.

  ‘Candidate will place down his weapon and do an inventory of magazines and rounds. Quickly.’

  Rizzo took out each magazine and weighed it in his hand before putting it away, one or two seeming light, a guess taken as to how many were still in the loaded magazine.

  ‘Candidate will take out a fresh magazine, empty it, then re-load it. Quickly. Each round must be cleaned with a glove before re-loading. Kneel down side on to us ... and continue.’

  He fumbled a few times, but got the cleaned rounds all back in.

  ‘Candidate will do that again! Quickly,’ I said as the RSM ticked a box, noting a score.

  ‘Stand up!’ I shouted before giving him twenty targets at 100yards in quick succession. ‘Kneel down, place your weapon down, take out a magazine and unload it, re-load cleaned rounds. Quickly!’ That done, I repeated the 100yards targets and magazine clean twice offer, the RSM ticking the list, Rizzo soon done.

  Smurf still got shouted at a great deal, but soldiered on, fumbling a little with the magazine loading, his gloves slipping. Stretch lost points on the magazines but did well on the 500yards targets, Swifty again being the best score, but even he was struggling, the observing officers now a little sympathetic to the guys; they could see the strain showing.

  A colonel said, ‘A regular enlisted man would have put the end of his barrel in the mud before now. These are the best, and you can see them struggling.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed. ‘Shooting straight needs a calm focused mind, and right now they’re focused on shivering, being hungry, and being very uncomfortable and tired. They need to learn to turn off everything and focus.’