Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Two for two,’ Rocko said. ‘We did our fucking jobs right, can’t do anything about others screwing it up. Joint NATO operations? Bollocks.’

  I nodded. ‘French attack plan was solid, just that they failed to factor in the fifth column.’ And we debated it all at length, the mood lifting minute by minute.

  After a shower and a meal I was feeling better, and in the shower I had noticed two puncture wounds, the local base MO removing to small bits of rock and cleaning the wounds. By sun down we were smiling and joking, kit being cleaned and checked over, the lads outside the team all wanting the detail.

  I briefed the journalist come spy, he typed it up, Bob read it, and off it went for the front page of the Telegraph. But we found out in the morning that it became four full pages of detail and graphics, and I was happy that the French soldiers got a good write up.

  A day later, and we landed at Brize Norton in the rain, getting wet as we lugged kit to waiting three-tonne lorries. Back at base we claimed cars, and all headed off in different directions, the SAS lads told to be back for Monday morning.

  I picked up fish and chips on the way home with Rocko, Slider off to hospital, both of us still in desert garb and getting stared at, and we sat eating the chips as I stared out of the window at the gentle green hills, raining drops chasing each other down the pane. I checked my door was locked and bolted, pistol checked and on the night table, and I eased into bed, a loud sigh issued as Rocko finally got the couch over Slider.

  The following evening I drove around to Smurf’s apartment, surprised to find him back – but taking the chance that he was back. He looked pale and unwell, his arm in a sling.

  ‘They released you?’ I queried.

  ‘A few hours ago,’ he said. ‘Driven down from Birmingham. Check-up next week.’

  I got the kettle on as his roommate came out the toilet and greeted me. ‘What did they say about the arm?’ I asked Smurf.

  ‘I have to wait, see what movement returns and how good it is.’

  ‘Has the Major said anything?’

  ‘No, why?’ he asked.

  ‘If the doctors thought you’d not recover they’d send in a report, and the Major would have a quiet chat – then bin you.’ I placed down the teas and sat.

  Smurf took a moment, and I could see the fear in his eyes. ‘They ain’t said anything yet.’

  ‘Good sign. And I know someone who can help with recovery...’

  ‘The Programme?’

  ‘They can test that arm, get it massaged, ultrasound, the works. I’ll call Kate.’

  ‘What ... I’d go there for a while?’ Smurf puzzled.

  ‘Fastest way to recover,’ I said. ‘And I want you back on the team.’ I sipped my tea. ‘You do ... want to come back?’

  ‘Fuck yeah, don’t want to be a damned civvy yet.’

  ‘Maybe it would be a smart move ... to be a civvy, and live to retirement.’

  ‘As a nobody,’ he spat out.

  An hour later I drove around to the house that Captain Moran had rented with another officer, a nice lady opening the door. ‘I’m Wilco.’

  ‘Oh, well you’d better come in then.’

  I found him sat looking pale. ‘Getting better, sir?’

  ‘They say I just need a few weeks, to heal up. Small fix to my intestine, no long term damage, bit of a scar. Oh, this is Caroline, my fiancée.’

  I adopted a deep frown, but smiled at the same time. ‘Planning on getting married, then you apply to the SAS?’

  ‘I’m a Captain as well,’ she said. ‘Admin, RTC up the road.’

  ‘Ah, well ... then you know the risks. And ... accept them obviously.’

  She sat, a look exchanged with Moran. ‘Everything he does is a risk. Parachuting, Northern Ireland, but I won’t hold him back.’

  I faced Moran. ‘Any ... thoughts about your mortality, given the injury?’

  ‘What did you think after yours?’ he countered with.

  I smiled. ‘I considered ... that anything was better than Civvy Street. And Smurf, he’s terrified of Civvy Street, or of being a nobody.’

  ‘I’m terrified of failure,’ Moran admitted. ‘Character flaw probably, but I don’t like negative results, and I don’t want to quit – if that’s what you’re asking.’ He took a moment. ‘How would you sum up my performance out there ... if the CO asked you to?’

  ‘You did very well, nothing to worry about, and considering that it was your first week ... extremely well. You’ll have more respect around the base now.’

  ‘That always helps,’ he commented.

  ‘How long have they given you off?’

  ‘Two weeks, then they test me, and then I try and get back to full fitness.’

  ‘Some gentle walking will help,’ I suggested. ‘You’ll be back soon enough, desk job for a while.’

  ‘No ... comments on how I did?’ he pressed.

  ‘If you were to take yourself ... as you are now, and add a few years experience, you’d be the best they ever had. Your start point ... is expected to be low, but you’re starting higher than most. With experience and training ... you’ll be a living legend.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m not after your job.’

  ‘Quite wise to, it comes with too many scars.’ I lifted my shirt and let his lady have a look.

  About to leave, I said, ‘Your abilities have been noticed, sir, that’s why you got in. As such, you’ll suffer from what they call the Selection Destruction Process. You’ll get the dangerous jobs because you have the best chance of surviving, like me, but our luck will run out some time. Most troop captains never fire a shot in anger in a two-year posting. You’ve already done more than most ever will.’

  And I left him with that thought.

  I got through to Slider that evening, his shoulder fine, a bit of time off work, and met Rizzo and Stretch plus a few of the lads for a curry – and a great many beers.

  On the Sunday I woke early, but could not be bothered to go for a run, and sat with a cup of tea staring out of the window. Remembering that the territorials were up for the weekend, and that they’d be at Sennybridge Range today, I put my uniform on and headed out for a full English breakfast at a roadside cafe a few miles down the Ross-on-Wye road. Turing back to Hereford afterwards, I drove into the base and signed out my AKM, plus a box of two hundred rounds.

  ‘Going on a shooting rampage,’ they asked with a smile.

  ‘Territortials,’ I mouthed at them.

  It was an hour’s drive, terrible roads, and I pulled into the range - the red flags up, rounds cracking out - and parked near a group if jeeps and three-tonne lorries, most of which were way older than I was.

  In the control room I found Sgt Crab. ‘Wilco? What you doing here?’

  ‘I was bored, and ... I knew you had the territorials here.’ I placed down my rifle being keenly observed. ‘Any of them any good?’ I asked after making a tea and sitting.

  ‘That lad Tomkinson is the best shot,’ Crab said, pointing. ‘But he’s a bit of a loner, don’t get on with the others that much.’

  ‘They said that about me,’ I reminded him with a smirk, sipping my tea. ‘Is he fit?’

  ‘Marathon runner. Was a Para, two years, Engineers two years then quit. Lives down Newport way I think.’

  I observed the lads put through their drills with both dated SLRs and new SA80s, and at break time I observed them take the piss out of Tomkinson, who had just scored the highest – by far. It seemed familiar.

  ‘I want to borrow Tomkinson,’ I told Crab, who shrugged and called him in.

  Tomkinson seemed nervous, eyes everywhere. ‘Sergeant?’ He was taller than Smurf, about the same height as Rizzo, a pleasant face with very shortly cropped light brown hair that made him seem bald from a distance.

  ‘You know who this is?’ Crab asked, thumbing at me.

  ‘Er ... no.’

  ‘I’m Wilco,’ I announced.

  ‘Shit...’ came quietly back.

  �
�On me.’

  I led him to a table at the rear, and placed down my AKM. He placed down his SA80. ‘What do they call you?’

  ‘Tomo.’

  ‘Right, Tomo, any experience of an AKM?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘That’s a start,’ I said, and gave him a lesson on handling, followed by a lesson on stripping and cleaning. I then made myself another tea as he went over and over the drills, I even had him unload magazines and reload. I then made him do it with my sniper gloves on.

  Moving outside to a patch of grass nibbled short by the resident sheep – some of the sheep’s wool fluttering on the barbed wire, I gave him my face mask to put on and had him repeat the drills over and over, magazines in and out, the weapon stripped with gloves and mask on, many of the other territorials curious.

  Two recognised me, they had helped out on my training scenario with boats and subs, and they bound over. I greeted them, handshakes given, gossip caught up on, but they were curious about Tomo.

  ‘I’m seeing what he’s made of,’ I told them.

  When they stopped for lunch I claimed the range, Tomo now with facemask and gloves off, my bandolier on, and whilst sat inside the control room I gave him a mini scenario, a few bangs for fun. He scored just about 100%. I told Crab that he would have to wait, and so he took the other lads for a run, and I pushed Tomo hard, but the lad was loving it. I caught him smiling a few times.

  With Crab back I thanked Tomo for his time, reclaimed my kit, and set off without explaining anything.

  Monday morning, and we all gathered for squadron orders, a few people absent.

  The Major began. ‘OK, Smurf is off recovering...’ He faced me. ‘Any news?’

  ‘I’m going to get him into the programme, as I did, he’ll recover quickly, sir.’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’ He took in the faces. ‘And Captain Moran is off recovering...’

  ‘Sir, within a few days he’ll be able to sit at desk a few hours a day and do some paperwork. And ... that will keep his mind occupied.’

  The Major stared back, then nodded his head. ‘That it would. How is ... Slider?’

  ‘Just a minor would, sir, he’ll be OK in two weeks.’

  ‘Good, good. And you’re fit and well?’

  ‘Yes, sir, ready and willing.’

  He read out orders and courses, took a few questions, and mentioned that I was required to do a thorough debrief later today with MOD officials that were on their way down. But first we would chat.

  When I did go and find the Major, an hour later, we spoke briefly about what I would and would not say to the MOD enquiry team, FCO with them apparently – it had been an embassy staff member killed during the escape, and then I asked, ‘Sir, can you bring in a territorial lad for a week or two, hand him to me.’

  ‘What in blazes for?’

  ‘I found someone who is – as Bob Staines would describe it – a younger version of me.’

  ‘Really? Well ... what would you do with him?’

  ‘Test and assess, let Bob know.’

  ‘And then..?’

  ‘And then ... maybe another Slider or Rocko or Swifty. This lad is a loner, but shit hot.’

  ‘He could do selection, they are allowed to attempt it.’

  ‘That’s an option as well, sir. As is my scenario.’

  ‘That would be better, yes, a good test – as good as selection, and just three days. No rules against territorials attempting it, fit him in if you can – but don’t go stealing all the talent.’

  ‘How often have you taken someone from the territorials?’ I countered with, my hands wide.

  ‘Well ... not since I’ve been around,’ he admitted. ‘Mitchel came from the territorials though, lad who made it back in Iraq.’

  I gave the Major the details of Tomo, and at 5pm – and after my debrief by the MOD and FCO, he informed me that Tomo would be arriving in the morning and had been allocated a room.

  ‘He must have an understanding boss,’ I quipped.

  ‘Self employed part-time painter and decorator.’

  I took a moment. ‘Wonder what I would be doing now ... if I had left.’

  ‘Whatever it was, you’d be doing it to excess,’ he quipped.

  In the morning I collected a bewildered looking Tomo and he sat with me during squadron orders, all eyes on the new face. After we broke up, the lads heading off, I signed out a pistol for Tomo, and plenty of ammo, two hours spent on the short range, the weapon stripped many times, till his fingers were sore.

  At lunch, he finally asked, ‘Why bring me in like this?’

  ‘You show potential. So I’m testing that potential, then I’ll send in a report.’

  ‘And ... then what?’ he puzzled.

  ‘Then some dodgy people may offer you some work, the kind of work that would get you killed soon enough.’

  He smiled, but forced it away. ‘Your ... kind of work?’

  ‘Maybe, you have a long way to go yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Now, tell me, why quit the Paras?’

  ‘Bunch of wankers,’ he spat out. I waited. ‘All a load of bollocks and bullshit, and some soldiering. Spent a lot of time cleaning kit, marching or sat around, ten minutes a day doing some soldiering.’

  I nodded, and I knew exactly what he meant. ‘And then the Engineers.’

  He shrugged. ‘I figured I get a trade, and I did well, but people nicked my kit, tried to trip me up. I passed an exam with a good result, and that made some people take the piss – they started calling me swat, book worm, stuff like that.’

  I nodded. ‘No matter where you are, or what you do, there are always cunts out there that will be jealous of you, and trip you up. If you want to fit in with such groups, you need to be average ... a drunk and a bit thick. I know.’

  ‘So not my fault,’ he complained.

  ‘No, the military system should cope better with such things, but they want Mister Average most of the time, the team player, not someone who is outstanding – yet all officers want you to study hard and to train hard, a contradiction in terms.’ I sipped my tea. ‘You ran marathons?’

  ‘Still do, couple times a year, but not at your level.’

  ‘I’m not at my level any longer, got a dozen gunshot wounds to slow me up a bit,’ I explained.

  ‘You did that rescue in the Sahara, and one in Somalia.’

  ‘So could you some day ... if you’re daft enough. Or you could find a nice girl and settle down, and live to a ripe old age.’

  He shrugged. ‘Had a girlfriend for a few years, pain in the arse. Go out in Newport or Cardiff now and then, to find a bird.’

  For the afternoon session we drove over to Ross-on-Wye range with Stretch and the SSM – who were bored, and I put Tomo through rapid fire exercises at 100yards and 200yards, the lad a natural, and had him sniping at 500yards and getting a good score.

  In the morning I handed Tomo to Magsee for a day, and Magsee took him to the Forest of Dean. When they returned I thanked Magsee, sending Tomo off to get some fish and chips.

  ‘How’s his attitude?’ I asked Magsee.

  ‘Seems OK, he’s keen to learn, picks things up quickly enough. What you got in mind for him?’

  ‘Mi6 are after Lone Wolves, and he fits the bill.’

  ‘Why not the Regiment?’

  ‘That’s a possibility, but the lad has issues with ... people. Not a people person.’

  ‘Neither were you, apparently.’

  I smiled. ‘I work well with people who work well with me, I don’t suffer idiots.’

  He made a face. ‘Maybe the kid should try selection.’

  ‘He will, tomorrow, my three day course.’

  ‘Well if that don’t break him, nothing will.’

  We were up early and on our way to Sennybridge, and only half way there did I inform him what he would be doing, scaring him a bit. He admitted to not being ready.

  ‘No one is ever ready for when the bullets start flying, they can’t teach that, so just
do your best and ... enjoy the challenge. If you get a good score it will piss off a lot of people. And you should enjoy pissing them off.’

  He smiled. ‘None of the Newport section have done it, but the CO, McCarthy, he don’t like me.’

  ‘There you go, you’ll be even more popular.’

  The Army Sniper School lads were waiting, and they had a slot since someone had dropped out. I greeted them all, questions fielded about Mauritania, the four unlucky candidates soon kitted out and lined up, one a tall lad from “G” Squadron, the other two Paras Pathfinders. Those three lads had recently completed a 24hr speed march in the allotted time, and so they should not crap out on these three days.

  I wished them all well, and on the Saturday morning they stood looking half dead, Tomo warned after threatening to shoot the “G” Squadron lad who was giving him some lip. Tomo even challenged the tall trooper to a fist fight after work.

  Lined up, I took charge of the clipboard. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls.’ I pointed at Tomo whilst looking at the three professional soldiers. ‘He’s a territorial, still wet behind the ears, but he beat you three.’

  I waited, the instructors shaking their heads at the regulars. ‘You need to do better, gentlemen, if someday you want to read about your exploits in the papers. Your scores ... are fine, all around 74%, well done, but the lad beat you, he got 78%. And some of you wanted to take the piss out of him. You can do so ... when you beat his score. Dismissed. Tomo, on me.’

  We drove back, Tomo fast asleep, and I woke him when we got to my apartment. I made sure he had a shower and a bite to eat before claiming the sofa, and he went out like a light.

  I got back from a curry with the RSM around midnight, my guest well out of it, and I woke him at 7am with a cup of tea. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Stiff all over,’ he complained as he cradled the mug of tea as if his life depended on it.

  ‘Hot shower, gentle exercise, it will pass soon. You did well, and upset those regulars. I’d say control your temper but ... well, I never did. If some fucker is in your face ... hit him.’