Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘There are two pins, designed to let your average thick squaddie take it apart quickly and get it back together again. Problem is ... the pins damage the soft metal, and then the rifle has to be scrapped. If you find yourself in a war, pick up an AK47, a much better weapon.

  ‘This design is based on the old Paras EM2 rifle from 1947, and if there are any of those still in circulation they’re probably more reliable, even rusted.

  ‘We’re going to spend time on it because we have to, I just hope the fucking Army sees sense and bins the fucking thing. The SAS had it for a day, and sent them back with a rude note – which is what we’d like to do but can’t. Never before in the field of human conflict ... has such a piece of shite be so well described.’

  The SA80 was 5.56mm, a ‘bull-pup’ design with the magazine behind the trigger, a fixed optical sight, and after a day I could see the problems. Still, it would enter service so I had to learn how to clean it and fix it. I did, however, like the optical sight.

  By the end of the second week I was happy that I was learning something, happy with my training, and life here at Catterick did not seem too bad all of a sudden.

  On the Saturday afternoon I told Mason what I had planned, and he would join me after six laps; I was going to try twenty six miles today. It rained for a while, my plastic mack on, but then cleared up nicely, and I maintained a good pace for the first six laps, Mason joining me. He was fresh, I was already half-spent and hurting, red in the face and puffing.

  But I kept at it, and kept the pace, and four and a bit laps later we eased up and stopped, and I was bent double and hacking, now very red in the face, legs aching.

  ‘You did well,’ he noted.

  ‘What the fuck do I look like from where you’re stood, sir?’ I quipped.

  ‘Like you’re supposed to look at the end, spent; means you gave it all. Some collapse and need help, you’re not too bad.’ He checked his watch. ‘Stand there.’

  After I had recovered, he said, ‘That’s good. Six minutes and you’re almost recovered.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I puzzled.

  ‘How long you take to recover is important, and measured by many runners. It shows the fitness level, and if you could have done more. Your six minutes is very good.’

  ‘Yeah? Oh.’

  I thanked him, and told him that Sunday was a day of rest, but noticed Cpl Hesky out running as I walked back. That night, in the base bar, Hesky came in with another man, spotted me and Bongo and came over.

  ‘How’s the training?’ he asked.

  ‘I ran twenty-six miles yesterday. Hurt, but I didn’t die, and that officer, Mason, he said I recovered in six minutes – which is supposed to be a good sign.’

  ‘It is a good sign, very good. How did you measure the distance?’

  ‘Just under eleven laps.’

  ‘Each lap is two point six three miles, dummy.’

  ‘It ... is?’ I puzzled with a frown.

  ‘You did almost twenty eight miles.’

  ‘No wonder I was fucked,’ I noted. ‘I was told it was two point four.’

  ‘Nah, bollocks, I did it in car and on a bike,’ Hesky insisted. ‘Ten laps, just under, for a marathon. What was your time?’

  ‘Three-o-five.’

  ‘So you’d be under three hours on the day, faster with people competing.’

  ‘Well next weekend I’ll try ten laps,’ I suggested.

  ‘What do you do each morning?’

  ‘Ten, but not all running, I do some leg lunges and sideways running, some pause and sprints.’

  ‘Leg lunges are good, and the sprints,’ he agreed, and we chatted for hours about marathons.

  Near closing time, Dunny was drunk, and seeing me he wanted a fight. Hesky got up before I did, a kick to the balls ending Dunny’s evening, and Dunny pissed his jeans as he collapsed, getting laughed at.

  My training went well the following week, both in the classroom and on the perimeter track, then Bongo mentioned my marathon preparations to the instructors on the course, two of them down for the Darlington run – and suddenly they were best mates and chatting about training.

  I invited them to the airfield that weekend, clearing it with the CO, and the instructors had heard about the airfield track and were jealous, because they were training on roads and dodging traffic, pot holes, and dogs.

  Myself, Hesky and the two instructors stretched and warmed up, the rain holding off, and we’d try for twenty miles, and I would set the pace. We set off, south and clockwise, and my pace was a bit fast for the Army lads, so I slowed to what I considered eight miles per hour, most of the gang happy with that, and we plodded around for eight laps, the Army spent, Hesky not too bad.

  ‘That’s twenty miles,’ I told them as we stood panting.

  ‘Not a bad run,’ the Army told themselves. ‘Just another twenty minutes or so on the day.’

  Hesky and I walked them to their car, and with jackets on over sweaty kit they waved and drove off. I bid Hesky farewell with a grin and hit the track again, two more laps, and two fast laps, sprinting in sections. At the end I felt good, I felt alive and buzzing and not at all sleepy. As usual I had a strong desire to piss and to take a shit, but sat on the toilet nothing came out.

  On the Monday the instructors welcomed me like an old friend, and we chatted over a cup of tea, plans made for the following weekend, my squadron CO happy enough to host my guests.

  I found the course material interesting, and we got onto artillery and mortars, a day spent on sniper rifles – which was great fun. But the training turned to hard work and sore fingers when maintaining the weapons, and day by day the number of weapons we had to strip and clean grew, hours spent rubbing down hard metal or measuring things with callipers. I did not envy Bongo his job – it seemed tedious in the extreme.

  All that week I ran a new pattern, with weights strapped onto my wrists, and I would run a slow lap followed by a fast lap, alternating, and I figured my “capacity” to be much better.

  On the Saturday the instructors joined me and Hesky plus Mason and we hit the same twenty miles, Mason just about keeping up but totally spent at the twenty mile mark, the Army doing better – they had been running in the week. As with the previous session, I hit an extra two laps by myself, and again fast laps, after a cool down with the others.

  The Army were back on the Sunday, but for just a twelve mile run, everyone conscious of injuries ahead of the marathon. I considered their advice, but I could just not sit still – I had to have my daily run.

  I had been training hard for three months on the perimeter track, and during the first aid courses, and I could feel the difference; when my feet hit that open space of the airfield I was on rocket fuel and not slowing down.

  The armourer’s course finally came to a close with two days of practical tests and no less than three written exams, which finished on a Wednesday afternoon. I drove back to the training centre with Bongo on the Friday, and they presented me with my certificate and scores.

  The Major in charge said, ‘Wilco, you scored 95% on the written test, higher when we realised that we had a question down wrong – your answer made us think. Since I understand that a high score would piss off your CO, we’ve given you 99%, the highest ever.’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you, sir, it will piss them off.’

  ‘Come work for us if you get fed up. And good luck in the Darlington Marathon, I’ll be watching my lads at the end, pint in hand no doubt.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m built for comfort, not for speed.’

  On the big day Sergeant Chandon drove me, Bongo and Hesky, Bongo to be at the end line with Chandon to collect my dead carcass. Chandon was not running, and old SAS wound slowing him up these days. That and his wife wouldn’t let him.

  Hesky had briefed me thoroughly, and we signed in together amongst the thronging crowds, numbers pinned to vests as it started to rain. But the rain did not last, and it eased as we lined up with the other two thousand runners, s
ome in fancy dress, metal railings and screaming crowds flanking us and penning us in. Hesky had secured us a place near the front, and we’d not have to dodge the guy dressed like a giant chicken.

  I was nervous but confident as Hesky pointed out the most likely winner, a thin-faced Ethiopian. He and his black friends would be attending the London Marathon in two weeks, but this was a warm-up race. Many of the top runners were not here, not last year’s winner, since they could break an ankle head of the London event.

  ‘See that white guy,’ Hesky whispered, pointing. ‘When I get tired, try and stay with him for a good time. He’s two forty-five.’

  I nodded, noting the man’s number as we stood shaking legs and swinging arms. A call, a shout, and we moved forwards, got ready, sprinting stances taken, my heart racing, and we were off – yet not going anywhere since we were blocked in for a few seconds before off, then one mad scramble, elbows being used in a most undignified manner.

  Our pace was slow, up and down for the first mile, but then we cleared the club runners and found a gap, the pace picked up to that which we had practised. Ahead of us was a serious group of runners, ahead of them the blacks, and we tucked ourselves in behind the serious group – and waited.

  A few miles on I glanced back on a turn to find the next group a hundred yards back at least, and a mile further on our own group started to elongate. The pain hit me in waves, and the pain dissipated as soon as it came, housewives and children cheering, police officers stood looking bored.

  Hesky moved out around the rear of the group, so I followed, not finding this hard yet, and we moved towards the front. A sign said fifteen miles to go, and it seemed like we had just started and that I had not settled down yet.

  ‘If you can go, do so!’ Hesky panted out.

  I found a straight stretch, enough of a gap, and started counting in my head, getting nine miles per hour, and very slowly inching past people, and as the sign said ten miles to go I was suddenly behind my target white man, Mr Two Forty-Five.

  Seeing me on his shoulder, he picked up the pace, so I kept with him, the pain hitting me in the diaphragm and the left shoulder, my lungs burning a little, and without realising it he was dragging me forwards, and we started to close in on the blacks, now just three hundred yards behind them.

  Five miles to go came as a shock, since it felt like I had not long started, and I figured that I had been caught up in the excitement of it, unlike the boredom of the airfield track. I wondered where Hesky was, and the Army lads.

  My target man put on the power, but I could see the strain in his face as I drew level. Then I did something neither of us expected, I moved past, and I kept going, the pain building and then dying in waves and host flushes. And that urge to take a shit was back. I was all out sprinting for the short black guys, and they made it seem so easy, effortlessly gliding along ahead of me.

  When I drew level with the tail end guy he was shocked to see me, yet seemed to have no reserves left, or at least the will to use them. I inched past him, and I kept inching till I found a long straight, green banners, the crowd screaming, me behind the lead Ethiopian, my anus about to loosen, my lungs on fire, my left knee killing me, my left shoulder hurting like hell.

  The little guy glanced at me, and then effortlessly pulled away as I struggled to chase him, the banner overhead coming up quickly, and I noticed the end ribbon just a second before the Ethiopian hit it. And I hit a second or two later, easing to a jog, my heart about to explode, my head spinning.

  A man in green grabbed me. ‘Take it easy, get your breath.’

  My eyes glazed over, I felt faint, and a minute or two passed, sure that I had pissed myself. I bent double for a while, took a small drink, a silver foil placed over me as I was led forwards, and soon Bongo and Chandon came into view.

  ‘He’s with us,’ Bongo shouted at my man in green, who let me go to assist someone else in the melee.

  ‘Good fucking run,’ Chandon said with a smile. ‘Nearly had him. You did two forty one!’

  ‘Yeah?’ I queried, finding it hard to stand. They handed me a drink, and a few minutes later a dead looking Hesky stepped over, breathing heavy, soon bent double.

  ‘How’d ... you ... do?’ he puffed out.

  ‘Second,’ I told him.

  ‘Second? Fucking hell.’

  That evening at eight o’clock I limped into a Darlington curry house with Bongo at my side, the Army instructors meeting us there, Cpl. Hesky turning up with his mate.

  The beer tasted great, and was much needed as we chatted about the race, the life of a soldier, which officers were arseholes, and we finally got around to women. Bongo had forgotten not to drink, so we had to get a taxi back, and we both got soaked walking down to the billet.

  Sunday, and my legs were stiff and sore, and I had blisters in new places, my body much in need of a warm shower - or three.

  Monday morning everyone at the base was looking at the front page of the local paper, a picture of me and the Ethiopian at the finish line. ‘RAF Regiment first-time runner nearly wins.’ And they had my name down as Wilton.

  As I stepped into the morning briefing I got an odd mix of cheers, jeers, congratulations and ‘wanker’ all at the same time.

  Dunny said, ‘Let some stupid black beat yer, stupid cunt.’

  And the other comments were not much better, leaving me wondering what I was doing here.

  The CO stepped into the briefing with the junior officers, everyone standing and then sitting. He CO focused on me. ‘Well, I never knew you were that good a runner, Milton, and we have high hopes for the London Marathon now, a good time.

  ‘If you need time to train or rest, let us know, be good to have someone with a good time in London, and don’t forget the Combined Services Marathon in Fleet near Aldershot, that ... we’d like a good placement in, show up the Army if possible. And, as you may not know, you beat two lads from 2 Squadron.’

  They loudly cheered and jeered.

  Hesky put in, ‘All the best Army runners were there on Saturday, and he left them standing, sir.’

  ‘Excellent, then I hope we get a top three placing at the inter-services event.’

  That week I was officially on light duties, my feet sore, and I did fuck all – not so different to my usual schedule, but I found that I was missing my running. I was earnestly soaking my feet in salt water every night, or applying medical alcohol to them.

  By the Wednesday I was jogging slowly, and by the Friday I was almost back to normal. My muscles were OK, my feet sore in places when in boots, but not in my old trainers.

  On the Saturday I decided to run, but to keep the distance down, therefore I needed to be faster. I ran one side of the airfield slow, then sprinted for two hundred yards, then dropped back down to a slow plod, and I repeated that for four laps, feeling that I had achieved something, my capacity improving.

  I repeated the same exercise on the Sunday, just a week to go to the London Marathon, and on the Monday the base commander, the Group Captain, came and found me, taking me to one side.

  ‘We have high hopes for Sunday, and we’re always keen to promote sportsmen and distance events, good publicity, good for recruitment.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘You all recovered from the local race?’

  ‘Yes, sir, been hitting the perimeter track each morning.’

  ‘Well good luck if I don’t see you before the day, some thirty RAF lads in the event this year I think.’

  I had been given a gentle nudge, and that evening after work – another boring day or cleaning tanks – I went for a long run, a steady pace, nine laps, the last lap a sprint.

  In the morning I was back at it, Mason joining me. He had wanted to save himself for London and not risk a twisted ankle on the Darlington run, his fitness coming along, but he still ran six laps to my ten.

  The weekend came around all too soon. I packed my kit, signed forms and was issued travel warrants, and I travelled down to Lon
don on the train on the Saturday with Hesky and Mason, no less than four other lads coming with us for support, and because they got travel warrants and a cheap hotel, the chance of a piss-up in London.

  Booked into that hotel, a shit tip near Paddington Station, we went for a walk and found Marble Arch, ending up in Soho and peering at sex shops.

  Those of us running were in bed early, and I woke at 5.30am as usual, a light breakfast at 7am with the runners, our support crew not in support - and very hung over. That ‘support crew’ knew where to meet us, and they got there just in time to take our clothes after we queued for registration. They would meet us outside a pub on a corner near the finish line, Hesky having done this four times before.

  Shoulder to shoulder with a mass of nutters in fancy dress, I was pushed and shoved and hemmed in, some distance from the good runners, but next to Army, Navy and Air Force runners.

  Hesky said, ‘Don’t wait for us, go, get the pace. Elbow people if you have to, nudge them aside, get a space and go. And ignore the crowds and the interesting sights!’

  I nodded, a look exchanged with Mason, and it was quite daunting, a massive crowd – as well as TV cameras.

  ‘I’ll be happy to finish,’ Mason said.

  The crowd became surreal, a blur, a mass movement of bodies forwards, a pause, a cheer, and we were off, if slowly, and I was soon moving around annoyed runners and they tried to move around other annoyed runners, and I almost tripped twice – not a the best of starts.

  Finding a gap on the left as people turned right, I sprinted, and managed to get ahead of a hundred runners in a few minutes, soon hemmed in again. At the next turn I again went wide and sprinted, and the other runners must have thought I was mad.

  But now the pace was OK, just about 9mph, and I counted in my head, contented to stay in place for a few miles. But after a mile I felt like the pack was slowing down and so I found gaps and sprinted past till I found a decent gap, and settled down and counting in my head I figured I was at 9mph or just over.

  I was in the middle of the gap, a large group ahead of me, and when I turned a tight corner I glanced back, another large group a hundred yards back. For now, this seemed a reasonable strategy.