Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed with a false smile, secretly wanting to punch him.

  ‘I understand you sat the Commission Board...’

  ‘Yes, sir, and passed, just waiting for a placement.’ And right now, being an officer was just about the last thing I wanted.

  ‘You’ll make a fine officer, I’m sure. We’ve been hearing about these top scores you’ve been getting in various exams.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I study hard.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  When they had finally departed and went and found Hesky.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I want to be sick.’

  ‘Sick ... about something,’ he realised.

  ‘Fucking RAF took my photo, I’m going to be in recruitment posters.’

  ‘Well, that’s an honour, I suppose.’

  ‘Bollocks, I’m a step away from buying myself out.’

  He sighed long and loud. ‘You’re assigned to me now, so no one will fuck with you.’

  ‘Going to stand guard outside my window?’ I testily asked.

  ‘Well, no, but the shitheads have their own work and you can avoid them. Starting with learning to drive the three-tonner.’

  I studied the dated green lorry. ‘What’s the fastest anyone has ever learnt to drive one and passed his test?’

  Hesky smiled widely and shook his head. ‘You just don’t do things slowly, do you.’ He beckoned Muscle-Mouse. ‘Mousey, teach the lad to drive the three tonne from scratch, and he does his test on Friday.’

  ‘Friday?’ Mouse queried.

  ‘This is Wilco you’re teaching, he don’t hang around.’

  ‘Got your driver’s license?’ Mouse asked me.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Then you can’t officially be signed off, can you,’ Mouse told me.

  ‘Bugger,’ I said. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  Muscle-Mouse drove us down towards the assault course, then we swapped seats, and he gave me a lesson for an hour, the gears hard to master, but I got there, practising over and over as he sat smoking.

  He began, ‘Thing about this lorry is ... it’s fucking old. It’s supposed be good off-road, but that’s bollocks. Shake it up over rough ground and things fall off. Across grass, dirt tracks, fine, but anything rough and it’ll fall to pieces and break down on you. So fucking gentle with it at all times, or you get shit from above.’

  After lunch we again hit the perimeter track, soon back to the base roads and I tackled driving around tight corners, I parked and reversed, and then Mouse swapped with another guy when he got bored.

  By the end of the day I had mastered it, I considered, and as soon as Bongo got back to the room I nagged for driving lessons, but did chuck him twenty quid and promised a few beers and a burger.

  The next day I asked Flt Marsh, not the CO, if I could have time off for a driving lesson in a civvy driving school.

  ‘Put it down as extra marathon training, because for that you can have as much time as you like,’ he told me.

  I booked a guy the next morning, and he picked me up at 2pm outside the guardroom, and we spent an hour on basic road sense and driving, signs and laws, followed by a mock-test, to which he said I did OK, but to slow down a bit.

  Booking a test took six weeks, normally, but he had a pupil drop out and so would swap names – for an extra little something. I booked him again for the next evening, and after a day on the three-tonner, this time basic maintenance, I again drove around side streets, parallel parked and reversed, and tried to slow down.

  Cpl Hesky allowed me time off the next day, but I checked with Fl. Lt. Marsh anyhow, and at 1pm I changed into civvies and Bongo drove me to Darlington, and to the test station, an old guy with a clipboard waiting. I showed him my provisional driver’s license, a green form, some extra ID, and off we went.

  It went well enough, but towards the end of the test a car cut in front of me. ‘Fucking learners, get off the fucking road.’

  I glanced at the examiner, he waited patiently, and the car in front sped off, hitting a cyclist. I jumped out and ran, checked the cyclist – a nurse had been passing and assisted, then floored the irate driver as he stood cursing the cyclist.

  Getting back into the car, I buckled up, and then faced the examiner. ‘Can we re-schedule or something?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I saw nothing.’ He wound down his window as I pulled past the driver holding his bloodied nose. ‘Learn to drive, you fucking moron!’ he shouted, leaving me grinning as we drove off. To me he quietly said, ‘My daughter cycles to work around here, and that could have been her.’

  Back at base, dropped back by my examiner, I changed into uniform and went and found Fl. Lt. Marsh. ‘I passed, sir, so does that change what I can do around here?’

  ‘It does, yes, I’ll update your file.’

  I told Hesky, but he was not surprised, and I got back to the three-tonner with Mouse, followed by Hesky himself, and we tackled the rough track on the far side of the base.

  The next day Hesky took me up into the hills, and I tried a little off-road driving and some dodgy hill starts. Low gear, high revs, and I slowly manoeuvred across country, not breaking the lorry. On the way back he took me through traffic, and I worried a few civvy drivers in small cars, but then the gear box went.

  ‘Is that my fault?’ I asked as we crawled along, stuck in first.

  ‘Nah, this lady is older than me. We’ll have to call the base and get a tow.’

  I pointed. ‘Phone in there, that’s the armourers college, I know them.’

  I approached the gate dead slow, being stared at and tooted at, and wound down the window. I shouted, ‘Open the gate, I’m stuck in first gear!’

  They got the gate in time and I waved as I passed, easing to halt next to the admin block, and blocking the road. As I jumped down the Major appeared.

  ‘Wilco, you back?’

  ‘Need a favour, sir, I was having a driving lesson and the gears have gone.’

  ‘No big deal, I’ll get you a tow.’ He sent a corporal for another three-tonner, Hesky smiling at the cheek of it, and we got a tow back – after a cuppa and a chat about running.

  I put off the test, I was out of time, and on the Friday we drove in Hesky’s car down to Lincoln, to an area that was dead flat, not far from RAF Swinderby, a small army base, the course already taped out.

  Mason was not coming, he was still sore from the half-marathon, but Hesky was keen to give it a go, hoping to be in the top forty. We were assigned to a dated World War II Nissen hut, complete with coal burner, two dozen runners in with us, blisters examined, trainers checked, lots of smelly feet exposed.

  After an hour, a soldier said to another runner, ‘You’re the favourite this year.’

  ‘No he ain’t,’ Hesky chimed in with, both men now looking annoyed.

  ‘I’m Conroy, Paras,’ the favourite stated, as if that meant something, everyone now listening in.

  Hesky stood, and pointed at me. ‘Hundred quid says he wins.’ He waited. ‘Any takers?’

  No one responded.

  ‘Who are you?’ Conroy asked me in an unfriendly tone.

  I was quietly annoyed at Hesky. ‘Wilco, RAF Regiment.’

  ‘Never heard of you,’ came back.

  Hesky put in, ‘He’s the RAF lad that was tripped at the end of the London Marathon.’ They all focused on me. ‘Same lad that won the half-marathon last week, and broke the record. Same lad ... that get’s up at 5am every morning and runs twenty-eight miles, rain or shine. That’s who he is, and he’ll leave you all standing.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ Conroy muttered.

  A runner closed in. ‘Good run in London, till that fucker tripped you; could have been placed.’

  ‘Next year maybe,’ I said.

  ‘And you nearly won Darlington.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You hurt?’ he asked me.

  ‘Still sore in a few places,’ I admitted. ‘But the half-marathon went off OK.’

>   ‘I was there,’ came a voice. ‘Came in fifth.’ The man stood and came down to my end of the room. ‘Never seen anyone put on the power like you.’

  ‘I count in my head,’ I said.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I count out the beat every time my left foot hits the ground, sometimes left-two-three-four, left-two-three-four, and sometimes just the beat – and I train at the same pace, and the beat in my head keeps me at a steady pace.’

  They were all now very interested in the technique, discussing it merits – not least because it seemed to work so well.

  We were told, firmly, that lights out was eleven, and everyone settled down to the smell of coal fumes, a few snoring happily away. I got to sleep around midnight, up at 5.45am and stretching quietly so as not to wake anyone, and I sat reading for an hour before people started to stir – and to use the dated ablutions.

  Later, after a breakfast of sandwiches handed out with apples, pears and bananas, we discovered that many runners had opted for local bed and breakfast accommodation. I got a quick run in to warm up, stretched and warmed up, and Hesky and I joined the gang as they were herded towards the start line, not many spectators, and we would be running on country roads, two legs being dual carriageway some eight miles each, and very straight. One was an old Roman road.

  Names were called, and the best runners were at the front, but somehow I was in the second row. With a stiff easterly breeze blowing, a cold breeze, we bent over, got ready, a shot sounded out, and we were off, rubbing elbows and vying for position. I nearly lost a training shoe in the melee, and got an elbow – or three, till I found a space.

  There was no need to wait for a straight stretch, I could see miles ahead, so I set to counting in my head. The pack moved away from me, settled, then moved back towards me as I maintained my pace, the pace I had used in London, and by time we turned the first corner, more like a bend, I was in fifth place.

  As we dipped behind country hedgerows I ignored the others and counted my pace; I was racing the clock not the men, since the men would vary their pace.

  At times it got boring, because the long straight stretches were very long and very straight, but it seemed to aid me because at the ten mile mark I was out front – and not hurting. I didn’t bother to look behind, I simply kept to the pace as best I could, many soldiers and airmen seen at certain points, and at other times it was just me, and if I took a wrong turn I might get lost out here.

  Fortunately, each turn had a few men and some ribbon, and I kept turning right, soon on one side of a dual carriageway whilst motorists still utilised the other side. It was, again, long and straight for the most part, and all I had for company was the beat, and that helped to pass the time.

  I got a cheer and some applause at the next turn, a small crowed there, mostly RAF blue, I even heard a “go Wilco, go” which was nice; I certainly was not used to being encouraged along.

  As I neared the twenty mile mark the RAF blues got thicker, a sign saying “RAF Marham for Wilco”, girls holding the sign, which was a nice gesture.

  Another mile of straight road, and I dared look back, seeing the next runner some four hundred yards back. I knew I had four miles to go, or less, and so picked up the pace and got my head down. And, as I ran, I noted how I was not hurting so much, and wondered about the pace – and that keeping the same pace had helped my body cope with the pain.

  The crowds got thicker, and more vocal, and the finish line came into view down a long straight road, so I sprinted for all I was worth, getting some loud encouragement. I did not bother to look behind me and just kept going, soon hitting a ribbon with my chest, and soon doubled over, my face burning, my anus wanting to open up.

  A swarm of blue RAF uniforms closed in, mostly officers. The same Group Captain was smiling widely. ‘Two twenty four,’ he informed me, a sea of smiling faces around me.

  ‘What? Can’t be,’ I challenged, puffing.

  ‘Two twenty four,’ others said, a blanket placed around me. ‘New inter-services record! And a shade off a world record.’

  ‘You stuffed the Army!’ they said, a photographer moving in, a few snaps taken.

  On the Monday, Bongo showed me the newspapers, and I had made the front page of a few, photos of me being tripped at the London Marathon, then at the inter-services, and at the finish line you could see the guy behind me – very far behind me. It seemed like the papers wanted me to win an Olympic gold for Britain, and that I might beat the Moroccans, the Ethiopians and Kenyans.

  I was officially on light duties for a few days, to recover, and in civvy clothes, but on the Tuesday I got warning of the top brass coming and so got into uniform before being called into the Admin section. The AOC himself shook my hand and handed me a letter of merit, and a medal. I had a medal, a shock, a medal for services to sport.

  They snapped me with various people, and holding the letter and the medal, and again next to a Scorpion tank, and it was all a lot of fuss, but at least some of this lot appreciated me.

  But Hesky had given me an idea, a cheeky idea, and with the AOC right there I tried it on.

  ‘Sir, if ... you want the RAF to win a few more, there’s a race in Cyprus, and Germany, and the NATO race in Germany.’

  He turned to my CO. ‘Get the details, please. Any and all races where we can be seen to win, send him – even to Alaska!’

  They laughed, I stayed quiet, and no one twigged what I was up to. I was put down for the German races, two of them, and I would need some time training over there, say four weeks, then to Cyprus in the in winter. Yes, I had gotten myself some damn good holidays, Hesky in hysterics when I informed him – and apparently I owed him a curry.

  I passed my three-tonner driving license, but had not thought it through; I was soon given shit driving jobs. I drove kit to various bases, I drove senior officers in Land Rovers, and I drove a three-tonner to various ranges and bases, which was work – and productive – but a bit crap and dull.

  So I checked with Lyneham about further medic courses, and there was one – one that I would try and mis-describe to my CO. He saw the detail, did not twig, and signed me off, and a week later I was at Lyneham boarding a dated Tristar with the RAF’s mobile medical unit, a flight to Cyprus, then on down to Kenya, the heat oppressive on landing, and I was soon studying first aid in the bush as military live-fire exercises were conducted nearby.

  For four weeks I lived, ate and slept in the heat, had training in hygiene for hot climates, I even had training patrols to attend, sleeping out and cooking rations under the stars, and I bound up a serviceman’s ankle, cleaned out a cut and – under supervision – injected a soldier with antibiotics. We flew around in helicopters, practised live firing, and all of a sudden life was good, very good – I was doing the soldiering bit.

  My instructor, Fl. Lt Dr. Sandra Lewis, was thirty something, married, but she was hot as hell with it, and I wound her up something terrible.

  With just a few days to go before leaving I was grabbed at dawn by a team of medics in a panic, we kitted out, and we flew into the highlands training area, setting down on a red arrow. With the helicopter departing, we looked around a flat mountain top sided by steep gorges and thick trees, the red arrow cloth held down by small stones and fluttering in the breeze.

  ‘Where’s the fucking patient and his patrol?’ was heard.

  I walked in a circle around the arrow. ‘Sir, tracks north in, tracks north back out, no others.’

  ‘Follow them,’ came a frustrated voice. What should have been a simple pick-up was now not so simple.

  I followed the tracks easily enough across parched and dusty ground, figuring four men, one carrying another – deeper prints. An hour later, and the prints split up.

  ‘What the hell did they split up for?’ the senior medic complained.

  ‘Might not have intended to, sir, could have been dark, fog at night up here.’

  ‘Yes, good point.’

  ‘So when were they here, and wh
ere are they now?’ a lady medic asked.

  We all looked around.

  ‘Sir, a body!’ I shouted, and ran, then scrambled down a slope, across a deep gully and up the other side, my hands cut in places. I stopped and turned. ‘Stay back, it’s fucking deadly sharp here!’

  They halted as I inched on, up a slope and to a body that was not so dead; he had a steady heartbeat. I checked his neck and back in full view of the medics, his limbs, and signs of bleeding.

  ‘Small head wound, sir, nothing else, looks dehydrated – maybe sun stroke.’

  ‘Bring him back over here.’

  I got the young soldier, no more than my age, over my shoulder, lifted his SA80 rifle, but I could see the sharp rocks. ‘Sir, I’ll go down and around, meet me there.’

  I set off, slowly, desperately trying not to trip, and a long hour was used up till we met up. They took him off me. ‘I’ll go back up, sir, see where those tracks lead.’ I checked the SA80, finding live ammo, so I kept hold of it, not sure what kinds of wild animals were up here – and wary of aggressive monkeys and baboons.

  ‘We’ll be here, we got a radio message out. Be back in a few hours, and no risks, Wilco.’

  I jogged back up to where I had found the soldier, and was soon knelt studying the ground as I sweated and puffed out, finding tracks leading on, so I followed them for an hour, soon finding a young soldier sat against a tree. He was semi-conscious, dehydrated, but otherwise OK.

  I made safe his rifle, slung it over my front, lifted him up onto my webbing – my pack now around the front, and grabbed the rifle I had brought, soon feeling very heavy, and being very damn careful where I stepped.

  I heard a helicopter, but I could not see it, and so plodded on back to where I had last seen the medics – only to find them gone. I crossed over a ravine, cutting my hand on a sharp rock and jarring my knee, but kept going – cursing as I progressed, the day now damn hot.

  When we got here the mist had been slowly lifting, but now the day was warming up, and cresting the next rise I was afforded a spectacular view, a biblical African vista stretching out miles.