Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

Hesky was on duty.

  ‘Get an ambulance down to my room, and the MPs, that fucker Sloan broke in, I woke to find him pissing on my face. He’s unconscious.’

  ‘You hit him?’

  ‘No, shoved him back, he fell and hit his head.’

  ‘Drunks like that drown on their own vomit, be careful.’

  ‘Slack is looking after him, recovery position.’

  Heskey picked up the phone and I ran off back to the room. Sloan was the same, breathing OK, Slack cleaning up the vomit with Bongo.

  ‘He ain’t right,’ Slack warned me. ‘Convulsions and shaking.’

  I knelt. ‘Hit his head when he went down.’

  ‘Mark on his neck, bruise.’

  I had a look. ‘Hit the edge of the chair when he fell.’

  ‘Self defence,’ Bongo put in, stood scratching his balls.

  Ten minutes later the duty officer appeared, Slack now dressed, Bongo still stood in his pants.

  ‘What happened here?’ the grumpy officer demanded.

  I began, ‘I have a history with this idiot, sir, and I woke to find him pissing on my face. I shoved him away, he fell back – drunk – and it looks like he hit his head or neck on the chair.’

  ‘The duty corporal did say that an ambulance had been called, so don’t move him till they get here. Pissing on your face, eh, what a cunt. And you’re the one they call Wilco, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve had trouble before,’ he noted, and waited.

  ‘After the London Marathon a brick came through that window, sir.’

  ‘Jealous men. Unfit, overweight, jealous men.’ He pointed at Slack. ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘I was awake straight away, sir, Sloan on the floor there, Wilco turning on the lights to see who it was.’

  ‘And did Wilco give the prone man a good kicking?’

  I snapped my head around to the officer, and controlled my anger.

  ‘No, sir,’ Slack answered. ‘He put him in the recovery position and went for the ambulance. If it was me ... I’d kick the shit out of Sloan and dump his fucking body. Sir.’

  The officer cocked an eyebrow at Slack. ‘And whilst Wilco went for the ambulance, did anyone give the man a good kicking?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ Slack cheekily answered. ‘Is there time before the ambulance gets here?’

  Bongo laughed, cut off by an angered look from the officer.

  When the ambulance arrived they knelt and checked Sloan’s vitals, but were firmly warned by me not to move him without a neck brace and a body board. The pissed-off ambulance driver, who wanted to be elsewhere, did as asked after the officer repeated what I had insisted upon.

  Peace reclaimed the room, and we all got to bed after I had changed my sheets and blankets, all now stinking.

  3pm on the Sunday and the Army MPs turned up, wanting to interview myself, Slack and Bongo, all taken in turns to the guard room and questioned. And we had all been informed that Sloan was paralysed, my stomach turning; I could get the blame for his injuries. I was asked several times if I kicked him when he was down.

  Monday morning, and a new face appeared, a new Squadron Leader, our CO absent for a few weeks on courses. After squadron orders he asked for me, and led me to his office.

  Sat, he began, ‘I have the story from Saturday night, and I understand that this man Sloan is a bit of a handful, especially when drunk, and that he was jealous of your sporting successes. The witness statements all match up, in that you – the medic in the group – placed Sloan in the recovery position and went for an ambulance whilst the others watched over him.

  ‘There is a question hanging over as to what might have happened to Sloan, drunk and incapable and unconscious on the floor, but there does not seem grounds for charges to be brought as I see it. I am waiting a report from the doctors and the MPs as well, but I see no particular issues here. Carry on, Milton.’

  I saluted and left, relieved, and spent three days testing weapons in the armoury with Bongo.

  On the Thursday morning I was summoned, finding an army Major, a doctor, the new Squadron Leader, plus a wing commander from somewhere, the man not known to me.

  The temporary Squadron Leader, Mitchel, began, the others stood stony faced, ‘Milton, the doctors who examined Sloan have confirmed no secondary injuries from being attacked whilst unconscious, but Sloan is now partly paralysed. He himself cannot remember what happened, so that does not clear up the picture any.

  ‘Still, a paralysed man is a very serious situation, and you admit at the very least to shoving him, and thereby causing that injury, an injury that was not present before since witnesses in the pub say he was fine – albeit a bit drunk.

  ‘We know that there was a history of bad blood between the two of you, hence a motive for grievous injury, and your two roommates are less than reliable and might have your back – so to speak, as good friends do. The story of exactly what happened is not clear -’

  I wanted to shout at him, but I held my tongue, angered inside and boiling.

  ‘- and we may never get a full and truthful picture of the events of that night, but however it happened, accidental or deliberate – and you shoving him was very deliberate and born out of historical malice – you cracked a fellow enlisted man’s neck. That falls under the category of malicious wounding, accidental or otherwise.

  ‘In the absence of solid proof I have to be fair, and so a charge of accidental grievous wounding will be entered into the record, and I hope that this well be a lesson to others, and for you, time for you to reflect when you are away.’

  My face flushed hot, and the room closed in on me.

  ‘You are hereby sentenced to ninety days, after which you may reflect on your chosen career progression path. Dismissed.’ A glance at the MPs, and I was led away, too stunned to speak, the staff in Admin all glancing my way and wondering what had happened.

  I was driven to my room in a state of shock, no one around, the lads in work, and told to pack my kit by no less than four large MPs. I packed my military kit into my usual blue-grey kitbag, but was told to clear everything out and to leave personal items in a box or container with the guardroom.

  As the MP said that I was very tempted to hit him, despite his size and the four of them being there. Stunned, I got on with it, my drawers soon empty. They produced a plastic bag with a tag for bank cards and cheque books, all handed over, along with any cash I had.

  I was soon in a van with three MP’s, one driving.

  ‘Long fucking way, Colchester, so get comfy,’ the driver told me, one of the MPs opening a paperback, a sergeant in the front passenger seat.

  We drove through the gate, familiar faces seen, and I was still too stunned to speak, too angry, soon onto the A1 south and picking up speed past the airfield – and past my perimeter track.

  ‘What’s your date of birth?’ the sergeant up front asked, and I gave it, followed by my service number and next of kin. ‘You best get used to adding rank to your answers, or down in the Glass House you’ll be in trouble.’

  Half an hour later, and the sergeant glanced back at me. ‘Hope you’re fit, because they will push you in the Glass House.’

  ‘Fitter than any other fucker there,’ I said as I peered out the window.

  ‘Yeah, what makes you think that, laddy?’

  I slowly turned my head to him, a look of anger offered. ‘You remember the stupid cunt tripped in the London Marathon last year. Well you’re fucking looking at him.’

  The driver glanced in the mirror, the man next to me quizzing me with his look.

  ‘That was you?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I won the inter-services half marathon and full marathon as well, a new record. So the fucking PTIs can try and keep up with me when I get there.’

  The sergeant and driver exchanged looks. ‘You’re CO not like you or something?’

  ‘That was not my CO, he’s off on a course.’

  ‘What did your brief s
ay?’

  ‘Brief?’

  ‘Legal counsel?’

  ‘Never had one.’

  ‘Well that’s naughty, because he can’t sentence you to a custodial stay down at the Glass House without one present.’

  My features lifted. ‘No?’

  ‘No. And what you charged with anyhow?’

  ‘Accidental wounding,’ I informed them.

  ‘Accidental ... is accidental,’ the sergeant puzzled. ‘Odd fucking charge. What happened?’

  I gave the story.

  ‘Someone pissed on my face I stomp on the cunt till he was dead, and not face charges,’ the sergeant finally said. ‘When we get there, ask for a Case Review Counsel, and tell them you never got counsel. They’ll have to send you back for a formal hearing with counsel.’

  I peered out the window at the M1 motorway traffic. ‘Why the fuck would I want to go back there?’

  ‘Well, if you’re fed up there is fast track exit available at the Green House, but first you need that Review Counsel.’

  ‘Might be best, yes. Big wide world out there, got to be less arseholes in some other job.’

  Four hours later, and they knew about my first aid, Kenya, the armourer’s courses, and the marathons. We skirted south of Colchester town, and turned right into a leafy lane and finally a left in through the prison gate, “The Military Corrective Training Centre” it said on the sign, and we pulled up next to an Admissions Centre, three NCOs stepping out to greet the van. Perhaps they were expecting a difficult prisoner.

  I took in the trees hiding the buildings, and it did not look much like a prison, more like a modern army camp of two-storey buildings, a small parade ground in the centre.

  The MP sergeant handed over a file, exchanged a few sentences, and they all glanced at me as I stared dispassionately back. Beckoned, beret on, heavy kit lugged, they walked me in, the corridors being a bland magnolia. Kit down, a knock at a door, door opened, and I was led in. I stopped and saluted an overweight colonel with a pleasant face as he looked up, puzzled.

  ‘What do we have here?’ he asked.

  ‘A screw-up of an RAF officer sent us this one, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No legal counsel present, sir.’

  ‘Oh for fucks sake, not another one? What are they paid for!’

  ‘He’s down for accidental malicious wounding, sir.’

  ‘Accidental malicious wounding? Well there’s a contradiction in terms in itself.’

  ‘This lad is the one that was tripped in last year’s London Marathon.’

  ‘Him!’ the colonel exploded, standing. ‘You won the inter-services as well.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So why they sending you here? You’re their sporting star.’

  I gave him the short story.

  ‘Jealous shits throwing bricks through your windows.’ He nodded, now sat. ‘I can put a pause on your sentence and send you back for legal counsel -’

  ‘I’m ... not sure I want to go back, sir.’

  He stopped sighed, a look exchanged with the NCOs. ‘A bit of a kick in the teeth, yes, by some idiot officer who should have known better.’ He studied me, and then turned to the NCOs. ‘Put him in transit for a few days.’

  Facing me, he said, ‘Take a few days to think things through, meet with counsel here, and I’m allowed to be that counsel, watch some TV, but ... don’t make a choice just yet on leaving the military. You shouldn’t be here, their fault not yours, the system at fault. And when you get a proper hearing your counsel can shout a little at this idiot officer.’

  I was led out after saluting, and through an area of locked doors, to Transit, most of the rooms not being prison cells, most of the men here being staff, or servicemen to be released early for good behaviour - or those buying themselves out of the military after brief sentence served.

  The room was clean and warm, and big enough, my kit placed down, rules written on the wall, and a map of facilities. I sat, unrolled the mattress and placed down pillows from plastic bags, and lay there for a while, no idea how long.

  A knock at the door and I eased up, opening it, finding a short and slightly built corporal with a stern expression.

  ‘You Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, corporal.’ I glanced at his name tag. ‘Worksmith.’

  ‘You don’t remember me, but I was with you at the start of the inter-services marathon, and I was in London last year. Come on, let’s chat.’

  He led me out to a car – which I puzzled, out the base and to a pub – which I also puzzled, beers and lunch ordered – which I did not argue with. ‘They say you were stitched up?’

  ‘I had no legal counsel.’

  ‘Easy to fight that.’

  I gave him the story.

  ‘Got no fucking case to answer, just some prick of an officer thinks he knows it all. Colonel Bennet will sort it, don’t worry.’

  I sighed. ‘Not sure I want to go back.’

  He took a moment. ‘Yeah, bit of a bitch, eh. You up for London this year?’

  ‘Was going to, but then this...’

  ‘There are other RAF units, other Army units, and with your skills you’ll get a placement no problem, and then there’s the Marines and Paras.’

  ‘That may be better, yes.’

  ‘Or you go back, spit in their faces and make them squirm. Could even get some money, compensation.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I made a face. ‘Be nice to give them some shit before I leave.’

  My very odd first day in prison was spent in the pub, a meal, and I was a bit drunk when I got back. I eased down and dosed for an hour before a knock came at the door, a captain.

  ‘I’m Captain O’Mally, a solicitor by trade, advocate to those here who need to talk.’

  He led me to a quiet canteen, a few servicemen glancing at me, and to a quiet corner, teas grabbed, and I detailed my story.

  ‘You have a very strong case for review, or an overturn, but if your CO is overturned he could make life difficult for you, that does happen. And I understand that you’re not keen to go back.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You can stay here a while, in limbo, that does happen as well.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘And ... if you are here a while and the decision is called into doubt, you are due some compensation for being here.’

  ‘Sir, you’re a sneaky little shit, you know that.’

  He smiled. ‘I never told you that. Now, tell me about the London Marathon; my brother is a club runner.’

  After half an hour, he said, ‘You could prepare for London here, three months would take us up to beginning of April, we could get you listed, and ... if your old CO saw you doing well on the TV...’

  I laughed, the first time all day. ‘Sir, how the hell did you get to be a captain?’

  ‘I’m a solicitor that wears a uniform, not a military man really.’

  I slept well, eating late in the canteen and chatting to a Para who was due to be released, good behaviour, and this was his second stint here. Seemed like half the inmates were Paras.

  In the morning, after breakfast, Colonel Bennet sent for me. I entered and saluted.

  ‘Sit, sit.’ He interlaced his fingers as he studied me. ‘Sleep OK?’

  ‘Slept well, sir, after talking to Captain O’Mally.’

  ‘He is a good sort, yes. Any ... feelings about what you would like to do?’

  ‘I had a very devious idea given to me, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes, do tell,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘If I stay here, three months, whilst training for this year’s London Marathon, and then ... get the decision overturned, I would be due some compensation.’

  ‘That you would, yes.’

  ‘And if my CO saw me win it -’

  He laughed loudly. ‘Would upset the man so much I’d want a photo of his expression. It would also embarrass the RAF no end, for an inmate to win something like that.’

  ‘An added bonus, sir.’

 
‘I’d be stretching a few rules, my lad, but ... if you tell me you are undecided about what to do ... I am allowed to give you some time and counselling. Three months would to be stretching it greatly, but I am the man in charge supposedly, so ... what the fuck.

  ‘Most of the men in here would like to spit in my face, no respect for anyone or anything, most set to leave the military, so it’s nice to find someone like you in the pile. And keeping fit is part of the structure here.’

  ‘Corporal Worksmith could help me train, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to - I’ll make sure he has some time, and he spends a great deal of time taking the men running, so it’s much of the same for him. But if you win...’ He blew out. ‘The press coverage will be very loud, and painful for some. They may make life hard for you afterwards.’

  ‘No more than now, sir.’

  ‘Oh, we have an educational programme, and I understand from your file that you’re a smart cooky, so you could do me a favour in return and pass some exams – makes me look good.’

  I smiled. ‘Be glad to, sir. Always wanted to do an “A” Level in history.’

  ‘It can be arranged, but a lot of work an “A” Level is. Never been seen here before.’

  ‘I’m a quick study, sir.’

  ‘And in school?’

  ‘Ten “O” Levels and three “A” Levels, sir, all good grades.’

  ‘Then why did not apply to be an officer?’

  ‘I did, sir, and passed, but got bored waiting and so went in as an enlisted man.’

  ‘And therein made a mistake in the company you keep.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll get the Education Officer to hand you the books. No one has ever done “A” Level history in here before! That in itself will raise some eyebrows, my lad.’

  I sorted my kit in my room, and keenly got started on the Napoleonic Wars, something I had read about before anyhow, and also got started on two runs a day with Cpl Worksmith, explaining my technique to him. They had treadmills, but I was allowed outside as well, a plastic pass to that effect.

  I spent my Friday night and Saturday night in my room reading, quite a contrast to drinking in Darlington, and on the Sunday afternoon I was notified that I had a call. I then remembered my parents, and panicked a bit.

  But the call was Slack. ‘Wilco, that you?’