Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  We tried it alone first, just one man and the principal, a few false starts, then in pairs or teams. At one point I fired blanks and smiled widely as the lady with the pram pulled an AK47.

  I told the captain, ‘Where I grew up, sir, Gloucester, single mum with an AK47 was normal. I had her spotted easily.’

  ‘I know Gloucester, and I’d not walk around it unless armed!’ he quipped.

  The next day we were back at it, now with the colonel acting as principal. A man threw a stun grenade, the colonel shoved hard away and then just about carried as I blocked the assailant, two blanks fired, the colonel into the car as I ran alongside, finally getting in myself.

  ‘I left my packed lunch,’ the colonel began.

  ‘Get your fucking head down!’ I shouted as we drove off, a hand on his head, and we went around the block. I finally let him up as we halted. ‘Packed lunch?’ I asked with a smile.

  ‘Principals will always behave as dicks, never forget that. And you’re right to take charge and shout.’

  We finished the week with a lecture on bullet-proof cars, such a vehicle examined.

  That led to “the knowledge”, which was what London cabbies called the study of London’s streets. We all had road maps to study intensively, and were required to know the basics of getting around London, starting with the area from No.10 to the MOD building, moving outwards.

  After two day’s study, we set off to London in MOD cars, modest and dated saloons, an examiner in with us. Starting from the MOD building we were handed addresses, routes to plan, maps to consult, time limited – and shit London traffic to put up with. I missed a red light, I nudged a bike, and I stopped on the yellow cross-hatching twice, getting shouted at.

  Driving to Heathrow I got pulled over, and out of date tax disc, my examiner red faced at that, the police letting us go with a smile. We went round and round the terminals in Heathrow, confusing at the best of times, till the police there noticed us pass three times – and pulled us over.

  The examiner flashed his ID. ‘MP driver under training, and yes – the fucking tax disc is out of date’.

  After four days of it I was much better at London driving, eyes everywhere, street signs checked, and I felt like a cabbie.

  The Monday saw a lengthy exam, after which three men were kicked out, but I suspected they had failed at more than just the exam. Twelve of us were left out of twenty two.

  Assembled in the briefing room, the colonel stepped in with the captain. ‘Wilco, this is your certificate, and your base will get a letter. Well done, excellent work.’

  We shook hands and I accepted the certificate.

  The captain added, ‘This lot have other things to study, but since you’re not going to arrest anyone you don’t need to be here.’

  The colonel told me, ‘You look after Group Captain Loughton for me, we started out together. But close protection doesn’t apply to Group Captains.’

  ‘I won’t be shooting anyone, sir, but I might try a handbrake turn to see what Mister Loughton makes of it.’

  Packed up, I got a taxi to the station, a train to Didcot Parkway, one of the Transport lads picking me up, the gossip caught up on.

  Back at base, and with my kit down, I walked to the police depot with the thick manual, and found the CO. I handed over the manual. ‘Thank you, sir. And this is my certificate.’

  ‘You passed!’ He studied it. ‘With distinction?’

  ‘Why so surprised, sir, I’m good at anything I turn my hand to.’

  ‘This qualifies you to drive senior staff and civilian VIPs.’

  ‘It’ also qualifies me to carry a personal firearm, sir.’

  ‘God help us.’

  I took back the certificate. ‘How man of your lads passed with distinction, sir?’

  ‘Don’t be a smartarse, and fuck off and do some work.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And stop smirking!’

  In Admin I had the certificate photocopied, and with the base commander coming out of his office I handed him a copy.

  ‘You passed with distinction. Good work, not a waste of a course after all. We’ll all be well protected when you drive us around.’

  I reclaimed my room, and it felt odd that first night back, so I headed out to find the Transport lads, and over a few beers I gave them the detail of the course. None of them had the qualification, nor would ever need it – but all were jealous as hell.

  On the Monday morning I handed my CO a copy of the certificate, surprising him.

  ‘It makes me qualified to drive anyone, including the Prime Minister, and with a pistol.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think anyone wants to see you with a pistol in your hand.’

  ‘If that’s your attitude, sir, I’ll bring my defence counsel up and press charges of prejudicial conduct, you me and the base commander in a room.’ He glared back at me. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me having a pistol in my hand, and in case it slipped your mind I was cleared of all charges and compensated, wrongfully convicted.’

  ‘You have a habit of going off on one, and hitting people,’ he emphasised.

  ‘I hit a man here who kicked my door in, sir, so would you have. Transport has a copy of my certificate, so too the base commander, so if work comes along that requires a pistol I’ll carry one. If you interfere in that process I’ll call for a hearing, and you’ll have to prove that I’m unsuitable. And simply being a barrack room lawyer does not make me unsuitable. Sir.’

  I saluted and left, before I said something I would regret.

  Back in a routine of running in the mornings, the weather now damn cold, I was practising my Kung Fu, despite what my CO thought about my tendencies towards hitting people, and after a week in the armoury I was back on driving Group Captain Loughton around.

  That first day he asked after the course and what we had covered, and informed me that he would soon be an Air Commodore. After talking with his wife he had decided to stick at it and go all the way to retirement in the RAF.

  ‘We should celebrate, sir, some lap-dancing and a curry.’

  He laughed. ‘My wife would kill me.’

  I settled into a routine of driving the soon-to-be Air Commodore, and I didn’t mind driving, I was focused on my Kung Fu training, but I met a lady corporal on quiz night, and she had been impressed by my general knowledge. She had also seen me running.

  Becoming an item meant we became discreet, since base gossip was to be avoided at all costs, and we met off base on the weekends, a bed and breakfast outside Oxford that was not too expensive, often taking trips up into the Chilterns. Kathy had a big pair that I liked playing with, but also an arse that could have been smaller – as I often teased her about.

  One evening, a few weeks into our relationship, and we both attended quiz night, but did not sit close or touch. When no one was paying attention I bought her drinks, and sometimes we argued over answers just to maintain a facade. But a group of soldiers were about to make my life difficult again.

  The quiz master asked a question, the soldiers shouting out rude answers from the bar. I turned, but stayed seated, Mickey getting frustrated with the mouthy soldiers, the quiz master warning the soldiers.

  As Mickey came back from the toilets, he almost made it to us when the soldiers interrupted again. He spun. ‘Why don’t you lot fuck off somewhere else!’

  ‘Why don’t you make us,’ came back, which I could have predicted.

  I jumped up and pulled Mickey back.

  ‘Your boyfriend just saved you a beating,’ one of the soldier said, just as I clocked a table of officers from the base looking uneasy.

  I forced Mickey down, a few calling my name quietly, not wanting trouble. I walked forwards, halting the quizmaster with flat palm, and faced the trouble-makers from the centre of the bar. ‘Which regiment would employ idiots like you?’

  ‘Engineers,’ came back from the tallest. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I had you down as nurses, bed pan cleaner
s and dick examiners,’ I loudly announced, a few of the patrons laughing.

  An unhappy bunch of soldiers put down their drinks and advanced, more keen on trouble than on drinking.

  ‘Are you a fucking RAF crab wanker?’ the first man called.

  ‘Yes, RAF, I work in the dishwashing department.’

  The first man was almost to striking range, but the idiot gave me the pointed finger. Right hand to left wrist, pull down, right knee bent and turning, right forearm slam into the elbow, kick to the knee – a yelp given as he fell away into a table.

  The second man moved forwards, the big guy. Lunging kick to the balls, his hands going down, his head lowering, twist the hip, up and over, and I snapped his head around with my shoe, sending him falling onto one of the officers.

  Two soldiers stepped over their fallen comrade. Right jab to the chin, back-first to the nose, and they backed up, the big guy I kicked now unconscious, the landlord running in shouting – he had called the police. I returned to my seat and eased down, soon sipping my drink.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Mickey let out. ‘Where’d you learn to fight like that?’

  ‘Dishwasher department.’

  The police arrived, soon an ambulance, the landlord giving details. I was led out, questioned, my details taken – but I was not arrested there and then.

  The next day, after lunch, I was summoned by the base commander, and I figured I was in trouble. I found him with an Army captain and sergeant in green, plus one of the young officers I saw in the pub.

  I saluted. ‘Sir.’

  ‘You hit four soldiers in the village pub!’

  ‘There were five, but I missed one, sir. Sorry, I’ll get him next time.’

  ‘This isn’t funny!’ he shouted. Calming himself, he thumbed at the Captain. ‘They were his men, on a course.’

  ‘His men, shouting all fucking RAF crabs are wankers.’

  The base commander turned to the captain. ‘Your fucking CO will be getting a letter from me! We teach the Army here, we host you. If you don’t like us, fuck off somewhere else!’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the captain offered.

  The base commander faced me, sighing. ‘I got most of the story, and witnesses, some of whom suggest that you could have diffused the situation, that they were just being mouthy.’

  ‘The lads with me were a step away from fighting, sir, and one nudged elbow would have done it. I knew I could handle it better and not get hurt. But that’s not why I stood up.’

  ‘No?’

  I pointed at the young RAF officer who had been in the pub. ‘This gentleman and his friends looked terrified, about to leave. But why should they be so inconvenienced, and by soldiers we host and train, why should they have looked afraid?’

  ‘Good fucking question,’ he shouted, glancing at the captain. ‘Why should they be afraid of bodily harm from soldiers?’ He pointed at the officer from the pub. ‘Were you concerned about your welfare?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but also concerned by the Bruce Lee demonstration. Which some of us felt was unnecessary.’

  I put in, ‘If that’s the way you feel, sir, then rest assured that should I see you in distress again ... I’ll turn my back on you.’

  ‘Wilco,’ the base commander growled. He faced the young officer. ‘Had those soldiers set about you, would you have desired Wilco’s kind assistance?’

  ‘We would have left, sir.’

  I began, ‘Officers ... driven out of their local in fear by soldiers they host.’ I muttered ‘Bollocks’, getting a pointed finger from the base commander.

  He faced the young officer. ‘It’s kind of nice that Wilco feels protective towards us, and he drives senior officers around, protective towards them as well. Be thankful.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The base commander faced the captain. ‘I have good witnesses, so if your men want to press charges I’ll ban all Engineers from ever doing a course here again.’

  ‘We’re very sorry, sir, we’ll deal with it, they learnt their lesson – a hard lesson.’ He faced me. ‘Sergeant Jones is six feet eight, and twenty stone, and you knocked him out with a kick to the head..?’

  ‘I practise, sir.’

  ‘Stay out of trouble!’ the base commander warned me before dismissing me.

  Back in the armoury, I told them what had happened.

  Mickey began, ‘That fucking prick of an officer criticises you for sticking up for them? Fucking cock suckers. I’ll spill me drink on him next time.’

  The incident left me angered, and that weekend I took Kathy down to Bournemouth to be away from Brize, a cheap bed and breakfast, and she was mad about my treatment as well. But a large pair of breasts and some beer was always going to diffuse any situation, and on the Saturday afternoon we strolled hand in hand along the beach – in a fucking freezing gale.

  Still, ducking into a cafe and having chips reminded me of my youth, and it brought back happy memories; most of my childhood holidays had witnessed terrible weather as well.

  Kathy and I became a steady item, even talk of a place off base, and I started to resent the RAF rules about no women in my room; it was an archaic outlook.

  Coming up to Christmas I got a letter from the aero-meds, and it was decision time as far as Kathy was concerned. There was a course I could get myself on, time in Kenya, but I would be away two months, at least part of the time since I could drive up from Lyneham and see Kathy.

  We met for a meal that evening, and I asked if she objected to the course. She quietly informed me that she had a posting to Scotland.

  ‘Oh...’ was all I could think to say, and that was the last time we met socially.

  With nothing to hold me back, and with my CO pissed off again, I headed for Lyneham, a Close Protection Kung Fu trained medic.

  I returned from Lyneham in February, and reclaimed a freezing cold room, my books cold to the touch, my metal cabinet having protected my belongings. I washed out my kettle, but when I tried my toaster it exploded in sparks. I would need a new one. I also needed someone to reset the fuses for the entire block, which I had blown – not that I would admit to.

  In Transport I found that a few new faces had arrived and that some had left, and that I was down to drive the-now “Air Commodore” Loughton. When I picked him up from his house his wife said hello, and I handed over the cake I had bought, the Air Commodore surprised. I had him open it. Iced onto the cake was an RAF roundel, underneath a desk with wings.

  He began, ‘Are you trying to say I fly a desk?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You don’t have to rub it in, you know.’

  ‘It’s what every driver is there for, sir.’

  Coat on, we claimed the car.

  ‘So how was your course?’ he asked as we set off.

  ‘I got to study field surgery and minor wounds, and I cleaned out and stitched a dozen minor wounds, getting good at it now, sir.’

  ‘I spoke to the CO of 2 Squadron last week, and he’ll let you transfer over if ... if that’s what you want.’

  I considered that. ‘Not sure what I want, sir, is the simple answer. I like the medicine, I like being in Kenya and Belize and doing something useful. But 2 Squadron is tanks again, some parachuting, and lots of people wanting to measure their dicks.’

  ‘Well, it is the elite team, so they can be competitive, yes.’

  The weeks passed quickly, four days a week driving the Air Commodore, and he treated me well. We ate together often, he told me of his childhood, and we swapped funny stories.

  My Kung Fu was coming along, and in the Swindon gym I would often win the mock fights. Well, I was training four hours a day at it. Sometimes, when I was just feeling fucked off with everything, I would tell Transport that I was needed in the armoury, I would tell the armoury lads I was driving, and I would tell my CO nothing as I spent the day in the gym.

  I had used the base pool a few times, I swam well, but with the weather very cold I decided to get some swimming in. I spoke
to the PTI responsible for the pool, and he got me a key. It opened at 7am, but I got there early and knocked out the lengths, the pool still warm from the day before, but not too warm. By 5pm the pool was too warm for my liking.

  So I started to knock out the lengths daily, but one day the PTI was in early and he observed me doing those lengths.

  ‘I can improve your speed,’ he said, and gave me a few pointers, followed by a few exercises. I practised my speed turn and kick off, and I got faster. He told me, ‘You’re not fast enough short distance, but at 1500 you could do well. Competition in the spring if you want to try it.’

  I suddenly had an objective, so worked hard at the lengths, and at my technique, speed turn and kick off. Being naturally very fit, I had the stamina, I just needed to get the speed – and that came from technique not brute force.

  As the weeks rolled by I kept at the swimming in the mornings, hitting the gym in the evenings, two nights a week in Swindon, and having mentioned it to the Air Commodore I was summoned by the base commander.

  ‘We think you could win a medal swimming,’ he began. ‘I know you have a bit of an issue with competing for us, but if you did get us a medal I could find some courses for you, if there’s something you want to do.’

  I made a face. ‘I’ll give it a go, sir. 1500metres.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘Or...’

  ‘Or ... what?’

  ‘How about the English Channel?’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘You don’t do things in small measures, do you? You think you could do it?’

  ‘How far is it? Twenty miles?’

  ‘About that?’

  ‘I knock out five miles a morning, sir.’

  ‘You have the fitness from the running. So take a day off, and see how far you can go.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  And I did, no one from Transport or the armoury even noticing, or caring. The PTI, Sgt Trevors, would assist, and I started at 5.45am. He arrived at 7.30am, and I told him how many laps I had completed in what time. He worked out the averages.

  I kept at it, up and down, quite bored but determined, but when I finally got very fed up I exited the pool, quite spent. Oddly enough, I felt OK in the water, but getting out I felt instantly tired.