by Geoff Wolak
‘A fatal heart attack would have been better,’ he solemnly stated. ‘I have an uncle who was a stroke victim, worse than death.’ He shook his head.
I gave him the story.
‘I’ll make sure the pilot gets a commendation,’ he suggested. ‘Quick thinking on his part.’
‘Good talk down as well, I learnt something. Reckon I could land that plane now by myself.’
‘And my damn fault this happened.’
‘No, sir, Mister Burridge was due a stroke either way, just a matter of bad timing.’
With the Air Commodore driving off, I walked towards my room, but an MP jeep pulled up. ‘We need a statement.’
‘And you’ll have one, Sergeant, right after I call my legal counsel, Colonel Bennet.’
‘Monday morning, first thing,’ he snarled before he drove off.
I diverted to the armoury and used their phone, a call in to The Corrective Facility.
‘Ah, Wilco my boy, how you doing?’
I gave him the story.
‘Bloody hell, but not your fault, and that pilot talking you down took responsibility for your actions, so there’s no case against you landing an unauthorised aircraft on a military base – which usually comes with a hundred years in prison. Don’t worry.’
On the Monday morning I made a statement to the police, but there was no case to answer – which disappointed them. I then diverted to the NAAFI, a box of chocolates bought, and headed to ATC. People there glanced at me and smiled, glanced at the chocolates and smiled all the more.
I cheekily climbed up the tower stairs, not allowed to - so the sign said, and in.
‘Wilco?’ the Squadron Leader asked. He glanced at the chocolates. ‘They for me?’
‘No, sir. For the lady officer I spoke incorrectly to.’
She turned around, headsets off one ear, and I melted. She was a stunner, an absolute stunner, not just a sexy voice. With her male colleagues smiling I stepped closer.
‘The station commander said I should apologise, so these are for you.’
She turned red as she took them, glancing at her male colleagues. ‘Oh ... er ... thank you.’
‘He also said I should buy you dinner -’
‘Wilco! Get out!’ came from the Squadron Leader.
I turned away, the men in the tower laughing. ‘Spoilsport,’ I muttered.
‘Out, you little shit! And learn some fucking RT code.’
I headed to the armoury, a day cleaning and checking weapons, my mind on the beautiful image of that young lady Pilot Officer, whatever her name was. I was in love.
On the Wednesday, the weather OK, I was on the far side of the airfield with Trevors and another PTI, javelin in hand, the technique gone over. Aiming at a distant target in the grass, I ran and threw, a good first throw, and I continued till my arm was ready to drop off, my distance impressive.
After a tea break back at the PTI depot I was back over the far side of the airfield, but now on a stretch of road that was backed by soil that had been turned over. It would be soft enough, they hoped.
With the long jump technique in my ears, all about a good launch position – foot on the line but not over it, I ran and jumped, legs up and back down to land, the turned soil not as soft as I would have liked, and I landed in a heap.
‘Not bad at all,’ Trevors approved. ‘You have the speed and the lift.’
We tried it a dozen times, my arse now muddy, my trainers having to be wiped of mud after every jump.
A few days later we got access to a local school track, and I ran eight hundred, then fifteen hundred. My eight hundred was OK, but not fantastic, by 1500 time being good. I practised running around the track, always leaning left at the turns, and my times improved a little. I had not run around a track like this since school.
In the mornings I was now practising my sprints, and Trevors had knocked two stakes into the ground on the far track, 1500metres apart exactly. I would run around to the first marker, limber up, then sprint for the second marker – stopwatch in hand. At the far end I would rest, limber up, then sprint back, the process repeated at least eight times a morning, sometimes in the evenings.
A few times a week I would try the javelin, and in the gym I had a spring fastened to the wall. I mimicked throwing a javelin, over and over till my arm ached, people wondering just what the hell I was doing.
The Air Commodore was keen, and he would be in attendance, but unknown to me he had suggested to the base commander that a few people travel with me, to shout support. A coach would be laid on for the trip up to RAF Cosford. I would be driving with Trevors, a few of his PTIs helping out on the day.
That day came around quickly, and I wondered if I was ready, then wondered why I even cared. It was not a long drive, and I felt well, only then Trevors informing me of the coach party. I had to stop and wonder who was on it, since no one in the armoury or Transport had mentioned it.
At RAF Cosford we signed in for the various events, many families wandering around, areas taped off, but there was no runway here any longer, just engineering training centres and a track and field facility that was way too big and too good for those few personnel stationed here.
Walking to the changing rooms, I ran straight into Slack from Catterick. ‘My god!’ I shouted, and we shook, huge smiles exchanged. ‘You competing?’ I asked him
‘Fuck no, I’m here on a course. You running?’
‘Eight hundred and fifteen hundred.’
‘Should do OK. No more marathons?’ my old roommate asked.
‘No, fuck ‘em. But I won a silver in swimming, 1500metres, going to try the English Channel.’
‘Fuck, chilly that.’ He wished me well.
After changing, we met my support team, a dozen officers from Air Traffic Control coming as a surprise. And with them, in civvy dress, was Pilot Officer Trish Deloitte. My heart skipped a beat.
‘Pilot Officer Marsh Mallow,’ I greeted.
Her jaw dropped, her hands on her hips as her males colleagues all turned away to hide their smirks. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Was on the toilet wall in the swimming pool, Ma’am. With a limerick.’
‘What!’ she hissed.
‘Just kidding, Ma’am.’ I walked off, enjoying having made her blush. And now getting an erection, and erections were to be avoided in running shorts when competing.
I found the support team before my first event, and several had t-shirts printed.
‘Go Wilco – but stay away from Cessnas.’
‘Go Wilco – and punch the other runners.’
‘Go Wilco – but don’t get shot.’
It was not funny, and I shot them a peeved look, but at least the babe of my dreams knew all about me, and now knew all about my dodgy past.
The 800metres came and went, and I came in fourth, a break before the 1500metres, no one else running in both events. Head down on the line, I thought – fuck it, and with the starting pistol cracking out I sprinted ahead as if this were a 100metre run, and the other runners must have thought me crazy.
I kept going around the curve, but then eased up a little, and I figured that I would wait for the first man on my right shoulder and then race him. That was most likely to happen on the straight, but it never happened and I kept going, now hurting and pushing my limits, but I wanted a good show for my support team.
On the last lap I felt someone closing in, so went all out beyond the pain barrier, my anus wanting to open up, and I increased my stride, running through the tape to a new RAF record.
After I had recovered – and I was now spent, I approached the support team, Trevors with them.
‘A new RAF record,’ he told me.
The ATC Squadron Leader said, ‘We see you training on the track, the morning shift.’
‘They’re in that early, sir?’ I puzzled.
‘There’s a twenty-four hour rota, even though we don’t fly twenty-four hours. Sometimes a plane comes in during the night.’
Up next was javelin, and I was hopeful, but the other men I was up against were all built like tanks. Finally my turn came, and I was handed the javelin, still some mud and grass on the end, which I cleaned off.
I tried to remember all the good advice, to get a good run up, a good lunge and a rotated arm, not a dart throw. I gave it all I had, a scream issued, and my javelin sailed away. Just then, one of the umpires down the course decided to pick a fight with a wandering sea gull. He backed up, swiped at it, tripped and fell back – my javelin heading right towards his heart, the crowd in their feet, my eyes wide. My heart stopped.
The javelin impacted something and remained upright, the umpire rolling away, the crowd breathing again, but his jumper was snared.
Trevors shouted with a smile, ‘Were you aiming at him!’
Distance noted, almost the best so far, I threw again, just as the lady’s 1500metre race was being conducted. My javelin sailed, and sailed some more, hit the grass parallel to the ground, slid, lifted up and hit a lady runner in the ankle. She went down, taking down six lady runners behind her, all ending up in a heap.
‘Oh for fucks sake,’ I let out.
‘You’ll be popular,’ the umpire next to me said with a grin.
I faced my support team, who were in hysterics. I held my hands out, and let them fall, pissed off. The lady’s 1500metre race was abandoned for now.
Final throw, the audience waiting in great anticipation – all eyes on me, and I gave it everything I had again, a scream issued, and it was a good throw. Seeing it arc over and down, I could also see that flock of sea gulls again.
‘No way,’ I told myself, a moment before a sea gull got itself impaled, and flapped about. I faced the support team, who were applauding my throw, or my aim, or wounding a sea gull, I was not sure which as I walked towards them.
‘Good aim,’ Trevors noted with a grin as I approached.
The Squadron Leader said, ‘You’re supposed to go for distance, not aim at people and birds. You got some anger issues to work out, Wilco?’
‘That could be long chat, sir,’ I told him, taking a drink. But I had won by two inches, no one quite sure what to do with the injured sea gull flapping one wing.
An hour later, and I was called, the long jump to tackle. I had the speed, I had the stride and the muscle, so I was hopeful.
First run and jump, and my left foot was a good eight inches behind the line. Second jump, and it was six inches behind the line. Final jump, and I just avoided disqualification, my trainer a few millimetres from the front of the white board, my jump long enough to win today, but not a record.
Dressed in a tracksuit to stay warm, I enjoyed a hot dog with the Air Commodore, and I even chatted to Trish Deloitte about RT code for a few minutes. Finally called, a Wing Commander presented medals, and I claimed three, being photographed for the RAF magazine.
‘Not a waste of a trip then,’ the Squadron Leader noted as we headed for the transport. ‘Brize Norton gets some recognition, as well as the RAF Regiment.’
‘I don’t really think of myself as RAF Regiment, sir. I drive senior officers, I work in the armoury, and I do medicine.’
‘A bit odd,’ he puzzled.
With the weather improving, my mind turned to holidays. As well as cars. I had received £3,500 compensation for my hardship of enjoying myself at the Corrective Facility, and I had generally saved a lot more money than I had spent over the years; I now had £11,000 sat in the bank.
A car was something I had thought about many times, but I always convinced myself I did not need one on base, and my mind was always thinking – what if I quit next week, will I need a car? With my trips to the Kung Fu club, with meeting girls off base, I decided it would soon be time.
First, a holiday, so I wandered into a travel agents in Oxford, and walked out having written a cheque for £325. A week later, my provisionally booked leave now signed off by my CO - since I was not needed - anywhere, and I was on a 737 heading to Majorca.
A man with a sign for the tour company met me after luggage was claimed, name ticked on the list, directed to a bus, a few sexy girls on the bus, and we set off after dark, a long two hour drive to some place called Cala D’or, my hotel to be organised by time I got there by the resort reps, no knowledge of it in advance other than it was three star.
Booked in, by a Spanish receptionist that never once made eye contact, I claimed a Spartan and dated room on the third floor, and I went to bed feeling thirsty – no drinks available. I woke to find a shaft of laser light cutting the room in half, dust mites rising and falling, and as I stood in the beam I felt the heat. Opening the curtains I was blinded, having to find my cheap sunglasses. Balcony doors opened, the roar from the pool hit me.
‘Oh yeah,’ I commended, looking down at fifty topless girls. ‘This is more like it.’
After a crap breakfast in the hotel restaurant - just before they closed at 10am, plenty of water drunk, I bought some supplies from the hotel shop and had a wander around, a look at the beach and the water, and the myriad of boobs on display. Back in my room, I figured I would take it easy since the sun was already burning my shoulders. Cream on, I sat on the balcony in my swimming trunks in ten minute slots, enjoying the view.
When the sun moved I could sit on one side of the balcony in the shade, the day damn hot, and as I stared at the ocean I considered my future, and what I wanted to do. An hour passed quickly, my brain stuck in neutral.
A pair of tanned boobs came into view on the next balcony, the separating walls being low, and I now had a view of a platinum blonde girl that looked like she had just landed from heaven. She turned my way and smiled. I nodded.
Ten minutes later she was back on the balcony, voices heard. Some lucky bastard was in there with her. A tall girl appeared, also white blonde, seemingly with a neck injury. A few words exchanged in some language, and the first girl turned to me.
‘Could you take a picture please?’ she asked in near perfect English.
I stood. ‘Your English is very good.’
‘We study in school from five years old.’
I neared the wall, seeing that they were both naked, and not at all embarrassed by that fact. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Sweden.’ She handed over the camera, and my sunglasses allowed me to view their blonde pubes without them seeing me do so.
I wound the film on.
‘You are an athlete?’ she asked.
‘Bodyguard,’ was the first thing that came to mind. ‘Military police, Close Protection. I’ve driven the British Prime Minister on occasion.’
‘You have been shot?’
‘Yes, a few times. Ready?’ I peered through the eyepiece at an absolute vision, two blonde Swedish girls who took being naked as something perfectly normal. I took two snaps, and handed the camera back. I pointed at the taller girl. ‘Neck problem?’
‘From where I sleep.’
‘Come.’ I waved her over. ‘Turn around.’ I leant across a little and grabbed her shoulders, a thumb into the muscle. ‘Pain higher up starts lower down. I’m a trained medic.’ I rubbed between the shoulder blades.
‘That’s good.’
‘I also massage girls from time to time, if they behave well.’
‘Your girl in England does not behave well?’ she asked, but with a lilt.
‘She accepted a job in Scotland, I work in London,’ I said, thinking about Kathy.
‘Ah, she put the job first. You knew her long?’
‘Just six months.’
‘So you need a holiday away to think.’
‘No, life is too short to think. Plane might crash on the way back.’
‘Or you get shot,’ she noted. ‘Mmmm ... strong hands.’
‘Got any baby oil?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I can fix you better lying down, but the going rate is one cold beer.’
‘You are cheap for such a good service. Come.’
I climbed over the low wall,
wondering if anyone below was observing us, and into their bedroom. It looked like six girls not two stayed here, and that they had been here a year. ‘How long have you been here?’ I puzzled.
‘Three days,’ they said, wondering what I found odd about their stuff scattered all around.
I spotted the baby oil and grabbed it, directing the taller girl to the bed, throwing a few items off the bed first. She lay face down, I sat on her thighs – her pussy staring up at me, and I began a massage having seen the diagrams and read notes once; massage the muscle, not the bones, and in a direction away from the centre – the spine!
Her friend lay on the next bed, facing us. ‘You come today?’
I had a witty answer lined up, but did not use it. ‘Last night.’
‘You come alone?’
Again, I resisted my witty answer. ‘Yes, for a rest away from work. How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
I would have figured on older. ‘Still living with your parents?’
‘In university, Copenhagen.’
‘Denmark?’
‘It is next door, and we study English history in our course.’
‘And your favourite period of English history?’
‘Victorian,’ she said as I massaged her friend.
‘The great age of travel, and wondrous machines to travel in. Steam engines, steam boats, steel girder bridges by Brunel.’
‘You know history.’
‘I did “A” Level history.’ I did not tell them just where I was when I sat the exam.
‘Good massage,’ the taller girl approved. ‘Big strong hands.’
They exchanged a sentence in Swedish.
‘So you’ve not met any nice men here yet?’ I nudged.
‘All stupid little English boys. We don’t go around the pool now.’
In German, I said, ‘The great British export; stupid drunk young men.’
In German, she replied, ‘Here in Spain there are many such men.’
In Russian I added, ‘Not everyone is a prince like me.’
The taller girl responded in Russian, face down, ‘You are prince who helps us poor girls with a nice massage.’ In English she added, ‘My grandmother was Russian.’