by Geoff Wolak
Back at my room, kit down, I sighed and said, ‘This is nowhere near as nice as that hotel,’ and I knocked the kettle on, soon stood with tea mug in hand staring out the window.
The next morning I was photographed by the RAF magazine, the Air Commodore handing me a certificate, a great deal of fuss made, the base commander congratulating me. As the Air Commodore had said, he was milking it for all he could. Apparently, such things were good for recruitment.
I was soon back on the gate, but without a rifle, checking IDs, greeting a few people I knew, and I even started night patrols with the MPs. With a corporal driving, we checked that various doors and windows were closed, torches shone at windows.
He was frosty from the start, but on a tea break in the guardroom he asked about the swimming and the marathons, and as we drove around the perimeter track I explained about the Corrective Facility.
Parked up near a Tristar, he said, ‘I was six months in, night duty, bunch of drunks to deal with at RAF St. Athan, Wales. One hit me from behind, I went down, they kicked me. Took me six months to get back to full fitness, and none of them were binned, just fines and shit jobs.’
I nodded. ‘In Catterick, first week in, they played practical jokes on me, overalls covered in oil. But then the CO said I had to pay for them, like £300. So I said I’d start legal action, and he had the two men responsible pay.’
‘Their fucking fault.’
‘Yeah, but after that they made life hard, always wanting to trip me up. And after the second marathon an officer got arrested for confining me to the guardroom indefinitely, so they sent me here, bad boy not allowed in a squadron.’
‘They can’t confine you like that, need to call us, due process. His fault, but you get the shit. And that stupid Irish cunt you shot at. If that had been me firing at him, I’m sure I would have been binned.’
‘I was tempting fate.’
‘Huh?’
‘Half the time I want them to kick me out, I don’t give a stuff about this place. I do the driving, that’s OK, the sports, but the only time I feel good is when I’m with the aero-meds in some place like Kenya. Then I feel that I’m doing something useful.’
‘Thought about the SAS?’
‘Sure, but it’s full of idiots measuring their dicks, even more than here. How long till I clobber one?’
‘Mate of mine is in, two years now, he likes it, but yeah – lots of shite from the “seniors” as he calls them. If someone takes a dislike to you they fuck with your kit, and you’re out.’
I nodded. ‘My parent’s next door neighbour is a captain in Hereford, and he was stressed to fuck, some men screwing with his kit to fuck him over.’
‘They don’t respect officers, that lot.’
‘I’d last a week. But what I did read about was being a medic in the jungle, following TV crews around or working in remote mines. I’m qualified, I could do that.’
‘Qualified?’
‘As a medic, I’ve done all the courses. Read a hundred books as well. In Kenya I was cleaning out wounds and stitching.’
The next day I found that my car, parked away from my block, had been damaged. No one had seen anything. I paid for new lights, but a week later it happened again, both times on a Thursday night.
The following Thursday I was on night patrol, but had explained about my car, and so was stood in the shadows for hours. After midnight a man walked past, RAF blue coat on, glanced around and headed towards my car. I ran bent double behind other cars and up behind him, waiting for him to kick my lights in. And he did.
I sprinted at him, and as he turned I knocked him down, a nose demolished. A kick to the balls, a stamp on his wrist, a stamp on his knee, and I ran off.
I was back five minutes later in a jeep with an MP corporal. The corporal stepped down. ‘What we got here, drunk and disorderly?’
‘Someone ... attacked ... me.’
‘Did you damage that vehicle, because we had a call from a block, saw a man here damaging a vehicle. And Wilco, he was with me the whole time, so it wasn’t him who hit you.’ We lifted the man, and I still didn’t recognise him. ‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of criminal damage.’
In the MP depot, I saw in then man in bright light, and he looked familiar, but he was not someone I knew or had a run in with. ‘Why’d you damage my car?’ I shouted as the man held a tissue to his bloodied face.
He lifted his head. ‘Cause you’re a fucking smartarse’.
The corporal said, ‘So noted, you confess to criminal damage. And I suspect that you’ll get a good kick in the teeth each and every week from now on. Now, who were you fighting with?’
‘No one, I was attacked.’
‘We had a report of men fighting...’
‘I didn’t see him.’
Later, on patrol, I said, ‘Just one more arsehole mad at me because of the marathons and the swimming.’
‘Always the case. In school I won a foot race, and the kid in second place punched me, broke my nose.’
‘I think that kid joined 51 Squadron, Catterick. He sounds familiar.’
As the weather turned cold I turned to boxing, Trevors pushing me on. He gave me exercises, and I was at it two hours a night at least. I was also hitting the heavier weights, keen to bulk up more, despite Trevors warning against that. He wanted fast muscle, I wanted to look like the SBS guys I had met.
I then heard about the quiz night in a posh pub that the ATC officers sometimes attended, a Thursday night. I sent my spy, Hamster, in to have a look, money handed over for some beers. He managed to stay awake long enough to recognise the officers.
The following week, after a hard week’s boxing training, I was driving the Air Commodore back to base, both of us in civvies. I checked my watch. ‘How about some food, sir, just the two of us.’
‘Sounds good, wife is at her sisters.’
‘I heard about this place, posh pub, we can try that, not far.’ I diverted there, not far from the base, but hidden.
Inside, we grabbed a table at 6pm, a meal enjoyed. I then suggested we try the pub’s quiz night for a laugh, since the sign said we’d win a bottle of the Air Commodore’s favourite wine. Two pounds paid for a form, and we sat, suddenly noticing the ATC gang. I led the Air Commodore over.
‘Wilco, not seen you here before,’ the Squadron Leader noted, Trish sat looking startled to see me.
‘Just had a meal with the Air Commodore -’
They stood.
‘Sit, sir,’ the Air Commodore insisted, and we grabbed the next table.
I told them, ‘His wife is away, so this is a lad’s wild night out.’
‘Ha!’ the Air Commodore choked out. ‘Quiet meal and bed for me.’
I took a pen out from my jacket and placed it on the form.
‘You doing the quiz?’ they asked.
‘Wilco is smarter than us all combined,’ the Air Commodore put in. ‘He digests encyclopaedias.’
I said, ‘When I’m sat waiting for the boss I read. I have my own imprint in a bench in the MOD building.’
‘He hasn’t shot anyone this week, so we’re having a quiet week.’ The Air Commodore then detailed the black BMW incident, soon the woman stabbed. ‘Never seen a tube stuck into a woman’s chest on the roadside before!’
‘I heard you were a medic,’ the Squadron Leader noted as the quiz started.
‘I’ve passed a number of courses with the RAF aero-meds in Lyneham.’
‘Got a medal in Kenya for rescuing a soldier, carried him six miles through the bush on his back,’ the Air Commodore put in.
First question, chemical symbol for sodium. I wrote it down.
The Air Commodore pointed at my sheet. ‘Fourteen “O” Levels and four “A” Levels.’
‘Christ, why did not apply for a commission?’ they asked.
‘I did, and passed, but there was a two year delay, so I came in as an enlisted man.’
‘And fell in with bad company,’ the Air Commodore put in.<
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Second question, deepest lake. I wrote it down quickly.
‘And ... prison?’ an officer asked.
‘Prison?’ the Air Commodore scoffed. ‘They realised it was a cock-up when he got there, put him in his own room with the staff and he spent the time training for the marathon. He was cleared and compensated.’
Third question, acetic acid is more commonly known as. Vinegar.
Fourth question, 1-5-10-10-5-1, would be part of what theorem. Binomial I wrote down before the question had finished, and sipped my beer.
‘No one likes a smartarse,’ the Squadron Leader told me.
‘You have no chance, and I want that wine,’ the Air Commodore told them.
Normal percentage of oxygen in air. I wrote it down.
One bar of pressure would be how deep, in metres. 10metres.
Petrol freezes at what temperature.
I stood. ‘That’s a bad question,’ I shouted. ‘It has a range of temperatures based on exact chemical make-up, which varies from country to country.’
I sat.
‘OK ... we’ll skip that one. Next question. Russian dolls, one within the other...’
I wrote it down, in Russian.
The Squadron Leader lifted my paper. ‘I think he may have a hard time understanding that.’
In Russian, I said, ‘That’s his problem.’
‘Smartase,’ Trish said, in Russian.
‘You wound me, my lady,’ I responded in Russian.
‘OK, cut that out,’ the Squadron Leader cut in. ‘Write it down in English.’
I did so, the Air Commodore laughing. ‘He speaks Russian, Arabic and German.’
Next question, chemical formula for Ozone. I wrote down, O3, but also the full chemical name.
Next question, what year did Napoleon arrive on Elba? April, 11,1814.
As the Air Commodore chatted to the Squadron Leader about old Vulcan squadrons, I filled up my sheet. I showed Trish, she showed me hers, a few blanks seen. I claimed the bottle for the Air Commodore, who was very pleased.
The Squadron Leader said, ‘Please, sir, keep him out of here or we’ll never win anything. We usually do well.’
I drove the Air Commodore home, chatting about the old Vulcan bomber squadrons.
Back at base, getting back at 11pm, I was happy that Trish had seen my good side. But would I ever ask her out? No, I sighed, not least because it was a court martial offence for her. I would have to be in love from a distance, but I patted my big yellow quiz book with a grin, the same book the quiz master had used.
Finding a club in Swindon on a Saturday, a boxing club, I asked a former pro boxer for some advice on weight training.
‘You push heavy weight, you get big and slow. You push lights weights to stay fast, but you don’t get big muscles. Heavyweight boxers have big heavy arms, but that don’t mean they can fight well. Most welterweight boxers will take down a heavyweight.
‘If you’re worried about weight training, always do three sets of thirty, no less. If you do a set of ten and you’re knackered, it’s too heavy.’
I nodded, since it was what I already knew.
‘What’s your sport?’ he asked.
‘I was a marathon champion years back, put on weight now.’
‘So you got the stamina. If you’re going to box, stamina is good because when you get tired your arms come down and you make mistakes. Run on the spot with your arms out straight, small weight, arms bouncing up and down. That’ll tell you how long you’ll last in the ring when you’re fucking tired.’
Back at base, I did just that, and with 5k weights in each hand I ran on the spot for half an hour no problem. But I worried about getting hit, a broken nose, brain damage. For now I would train, no particular plans to ever box in the ring.
The exercises Trevors had given me meant wedging my legs in a sit-up machine, leaning back to 45degrees, 10kg weight in both hands and shadow boxing upwards – till it hurt. I was now doing that twenty minutes a day, twice over at least.
A second exercise was to be in the same position, same weights in hand, but to slowly let my arms fall back, then to bring them forwards quickly. That I also practised every day, my chest muscles hurting. I would often say to the lads, ‘My tits are hurting again.’
As the weather turned shitty and cold I was indoors more than outside, and I had stuck to the three sets of thirty rule I had been given, but I was putting on weight. I went back to the boxing gym and asked the same guy about diet.
‘Chicken, no sauce, dry white chicken, protein and less carbs, some rice, tuna is good, forget the green vegetable shit.’
I wrote it down.
‘Now while you’re here, take your top off and hit the bag.’
I hesitated, people observing, but took my top off.
‘Holy ... shit. And you never boxed before?’
‘No, but I keep fit.’
Gloves on, bag mitts, I hit the bag fast for ten minutes, till he told me to stop.
‘How long could you do that for?’
‘All day long, I don’t tire.’
He waved over a big black guy, face-pad fitted to him, gloves on. I put on regular boxing gloves after my wrists were taped. ‘Now try and knock his head clean off his shoulders.’
A small crowd had gathered. I squared up the big black boxer, a few inches taller than me and a few stone heavier, and went for a duck right, slide left and a monster left hook.
They had to help the guy back up, and he took his face-pad off, shaking his head, his eyes wide.
‘God damn,’ my host let out. ‘Look fella, you wanna train here it’s free, and I’ll get you on some amateur cards, no purse, but you can show what you can do.’
‘Who’d da fuck dis chump?’ the big black guy protested.
‘Leroy, sit down, take it easy for fuck’s sake.’ The man was led away.
‘The fitness instructors want me to try for the RAF amateur boxing contests.’
‘Can do both, son, ain’t no law says otherwise. If you’re on the card and you pass the medical, right catch weight, you’re in the ring.’
I made a face, taking off the gloves. ‘OK, I’ll give it a go a few days a week.’
Two days later I was back, and I changed into my gym kit, boxing shorts provided by Trevors, boxing boots on. I now looked the part. My coach was an ex-boxer called Slug, and he held up two punch mitts.
‘Right, aim at the mitt with the correct arm, left hand hits my left mitt. When I hold it down, uppercut, and when I try and swipe you on the top of the head duck. Elbows in, chin on your chest, knees bent, legs loose.’
I started to hit the mitts, easy enough, but he caught me on the top of the head often.
‘You’re bending your knees, but bend at the stomach as well.’
I tried that, getting better.
‘Faster,’ he encouraged, and we kept going for ten minutes. ‘You tired?’
‘Nope.’
‘Fit bastard.’
‘I ran marathons, swam the English Channel and broke the record.’
He nodded. ‘Fit bastard.’
We moved onto bag work, and he corrected my stance a few times, otherwise pleased with how I moved, and finally I entered the ring, a new sparring partner, both of us in headgear.
‘This is Rick, he’s light and fast and will duck and weave, so try and hit him. Ready ... start.’
I moved in, threw a jab which grazed off his head, rushed in with a second jab, another graze, a right hitting his glove before his head, and he was on the ropes, a heavy right startling him, a monster left taking him down.
‘Stop!’ Slug moved in, checking my opponent was OK. He faced me. ‘Aim is to box him, not to fucking kill him. You got some anger to work out?’
‘Supposed to finish the fight quick -’
‘Says who? Try again, slow and steady, box him - don’t kill him.’
We started again, and I took it easy, my opponent now moving around and throwing a few punches, n
one hurting me.
After ten minutes Slug called a break. ‘Your legs are a bit stiff, but your upper body moves fast, and you duck and weave well, good reach, fast with it, and you saw the opportunities and took them, good defensive work when he came in – like you been doing this for years.’
‘Did King Fu, hit a bag a lot.’
‘OK, take it up a notch, a bit faster, try and hit each other.’
I faced my opponent and nodded, and with Slug as referee, a dozen people now observing us, we started again. I landed a few good punches, but had a bad habit of chasing after him, a few hits on my gloves impacting my head, and the lad had a habit of trying to come between my gloves, a tactic I soon caught on, landing a good hit that wobbled him.
‘OK, Wilco, headgear off. Rick, try and take his head off his shoulders.’
I was worried, not least about a broken nose.
Rick moved in, a little more aggressive now, but I kept him at bay with long jabs, starting to get an understanding for tactics here. I knew how he would react after his own jabs, and I went for a combination, a big left hook taking him down.
He got straight back up and shook it off, but three minutes later he was down again – and complaining.
The club owner came into the ring. Slug told him, ‘Stick him on the fucking card, he’s better than all our second cards and half the fucking first cards.’
Forms filled in, medical attended a few days later, and the following Saturday Trevors and a few other PTIs came with me down to Swindon, my first amateur bout. Therein started a row, since once changed - and at the weigh-in - my opponent’s team cried foul, to the point of shoving.
My ID was checked, and Trevors assured them that I was not a pro, and explained the marathon running and the Channel. Peace reclaimed the arena. The ref checked my bullet wound scars, I explained them, and he allowed the fight.
Into the ring, the audience were puzzled, because the guy I was up against had little definition, and I stood out as more defined that a pro boxer. Headgear on, groin protector in place, gloves checked by the ref, and we touched gloves, my opponent looking terrified. He was taller than me, but not fit by the look of him.
Ding!
I was nervous, because I could not see what he saw. We danced around each other for a few seconds, then I slid right, gloves down, face exposed – he went for it as I moved left, left foot down hard, twist, big left hook around, side of the head, and he went down. And stayed down.