Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  The first group of lads got wet that Friday, racing each other in canoes down the River Wye, techniques being worked on, bad backs being worked on afterwards, a group booked in for the Saturday afternoon, another group for the Sunday – the canoe centre was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays.

  I was back running, my back hardly twinging, but when it did hurt it was a shocker, enough to knock me off my feet. Ms Turner told me that I should take a few months out to rest, but that was not an option, and on occasion I used pain killers. Thankfully I was dating a physio, and my back got plenty of good care.

  On the Tuesday I welcomed our fit reporter, Max, and he looked the part, the opposite to Clifford, who was a fat slob. This new guy had his own combats and boots and changed into them, and I had Henri - plus a fit and well Sergeant Crab, take him through pistol work and the AKM. That evening he would be in a local hotel, but I resisted meeting him for a drink, because no matter what I said it would probably make it to the papers.

  On the Wednesday, Henri and Sergeant Crab took the man to Ross-on-Wye range, a great deal of ammo used up, and I joined them there later in the day, taking Max through moving and firing, and he was getting the hang of it, a natural. I told him to eat well, to get to bed early, and that I would pick him up at 7am.

  In the morning I drove him through the rain to Sennybridge, careful what I discussed with him, and at the range I issued him with a weapon, bandolier and webbing, facemask and gloves. He took in the range, took a few photographs, and photographed those staff members that were not only allowed to be photographed but very keen to be photographed with it.

  As per my request, the Sniper School had created a printed document outlining all of the stages, and Max put it in the control room with his camera when ready. He was soon lined up with two Paras and one Marine.

  I began, ‘Gentlemen, we have with us today a civilian, a reporter who wishes to attempt the test, so if you finish with a score less than him you’re in trouble.’ They glanced at Max, who smiled back. ‘The key to these three days is to conserve energy yet run at the required speed, to slow down and shoot straight when haste seems to be needed, and to ignore distractions and to concentrate on firing.

  ‘Those distractions will come in the form of rain, wind, simulated artillery, being cold, wet and hungry, tired, pissed off and very uncomfortable – as you would be in a war. The trick ... is to give priority to hitting the target, as you would in a war, not stopping to take a shit at a key moment, not stopping because you’re cold.

  ‘You’ll have sand and jelly stuffed down your pants to try and distract you, the artillery will distract you, the dogs will scare you, but the trick is keep focused on the targets, and to shoot straight. Pace yourselves, this is three days, focus without concentrating too hard - that saps energy and fucks with your eyes, and treat it as a game, points to be scored.

  ‘Max, front of the control room. Marine, left field, Paras right field. Go!’

  On the Saturday morning I was back, Max finishing up, and I soon had four dead bodies on their feet, faces muddied - and in some cases bloodied. Max got himself photographed with his own camera, yet could not muster a smile, his eyes half closed.

  The Sniper School staff checked the scores. ‘Cassington, Marines, you scored eighty nine, a very good score, well done. Trevors, Paras, you scored eighty one, pretty good, Dewson, Paras, you scored eight three, another good score. Any score above eighty is good, above ninety and you could work with Wilco here. Max, our reporter, you scored sixty-six, good considering you’re not a soldier, damn good that you finished at all.’

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked Max.

  ‘Like I won’t be volunteering for any of this shit again.’

  We laughed.

  ‘We photographed you day and night,’ the Sniper instructors told him, and handed over two reels of film. ‘If you have any questions, call us.’

  After cleaning him up I drove him back, he slept all the way, and I helped him claim his hotel room key – the hotel staff not at all impressed with the state he was in, and I waited as he took a shower. I handed him a tin of meat and a hot tea made in the room, and stood over him. When he eased into bed I let myself out.

  At 7pm he called me, and we met for a curry and drink with the RSM, Henri and Sergeant Crab, and Max was able to joke about it, now feeling much better, yet stiff all over, a modest black eye from falling over.

  The RSM recalled his time in Oman, none of it classified, and tales from the Gulf War, Max asking me about recent rescues, most of which was out there already, and we joked about Clifford’s swollen testicles.

  He grew tied early as I knew he would, and we put him in a taxi, returning to our table, and I picked Sergeant Crab’s brain on the Canadian NATO exercise. The training area was apparently near a town called Medicine Hat, Alberta.

  On the Monday I called Bob and mentioned the Marine with a good score, and he would check the man out. The teams had got plenty of canoe training in on the weekend, but complained of civvys getting in the way of races, and threatening to punch out a bunch of men giving them shit for ‘speeding’ on the river, and ‘canoeing without due care and attention’.

  That led to the Biblings owner not wanting us back. I called him. ‘Trevor?’

  ‘Yes?

  ‘Wilco, SAS.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Wilco, SAS. You’ve had some of my lads training in your Canadian style canoes, and disrupting your tranquil river I hear.’

  ‘They’re SAS? Well that figures. We don’t want them back.’

  ‘Well the thing is ... we have a job to train for, and we’ll be using Canadian style canoes, so we need the practise, and rescuing British hostages abroad is more important than upsetting a few boy scouts. We only need a few more days, and ... well, there are lives at risk, families that want the hostages back alive, kids missing their fathers.’

  I waited, trying not to smile.

  ‘Well, if it’s just a few more days, then we could turn a blind eye to it.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it, and I’ll tell them to behave, but they are trained to be aggressive you know.’

  I found Rizzo and Rocko and shouted, a dangerous finger pointed. There would be no more trouble on the tranquil River Wye, the Major threatening to doc their pay.

  But that was not an end to it, canoe practice cut short two days later, Jacque shouted at and given a sweeping brush, a parade ground to clean as people took the piss out of him. He had taken the phone number of the Biblings owner’s daughter, who turned out to be eighteen, and had shagged her senseless a few times, so much so that she did not want to go to university as planned but to marry Jacque, who had stopped taking her calls.

  Henri was senior and I had a go at him as well, told that when in Canada he would have to keep Jacque in check and not shagging the local ladies. ‘I want him killing people, not shagging young girls!’ was an odd statement to be heard in the interest room.

  The RSM then stepped in, The Sun newspaper to hand. He opened the centre spread on a table as we gathered around. “When the going gets tough, then tougher still,” the headline read. ‘It’s a good write up, and the Army Sniper School gets a good write up, their faces in there.’

  I could see a picture of Max taken at the start, he was smiling, another picture at the end, looking dead on his feet. The story detailed the various sections, as well as the sand and jelly, a focus on the simulated artillery. They had him knelt and shooting, and in various poses. The last paragraph detailed his score of sixty-six, and that a score above ninety was usual for the SAS.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I let out, a finger on the paragraph, a look exchanged with the Major.

  The Major said, ‘The Colonel has been busy, with the RSM here, and they have a twenty-four hour speed march with a shooting contest at the end. Everyone will have to do it, even captains. It’ll shake loose a few cobwebs, because everyone will know each other’s score.’

  I nodded. ‘When you first came to me in Brize Nort
on, you said my being here would cause people to compete with me.’

  ‘And it has,’ he agreed. ‘This should focus their minds.’

  I had met those regular troopers interested in going to Canada, most of them young and with no families to worry about, and they were training hard – two having been in Mali. The lad’s attitudes seemed OK, and they even suggested that they’d like a job or two to attend in the future – those that had not been in Mali.

  Late that night I took a call from Clifford the reporter. ‘My boss won’t pay for me to be there in Canada for three weeks, so I’ll attend the last four days.’

  ‘So ... no piss up on the paper’s expense account, eh?’

  ‘My boss don’t like me, you know that.’

  ‘I’ll get my people to send you the details, and you’ll need to apply to the Canadian military probably.’

  ‘I’ll sort it, and see you over there.’

  The following Monday the team were on an RAF Tristar bound for Canada, the plane full of young squaddies and their NCOs and officers, on their way to the same training ground, but for exercises more than competitions.

  I avoided the squaddies during the flight, I knew what they would be like, but waiting together at the other end a sergeant recognised me and said hello, saluting first. That led to me chatting to the young soldiers about their trades, their training and their aspirations, doing my officer bit. They wanted to take snaps, till I told them no and explained why.

  Coaches took us from the airport to the training ground, a long five hours through the night, which in Canadian terms was just a short trip. We had the top floor of a basic red brick barrack room that first night as the rain pelted the windows, room for us all and a few spare beds, and our kit arrived two hours later.

  With a few hours to go till the canteen would be open, and with it raining like hell outside, we used the concrete floor to cook rations, breaking a few rules. The only good thing about this location was the complete absence of women to distract the lads, which I loudly pointed out to Jacque.

  At 8am a Canadian NCO came and found us, and he explained where everything was, handing us our Joining Instructions. This was a part-time barracks to be used, but that we would move to tents in the proving ground soon. I left two lads to guard the kit, no locks on the doors nor metal cabinets to hand, and we strolled around to the canteen, finding it bustling with men from many nations.

  After patiently queuing up we finally got served, and myself and Moran had taken our captains pips off since we had no intention of walking all the way to the officers mess in the rain. The food was OK and we tucked in, two lads sent back to relieve our guards as we sat with mugs of tea chatting to American Green Berets who thought they knew it all – but who also admitted to respecting us Brits.

  At 2pm we were sent for, an induction given, our kit having been locked away in the metal crates, and we were presented with a schedule and with maps. It was odd because we ‘could’ enter teams of three to five men in certain competitions ‘if we wished’. The officer in charge, i.e. me, would fill in the forms with names and our unit and enter men into competitions, to range practice or range competition, and some competitions could be entered several times, scores improved.

  There was no knock-out system, and we would never be competing against each other, we’d be scoring points and tallying them.

  After sitting down with Moran, Rocko and Rizzo, we listed names for range practice, the remainder to go for a run or a speed march.

  By the third day we were settling in, but had accrued more range practice than most, we had certainly run more than most, and that third day we had submitted the form and entered our first eight men to the shooting contest, a simple twenty rounds fired at static targets at 300yards and 400yards.

  A Canadian officer then came and found me. ‘Captain Milton, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I told the major.

  ‘You’ve ... not been making use of the officers mess?’

  ‘I prefer to bunk with the men, sir, I always do.’

  ‘Oh, right, well ... there’s no war on, no need for that,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Is it allowed, sir?’

  ‘Allowed? Well, I guess so, just a bit odd. You’ve also been pushing them a bit hard.’

  ‘A bit hard?’ I asked with a smile. ‘Sir, this is Kindergarten for my men. They each have hundreds of confirmed kills, and attend live ops every month.’

  ‘Live ops?’

  ‘We’re a specialist rescue team, jobs all over the world, sometimes two a month, sir.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well ... if they don’t mind then, I guess that’s alright.’

  After he had gone, Moran and I exchanged looks.

  ‘Pushing them hard?’ I repeated.

  ‘Rest of the teams are doing as little as they need to,’ Moran noted.

  Two days later, and with all of our lads having fired on the range, we packed up and were transported to the proving ground, tents arranged for us, camp beds. We had brought sleeping bags, and more kit than would be usual for a rescue op, so we were comfy enough.

  With Moran in tow I strolled to the command tent, the large green tent suitably labelled as such, and asked to submit men to the timed route march.

  ‘Do you not want to acclimatize and train first, most do the march later on?’ a major asked me.

  ‘No, sir, we’d like to do it today. How many men can we put through it?’

  ‘Your best four normally.’

  ‘Can we put more men through it, sir, I don’t want them sitting around.’

  ‘You can if you wish I suppose. We’d use your best time.’

  Sitting at trestle tables, we entered five teams of four, myself and Moran included.

  I handed it in. ‘We’d like to repeat that day after tomorrow, sir, try and improve the times.’

  ‘That ... would be all of your men, doing it twice, and tired out.’

  ‘My men don’t get tired out, sir.’ I held my stare on him.

  ‘British SAS, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, if they do get tired you have time.’

  We thanked him and strolled back, a long line of green tents on the side of a road, a flat area of green-brown heather and moss leading off to gentle hills, some not so gentle hills to the northwest.

  With two lads watching our tents I led the team off for a run, being observed, and being looked at like we were crazy for not conserving energy. I noticed French uniforms, Italians, all sorts, even Turks.

  Back at our tent, Henri spotted familiar uniforms and a few familiar faces, and was soon loudly greeting his compatriots. Two came and found me later, they remembered me from various operations in Western Sahara – and recalled dead fighters covered in cement dust.

  The next day we lined up next to the umpires, the maps in plastic bags, our webbing and backpacks having been weighed – we were overweight but insisted on doing it anyhow, our fastest team at the front, slowest at the back, and we would be sent off at fifteen minute intervals.

  With a nod from the umpire I set off with Moran, Swifty and Mouri, and we set a good pace. It was a twenty mile course, all tracks and no obstacles, a few gentle hills, some steep hills, but nothing compared to the Brecon Beacons.

  Out of sight of the umpires I warned the lads and then broke into a steady jog, my back holding up. We ran for two miles, walked a mile, ran for two, but walked up the steep slopes, working up a sweat – umpires seen at several points. What had started as an overcast Canadian morning turned out to be a warm Canadian spring day, the contrast stark, sleeves rolled up, collars undone.

  With five miles to go, and no hills on the route, I asked the lads if they were all OK and then started to run, and at a fast pace. For the final mile we were sprinting, and the umpires looked at us like we were mad as we finished, bent-double and painting in the heat.

  ‘How was the time?’ I asked, breathing hard.

  ‘We’ll have to check with the umpires in case yo
u took a short-cut, it seems a bit fast.’

  I straightened, and squared up to the NCO. ‘Make a comment like that again, Sergeant, and I’ll put you in hospital, you little fuckwit. Just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but we have to check.’

  ‘Then check, don’t accuse, you little shit.’

  ‘Right, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  We stepped to one side, drinks taken, and waited for the other teams as I scowled at the NCO, our second team doing well. Tomo, Smitty, Travis and Jacque came sprinting in, covered in sweat, soon bent-double past the finish line.

  The fourth team were the SAS regulars, the final team made up of Rocko and Rizzo, Stretch and Henri. And they came in just five minutes after the regular SAS lads, meaning that they had gained ground.

  Ignoring the umpires, I led them all away, kit down, washes taken, legs rested.

  After ‘chow’, as most of the men here called it, we had a visit from the same Canadian major. We stood, I saluted.

  He saluted back as he stood just outside our tent. ‘Had a complaint from one of the umpires...’

  ‘The NCO who accused me, a captain, of cheating?’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that, but they have a job to do, and they have to check.’

  I nodded. ‘How were our times, sir?’

  ‘Some of the best for that course. And yet again you seem to be pushing your men ... hard.’

  I faced Smitty. ‘Feeling that you’re being pushed, Smitty? Worked too hard?’

  ‘What here? No, Boss, bunch of fucking pussies this lot.’

  I faced the major. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean you, personally, sir.’ He nodded. ‘And our shooting scores, sir?’

  ‘Again, very good, you’re in the lead by far.’

  ‘That’s what we came here for, sir, to compete and push ourselves, tired to bed each night, because as soon as these lads get home they’ll be off to a conflict zone.’

  ‘Right, yes, well ... good show so far.’