Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 6

  Copyright © Geoff Wolak

  Started January, 2014

  This book is historically very accurate in places, technically correct for the most part, yet it is fiction, really fiction, definitely fiction, and any similarity to real people or real events – although accidental - is probably intentional. Some characters in this book may be based on some of the wankers I have either worked with or unfortunately met over the years.

  www.geoffwolak-writing.com

  Rabbit stew

  Since arriving back from the Congo, The Lone Wolves had been running in the mornings and studying in the afternoons and evenings, this week’s topic being intensive first aid, including stitching. But those lads that lacked the fitness were required to run at night as well, a few laps in gym kit on a daily basis.

  And on a daily basis they would be presented with a sedated pig to work on, a cut made by our visiting doctor – blood flowing, and they were required to stitch up the wound as delicately as if it were a human now being worked on. By time they finished, the poor pigs looked like Frankenstein’s monster, to then be slaughtered on the Friday afternoon and cooked in a mass barbeque in the hangar – oversight given by a local butcher.

  By time we had finished cutting we all knew where to find the various parts; rump, loin, ribs, ham, bacon, shoulder, as well as tenderloin, Boston butt - and a few other parts never heard of before and that we would probably never use again.

  During the week the lads had all extracted blood from fellow Wolves, a few harsh words from those having the blood extracted, and they had also injected themselves with saline like junkies on a fix. Each lad had splinted his own leg and then tried to walk on that leg, and they had struggled to splint their own arms by themselves, followed by trying to clean weapons whilst splinted – with varying degrees of success witnessed.

  But since they had been back the spirit of the men had improved. There had been no particular issues before, but now they moved and spoke more like my lot in Echo.

  As the barbeque wound down, men heading off to the pub, Mally drove in, the first time I had seen him since we left for the Congo. I led him to one side outside the hangar, the smell of cooked bacon lingering. ‘You ... caught up with Stan ... I would guess.’

  ‘Not that I’d admit to. Am I being investigated?’

  ‘Hope not, and I did ask Bob not to.’

  He made a face, shrugged and looked past me. And waited.

  ‘Hard, isn’t it, when a friend betrays you...’

  ‘Am I ... still allowed in here?’

  ‘Yes, I see no issues.’

  ‘Not worried about the police turning up then?’

  ‘They’d be coming for me long before you, you’re small fry.’

  ‘So we can use the Portakabin and train?’

  ‘You can. So go have a pint, and relax.’

  My phone trilled, the RSM.

  ‘I was meaning to ring you,’ I told him as Mally headed off. ‘How’d it go last week?’

  ‘We had two sets of TA in on the weekend, ranges used, Killing House. They jogged around the track and had training on jeeps and lorries, so we got a fair bit done. And “B” Squadron were down on two days, pistol range and killing house, and they like the place. Had one good day of weather, got some HALO in from your Skyvan. It’s fair to say that the Colonel likes the idea of the TA using your place.’

  ‘You lot never did like them on the base.’

  ‘They weren’t on the base that often, but you’re not wrong. Still, some of the previous colonels insisted that if a man wanted rank he’d spend some time with the TA – I did myself.’

  ‘Listen, next week is Catterick.’

  ‘Yes, all set, got some TA lads in as well. Did you know, we had another bunch of Deltas at the factory, that’s the fourth lot. And the Germans are on their way apparently, French after them.’

  ‘It all helps. Maybe in future they’ll police the world and we get a day off.’

  Later, in the pub, Sasha and his team were sat practising rude songs normally heard in a Russian barracks after a few vodkas, but the retired Vulcan bomber pilot had chosen this day to wander in – with his new young Ukrainian bride. He was one of a few Cold War RAF pilots to have studied Russian, and he had gone on to intercept Russian communications after a flying career had ended. He was a bit stunned to say the least, his bride understanding the words as well.

  When the pub landlord came over to me, he delicately reported the problem – wondering who the Russians were. I told the landlord that Russia had joined NATO, and he went off scratching his head, leaving me smirking as I got up.

  I sat with the old pilot and his new young bride, the lady fresh from the catalogue. ‘Problems, sir?’

  His face soured. ‘You have Russian soldiers in here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive, I know Russian, and those songs. So does my ... lady here.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain they’re Russian, sir?’

  The lady nodded, and he was adamant.

  ‘Then I’m glad to hear it, because they’re Army Intel agents training with me, and for their next job they have to pretend to be Russian.’

  ‘Really? Gosh,’ the old boy let out.

  ‘Why don’t you go chat, and help them with their Russian.’

  And he did. I also bought him a bottle of wine to stop him whinging.

  Mally chatted to Rocko and Rizzo, and I sat with Henri, close to Swifty and Bongo. ‘So, Henri, was there ... anything between you and Sandra?’

  ‘No,’ he said with a shrug. ‘She was ... with another.’

  ‘Who?’ I puzzled.

  ‘I cannot say,’ he said with a smile.

  I took in the faces, wondering who it could be, and it had happened right under my nose. Some spy I was.

  Many of the Wolves were in tonight, and not heading off home, not that many had professed to having a happy home, nor anyone to go see; they had been selected for just that fact. Here they had the camaraderie, and here they felt welcome.

  On Monday we said goodbye to Moran for a week, a week at Greenwich, a course on how to be a good captain; the topic was inter-service cooperation. And, if he wanted to make major someday, he would need to get some courses in and not just shoot people.

  The Wolves had been told to have breakfast at 7.30am, not too big, and to be ready for 9am, a pair of trainers in webbing, as well as plasters. They lined up outside the hangar in full kit and with heavy old SLRs issued, Crab having placed down a table with a clipboard on, twenty names listed.

  With Swifty and the Major at my side, I began, ‘Gentlemen, if you find yourself in a war you need to keep going and going - sleep is a luxury. If the enemy is after you, dogs and men and helicopters, you may have a great distance to cover to get to safety. You, gentlemen, now have sixty miles to cover to get to safety.’

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘You will run a lap clockwise at a steady pace, you will then walk a lap at a steady pace, and each time you pass here you will give your name to whoever is sat here. If he’s in the bog, wait. You have two bottles of water, you can ask for more, you can take a piss at the top end any time you like. You can also nibble at your rations – don’t stop to cook them.

  ‘This is not a race, this is experience, and we hope that you gain the knowledge of what it feels like to push yourself. You are all capable of doing this, you just don’t believe you are. If you can’t run any more, walk, and if you can’t walk anymore just say so here at the desk.

  ‘Now, when I point at you, you make a start, and don’t sprint – this is not a race. Pace yourselves.’ I pointed at the first two, and they jogged off, and I sent off
ten pairs, my lot looking resolute and keen.

  With the last pair gone, the first pair already most of the way around, I faced Swifty. ‘Get some rest around 6pm, and late tonight walk with them for a while. Chat to them, encourage them, walk and chat. I’ll take over at 5am.’

  He nodded.

  ‘First endurance test,’ the Major noted. ‘And more to come. Sixty miles, a good distance. Our selection is forty miles, but that’s up and down hills and with a heavy pack.’

  ‘These guys will get to that standard,’ I suggested. ‘Some are already there.’

  I sat with the Major and tackled paperwork, many of the lads taking a two-day break I had promised them after returning. They just wanted the break when the weather was better.

  Before the Major left for the day, our two Mi8 pilots turned up in the RAF uniforms.

  ‘Welcome to GL4,’ I offered them, and sat them in with the Major, tea made. They were both slim and fit looking, in the late thirties and greying. ‘So, any career changes, gentlemen?’

  ‘The top brass contacted us, which pissed off our CO even more, if indeed that was possible. I have my papers in, and we were both on short time. We discussed it, and decided to chat to you before we left.’

  I faced the Major. ‘Bob will get us another Skyvan, and what I’m thinking ... is that it’s used for all sorts of inserts, not just HALO. It could also take us up to Catterick, down to Southern France, our own ride.’

  ‘Would save pissing about with the RAF,’ the Major noted.

  ‘But I would want these two trained up,’ I told the Major. ‘If we set down or crash in a place like the Congo, they become soldiers.’

  ‘We’re not young lads anymore,’ they complained.

  ‘You don’t need to be, just need a good attitude, and ... a willingness to shoot people,’ I told them. ‘I don’t expect you go on the attack, but to defend yourselves.’

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘Defending ourselves is always a good idea over a damp dungeon someplace.’

  ‘Definitely,’ the Major agreed. ‘Red hot pokers are no fun.’

  ‘So how would it work?’ a pilot asked.

  ‘Straight transfer, same pay and rights and pension,’ I began. ‘Where are you living?’

  ‘Both of us have houses kindof half way between Lyneham and Brize Norton.’

  ‘Hedging your bets, eh?’ the Major asked with a smile.

  The first pilot began, ‘Just a fluke. I started in Lyneham and he started in Brize, then we kindof swapped, then swapped back again. Both been behind a desk for almost two years, but we both flew a Skyvan for a civvy parachute club – not yours, and an Islander aircraft.’

  ‘So you can drive here,’ I said. ‘And if the little lady kicks you out, you can live here.’

  ‘Mine’s gone. Just me and the dog.’

  ‘Mine’s unwell, not expected to make it.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ the Major offered.

  ‘You don’t want to be with her at the end?’ I pressed.

  ‘No, she ... doesn’t want me around, moved in with her mother and sister on the south coast.’

  ‘So you’re both in need of a distraction,’ I said. ‘If you’re keen to give this a go then you accept a twelve month transfer to us, but you can quit any time you like. Hours are flexible, in that a lot of the time you’d be sat doing nothing or sent home, rest of the time all out madness and not much sleep.’

  ‘Same as it was back flying; all or nothing.’

  ‘Sort your heads out, sort out the paperwork, then come see me,’ I told them. ‘More jobs like the Congo will come up. And until you sign on we don’t get the second Skyvan, so get a move on please.’

  During the day I observed the Wolves halting at the table, names given, and I walked with some, chatting as we went. Swifty took over at 8pm, and he walked with many different groups of two or three, chatting as they progressed around the perimeter track.

  Henri would assist from 10pm to 2am, Duffy on from 7pm to 7am, our broken arm guy helping out, Batman and Robin also sat taking names.

  I was up at 5am, a cup of tea, and I was soon on the track, a whole ten yards to go till I reached the first group, soon walking and chatting. They were tired, cold now, and hurting a bit, a few knees sore, arms sore from carrying the heavy SLRs, a few admitting to sticking the magazine in their belts and resting arms.

  My four had worked as a team, and were on their last lap, something to prove, a time to set. Sasha’s four were not as fit, but they held in there, Sasha having walked or run with them some of the time. Their faces were strained, but they were still in the race.

  Swan and Leggit had tried to keep pace with my four, and had two laps to go. I walked with them for a while, and wished them well.

  Sat with cold-nosed Duffy, I relieved him and sent him off to bed. Batman joined me, and we chatted about the Congo operation for an hour as we ticked names.

  One lad came in limping. ‘I’m willing to go on, sir, but me fucking foot ain’t.’

  I sat him down, boot off, and as he took his sock off he took a layer of skin with it. ‘Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is, take a few days to get new skin.’

  Batman got his first aid kit out, cream applied, foot taped up, and he drove the lad the very short distance to the barracks, bringing back the lad’s rifle.

  With Batman back, I checked the lad’s laps and his time. He had completed forty-four miles, not a bad show, and his time was average.

  As the sun came up, one of Sasha’s lads came in with him, limping.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t know, sir, just that the leg won’t take any weight and I get shooting pains up and down it.’

  ‘Trapped nerve, that happens. A few hours and it’ll go, don’t worry. Sasha, take him back.’

  That was two down, a third with a swollen knee at the fifty mile mark.

  At 9am we were down to just four lads remaining, and they were struggling, emotionally as well as physically. I walked with two of them, chatting away, and gave some of the detail of Bosnia. They were still at it at 9.45am, and they limped around their final lap like zombies, having given up running many laps ago. They had been at it for twenty four hours straight, and now had a day off.

  At 5pm I popped in to see the sore and worn out Wolves, many lying down and displaying sore feet, the rest in trainers. I handed out medical alcohol, tape and plasters.

  ‘OK, listen up.’ They gathered around, or simply faced my way, too damn sore to move. ‘Those that didn’t finish, don’t worry, you get another go, and we all get blisters or sprains. Having an injury does not make you a bad soldier, because if it did I would have been kicked out long ago.

  ‘Take it easy tonight, study something, read a book, eat well. Those with problems tomorrow, let us know, but tomorrow is study, so you can rest your poor aching bodies. But take note: being a Lone Wolf means long distance walking and running, longer than you tackled today.

  ‘If you have skin missing, use the alcohol and then leave socks off to dry feet. If you get a lot of blisters, swap the boots maybe.’

  I saw many of them around the canteen later, a few subdued, many still appearing very tired.

  ‘Any stars?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Our lads set a good pace, Swan and Leggit set a good pace, Sasha’s lads – the civvys, did OK, but they did what I asked and paced themselves rather than racing – so hard to know who would have stood out. And we need brains as well as fitness, and the next few tests will show us that.’

  In the morning they looked better, faces recovered, and at 9am they assembled in the briefing room, and in the pairs they sat over maps and photos, compasses to hand, paper and pens.

  I gave a half-hour lecture on how to plan a route, and then gave them a route to plan, fifteen minutes to plan it. When the time was up I gave them my preferred route, and why, and we discussed it at length.

  After a cup of tea, they had a more complex route to plan, half
an hour to complete it in their pairs, and when ready they showed me their routes and I pointed out problems. Sasha’s team were good at this, they were thinkers, my lads good at it but not perfect, a few of the other lads great at it, some struggling.

  After an hour’s lunch break they were back, and I went over the route planning; time of year, swollen rivers, cattle in fields, houses and dogs, steep slopes, prevailing wind directions, marsh land.

  ‘What’s important ... in a route?’ I posed. ‘Not getting caught and shot dead is pretty fucking important, yes? Getting wet in winter is life threatening, yes, but less so than a bullet. Dogs can follow you over certain terrain, dogs hate marshes.

  ‘Camp on the windward side of a ridge and be extra cold and wet, and at certain times rivers are swollen – and you’ll die if you try and cross them. Moving through a forest gives you cover, but sets you up to get ambushed. So – think, your lives may depend on it soon.’

  The next scenario was complex, forty-five minutes given, but they were starting to think. After a meal at 5pm, Captain Harris and some of his team joined in. He issued maps and gave a scenario, the first leg to be worked out. He then pretended to issue a radio update, a warning of enemy soldiers at a grid reference. The next leg had to be planned with that new intel in mind.

  Having written down the route, many lads got shouted at. ‘That route is five hundred yards away from a sentry post – on flat fucking land, in daylight, knobhead. They would shoot you! Do it again.’

  Having worked out a better route, a radio update was given. Most planned a new route, but the answer was to run like fuck the opposite way, Captain Harris shouting at them.

  They were sent off at 10pm, to be back at 9am, an entire day with SIGINT. And they would be tortured. I popped in at various times.

  At one point, in a mock radio message, Tomo said to Captain Harris, ‘You want me to go down that valley, you come the fuck out here and hold my hand. Sir.’

  It made me smile. But Tomo was right, the valley was a death trap, Captain Harris seeing who was dumb enough to try it – and a few would have tried it.