by Geoff Wolak
I stood. ‘Sir.’
The Major waited.
The warrant officer said, ‘Honour to meet you, saw you box.’
‘How did you know he was here?’ the Major asked, none too happy.
I faced the Major. ‘His lads have been using our bogs, theirs are broken, and one was ... a bit drunk.’
‘You didn’t hospitalise him, did you?’ the C.O. asked, now worried.
‘No, sir, his staff sergeant got there in the nick of time.’
The W.O. faced the major. ‘I’ll deal with it, sir, they have been warned, and they know about the boxing. There’ll be no trouble, I hope, because I want my men safe and unharmed.’
‘And your bogs?’ the C.O. asked.
‘They keep promising to fix it,’ the W.O. said with a sigh. He faced me. ‘I’m in hut twenty, if you’d like to talk boxing and have a wee dram.’
‘I’ll pop by, after checking with my C.O. Thank you, sir.’
He headed off, the Major concerned. ‘Your notoriety is a pain sometimes.’
‘Now there’s an understatement, sir. Still, if I can charm him and his lads they’ll help and assist us.’
‘Well, that would be a first, one of ours acting like a diplomatic envoy. Give it a go, but please ... don’t put twenty lads in hospital.’
‘I’ll try very hard, sir.’
Shaking his head, the Major sloped off.
Captain Marks said, ‘Would you have hit the man?’
‘I would not have taken any crap, and when I’m half naked in the toilets I don’t expect any crap, sir. If we can’t relax in here, just where we can relax?’
He nodded. ‘A good point.’
The following evening, a Friday, I took Mickey, who was Scottish, down to hut twenty, and found a small party in progress. They welcomed us like long lost sons, beer flowing, and Mickey knew one of the guys from school. I recanted what funny stories I could remember from Riyadh and had them in hysterics. Crawling out around midnight, I told them we had to be up early, and I just about carried Mickey back and put him to bed.
Needing a cup of tea and some cold water to counteract the alcohol before I slept, I headed down to the Intel Section, four people still on duty, including the nice lady captain. I made myself a tea, and one for her. When I sighed, she asked what I had been up to, and I explained.
I sat reading intel reports for a while, suddenly shocked upright by a burst of automatic fire, an alarm sounding as I sprinted down the corridor looking out of the windows. I saw two men on the ground. I was two steps away from my room and rushed in, grabbing my first aid kit.
‘Stand to! Incoming!’ I shouted as I left.
I bound down the stairs, other footsteps echoing, and sprinted across wet tarmac towards the men. At least it had stopped raining. Skidding to a halt, I shoved two officers out of the way.
‘I’m a medic, get the fuck out the way!’
They didn’t argue, and I had a rubber tourniquet on a leg in seconds, a second on an upper arm as the two young lads screamed and groaned, the area lit by tall street lamps outside the wire. Using my scissors, I cut the trouser leg of the first man and tore it open, lifting the leg and now seeing a large hole. I stuffed the hole tightly, getting an even louder scream, and used a tampon on the smaller hole, shoving it in, quickly binding the leg tightly as men ran about, boots echoing.
‘Watch him!’ I shouted at the two officers, and moved across to the arm injury, cutting the man’s jacket, his jumper and then his shirt. His bicep was hit, the bone shattered. With people starting to arrive I used white pads front and back and then a dressing wrapped around tightly, my knees soaking wet and cold. And now sore.
When the medics arrived with a stretcher I told them that the priority was the leg wound, and they took him first, a helicopter starting its engine; there were no doctors here. With an army medic kneeling, I noticed his large bag of tricks.
‘Got a splint?’
He had, and I splinted the arm with a leg splint, with his help, a second stretcher arriving, many keen hands. I released the rubber tourniquet since I figured the helicopter ride to be more than fifteen minutes, and because I had bound the bicep well.
I followed the lad to the helicopter, where I moved a man aside and released the leg band, testing the bleeding. I was happy enough, and ran off bent double.
At the main entrance I found the two officers I had shouted at, and the major and the SSM, Captain Marks, many soldiers running around with rifles.
‘Well?’ the Major asked me.
‘They should both make it, sir, but the one lad will lose that arm I think.’
‘Pity.’ He faced the captains. ‘One of yours?’
‘Yes, sir, less than a year in.’
‘Terrible business,’ the C.O. commented.
I faced the two captains. ‘I apologise for shouting at you and shoving you aside.’
‘No, no, you’re the medic, you needed to work quickly,’ they both agreed.
One faced the Major. ‘Know’s his stuff.’
‘Of course he does,’ the Major said with a frown, and led us back inside.
The guys were up, kitted, and ready to go if called, except Mickey, who no one could wake.
‘Sir, Mickey came drinking with me, at the Scots Borderers hut. He’s ...’
‘Well out of it, yes,’ the Major noted.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘No matter, we’d not deploy, they’ll be long gone.’ He faced Rizzo. ‘Stand down the men when they signal the all clear.’
I returned to the Intel Section, who had turned the lights out since they faced the street. I got the kettle on, and washed the blood off my hands.
‘You moved quickly,’ the lady captain noted.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘You’re not like the other troopers, they call me love. Alright love?’
‘I would never dream of that, although I have called a few lady officers that in private.’
‘That’s a court martial offence,’ she noted.
‘It is ... if I get caught. Oh, could I borrow a tampon?’
‘What?’ she whispered.
I explained what I had done on the tarmac outside, and my policy of carrying them. A glance over her shoulder, and she produced one from her purse.
In the morning, I was sat in the Intel section from 5.30am, after my nice long hot shower, whiling away the time reading reports. The Major appeared at 7.30am, then headed off to breakfast. I got back from breakfast around 8.30am, and sat with a tea in hand with Smurf.
The Major walked in with Captain Marks. ‘Wilco!’
I wondered what I was in trouble for. I stood. ‘Sir!’
‘Had a call from Aldergrove, a doctor, wanted to know if tampons were standard kit for our lot.’
‘Tell him yes, sir.’ And I sat.
After three seconds, the C.O. said ‘Right then’, and walked out followed by Captain Marks, the lady captain smirking.
Since they were all staring at me, I said, ‘I stuffed a tampon into a bullet wound last night. They’re small, easy to carry, and great for jamming up bloody holes.’
The men in the room laughed like teenagers.
After lunch, which was passable, I was sat reading intel reports and studying maps since there was nothing else to do. Rizzo and his gang were on a ‘work-up’ to getting ready, and there was sod all else going on. The Major sat working quietly, and a dozen Intel or Signals staff sat quietly – despite today being a Saturday and their day off. Since they could not leave the base, and leaving this sturdy building was unwise, every day was a work day.
The Borderers’ WO2 marched in with his major. I stood. ‘What manner of inhuman beasty born in a test tube are you?’ he loudly asked me, Major Bradley easing up.
‘Sir?’ I asked, all eyes now on us.
‘You were drinking with the rest ta us, and had as much as the rest ta us, and I cannay focus me damn eyes, and after leaving the wee party you saved the lives of two of our la
ds. What manner of beasty are yee?’
‘Alcohol doesn’t affect me much, sir,’ I said as my own CO closed in.
The WO2 handed over a small unit emblem. ‘You’s now an honouree member of the Borderers, Laddy.’
‘Oh, well ... thank you, sir,’ I said examining the plaque.
The Borderers’ major faced my major. ‘He moves fast, by all accounts,’ he said in a refined English accent. ‘And the doctors said that it helped make a difference. When they took that tampon out the blood hit the ceiling, so apparently they jammed it back in for a while.’
‘He’s our top medic,’ Major Bradley stated. ‘He’d take your appendix out, but he’d do it without you noticing.’
I faced the Borderers major. ‘Have you ever wondered why the divorce rate is high with SAS troopers?’ Major Bradley puzzled that. ‘It’s the crap sex; we’re taught to get in and out without our ladies noticing.’
‘Wilco!’ Major Bradley called as everyone laughed.
The joke went right around the small base, the lads not too pleased with it, but none were offended by it. Monday came, and Rizzo and his team went off for a three-day OP in the cold and the wet, and I was deputised by Intel and started helping with admin, often sat with Captain Marks.
I also pulled a guard duty stag, rifle issued. I offered to do the 4am to 9am stints, and that made me popular with all those that did not wish to do it, which was 100% of the soldiers available.
Rizzo came back cold and wet, not so much as a badger spotted in the woods, and they grumbled like hell for days. The following week Rizzo went back out, but with three different lads. They were experienced, but not as experienced. This time when they got back the lads reported that a stray dog had tried to hump Rizzo’s leg, and a cartoon soon appeared. Rizzo was proud of the cartoon, despite saying otherwise.
The postman
Going through intel files, I noticed that two attacks had taken place where a post office van had been seen. I checked the police reports for those incidents, and they confirmed the post van, but then they pointed out that there was always a post office van doing its rounds at 7am, each weekday, and that people always remembered the vans – yet never remembered the terrorists.
I found another seven incidents in Armagh where the van was seen, but most of these were not bombs or shootings, they were suspicious activity, bombs that did not go off, or men seen with guns. As such, no one was investigating them.
With lots of hours in the day I went through each file, an idea forming, I even got the post van routes. But, noticing the writing on the routes, they had a winter route and a summer route, so I got hold of both, sometimes getting Captain Harris to request the detail for me.
After many days of reading I had an idea that was firming up, but the man I suspected had been proven to be clean. That made me even more suspicious of him, so I kept digging, late nights spent trawling files and requesting bits of information. I was eventually noticed, and I two men from Mi5 in Hollywood flew down, asking what I was up to, since it seemed that the SAS were investigating on their own.
I made them tea, explained how boring it was around here and that I was helping out on stuff that the others didn’t want to bother with. We chatted about the London Marathon, boxing, and they offered to help. I had a few gaps I wanted filled, so asked them, which was a serious offence, but they promised to get the stuff anyway; they were not that busy themselves. I handed them the detail of a car registration written down wrong, and they would see if the original detail had been cocked up.
Captain Marks heard about the visit, and demanded to know what I was up to, so I explained. He then told me that anything like that in future, pass it to him.
The Mi5 people were back two nights later, pleased. That car panned out, and they now had a lead. It was not major, but it all helped. They allowed me to read a few files, and then I handed them back, thanking the guys.
14 Intel then came calling, because they had heard Mi5 had come calling. I made them tea, and explained the car number plate, Captain Marks observing from across the room – as well observing the nice lady officer. They offered a backlog of hundreds of files for me to go through as I sat here, but just half-heartedly. I asked them if they could get some info for me. They could, provided any gems unearthed would come to them first. I agreed, as far as this idea of mine was concerned.
The Major then came and found me, having been informed by Captain Marks, and he was concerned. I detailed the car number plate, and he was pleased, soon to be boasting that the SAS did a better job of it than the others.
With 14 Intel getting me the info, and now intrigued, I offered them a deal; I’d help them if they helped me. I asked for an OP on a house where my post van driver lived, and any local pay phones, but I would not give them the full picture. They were keen anyhow.
Three days later I asked Captain Harris if I could organise a meeting that evening of himself and his boss, my major, 14 Intel staff, RUC and Mi5. He was a bit stunned.
‘You found something,’ he stated.
‘I think I found a pattern, and I’d like to go through it, sound it out. Look, I know what the people are like around here – how they work, and if I tell one group the others get pissy. Yes?’
‘Well, yes.’
The Major then came and found me. ‘Wilco, you running this damn show now?’
‘Be a good meeting, sir, we can embarrass a few and make the SAS look good.’
‘Really? OK, might be worth it then.’
At 8pm we gathered, and I sat with seven files and some notes, and looking like I did run the show. The Major looked smug, waiting for me to embarrass someone, Captain Marks looked annoyed at me, the RUC puzzled as to who I was, 14 Intel smiling to themselves, Mi5 were eyeing everyone, and Captain Harris and his boss were concerned. The nice lady captain sat off to one side.
‘Thank you all for coming here on this ... fine evening,’ I began and many laughed. It was pouring down. ‘I’m Wilco, SAS, but ... as many of you know we have little to do here, and I’m new, so I’ve been pitching in and reading files, files, and more damn files. What I found was a pattern, a pattern that may clear up some old cases and lead to a few arrests.’
They were a bit stunned as I continued, ‘OK, these seven cases are all tied together by what the RUC refer to as that damned post office van. You see, people often see the post office van and remember it, and then the drivers are checked, found to be clean, and there ends the trail.’
I took out a black and white A4 photo of a driver, a young lad with buck teeth. ‘Seamus Fisher, clean as a whistle, no record, post office driver, and he lives just up the road – with his mum. All of the incidents listed here were on the route of his van, but since his van goes lots of places - not so uncommon after all, except that the incidents were never on the weekends, when he is off.
‘Having looked at that aspect, you would note – as the police did at the time, that Seamus was off on five of these occasions, and that he was off sick – just for the day of the incident, and that generally he never loses a day sick at all. On each day that he was off sick another driver was driving.’
I slid over another A4 photograph. ‘This is David Merryweather, who was driving on the day of each incident. And, David and Seamus - they sat next to each other in school and have been best buddies since nursery school.
‘David is also completely clean, unless you had a look at his school yearbook, because in Secondary School, Seamus and David again shared the same classroom, but they also shared that classroom with three of the suspects that were ... well, suspected of being involved in some of these cases. David dated a girl called Fiona in school and they were close for some time. Fiona is the sister of two brothers, both suspects in four of these files.’
‘It’s a small province,’ the RUC man pointed out. ‘They all know each other.’
‘Indeed,’ I agreed. ‘So, solid evidence was needed, a gamble. And, thanks to the nice people at 14 Intel, an OP was set-up on th
e home of Seamus -’
‘It was?’ the Mi5 asked, not looking happy.
The 14 Intel major smugly confirmed that it was.
‘Major,’ I asked him. ‘What have you discovered?’
‘Seamus lives with his mother, as you said, and they have a house phone, yet each day he walks to the village and uses a payphone, twice a day, so we tapped it in a hurry. Today he rang the girl, Fiona, in Southern Ireland, a house that belongs to Kevin MacCluskey -’
‘He’s a big fish,’ Major Bradley noted.
‘- and they spoke in code.’
‘In code?’ Captain Harris asked.
‘Yes, in code. And we know what some of the code words mean, and one refers to Brian O’Dowd, known as The Fox. Intel places him at that house south of the border a week ago.’
‘Coming together nicely, Wilco,’ Major Bradley noted. He faced the others. ‘We will be sending you the bill for his time of course.’
I said, ‘Gentlemen, the rest is down to you, I just read files when I’m bored, or when it rains – which covers most of my time here.’
14 Intel were running the show, promises made to cooperate, but we doubted that they would. But, as expected, Captain Marks was pissed off, and lectured me. I smiled nicely, saluted, and ignored him.
Bumping into the CO, I asked for a private word. ‘Sir, do you have complete confidence in Captain Marks?’
He took a moment. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I hope to get through the next few weeks without throwing him through the window.’
‘If you get the urge to do so, come see me first, please.’ And off he walked, an odd attitude towards what I had just threatened.
Bumping into a medic I recognised, he mentioned a combat medicine symposium up at RAF Aldergrove, lectures given by local doctors experienced in gunshot trauma. I wanted to go, not just to lift the tedium. I cornered the major and mentioned it.
‘I’m up in Belfast next week, so yes, it’s doable. Who else wants to go?’
‘Probably just me, although that guy Roach who came over from the Light Infantry is medically qualified.’
