Wilco: Lone Wolf - book 1: Book 1 in the series (Part of an ongoing series)

by Geoff Wolak

  When we got here the mist had been slowly lifting, but now the day was warming up, and cresting the next rise I was afforded a spectacular view, a biblical African vista stretching out miles.

  A road, there was a road I realised, so I headed down towards it, albeit slowly, my passenger moaning from time to time as I plodded along. I also needed to stop and take a drink from time to time, small creatures scurrying away through the waist-high bushes, and my back was killing me, but I plodded on down to the road, further than it seemed from up on the mountain – no dangerous baboons to worry me.

  When I reached the road I was spent, and splashed water on my face as I stood at the side of the road, the very empty road. One direction appeared to be descending, so I headed that way.

  Half an hour later and I heard a helicopter, soon a Puma starting to circle, then to set down right next to me, soldiers and medics jumping down, some of my medics with them. They took my passenger and his rifle - I unloaded my own rifle, sat on the side and clambered in, and we were off, unable to talk for twenty minutes till we landed back at the camp.

  I slung both of the soldiers’ rifles and walked with the medics to the base hospital, finding the senior man – the officer responsible for me if I had been hurt out there.

  ‘What hell happened?’ he asked, but without attitude.

  ‘I went back up, sir, found the second soldier, carried him back down but the others had gone.’

  One of the morning team put in, ‘We waited two hours, but then a chopper picked us up. We figured we pick you up on the way, but no sign.’

  ‘I walked down to that road, a few hours,’ I explained. ‘No drama, sir.’

  ‘You carried him?’

  ‘A few miles, sir.’

  ‘About six miles of mountain according to my map! With a man on your back, your kit, his kit, and two rifles.’

  ‘You’re right, sir, I have a sore back.’ I faced Fl. Lt. Lewis. ‘I need a back rub, Ma’am.’

  They laughed loudly as she gave me a pointed finger.

  A major came and found me that evening, thanking me for finding his lads, all now back safe after getting very lost in the fog at night. And he took my name and unit details – as well as the rifles.

  Turning back from the door, he said, ‘Why does that name seem familiar?’

  ‘I was the RAF runner tripped at the end of the London Marathon, sir, and I’m the inter-services champion.’

  ‘Fit as fuck, eh. No wonder you carried my lad six miles.’

  We packed up a few days later, and I was very sad to be leaving, but this trip had made a hell of a difference to my outlook on quitting the RAF; I was now keen for more of this, but how to get it was the question.

  A bumpy ride in an uncomfortable Tristar saw Dr Lewis sick, as well as a few others, but I managed to just about keep my food down. We got a six hour stop-over in Cyprus, to stretch our legs and use a decent toilet, and got back feeling rough as hell after eighteen hours of travelling.

  I took off the Friday, I went to see my parents, and would inform my CO that we got back on the Saturday.

  Over the garden fence I found SAS officer Richards in uniform. ‘You won the inter-services,’ he noted. ‘And nearly won London. I had no idea you were a runner, or that good. Shock it was, to see your face on the TV.’

  I shrugged. ‘I wake early, and I started running because I was bored, six months of it. I was running ten miles when I thought it was six, and twenty when I thought it was fourteen, then found out the right distances. And I train in the evenings.’

  ‘How you finding day to day life?’

  ‘Been thinking of quitting a lot, but an exercise I did in Africa was good.’

  ‘Quitting ... why?’

  ‘After the marathon they all took the piss, some threw a brick through my window.’

  ‘Jealous little fucks,’ he noted. ‘Same where I am, always some arsehole making trouble. But that’s the Army for you.’

  On the Monday the CO came into the briefing. ‘Milton, we ... had a communication from the Army, as well as Lyneham, and I must say that I was ... surprised ... that you’re down for a medal for rescuing soldiers in ... Kenya, since Kenya – I think – is in Africa.’ He waited. Puzzled faces peered at me.

  ‘The ... detail of the first aid course was on the form you signed, sir.’

  ‘I just found it, in the small print. You could have alerted me to that fact.’

  ‘I’ll try to next time, sir,’ I said, less than sincerely, which he picked up on.

  ‘So, down for a medal.’ He read the detail. ‘You searched and found two wounded soldiers, and carried one on your back – plus kit and two rifles – for six miles across difficult terrain.’ He looked up. ‘As there was me thinking you were studying in a classroom in Lyneham.’ He waited.

  ‘I thought Kenya was mentioned on the form you had, sir.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t, it said ... Standard Support Medic Training Exercise KCTG, the KCTG meaning Kenya Combined Training Ground.’

  ‘Did I not mention it to anyone, sir?’ I lightly asked, a few men snickering.

  ‘No, you little shit, you did not. But rest assured that I will check carefully next time.’

  ‘I learnt a great deal, sir, and got some experience of Africa.’

  ‘Yes, and the AOC has been informed apparently, another story for the RAF magazine. Still, it will mention 51 Squadron and I’ll get the credit.’

  I knew I was in trouble, but I didn’t care; he could go screw himself.

  I got back to driving for a few days, soon on a three day exercise in the hills with the tanks, some proper soldiering to hand, and I always enjoyed these exercises; it felt like I was doing proper work, soldiering work.

  The end of August came around and the CO, reluctantly, issued me orders for Germany. I would be based At RAF Wildenrath near the Dutch border, answering to the RAF Regiment there, 16 Squadron.

  I flew from Luton airport, a 737 full of military personnel in civvy clothes, a short flight to Wildenrath, and as we landed I glanced at Bloodhound missiles and Tornado aircraft.

  From the small arrivals hall names were checked, vehicles and busses waiting out front, and I was soon in a Land Rover with a chatty gunner, driving on the right down tree-lined straight roads, and we passed many single story huts.

  ‘Lot of tall trees,’ I noted.

  ‘From the air this place is almost invisible till a Russian fighter is right over us.’

  ‘Ah,’ I realised.

  He helped me find my room, just me in a cosy small room, and then drove me to the RAF Regiment depot, a collection of brick buildings and some garages.

  He introduced me to a Flight Sergeant. ‘This is Wilco, the runner.’

  ‘Ah, the famous Wilco. Hoping to win here as well, eh?’

  ‘Er ... yes, Flight Sergeant.’

  ‘Well get settled in, be here at 8.30am Monday. But be careful where you run around here, you might get shot. Take your ID always. Go out the gate, then keep turning right till you’re back at the gate, one circuit is ten miles, good road to run.’

  ‘Thanks, Flight Sergeant.’

  My helper showed me the super-sized NAAFI shop, the canteen to use, the shops and bars, where the married quarters were, and a few other sights – and that getting around you needed a car, which I did not have obviously. Back in my room I lay down, food in hand from the NAAFI, and I read my book, up at 5.30am.

  ID with me, I jogged to where I thought the gate was, finding it after a false start, and out I went, soon turning right onto tree-lined roads, no traffic, not a soul. Having completed a pleasant lap at a slow pace I passed the front gate, and five minutes later the MPs were alongside me in a jeep.

  I flashed my ID as I ran. ‘Milton, RAF Regiment, here for the marathon.’

  ‘That ain’t for weeks.’

  ‘Yeah, great isn’t it,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘You wangled a work-up period?’

  ‘Yes, three weeks just abo
ut.’

  After a steady two laps I headed back in under close scrutiny, and to a shower, breakfast in the quiet canteen and then to the 16 Squadron morning briefing. The room filled up slowly as I sat there, people glancing at the new face. And I peered up at all the small model planes fixed to the ceiling, most of them NATO or Russian planes, and aid to aircraft recognition.

  When the officer appeared they stood, then sat when told to, this officer in browns not blues, blue shoulder flashes. Orders were given, courses notes, men off sick or on leave, and half an hour later he said, ‘Any other business?’

  I stood. ‘Milton, sir, from 51 Squadron, Catterick, here for the marathon.’

  ‘Ah, pleased to meet you, and you’re expected to win it easily I hear.’

  ‘Hope so, sir.’

  ‘Set whatever schedule you want to train, and see Corporal Donovan, he’s our runner.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  I found Donovan as people sloped off to duties.

  He shook my hand. ‘You’re the rising star. And they say you run early every morning.’

  ‘Did so this morning, two laps outside the base.’

  ‘Shit, that’s almost a marathon. You must love it.’

  ‘Just need my daily run. Listen, whilst I’m here, could I do something ... useful? Learn something new?’

  He made a face. ‘See what we can think up. What you good at?’

  ‘I’ve done the armourer’s course part 1, and first aid to a high level, I drive a three-tonner and a Scorpion.’

  ‘More than most then,’ he quipped.

  ‘My German is OK, but I could do with some practise, and some Russian.’

  ‘Go see the Education Officer, they organise day trips to practise the language.’

  So I set off, a long walk on dried grass edges to the roads, sign posts read, and I finally found the Education Officer, soon booked onto a dozen field trips to practise German, and daily Russian lessons, many officers here speaking Russian because they listened in to Russian traffic – and this trip was going to be a major piss-up.

  Each morning I ran, the gate guards getting used to me, and most days I sat in the Education Centre, headphones on, a tape being played, a transcript being followed. I even spent time on Morse Code. They had a very detailed book of all the world’s aircraft, and so I studied aircraft recognition as well.

  That first week I joined a trip to Cologne, a guide giving the spiel – in German, which we were supposed to be following. In reality we ate well and drank a great deal.

  On the Friday night the guy from the room opposite, Singleton, a gunner like me, told me to pack an overnight bag, and we set off in his car to the Dutch border, passports shown, and to Eindoven and a small hotel.

  ‘First things first,’ he said to me, and after unpacking we sat in the lounge and he handed me a large photo album taken off reception. ‘Pick the one you like?’

  ‘And these ladies are ... what?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Bored housewives that need some extra cash. Most are married, some single mums, some barmaids that want some extra cash.’

  I stared at him. ‘Oh.’

  After picking a beautiful twenty three year old he informed the clerk of our choices, and after a beer two ladies turned up. I had been briefed on what to do, and so we took our ladies out and for a meal in a quiet restaurant, dark rooms and candles, and she spoke perfect English - just with a sexy accent.

  She came back with me for a monster sex session and stayed the night, and another sex session in the morning, a shower and breakfast, and out we went – hand in hand, a tour of the city, no idea where Singleton had got to.

  We sat in cafes on the river, strolled along in the sunshine, and I touched her up when no one was looking, a quick shag behind some bushes in a park. I bumped into Singleton at 7pm, and set out again with my lady to a loud bar, some dancing and plenty of beer, back to my room for another marathon sex session.

  She said goodbye on the Sunday morning and I paid her, and I was very happy with how it had all gone.

  We drove back around 4pm, and I was contented and happy, but I had not got any running in, so would have to hit the road hard on Monday morning.

  On Monday I woke early, happy with it, and set out, a solid thirty miles covered but not at a great pace, the gate guards noting my three laps.

  Later that day I sat and studied Russian aircraft and their names, some time spent on spelling Cyrillic words, and in the evening I ran a fast two laps as the sun dipped low on the horizon, the day hot.

  The following day I followed a group to the range and got some time on moving and firing, rapid firing, all great fun. But when I informed them that I was a qualified armourer they had me clean the weapons – all the weapons. Should have kept my gob shut.

  But I had made a friend in a sergeant who had been SAS like Chandon back at Catterick, and he knew Richards, and so the next day a small team of us practised with the AKM, striping and cleaning – and then firing. I had handled the AKM on the armourer’s course but had not fired one, and this was all good practice for me – should I ever end up being a proper soldier.

  After a trip to the Rhine Valley, otherwise known as sausage and beer run, I was informed that the armoury wanted to see me, so I plodded off.

  ‘You’re Milton, yes?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘And you did the armourer’s course?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well we’re a man short, two actually – one just had a baby; not him his wife. Could you ... help out a few days?’

  ‘Be happy to.’

  And so I was adopted as a long lost son and welcomed, soon cleaning and checking SA80s, GPMGs and pistols, my fingers sore – and black at the ends. I ran in the mornings and the evenings, and here in Wildenrath sunset was a glorious time - I could have lived here forever, and applying for a transfer here was now a distinct possibility.

  On the Friday after work we armourers headed out, and in a coach to the Dutch border and just over, and were soon in a large beer hall that was obviously full of prostitutes. But also a bouncy castle.

  ‘What’s the bouncy castle for?’ I asked after a beer, the music blaring out.

  ‘You get in, three or four of you, swimming trunks or pants, greased up, and four or five ladies get in, bikinis or nothing, but all greased up, and you play rugby whilst trying to rip their kit off and touch them up.’

  I waited, wide eyed.

  ‘It’s an armourer’s thing,’ he joked.

  An hour later, and a few beers, I was down to my pants, greased up, and being elbowed by a lady with huge tits as I touched her up and pulled her bikini away, the crowd cheering, the greasy ball slopping around from hand to hand. I would not be mentioning this to my CO upon my return.

  The next morning I had a bit of a black eye, and a silly grin, and woke late, setting off for run around 2pm, the day warm.

  That evening I tried one of the base bars, many families in it, and a young girl came and sat on me. She was eighteen, her father an engineer, and she was bored. She was also a stunner, with an even tan and great skin, ginger hair and summer freckles over her nose.

  After sun down we snuck into the outdoor pool through a crack in the fence, stripped off and jumped in, having sex in the shallow end – and being pestered by insects that tended to stick to us.

  With a police patrol pulling up we ran, grabbed clothes and slipped through the fence before lights were flashed, and we dressed as best we could, giggling like teenagers. Well, she still was a teenager.

  With the police gone I took her back to my room, few others in the block, and we used the shower without being interrupted – getting the insects out of hair, and she stayed the night in my small single bed – biscuits nibbles on, a tin of meat opened, but I had tea and coffee and a kettle at least.

  In the morning I bid her farewell, and off she went, not to return as promised. But three days later she was on a trip to Eindoven with us, her
mother along, a trip to the science museum, and she pretended that we didn’t know each other, but she managed to touch me up without being seen.

  At one point she hovered by a toilet, the coast was clear, so in we went, a good long shag, my girl bent over to the smell of bleach. I checked that the coast was clear, and we left separately.

  But a day later I was driving around the base with one of the armourers and saw her as we halted at a stop sign, and pointed at her. ‘Good looking. Know her?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, base slut, everyone’s had her. Avoid her.’

  I was deflated, but philosophical. And sighed. She was a hot babe.

  With a week to go to the marathon I focused on my running, and worked on capacity - with sprints and pauses. I would complete one lap as a warm up, then sprint and slow, sprint and slow before finding a stretch of road where I would give it everything for ten minutes.

  Two other runners were training with me now, a few men seen on the road in the evenings but not in the morning. Cpl. Donovan tried to keep up with me, then gave up, but joined me for the sprints, more his style, and he was fascinated by the counting in my head – and I taught him my technique.

  On the big day, six of us boarded a coach at 8am and we drove through flat German countryside for an hour, east to a training ground circled by suitable flat and straight roads. There was a tank parked up, so I wondered if we were expecting trouble.

  I was logged in, ID checked, and when I gave my name they welcomed me like family, looking me over. Kit left in the bus, the day pleasant, we walked as a group and were met by a gang of uniformed RAF personnel, a few officers present.

  ‘Ah, Milton,’ the senior man began. ‘Hoping for a good time today from you.’

  ‘See what I can do, sir.’

  ‘I can’t keep up with him,’ Cpl. Donovan put in. ‘And he’s been running thirty miles a morning.’

  ‘Bloody hell, no wonder you run so well. No injuries?’

  ‘This drunken hooker gave me a bit of a black eye, sir, cleared up now.’

  All but the officers roared with laughter, who thought me joking.