by Geoff Wolak
But the call was Slack. ‘Wilco, that you?’
‘Inmate Wilco,’ I told him as I took the call in the NCO’s staff room. ‘Actually, they’re not referred to as inmates unless they have a civvy jail to go to.’
‘You OK down there?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘I had a go at the squadron Leader, so I’m facing charges, and Bongo was rude. Sergeant Chandon put a complaint in writing in to the base commander, and Cpl Hesky was charged with insubordination for raising his voice to the new CO. And someone did over the CO’s car, so he’s not a happy bunny.’
‘Truth is ... the staff down here know it was an illegal decision, I should have had counsel present, so they could get it overturned. But the longer I stay here the more money I get, so I’ll drag it out a bit.’
Slack laughed. ‘You’ll have the last laugh on that fucker then.’
‘Tell everyone that I’m fine, and that I’m being treated well. Spoilt actually.’
‘Good to know, odd without you in the room.’
My next call was my parents. ‘Hey dad, how’s the garden?’
‘We got a letter, said you were in prison.’
I controlled my anger, and I wondered if it was normal practice to notify the next of kin, and it probably was. ‘I was wrongly convicted, no legal counsel, they’re going to overturn it.’
‘Oh, so they’ll let you go.’
‘I’m dragging it out, that way more compensation.’
‘Just as well, bit of a rest after all that running, and some money in your pocket.’ And he spent ten minutes telling me how well his garden was doing, making me smile. I had been worried that they would be upset with the whole “your son in prison bit”. Silly of me.
I settled into a routine of either memorising which campaign started when during the Napoleonic Wars, to running on the treadmill or around the local roads. And when I was on the treadmill I was both determined and angered, knocking out thirty miles on occasion, the PTIs often having a look at the red digital readouts, and wondering if the figures were wrong.
I advanced to the pre-Christian era of the Levant and Turkey, and the rise and fall of global communism, a subject that I had already read about. In my exam I would need to answer just four questions out of eight, each answer being an essay of a few thousand words. I added the history of the Second World War to the list, 1936-1946, but was shit hot on that era anyhow.
One PTI, Corporal Massey, was down for the London Marathon and joined me to train now and then, and admitted that I pushed him hard. We would run out the gate and turn right, then right again on the main road for just a few hundred yards, then right again down a lane, and the lane was both dead straight and usually dead quiet.
In the lane we would work on capacity, sprints and slow jogs to recover, over and over, and if we ran down the lane and kept going we found a nice five mile square circuit southwest of Colchester, flat land, straight roads, ideal for marathon training.
The final leg was always a sprint, Cpl Massey never beating me, the gate guards often encouraging him on – or taking the piss in equal measure.
One day we were halted by the gate guards, an ambulance arriving, and later I found out that a prisoner on hold to be transferred to a civvy prison for twelve years - the lad on a manslaughter charge - had taken his own life. It was not the first suicide, nor the first self-harm incident they had seen.
It was a sobering moment, because if Sloan died I could be tried again, and with manslaughter. And, if facing twelve years in prison, I promised myself I would end it.
The winter weather often prevented road running, but I had the use of the treadmills, and the gym when no one was around – at 6am. I would often see men in a variety of uniforms being marched around on the square, loudly shouted at, and I wondered what I would do if that was me out there. Killing the NCOs came to mind.
With snow on the ground, the weeks ticking by, I was on the treadmill from 5.30am to 7.30am, and I opened the windows and turned off the radiators to make it cold, better that way for training, but I got shouted at a lot by people arriving at 8am – the room was freezing.
Corporals Worksmith and Massey fell into step with my training programme, rather than try and give me advice, and I was pushing them hard. But at my request Corporal Worksmith was teaching me boxing, and I would work out on the bag for an hour a day, or duck under a bit of sting held up, or punch his padded gloves.
Boxing was important to me, because I figured that whenever I got back I would beat to death a few people. Sloan’s friends would also be coming for me.
What was also important to me was military law, and being on the receiving end, so Captain Malloy got me a summary document but also went through it all with me, my rights as an enlisted man. Of a cold evening I would be sat in reading-up on what I could do to fight back, the procedures and forms, how to resist an illegal or improper order, prejudicial conduct, bullying.
The following Sunday, 3pm, Slack called me again, at our agreed time. ‘Had a bit of bother Thursday night,’ he informed me, sounding nasal. ‘Couple of Sloan’s buddies burst in drunk, five of them. They hit Bongo first, gave me time to get up and get at them. I broke three jaws, CO mad as hell the next day, took a few hits myself. But the MPs said I had no case to answer for, they all live off base, so they had no right coming into our room at 1am pissed.
‘Bongo was charged though, he called the CO a fucking useless cunt to his face because the CO didn’t want to charge the men I hit. Sergeant Chandon spoke to base commander, and he had loud words with the Squadron Leader about it. MPs came back and took statements, and they’ll handle it, not the Squadron Leader. One of the fuckers damaged my car, so they all have to pay for it.’
‘Glad I was not there, I might have killed one of the fuckers.’
‘I got four weeks then off to Germany for six months, break from here before I do someone in,’ Slack informed me. ‘Bongo is looking for postings as well, which made his sergeant angry, and that sergeant had sharp words with the CO as well. Extra men on the gate certain nights of the week now, that small side gate to be locked at night after 8pm.’
‘When I get back I’ll look for a posting somewhere, or anywhere.’
‘How they treating you?’
‘Like a member of staff; I go off base for a beer and a curry when I like.’
‘Aren’t they supposed to beast you an all?’
‘They know my case was cocked up, so I’m in transit, and they’re fine with it. I’m training hard for the marathon.’
‘You’ll do the London Marathon again?’ he loudly asked, surprised.
‘Yep, and from here. If I get a good place it will piss of 51 Squadron no end.’
‘Shit... Do they know?’
‘No, and don’t tell any fucker till the day.’
He laughed. ‘If you’re on the TV again...’
‘Yes, it will shock a few people; I’m training with a determination to piss them off.’
That following week the unseasonably cold weather gave way to unseasonably warm weather, and so myself and the corporals ran on the roads, joined by two local club runners – who Worksmith indicated would help with my admin for the marathon; being tripped last year might not get me a good start point this year.
A week later and the news came that I would be with club runners of a certain standard, not sure yet if it would be the red or blue zone, and I was hoping I would not be behind the giant yellow chicken.
I would pick up my number in the weeks before, and this year I studied the map, not having bothered last year. We would start in Greenwich and finish on the Mall in Westminster, much of the course around Docklands – which was changing rapidly.
Worksmith and Massey said they would follow me, but then qualified that with “if they could keep up”.
The days started to count down, and my release from here would be a few days too soon. Colonel Bennet then suggested that I be held back a few days for bad behaviour, which made ma
ny laugh.
I was resting my legs at least one day a week and boxing, and one day a week I would push it hard, thirty miles at marathon pace, and I was feeling good. The weather was improving week by week through March, and we were hitting the straight roads twice a day now, sprints and slots.
My running only occupied two to three hours a day, so the rest of the time was spent earnestly studying, and I was using a technique that I had mastered for my school “A” Levels. I would make a précis of key events, and then test myself, crossing off those I knew and then studying the parts I got wrong, a diminishing list.
But my handwriting was an issue, a bit messy, and I was told that I might lose points for that, so I started practising my joined-up writing under the careful gaze of one of the education officers. Books appeared in my room; Jack and Jill, for reading age ranges 5-7, the corporals taking the piss.
The education officer would often debate with me historical periods that he liked, and would ask me questions, most of which I got right – surprising him. One day he gave me a list of 100 dates to study, and the next day he tested me. I got 87 right, which amazed him. He did not know about my “diminishing list” method.
I would be driven to London on the day, not too far to the start line, and a week before the big event we got the train in to London and registered, getting our numbers and certificates, Massey remonstrating with the organisers because I was not at the start-up. We listed my inter-services run, and they bunked me up a few lines, but not much.
A week before the marathon I sat my “A” Level history, and I thought I did OK, but the paper had to be sent off somewhere to be marked.
All too soon the big day came around, and I was nervous, but when I considered that 51 Squadron would be watching I angered quickly. I figured that if one of the motorbikes with a camera focussed on me I would shout a message. I would be wearing my RAF roundel t-shirt and shorts, so those watching would be left in no doubt about who I was.
We drove mostly in silence, one of the sergeants at the wheel, us runners reflective about the pain to come.
Nearing London I said, ‘This year, what I’ll do if I get near a Moroccan or Kenyan, is run alongside saying over and over again – are we nearly there yet, are we nearly there yet.’
The car rocked with laughter, and it helped to lighten the mood.
‘Don’t let the little black bastards trip you,’ Massey warned. ‘Fucking punch them, you’ve had enough boxing training.’
‘That’ll be good,’ the sergeant quipped. ‘Arrested on national TV, and having to explain where you live right now!’
We were dropped off half a mile from the start, and with other runners we walked in, numbers checked, names given. Inside, and being filtered like herrings in nets, a guy from the BBC bound over.
‘I remember you from last year, dislocated shoulder.’
‘Yep, that was me, tripped up later on.’
‘How you expecting to do this year?’
‘Better than last year, and this year I have a better start position, no giant yellow chickens in front of me I hope.’
The guy got out his large mobile phone and made an excited call, giving my race number.
‘That’s torn it,’ Worksmith told me. ‘They’ll be focused on you. A few people up in Catterick might see you – and be right pissed off.’
‘Oh dear,’ I sarcastically let out as we moved towards our positions. I left the guys after asking an umpire, and waved as I moved forwards through the throng of runners, and now I could see the good runners up ahead, the short black guys.
Stood there, a guy next to me said, ‘Bit tall for a runner.’
I turned my head to him. ‘Watch my heels, that’s all you’ll see.’
‘Confident, eh?’
‘I was the guy tripped up last year.’
‘Oh, him. Well you would have been placed, so this year – who knows. Watch the sneaky little bastards up front.’
‘If they trip me I’ll catch up to them and kick the shit out of them.’
We moved forwards, like cigarettes in a dispenser I considered, the tall white sticks funnelled into single file, checked again, and then opening to groups, gaps evident, men policing the gaps. I glanced up, and it would be a nice enough day.
Water drunk at a table, cup down, I bounced up and down, still nervous and wondering why. Win or lose, it made little difference to anything, and just being here would get me shit from the RAF. And if I did well I’d get a great deal of shit from the RAF. I smiled at the absurdity of the situation.
A warning, a second warning, front runners off, next group ready and off, my group ready, and I rudely nudged someone aside just before the start and sprinted off, a small gap to fill, my heart racing.
But that gap was behind a good bunch of runners, so the pace was good, and I remained in that gap for a mile as I warmed up, and at the famous three-mile meeting point I eased into my usual marathon pace, counting it out, and I started to creep forwards, one man at a time.
The pain came and went, but that pain rarely hit me when I was training, so I had to wonder why it was an issue on races. Was it nerves, the competition, the adrenaline? When the race did not matter I was fine, but here I was hurting in new places all of a sudden.
I settled down, and the pain went away, and I suddenly felt good beyond five miles, and confident with it, my stride elongating, a careful eye out for mad women with placards.
I ignored the crowds, they became a dull background roar, and I followed the men in front whilst maintaining my own pace, and at the bridge over the river I could see perhaps sixty men in front of me, but not far in front of me.
We turned east and found a straight stretch at the halfway mark, and I put on the power a little, creeping up on men in tight groups as if huddling for the warmth. I took a quick drink when many others did, just a mouthful, but I felt OK.
Reaching the tall buildings of Docklands, and a few tight bends, I was careful of the corners, not wanting to be tripped, and on a straight stretch south I put on the power and took a group of nine runners, suddenly finding that the motorbike with the camera was focused on me. I smiled.
“...he’s moved past a group of runners, and he’s smiling, finding it easy. Last year he was tripped or he would have been well placed, and last year he came from the back, amongst the charity runners. He’s now moving slowly towards the front, RAF Regiment Gunner Milton from 51 Squadron in Catterick...”
At the base bar in Catterick people were off their chairs and staring at the screen, dumfounded, my small fan club shouting for me. The Squadron Leader got a call from a junior officer, and lost all of the colour to his face, soon to take a call from the AOC himself.
‘What the fuck do you mean, he’s in prison! He’s representing the RAF in the London Marathon, in RAF colours – and he’s doing well!’
‘Well, sir, he was sentenced three months ago, not returning due to ... bad behaviour.’
‘If this gets out!’
I focused on the group ahead and tucked myself in behind them since their pace was good at the moment, but that camera was always pointing at me when I looked. I hoped that 51 Squadron were watching, and I knew a few of their runners would be here today, so they were bound to be watching some of this race.
A mile on, and the group seemed to slow, so I decided to risk it and put on the power. My diaphragm objected, my anus wanted to open up, but I ignored it all and put the power on, and with one of the group coming after me and bumping shoulders I made the mistake of racing him.
He gave up first, and I mistakenly kept the pace, not realising that there were just thirty runners ahead of me.
“...he’s seen the gap and made his break,” the excited BBC commentator shouted. “And at this pace he would break a record if he held it. He’s gaining on the front runners, plenty of miles to overtake them as we turn north then west on the home run to Westminster.
“This young lad from the RAF won the inter-services marathon with a ne
w record, not far of the world record, and he seems intent on upsetting a few established runners here today. This is incredible for a young runner, only been running for two years, unfortunately tripping last year...
“He’s a tall lad, over six foot, long stride, good upper body definition, almost built like a middle-distance runner...”
A mile on and I was at the back of the next group, most of them black. Rounding a bend, a saw policeman run down the side of us, an odd thing, the dull roar of the crowd in my ears.
A commotion off to the left and I glanced left quickly, police running. I worried about women with placards. I faced forwards and ran on, a crack heard, and it sounded like a gunshot. Screams rose up, and the crowd dived down on both sides, both myself and the other runners glancing around.
A punch in the shoulder and I was knocked back, stumbling, wondering which runner had hit me. A punch to the stomach and I bent double and somehow now doing a forward roll on the hard road surface, almost upright at the end of it. I shook my head as people ran and screamed all around me, the runners moving away from me.
I looked down, my shirt red with blood, a hole in my shoulder clearly visible.
I lifted my shirt, a hole seen, blood flowing. I was hurt badly, but could not figure out how. Had I been stabbed, I wondered, my heart pounding in my head, my face flushing red hot. Up ahead I could see an ambulance, green paramedics knelt down. I somehow knew I had to get to them and so lifted up.
“...we’re getting reports of an incident, police are saying it’s a terrorist incident ... of my god, it’s the RAF lad, he’s been shot ... he’s covered in blood ... he’s up and running ... he’s trying to carry on, to finish the race ... dear go he’s covered in blood and trying to run on...”
I wanted, desperately, to get to that paramedic in green, but was not sure why, and as I got there he moved out and grabbed me, and this was last year all over again as I hit the floor hard, suddenly looking up.
