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

by Geoff Wolak

  I moved into the new place the day my friend shipped out, for a ship that never moved – he had a study course on it, and the next day my dad got an erection when he saw the huge overgrown garden. Smiling, I left him to it, and got some sheets on the floorboard and some paint on the walls.

  Lunchtime, he sat with me, tea mugs in hand. ‘Did they muck you about, son?’

  I didn’t take my eyes of my mug of tea. ‘I worked hard, busted a gut, won the races, then some cunt ... wants to have a go at me because he’s a lazy fat bastard. They threw bricks through my window when I almost won the first marathon.’

  ‘Always some bad ‘un in every bunch, aye. When I worked on the building of the new power station, your mum was pregnant, and the foreman knew that so tried to get me on night shift not day, twelve hour shifts. He told the gaffer I needed the money for the new baby, but I was OK because when your nan died I got a bit of money for the new house.

  ‘He did it just to be spiteful, because I told him I wanted less hours because of your mum in that way with the baby due. Well, I got your uncle Richard a job there, and confided in him what was happening like. And as you know, he’s not like us. Next thing I know, foreman has two broken legs, new guy takes over, gives me day shift, finish at four.’

  I smiled. ‘Good old Uncle Richard.’

  ‘He was a bad ‘un, but he was me brother, and he helped when you were born a bit. Moral of tale is, don’t just take it.’

  I glanced at him. ‘I had this prick of an officer arrested, ruined his career.’

  ‘There you go, fight back.’

  A week later a letter came, and I was to report to RAF Brize Norton near Oxford. I had to stop and wonder which squadron was based there. Glancing at the letter again, it said RAF Detachment, so it would be the training detachment, not a squadron. Still, it was close to my parents, and I was resigned to giving it a go.

  My mate’s house was now decorated, the garden looking like a garden and not a jungle, and when he got back he was amazed at what I had done in the garden. I forgot to mention my dad’s hard work. He gave me £100 and bought me a curry.

  RAF Brize Norton

  When I arrived at Brize Norton I did not have any particular idea about how long I would remain here, and I wondered if it would less than a week before I bought myself out.

  I signed in at the guardroom and showed them my letter, and a corporal kindly drove me to Admin. And it was a big base compared to Catterick, a long and active runway. Inside, kit lugged, I handed over the letter and they gave me a few forms to fill in, the usual bollocks that an enlisted man to had to endure. I signed for the keys to a room in a transit block, and with paper in pocket – and cursing already, I had to walk all the way there, glancing at the map.

  I finally found the bland two-storey brick building shaped like a cross, and my room was on the second floor. The right hand side offered single or multiple rooms, the left side a barracks-style row of beds, no mattresses. Key in lock, and I was in, my new small home smelling of polish. I dumped my kit, and locked the door.

  ‘New here?’ came a voice.

  I turned. ‘Yes, just arrived.’

  ‘What trade?’

  ‘RAF Regiment?’

  ‘Yeah, never had a Rockape before. Ain’t they all NCOs?’

  ‘For a training detachment ... yeah.’

  ‘You’re not a corporal?’

  ‘No, but I am a world-class cunt,’ I left him with.

  I signed for a mattress and then lugged it, feeling like an idiot and probably looking like one as well. Sweat worked up, I signed for bedding and lugged it, soon making my bed, and wondering about inspections.

  In the large NAAFI shop I bought drinks and snacks, as well as several large padlocks. Back in my room I locked the cabinets and drawers after placing my kit in it. Back to the NAAFI shop I bought a new iron, some polish, and some soap powder, lugging it back.

  In the toilets I found hot water and so hand-washed a few items, putting up a string line in my room to dry them. Venturing out, I asked a corporal about laundry rooms, and he directed me. Kit in the washer, I sat with a paperback.

  A girl came and sat near me, a smile offered, and she was not too bad. ‘New here?’ she asked.

  ‘Just got here today.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Catterick.’

  ‘Catterick. What’s up there?’ she puzzled.

  ‘RAF Regiment.’

  ‘On some course?’

  ‘No ... I’m in purgatory. Got an officer arrested, ended his career.’

  ‘So why did they send you here?’

  ‘Don’t know, haven’t met the new CO yet.’

  ‘Bit of a bad boy, eh?’

  ‘No at all, just that ... people like to compete with me.’

  She adopted a puzzled frown. ‘You look familiar.’

  I sighed. ‘I was the idiot shot in the marathon.’

  ‘You! My god. I saw it on the TV with the others. You’re recovered I guess, not dead or anything.’

  Now it was my turn to frown. ‘No, not dead, and recovered yes.’

  ‘So why did you get an officer arrested?’

  I gave her canned version.

  ‘Wow, what a life you’ve led. Dead boring for me in Admin.’

  A blue uniform strode in, bag dropped down. ‘Out the fucking way, make some room,’ he rudely began, and he was a big lad.

  ‘Why don’t you fucking move me out the way, cunt,’ I said as I stood and faced him.

  ‘You looking to get hurt?’

  The girl moved away quickly.

  ‘Often,’ I told him.

  He moved forwards. I ducked under and left, a rising first to his chin, a hook to his ear, a third punch to the stomach and he twisted, fourth to the jaw, and he went down. But I had not wanted to hurt him, and pulled my punches a bit. He looked up from a heap in the corner.

  ‘Yes, dickhead, I box. Stay away from me or I leave you in a pool of blood. Now fuck off and come back in an hour.’

  He slowly eased up, his chin sore, grabbed his bag and left.

  ‘And this is your first day,’ the girl noted, but with a grin.

  ‘I’m starting as I mean to go on.’

  ‘Trouble is here,’ she noted.

  I ate in the canteen later, no one recognising me, but when a lad nudged me I asked if he wanted to take it outside, and he backed off. Sat in my room, I stared out of the window for a while, not much of a view; some trees, some grass, a road.

  The window faced the door, bed on the right, shelves above it, fitted cabinets and drawers opposite the bed, a little room at the base of the bed. It was 8ft by 10ft, but cosy.

  In the morning I woke early, and figured I would risk a run. I ran to the Guardroom first. ‘I’m new here, so where’s good to run, and where are we allowed to run?’

  ‘Out the gate and keep turning left is eleven miles.’

  I checked my ID was secure, had a look up at the weather – it should not pour down, and set off down the access road, a long road bending to the right, farmland either side.

  I kept turning left, and at several points I could see the bases tall green water towers and the tails of its VC10 and Tristar aircraft. The road was empty, and straight in many places, and I maintained a good pace all the way around.

  Back at the gate, the man who had given me the route was stood staring, and checked his watch. ‘Which way did you go?’

  ‘All the way around, kept turning left.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  I stood panting next to him. ‘You see that RAF guy shot in the London Marathon?’

  ‘Yeah..?’

  ‘You’re looking at him.’ I ran off.

  In the block I got a shower, no one about but signs of life heard, and I headed to an early breakfast. And having sat in my room for an hour I ventured to the RAF Regiment Detachment. It was a brick building not far from the huge Parachute School hangar, and behind the apron and the ageing Tristar aircraft.


  I had been handed a map, and had studied it, so I knew where most everything was, but also knew that everything was a long fucking walk from everything else.

  Inside, there was an admin section, a counter, a young-looking Admin corporal sat there working, a common room on the left, one man sat there. I faced the admin corporal as he looked up, and I handed him my letter.

  ‘Corporal, I’m Gunner Milton, reporting here from Catterick.’

  ‘Gunner, not a corporal?’ he puzzled, glancing at the letter. ‘This is a teaching detachment, NBC. What are you supposed to do?’

  ‘Probably sweep the floors. I was sent here as a punishment.’

  ‘Oh.’ He headed to the files.

  NBC was Nuclear, Biological or Chemical warfare, and it meant teaching RAF staff about rubber suits and respirators. I had studied it myself in basic training, and had read up on the subject, but I was not a corporal and so could not teach.

  ‘Grab a tea in there,’ the corporal finally said. ‘Orders at 8.45am each day normally.’

  I wandered in and knocked on the kettle, a corporal looking up.

  ‘Who are you?’ he puzzled.

  ‘New guy, Corporal.’

  ‘No rank?’

  ‘No, Corporal.’

  ‘So what are you supposed to do here?’

  ‘Good question, Corporal. You tell me, because I have no idea.’

  With a deep frown he went back to his cup of tea, and with mine made I sat at the back, glancing up at posters on the walls, and feeling isolated. NCO’s arrived, a few glancing at me, and chairs were moved around so that they faced a desk at the front.

  A sergeant stepped in, and stopped dead when he saw me. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ He was not trying to be rude.

  ‘Not sure, Sergeant, but I’m attached to you now. Hoping you might tell me.’ NCOs glanced around.

  ‘Well, CO might know.’

  The officer stepped in, a Fl Lt, and I stood, but I was just about the only one. He sat, and puzzled me. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Gunner Milton, sir, assigned here now.’

  The officer glanced at his files. ‘I ...did ... see ... something.’ He looked up. ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I think, sir, as a punishment.’

  ‘A punishment. Where’d did you come from?’

  ‘51 Squadron, sir, Catterick.’

  ‘And they sent you as a punishment?’

  ‘They sent me, sir, to be away from 51 Squadron. Had some bother there.’

  ‘This a teaching detachment, not a remedial centre or a prison. What the hell were they thinking? And what did you do wrong?’

  ‘I got an officer arrested.’

  ‘Arrested? What for?’

  ‘For ... breaking military law, sir.’

  The sergeant said, ‘You don’t recognise him, sir.’

  ‘Eh ... no, why?’

  ‘He was the RAF runner shot in the London Marathon.’

  All heads turned to me, startled looks adopted.

  ‘That was you!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So why are you being punished?’

  I sighed. ‘When I first did well in the marathon and was tripped a few men were jealous, a brick through my window. Months later I woke to find one of those men pissing on my face. I shoved him, he fell, broke his neck, I got 90 days in the Glass House.

  ‘At the end of the 90 days I entered the marathon again, and was shot, and ... before I was shot my charge was overturned, the officer reprimanded, and I’m due some compensation.

  ‘When I got back to Catterick the officers were not a happy bunch -’

  ‘Because the decision was overturned,’ the officer noted.

  ‘Yes, sir. They tried to confine me to the base, and when I pointed out that they couldn’t they tried to confine me to the guardhouse.’

  ‘Officer can’t confine a man unless he’s a suicide risk or a risk to others, and then just till the police turn up,’ the Fl Lt noted. ‘They should have known that. Fools. So you wrecked someone’s career.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And now you’re lumbered with me.’

  ‘Well you can’t teach, you have no rank.’

  ‘I am a fully qualified and time-served armourer, sir.’

  ‘You are? Well that helps a lot, armoury is always winging for some help.’

  ‘Also a medic, sir.’

  ‘Yes? Well that could be useful as well. Driving license?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Land Rover and three-tonner.’

  ‘Any medical problems from being shot?’

  ‘None, sir, clean bill of health, went for a run this morning.’

  A corporal said, ‘You fucked up my marathon,’ and a few laughed. ‘They stopped the race!’

  The Fl Lt put in, ‘Getting shot does that, yes.’

  The corporal added, ‘Little bastard tanked me on the inter-services as well.’

  The officer said to me, ‘After orders, present yourself to the armoury, and I’ll think about what you can do.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  And after orders I headed off, studying my map. I pressed a buzzer at the armoury, and a gruff voice said, ‘What?’

  ‘You need any help in there?’

  ‘What?’ came a puzzled voice.

  ‘You need any help cleaning weapons, measuring, testing.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘An armourer.’

  ‘Yeah, well what you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you to get the kettle on.’

  A hatch opened in a heavy metal door, a puzzled pair of eyes peering out, the heavy door finally opened.

  ‘Who are you?’ a sergeant asked.

  ‘You know Bongo?’

  ‘Yeah..?’

  ‘I was his roommate for the past two years, Gunner up in Catterick, but I did the armourers courses, both, top marks. I got posted here, but they said you may need a hand.’

  His face lit up. ‘Really? Come the fuck in.’

  It was a dark armoury, it had that gun-oil smell, but it was a big armoury for a big base. A second man was sat at a workbench.

  ‘Help has arrived,’ the sergeant told the corporal. ‘Armourer stationed here with the Regiment.’

  ‘You look familiar,’ the corporal noted as I sat, the kettle knocked on.

  ‘I’m the silly cunt that was shot in the London Marathon.’

  ‘Fuck ... me, you’re ‘im?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ the sergeant let out. ‘A famous face in here with us peasants.’

  Tea down, I gave them the story over an hour.

  ‘Fucking cunts,’ the corporal snarled. ‘All a bunch of wankers out there. And the Regiment here ... they got no respect for us. They has some exercise and we have to stay late, not so much as a warning or a thank you.’

  ‘What can I help you with?’ I offered.

  ‘Got a bunch of old SLRs, some might make the grade, takes fucking ages.’

  ‘I know what to do, starting with barrels and cocking levers.’

  ‘Kid knows his stuff,’ the sergeant commended.

  We had lunch together, plus our evening meal, and I met a fourth armourer – a lad who worked nights and slept in the armoury most days.

  I was informed that about eight times a year there would be an alert or an exercise, and so he had to be ready for it day and night, and getting time off for holidays was an issue. They called him Hamster because he was asleep during the day, and also asleep at night when he was on call, leaving me smiling.

  The corporal, I discovered, was called Mickey, and the sergeant was called “Lofty” - on account of the fact that he was short.

  I joined Hamster that evening and tested old SLRs till 10pm, as he slept in a cot, before heading back to my lonely room. In the block I could hear music, and from my room I could hear loud music, but I was not going to cause a fight, not till my second week maybe.

  The music went off at 11.30pm, and I went off to sleep at midnight, awake at 5am and alert. But i
nstead of going for a run I went back to the armoury and woke Hamster, who had slept most of the night.

  A bleary face let me in before going back to bed. I got the kettle on, toast made in the armoury toaster, and got back to the SLRs. By time Mickey turned up I had six SLRs ready for final testing, and that was six more than was expected this year.

  At 8.30am I headed to my detachment orders and sat at the back, and when it came to me I told them I had spent all day and all night in the armoury working on the backlog, and that I would go back now.

  The CO offered me an extra day off as and when, and made a note, making me smile inwardly. ‘That armoury has been under-staffed since the last war,’ he quipped.

  I had won a small victory, an extra day off, and maybe that was how I would win this war; one small victory at a time I considered as I headed back to the armoury.

  It rained hard for a few days, and I wanted to run in full kit, but out on the public roads that was frowned upon. I spoke to the corporal who I had inconvenienced in the marathon by getting shot, and he informed me that we could use the perimeter track before 7am, but had to check a sheet posted just inside the Air Traffic Control building.

  I went and had a look, a finger on days when traffic was due early, and there were not many, other than during exercises. I made a note of a few dates when I could not run.

  ‘Problem?’ came from behind me, a Squadron Leader.

  ‘No, sir, just that I want to run on the perimeter track certain days.’

  ‘You an athlete?’

  ‘Not a very good one, sir.’

  ‘Well stick at it, maybe someday.’ He walked on and stopped. ‘Why are you familiar?’

  I sighed. ‘I was the idiot shot in the London Marathon.’

  ‘You! My god, why didn’t you say. You run when you want, and we’ll move the damn aircraft around you. You all healed?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and now based here.’

  ‘I watched it on the TV, I was a runner when I was young, and you put on a hell of a show last year and this year, never seen determination like that before.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  And off he went with an encouraging smile. And I had an image of a Hercules aircraft braking hard and allowing me to cross the taxiway, men in orange waving me on as the priority traffic.