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

by Geoff Wolak

  I wandered to the armoury, and they were mortified at my state, the kettle knocked on, the story recanted over an hour. They did not want me driving any more, but with them, all secure behind thick walls and locked doors.

  Next stop was Transport, their officer mortified that the Group Captain had been hurt, lots of questions about blame, but he was finally satisfied. Just the small matter of a car written off and a shit load of forms to fill in. I sat and had a tea with the gang, the story recanted yet again.

  I got lift to the mess with the gang, attracting odd looks, and they dropped me off at my room after we had eaten, my bed reclaimed. I had Lucozade and chocolates, tins of meat, water, and so would have to just sit and read for a few weeks.

  That evening I rang Sue from a payphone. ‘Hi there,’ she keenly offered.

  ‘Listen, I was in a car smash, a bit busted up, but I can see you if I just sit down.’

  ‘I’ll drive to you.’

  ‘You can’t come on the base, but you could meet me at the gate. Get a map and have a look.’

  ‘We used to live near there, I’ve seen the signs for it.’

  ‘Saturday night then.’

  ‘7pm, allowing for girly navigation. And I don’t drive fast.’

  ‘So 8pm then.’

  ‘Probably.’

  The next day, and quote bored, I headed to the seldom-bothered Education Officer. There was no long queue of servicemen wanting to study something.

  He stopped dead as I entered. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘Car crash, sir, which I why am here.’

  ‘Insurance claims are next door,’ he quipped.

  ‘Good one, sir. Anyway, I have some time off to heal, so I figured I’d get some studying in. At Catterick I was learning Russian and Arabic.’

  In Russian he asked, ‘How far did you studies go?’

  In Russian I replied, ‘Your mother is a fucking whore.’ And waited.

  In English he noted, ‘Reasonable pronunciation, correct syntax, so there’s hope for you, just leave my mother out of it. Be good to blow the dust off the kit, it doesn’t get much use.’

  ‘I know how to use the machine with the key cards, sir.’

  ‘Fine. How many hours a week did you wish to commit to it?’

  ‘About eighty, sir.’

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘You know ... if you passed an exam it would make me look good.’

  ‘”O” Level Russian and Arabic then.’

  ‘Really. Excellent. And who and what are you?’

  ‘Gunner Milton, RAF Regiment.’

  ‘Never had one of yours set foot in here before, busted up, bored or otherwise.’

  After a cup of tea and chat I started on the tapes. The machine would show me the word in English, then in Russian, sounding it out into my headphones. I would repeat it, my words being recorded then played back to me after the correct pronunciation. If you hit a button it would repeat that word, over and over.

  After lunch in the canteen, attracting many looks, I was given a test to see what level my Russian was at.

  ‘You have many of the words in your head, syntax all wrong, but the basic vocabulary is quite wide, pronunciation is not bad.’ I showed him my diminishing list technique. ‘You’re a smart young man, so why not an officer.’

  ‘Figured I would work for a living, sir.’ He waited, so I gave him the short version.

  ‘A waste of your abilities, driving and working in the armoury. Still, a few years down the road you could revisit the Commission Board, they may not shoot you on sight.’

  Each day followed the same pattern, but I was not bored, I was keen to learn, and I had a nice lady officer to teach me Russian, a man to teach me Arabic for my planned exams, and they treated me more like a friend that a lowly Gunner.

  I was eating well, putting on some weight, but not running or exercising, my ribs still an issue if I attempted anything that involved moving my body. Fortunately, I tended not to thrash about in bed, so I got a good night’s kip.

  Saturday, Sue picked me, lots of sympathy over a nice meal, a hand job in the car before she dropped me off back at the gate.

  At the end of the second week I was summoned to Admin, quite a crowd there, Group Captain Black in a wheelchair, his wife to one side, two teenage girls with them – presumably their kids. The Station Commander was also present.

  I saluted the Station Commander, even though he was also a Group Captain. ‘Senior officer present.’

  He stepped forwards, an A4 letter in a glass frame handed over, a photographer moving in, and I was embarrassed as hell. ‘You saved the Group Captain’s life that day, as a result of which you now have a commendation on your file. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ I held the glass frame as the photographer did his bit, many applauding.

  The Group Captain was pushed forwards. ‘I’m alive thanks to some lightening reflexes, and some expert first aid.’

  ‘You getting better, sir?’

  ‘Yes, but the tendons attached to my spine were torn, so damned painful for a long time yet. And you ... you never told me about the London Marathon.’

  ‘Not something I like to talk about, sir.’

  ‘Rubbish, you’re a sporting hero, be proud of what you achieved.’

  His wife thanked me, many people talking at once.

  The Group Captain finally said, ‘I was short time anyway, so they’ve sent me packing, indefinite leave, so you won’t be driving me around anymore.’

  ‘Slow road to recovery for us both, sir.’

  ‘You mending?’

  ‘Ribs were broken, and they take a while to stop hurting.’

  ‘Damn right, I need pain killers to sleep.’

  Ten minutes later and the stern-featured Station Commander wanted a word, a private word, so I was worried. He led me to his office, another senior officer with him.

  ‘You’ve been here a while, but only now I find out just who you are; they didn’t bother to tell me. And I’ve been getting the story from various sources, so why don’t you tell me your side.’

  ‘Why, sir, I’ll probably buy myself out soon.’

  ‘You gave the Group Captain expert first aid, saved his spine probably, so I don’t think you’re ready to give up on us just yet.’ He waited.

  ‘What happened will never go away, sir.’

  ‘Were you at fault at any point?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And the paralysed man?’

  ‘He had a grudge born out of jealousy, and I woke to find him pissing on my face. I shoved him away, he fell, neck done in. I then put him in the recovery position, stopped my roommates from killing the man, and ran for an ambulance.’

  ‘Honourable conduct.’

  ‘But then I got shat on by the Air Force,’ I said with some attitude.

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘You were cleared, but the mood was spoilt by a young officer going too far and incarcerating you, and then you were sent here in a holding pattern.’

  I waited.

  ‘Is there ... anything the RAF can do to keep you in?’

  ‘Not sure, sir, maybe in time I’ll forget about it. But a US Marines captain gave me some good advice recently. He said to chip away at the system a day at a time, so I will, and I studied military law.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ he loudly stated. ‘You see someone here breaking military law I want to know, not for it to be swept under the damn rug, and I want no bullying on my base. You chip away with my blessing, and maybe something like this won’t happen again.’

  The second officer began, ‘You’re supposed to be on leave...’

  ‘I’d be bored, sir, so I’m doing an “O” Level in Russian and one in Arabic.’

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘Stick at a while longer, Milton, at least till you get those exams passed; Education Officer is always whinging at how few attempt written exams here.’

  ‘There is one favour, sir.’

 
He squinted. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Not normal for a Gunner like me to do the further medical courses at Lyneham, no real need for such a qualification – we’re supposed to shoot people.’

  ‘As you demonstrated recently, good first aid skills are handy, so I’ll write to the aero-meds.’

  ‘They already know me well, sir.’

  ‘So that course would keep you around longer then...’

  ‘By almost a year probably, sir.’

  ‘Excellent, time to think.’

  Back in the Education Wing I showed them my letter and explained the story, soon on Arabic contractions, which were damn hard.

  Later in the week a Russian appeared in civvy clothes, the man from some shadowy government agency. We started simple and he corrected my pronunciation as we went, and he explained the contractions. He also gave me a few swear words and insults, as well a hand gestures.

  I practised them on the Education Officer over a cup of tea.

  ‘Making good progress, yes. But talk like that to a Russian face to face and it’ll be a fight to the death.’

  I began, ‘In Germany, Wildenrath, I was on guard duty one day, just helping out, and this sergeant came in a bit drunk, and I told him in German: halt or I’ll shit you!’

  They laughed.

  ‘Similar words,’ the Education Officer agreed.

  The Education Officer said, ‘Did you know ... that Clatterfart is a blabbermouth of the Middle Ages, and that Fanny-Blower worked on early glass bulbs, and that a Fuksheet is part of a mainsail. In boarding school we use to try and use these words just to upset our teachers.’

  I put in, ‘Did you know that Niggardly is nothing to do with blacks, and means to be tight with money.’

  ‘I had heard it, yes,’ the Education Officer mentioned. ‘But I won’t be using it in everyday speech.’

  I took my guest to the pub for lunch, and he admitted to making random calls to Communist Generals and Politicians just to wind them up. He once had a Russian tank brigade halt because he reported a great whore-house nearby over the radio. The brigade commander was sent to Siberia.

  I smiled widely. ‘Bit of cunt, really, aren’t you, sir.’

  ‘It was the plan, back in the sixties and seventies, to confuse the enemy. We had transmitters on the border so it would sound like genuine orders, and we got good at mimicking accents. I once mimicked a colonel chatting to his wife on a priority radio channel, got him arrested.’

  I laughed before sipping my beer. ‘Sounds like fun.’

  By the end of the day I had made good progress on a key group of words and phrases, and my new friend would be back next week. He was bored, he admitted.

  I was also bored, in the evenings, but read my books and the time passed quickly.

  The next day they had a surprise for me, my “A” Level History certificate had come through after quite a journey to several bases. I passed with a “B” grade. They had a small cake, a candle, and took the piss something terrible. I then had to explain to the lady officer my time in the Glass House over tea and birthday cake.

  The following Saturday I felt much better, and met Sue lunchtime. The weather was good, so we drove to Oxford and went punting, Sue having to stop me hitting a few idiots on the water. We found a pub on a river, and sat on the grass chatting for a few hours, bread thrown at the ducks.

  ‘Are you trying to hit them on the head?’ she asked at one point.

  ‘Oh, no, just that they put their heads in the way.’

  She slapped my arm. When she threw she hit a small duck on the head and it flapped away. ‘Christ, you don’t think it’s injured, do you?’

  ‘No, be fine, and go nice with some cranberry sauce.’

  Seeing a sign for Bed and Breakfast I suggested we get a room, and after a minute she reluctantly agreed. In the room we realised we had no spare clothes, so I said we would wash our underwear and dry it overnight. But first we should have a shower.

  I was not thinking straight. Clothes off, she gasped at my scars, and I had to explain the marathon. Up to now I had not mentioned it. Sex was off the cards for now, I had to explain it all at length, an hour used up as we lay naked under the sheets.

  ‘Not your fault,’ she finally agreed, her head on my chest. Her hand went down to my cock, and that was the starting gun for a monster one-hour session in and out of the shower, complimentary water bottle opened and gulped.

  Lying down afterwards, I started to struggle to breathe, and coughed. I wondered about my ribs, Sue worried, and I opened a window and tried to breathe, almost collapsing.

  The landlord appeared below, collecting glasses from the benches.

  ‘Hey, idiot! What’s in the pillows in my room!’

  ‘Duck down.’

  ‘Might ... need ... a fucking ... ambulance.’

  He panicked, and called an ambulance, so I got my trousers on, Sue worried for me as we waited.

  The paramedic gave me oxygen. ‘Common it is, duck down in country cottages, and most Brits are allergic to it. Should be banned.’

  The pillows were swapped for foam, the landlord apologised, and Sue and I headed back to the room.

  ‘I had duck pillows as a kid,’ she noted. ‘Used to them.’

  ‘Well I learnt one thing,’ I began, still rasping. ‘If I’m planning on having sex with you ... bring oxygen.’

  She giggled as I threw her onto the bed.

  Returning to base late on Sunday I felt good, I felt relaxed and happy, and what I needed was more time away, not to be cooped-up here so much.

  Returning to the Education Centre on Monday after a quick – and painful – run, I settled down to some work, and I was adding thirty words a day, a good tally, but also working on the Cyrillic letters, getting better slowly.

  Arabic writing was an issue, right to left on the page, and I was starting to draw the symbols for yes and no, man and woman, the basics of the alphabet practised over and over. To pass the exam I would need to write the answers down in Arabic.

  I also learnt that there were many variations of Arabic, as there were many English accents. From Morocco to Syria they spoke different dialects, the core language the same. I had bought books from a shop in Oxford, and so the history of Russia and the wider history of the Middle East was also a study topic, my bookshelf growing.

  My runs were getting longer, and getting less painful as the weeks went by, and the hot summer on the base was quite enjoyable. I was away from the Regiment NCOs, I liked the Educational staff, and I ate and drank with my buddies from the armoury and from Transport.

  But the shit was only ever a step away. After a hard day’s study followed by a hard night’s reading, I woke to find someone trying to kick my door in. Jumping up, I opened the door in a daze, the door kicked, my face hit. Stunned, I shook it off as a dark figure entered my room. I punched. I punched with all my might, a jaw hit, my hand hurt.

  The dark outline fell back, and fell still. Lights on, my face was hurting, my hand throbbing. Whoever he was, I did not recognise him as I looked. He was unconscious but breathing, so I put him in the recovery position, soon banging on the door of a lad that seemed pleasant in passing. He appeared in his pants, bleary eyed.

  ‘Some guy just tried to kick my door in, I hit him. Watch him while I go for help.’

  ‘Uh ... oh, OK.’

  I got dressed quickly, checked the body, and ran down the stairs and to the guardroom, a short sprint. I shouted the block number, second floor right, and the internal street name, and for an ambulance to come. I ran back.

  And I waited with the guy from next door, chatting idly, asking him not to go back to bed yet. And I waited some more, glancing out the window. A full twenty minutes later an MP Land Rover pulled up, the two MPs casually getting down and ambling in.

  I went to the stairs. ‘Up here!’ I called down. They plodded up in their own good time, sergeant and corporal.

  ‘You’re Wilco,’ the corporal noted.

  ‘Wher
e’s the ambulance?’ I asked.

  ‘What ambulance?’

  ‘I reported and unconscious man! Twenty minutes ago.’

  They glanced at him. ‘We investigate and assess first -’

  ‘No you don’t, you stupid cunt, you get an ambulance before a man dies!’

  I got an angry pointed finger from the big sergeant. ‘You’re now on a charge, so button it before it’s a court martial!’

  ‘A charge?’ I shook my head. ‘I’ll get the ambulance myself!’ I went to push past, but they grabbed me, arm behind my back, my ribs protesting that move. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Detaining you!’

  I shouted at the lad from next door. ‘Get an ambulance for that guy before he dies!’ doors opening, people coming out to see what was up. ‘Someone go for an ambulance!’

  ‘You stay there!’ they shouted at him.

  I hissed, ‘If he dies you get charged with culpable manslaughter for refusing to get an ambulance. You should know that!’

  ‘You’re coming with us.’ And they marched me bent double down the stairs.

  Outside, another Land Rover had pulled up, an MP officer stepping down, a young Pilot Officer. ‘What’s going on here, Sergeant?’ he calmly enquired.

  ‘Sir,’ I shouted. ‘Wounded man inside, get a fucking ambulance before your fucking career is ended, they refuse to get an ambulance!’

  ‘I’ll get a medic,’ he said as I struggled.

  ‘I am a fucking medic! Get an ambulance, you useless fuck!’ And I kicked him in the shins as best as I could, being shoved face down. ‘Get a fucking ambulance before he dies!’

  After a night in a cell, this time under lawful arrest and offered counsel, I was stood in front of the station commander with the MP officer, sergeant and corporal, the MP’s CO present with several other officers – the man looking harassed.

  The station commander began, ‘So let me get this straight. Gunner Milton shouts at the duty corporal to get an ambulance. He doesn’t call an ambulance, he calls you and reports and disturbance instead, delaying an ambulance that might have made the difference between life and death.

  ‘Then you two -’ He pointed at the NCOs. ‘- drive slowly around and find an unconscious man, Gunner Milton asking about an ambulance, which you had failed to call. Milton then screams at you to get an ambulance – in front of witnesses – and you grab him and bundle him out.