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

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Step back in there and you’ll never walk again,’ I told him, and shoved him into a car, his face impacting it, the horrified owner stood at the door as I headed back in. I walked through the tables and sat. ‘No fuss, sir.’

  The Squadron Leader began, ‘Most people are terrified of a man with a knife, but you treat it like a game.’

  ‘All comes down to training and practise, sir, like sex.’ Trish coughed out some of her drink. ‘You read the book, look at the diagrams, then practise by yourself, then with others or in teams.’

  They laughed loudly.

  ‘We are talking about martial arts here,’ the Squadron Leader clarified with a smile. ‘Because I’ve not heard of sex being practised in teams of men of equal size.’

  It had been nice to be close to the object of my desires, elbows touched, words exchanged, and she seemed to be warming to me. The team won, the Air Commodore confiscating the bottle since I – his driver – had saved all their lives. ATC protested the saving of their lives, to no avail as I laughed at them. I drove the boss home, arriving just at 11pm.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ he offered me.

  ‘Good night, sir. Enjoy the wine.’

  Saturday lunchtime I drove up to Cosford with Trevors, and he had petitioned the RAF to have more than one fight booked for me – health permitting; meaning that if I was not hurt I could fight someone else. Since the RAF we very keen to see me move up the ranks and well, rules would be bent for me.

  Bongo and the armoury lads were along, but without Hamster of course – he was sleeping, several lads from Transport, a few of the ATC officers – but my heart skipped a beat when I clocked Trish. What the hell was she doing here, I had to wonder. Boxing was not a lady’s thing. I tried to ignore looking at her as I greeted people, then wondered why I cared, I could never take her out.

  Changed and ready, the other RAF boxers were staring at me, wondering who the hell I was.

  Outside the changing rooms I found the Air Commodore, surprised since he did not say he would attend. ‘Your wife’s sister still with you, sir?’ I teased.

  He laughed. ‘No, come to support our golden boy, so make us proud.’

  ‘I’ll try, sir.’

  Weighed, ID checked, in I climbed, a cheer from my supporters, which was nice. Headgear checked, gloves checked, I was trying hard not to look into the crowd for Trish. I had to shake off images of shagging her, to wanting to kill the man in front of me.

  He appeared resolute, and since he had been boxing for years and I was the novice, he should have been resolute.

  Gloves touched, sent back, Ding!

  I moved purposefully forwards, and I dropped my right glove, an opening as I reached striking distance. He went for it, I read it, around to his right – my left, a monster left hook whilst taking a big risk, and I slammed my glove into his headgear in front of his ear. His almost swung around backwards, and he span as he fell.

  ‘Medics!’ was called, the man out cold.

  My team cheered. But if the man had been paying attention he could have hit me and knocked me down – my defence wide open as I went for the hook, a gamble.

  I was led down as they announced another bout, and ten minutes passed. I was back in the ring, limbering up, my opponent looking fit and strong, good definition, good biceps. And he would be cautious. I, on the other hand, wanted it finished quick, no time taken where I took a few blows.

  Gloves touched, moved back, Ding!

  I moved in, but as soon as I was to striking distance he closed the gap, a lunging punch taking, both my gloves blocking it and pushing it back. He kept coming, more punches, and this was unusual. But I also saw an opportunity.

  He favoured his right, a jab that was almost a hook, and he was over-reaching himself. I lowered my left glove and gave him the opening he wanted, and he took it, a scrape of my ear as I moved right, left jab to his glove impacting his face, monster right hook with no defence and I caught him turning his head towards it by mistake.

  His glove was almost there in time, but momentum was against him, his face spun around, a pirouette before he hit the deck.

  ‘Medics!’ was heard as I stepped back to my corner. The ref pointed me out of the ring, and I would be allowed a third bout since I had not been hit and displayed no blood.

  Up next was the RAF No.1, and if I beat him I was – technically – No.1, but Trevors explained that the RAF had a team and it was based on average performances over many years. One of the umpires explained that if I won it was just one match, so I’d not be No.1. That pissed me off, so I wanted this guy hurt.

  Ten minutes later I was back in the ring, and despite being No.1 this guy was not so different to my last opponent, same build. Maybe he had some skills, I considered. And maybe he would embarrass me in front of Trish – a fate worse than death.

  I had to stop and consider what I was thinking like a ten year old boy, and shook it off.

  Gloves touched, move back, Ding!

  I tapped my gloves together and moved forwards, keeping my guard low, but high enough, elbows in, a few jabs exchanged. I went on the attack, a series of powerful left jabs aimed and timed to hit him in the face with his own gloves, and I was succeeding. I was also driving him back towards the ropes.

  When his back grazed the rope he half turned his head left as I had hoped for. I lunged left, spun and twisted, wide open, the monster left hook catching him before he got his glove up, but not a great connection, straight to the right hook – hitting his glove very hard and driving it into his face, second left hook, a good connection, second right hook to the gloves issuing blood from his nose, final left hook taking him down – and out.

  I walked back as my team cheered, Trevors smiling up. Led out and down, that it was it for the day, the Air Commodore congratulating me. Dressed now, I met the support team outside, Trish making sly eye contact, half a smile, and I had to wonder why.

  After a ten minute chat to various supporters we headed back.

  On the Monday, Trevors came and found me. ‘Some news.’

  I waited.

  ‘The RAF’s No.1 is out the game, a broken jaw that will take months to mend, and then they probably won’t let him back. But you’re not popular.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘The other two you hit, broken jaws, out the team, so the team is down three men.’

  ‘Down two if I join the team!’ I protested.

  ‘The team is not just about who’s the best.’

  ‘What a load of bollocks,’ I told him.

  A few days later and the RAF had notified Trevors that I would be in the team for a friendly against the Army.

  ‘When they say friendly..?’ I asked Trevors.

  He laughed. ‘It means a bout that has no points towards the championships. You still hit the guy hard.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  Back working in Transport, and a lad I knew – Ellis – was up on serious charges. Over a cup of tea he explained the circumstances.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ I told him.

  The next day he and I walked into the hearing, held by the MP officer.

  After we had saluted, the MP Fl Lt said, ‘Wilco, what you doing here?’

  ‘As you are well aware, sir, a serviceman may ask for someone to be with him during a hearing, no limits as to who. The serviceman is also entitled to counsel -’

  ‘You’re not authorised.’

  ‘I’m not here as counsel, but SAC Ellis is willing to forego the arrival of Colonel Bennet if I can address you. Also, the serviceman is entitled to ask for a hearing in front of a nominated senior officer, so I nominate the base commander.’

  ‘The base commander? He’s a busy man –’

  The door opened and the Group Captain stepped in with another officer. The Fl Lt had stood. ‘Sit, sit, just ignore me.’ He sat, the other officer standing.

  I faced the Fl Lt as he sat. ‘So, as I was saying, we nominate the Group Captain.’ I stepped to the side and faced
Ellis, a big MP Sergeant stood opposite. ‘Ellis is here for being AWOL, and for the misuse of an MOD vehicle. So, to recap. Ellis drove out lunchtime in an MOD vehicle, to the shops. He called his mum because she had not been well lately.

  ‘His mother, using a cordless phone, reported that she had fallen and hurt herself. Ellis knew that his mother would not call an ambulance, because the good lady did not like making a fuss. Ellis’s sister was on the way, an hour’s drive, whereas Ellis could reach his mum in Oxford in less than fifteen minutes – and he did so.

  ‘When he got there he called an ambulance, his mother having broken a hip and a wrist. He was late getting back, and MOD vehicle used for private means.

  ‘If, Flight Lieutenant, you mean to prosecute and punish Ellis for misuse of that vehicle, then you will set a president whereby others – Group Captain – would also be held accountable.’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ came from the base commander.

  I continued, ‘I often misuse my vehicle for the Air Commodore, I have even take him to the opera in it, sat outside waiting, MOD petrol used.’ I pointed at the MP sergeant. ‘He takes his kids to school in his, and fishing on the weekends. And you, Flight Lieutenant, made a flagrant use of yours last Wednesday afternoon.

  ‘So, sir, if there is such as thing as gross misuse of an MOD car, most of the people in this room will need to be charged.’

  The base commander stood, the Fl Lt following him up. ‘I’d rather not be charged with misuse of a vehicle, and I’m sure that you don’t want to be, so wrap this up quickly.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The base commander left us, taking the second officer.

  I added, ‘Ellis admits his guilt, sir, and throws himself at the mercy of the hearing.’

  ‘Ellis ... you’ll get some extra guard room duty, ten quid for the petrol. Dismissed.’

  We both saluted, turned and left.

  Saturday morning, pissing down with rain, we travelled down to Farnborough, facing the Army on their home turf, a small support team with me this time, no Trish or any ATC officers, no Air Commodore. And I warned the supporters not to piss off the Army spectators and to get into a punch up.

  In the changing rooms I noticed a few six-foot six monsters, and they had the RAF beaten on ugliness by far. In my shorts, I was getting looks again, puzzled looks, because they had not seen someone like me before.

  I was introduced to the team, and the team captain, coaches and officers. There would be six short bouts, but there were five RAF fighters suitable.

  ‘Someone will go up twice,’ the officer noted. ‘See who’s in good form and not hurt.’

  ‘How about you just put Wilco up six times,’ Trevors suggested.

  He got an angered pointy finger from the officer. ‘Keep your flippant remarks to yourself, Sergeant.’

  I already wanted to hit this officer, but bit my tongue. I was up second, the first RAF lad getting a bloody nose and losing.

  Headgear checked, gloves checked, we were moved apart, and I was up against a guy a good three inches taller than me. He had the reach, looked mean and tough - he had the bulk but not the definition. And I could see the caution in his eyes.

  I also knew he had not seen me fight, so...

  Ding!

  I rushed straight in, right glove down, the bait taken, swing left, left hook with every ounce of strength I had, and I knocked him clean off his feet. He landed heavy, like a dead fish, the crowd not happy.

  ‘Medics!’ was called after a few seconds, and I returned to my corner, climbing down when allowed to do so.

  Trevors was shaking his head. ‘Box the guy, eh.’

  Tracksuit on, I sat on the bench, my opponent stretched away.

  The next RAF lad got a bloody nose, and lost, so to the third RAF lad, the final RAF lad losing on points.

  I was, reluctantly, chosen to go on again. They checked me over for injuries, headgear on, gloves checked, rules stated, warnings given, gloves touched – and I was up against a guy even bigger than the last. He also seemed confident.

  Ding!

  I moved in, rolling my shoulders, getting ready, guard high but a tempting target.

  Left hand down, he went for it, I ducked and bent my knees at the same time, his forearm rubbing over my head, short left hook to the liver, cheeky punch to his ear before I leapt backwards.

  We squared up, and now he was less confident and more angry. I moved to his left, my right, my left glove sagging deliberately. Ignoring my trick he went for a combination, his jab blocked, his hook ducked under, a cheeky jab to his nose making contact.

  He was hurting, a trickle of blood.

  I figured he would have forgotten my last fight by now, so moved in quickly, a duck right, bait taken, bend down and left under – his elbow hitting the top of my head, short left hook to the liver again with all my might, and he bent just enough – big right hook snapping his face around, his gloves coming down, right hook sending him into the ropes, but he was hanging in there.

  He bounced off the ropes, left arm down and right glove up, so I hooked around to the right and caught him well, sending him back into the ropes, both gloves coming down, a right hook with all my might right on the chin, the ref shoulder-butting me hard out the way as my opponent slid down in a heap.

  ‘Medics!’ was called quickly as I returned to my corner and to Trevors.

  ‘Good tactical moves,’ he commended.

  ‘Knockout!’

  I was allowed down, the RAF losing the “friendly” on points.

  Trevors cheekily told the officer, ‘Good job Wilco was here, sir, or it would have been a white wash.’

  He got another pointed finger.

  An Army sergeant, clearly a boxer, came and found me. ‘Good work in there, not seen someone fight that like for a long time. And you’re a novice?’

  ‘I’ve been training for years, punch bag and Kung Fu, but took up boxing recently.’

  ‘You’re built like a pro.’

  ‘Marathon running and swimming.’

  ‘And the scars?’

  ‘London Marathon.’

  ‘Ah ... that was you. Put on some weight since then.’

  I got back to training in Swindon, and told them all about the RAF bouts, and that the RAF did not want me fighting outside the RAF. For now I would just train with Slug, my aim being an Armed Forces medal to start.

  I discussed my tactics with him, blow by blow from the last two fights, and he helped me develop tactics. I would often travel down on a Sunday and work up a sweat, sparing with one opponent after another, fast young lads. I was pulling my punches, but learning to duck and weave better.

  Three weeks after the “friendly” there was another friendly against the Navy, and their team included Marines, some very good boxers. I was wondering how long it would be before I was the one on the canvas and bleeding.

  On a chilly day we drove down to Portsmouth, and to a tatty boxing hall, civilians in the spectators, my support team limited again.

  Changed into my shorts, questions were asked, unfriendly questions, ID checked, the RAF officer in charge shouting at people: did they think the RAF brought in an imposter? Well, yes they did, they said, the RAF boxers always a bit crap.

  In I went, first bout, the crowd puzzling just who the hell I was, my opponent none too pleased. He was slightly shorter than me, but stocky, reasonable definition in his arms, and a face that had been hit a few times.

  Headgear checked, gloves checked, moved apart, Ding!

  I moved in, realising that he had his head on his chin, and I would be aiming down a little. Still, I had the reach. Feint right, he blocked, big left hook hitting him in the ear taking him by surprise, my second hook also surprising him, my fourth and fifth nudging him around and towards his corner, and I kept going, six good hits landed, his headgear moving, final left hook with all I had aiming down, scraping his shoulder and hitting his small chin and snapping it around.

  I walked backwards, he
shook his head, stared at the ref, and slowly slid sideways down the rope – and out. The crowd booed.

  Second bout for the RAF, and we lost on points. Third bout, and it was halted, a bloody nose, and we lost. Fourth bout, we lost after a knockdown – but not a knock out. I was back on.

  The Navy had saved their best till last, and he looked like he trained every day, well defined, but I had no idea if he was Royal Marines or a chef in the Navy as he limbered up. I rolled my shoulders and bounced up and down, trying to remember what Slug had tried to teach me. Tactics would count here.

  Ding! And we were closing in.

  I decided to let him make a move, and lowered my left glove. He went for the right jab, but not with any force, but I moved into it and to his right, his glove scoring a point with the judges for sure as it made grazing contact.

  He misjudged my legs, because I had closed eighteen inches quickly. His guard came up to his right, but I went for a right hook with all I had, catching him on the nose and sending him down. He was dazed but not out, counted out.

  The RAF team had saved face, two bouts won and four lost, not a total whitewash.

  The following week, and with Trevors arguing with the RAF team managers, I was listed No.1 for the RAF. That meant I would have fewer bouts to reach the quarter finals, and two weeks later we drove to Colchester for those quarter finals; being No.1 in the RAF rankings did not mean I attended the final automatically.

  I got the same odd looks after changing, but now the Army team managers and coaches knew me, and curled lips at me.

  My first bout was in front of a hostile crowd who were all Army, and I was up against their No.4, a quality fighter by all accounts, and a big lad, good reach. He had not been in the “friendly”. I had been training hard, and when he saw me I could see the look in his eyes; he looked like a fit servicemen, I looked like someone off the TV.

  Ding! And we closed.

  I could see straight away that his guard was low, his right glove way down, and that he liked a fast and loose approach rather than standing and taking it. When handed an opening, Slug had said, use it!