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

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Shot twice, but not in the Gulf.’

  ‘What are you – your job?’

  ‘RAF Regiment, I just got back from the Gulf.’

  ‘They all built like you?’

  ‘Most are, so don’t piss them off. Now, I get up and go for a run at 5am. Who here ... would like a bucket of cold water on their heads at 5am?’

  None answered, looks exchanged.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, so keep it down after 11.30pm.’

  ‘We’re in enough trouble as it is,’ a lad said.

  ‘What ... did you do?’

  ‘We snuck down the pub last night, so we’re in the shit.’

  ‘You here on a parachute course?’

  ‘Yeah, but it keeps fucking raining.’

  ‘Good luck with the weather,’ I said as I headed off, soon flopping on the bed again, my body on Saudi time.

  At 7.30pm I was changed and ready to go, but on the stairs balcony I found a Parachute Regiment officer about to go into the dorm.

  ‘Would you know Wilco?’

  ‘I’m him, sir.’

  ‘I have a favour to ask.’ I waited. ‘Could you take these shits running at 5am?’

  I smiled. ‘I could, sir, but I’d have to slow down a bit.’

  ‘I want you to run them ragged. Weather forecast for tomorrow is shite, so ... get them wet as well.’

  I led him into the dorm, and they stamped to attention. ‘OK,’ I loudly began. ‘Your officer here has asked that I wake you at 5am, and take you for a run. So, you will be up and ready to go by 5.15am, or I will kick the shit out of you. You can walk outside and assemble in the morning, or you can go through the fucking window – I don’t care.’

  I turned and smiled at the officer, and he seemed pleased with my approach.

  I met Marsh at the Mason’s Arms pub, and he was jealous as hell of my time in Riyahd, amazed at the stories, and we ate a curry till late. I got back at 1am, the Para’s all quiet and asleep, and I set my alarm just in case my body remained on Saudi time.

  Sleeping in my old bed was strange, as well as small and cramped compared to my hotel room in Riyadh, but I eventually nodded off. At 5.15am I found the Paras ready, but in gym kit, whilst I was in combats, backpack and bit of wood.

  ‘No, gentlemen, it’s very wet outside, and we don’t want you getting a chill, so you have ten minutes to get your combats on. Chop chop.’

  They were no trouble, and I led them off at a steady pace, soon on the perimeter track, a bit of a breeze and steady rain. I picked up the pace and they kept up, quite fit young Paras. I set a steady pace, but not one that would kill them, and they completed two laps well enough.

  Picking up the pace, they strained a little, but were determined and fit, and as I led them I could feel a pride in myself that was uncommon, and I wanted to lead young men and to train them. Maybe someday, I told myself.

  I eased down the pace for the final lap, and they were panting as they neared the ten mile mark, but I was impressed that they had kept up. On the far side of the track I halted them.

  ‘OK, in order for your stuffy officer to think that you have had a hard time I want you to wet your hands on the track, get a bit of mud and then flick it at each other.’

  They did so, laughing, but were soon spotted with mud. Formed up, we sprinted back, and the Captain was sat in a Land Rover waiting. I shouted at the lads, they stamped to attention, and I saluted the captain.

  ‘How did they do?’ he asked.

  ‘OK, sir, no moaning. They could do with warming up before they all complain about a chill.’

  ‘Get inside, showered and cleaned up ready for breakfast!’ the captain bellowed, and the lads ran inside. ‘Thanks for that,’ he offered me.

  ‘I run every morning, sir, no big deal.’

  ‘You run like that?’

  ‘Yes, sir, twenty miles,’ I lied.

  ‘No wonder you’re fit.’

  After a week of driving the Air Commodore around, and numerous jokes about Riyadh when we were bored and stuck in traffic, and I asked for a favour. He would talk to the PTS at Brize, and I would tackle a HALO course.

  Oddly enough, the HALO course was agreed with little fuss from the PTS boss, but unlike civilian freefall I found the kit to be restrictive, and I did not enjoy it much.

  I was back running, and writing down the times and distances as always, quite a thick file now of my running times and averages. Life after Riyadh returned to the mundane, and I started driving to Swindon to meet girls on a regular basis. And I never did get to do the Close Protection refresher.

  The Programme

  The CO sent for me on a damp Monday morning, and I trotted in with my left middle-two fingers splinted and bound. I knocked, entered and saluted, noticing a very nice lady Flt Lt sat with the CO.

  ‘Ah, Milton, this is Flt Lt Haversham, a doctor and a researcher into all things fitness related. Sit.’

  I sat, wondering why he had not called me “Wilco” as usual. ‘I think I’m fit enough already, sir,’ I quipped.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘You broke the world record, at least within the RAF. And the other runners we have all talk about you constantly, so ... here I am to see if you want to join our programme.’

  ‘What happened to your fingers?’ the CO asked when he noticed.

  ‘Uh ... well, sir, the nice lady I was seeing was not quite so un-married as she led me to believe, and her husband returned, and they was a bit of a tiff.’

  ‘Where were your fingers at the time?’ the lady asked.

  My mouth dropped open, so too the CO’s.

  ‘Flt Lt,’ the CO called, a bit shocked.

  ‘I like this officer,’ I said, beaming a huge smile.

  ‘Wilco, behave,’ my CO called.

  Smiling, I said, ‘So what’s this programme, Ma’am?’

  ‘We’re based in Cheltenham, just up the road, and you’d be on a treadmill all day, breath analysed, urine, blood, your diet varied, your exercise varied, the final aim being optimum fitness.’

  ‘I maintain optimum fitness as it is,’ I told her.

  ‘How could you possibly know that – and measure that?’

  I tapped a pocket, and took out my QMAR master sheet, handing it over.

  ‘QMAR?’

  ‘Quantitative measurement and revision.’

  She adopted a heavy frown. ‘And the graphs?’

  ‘7 day, 30 days and 3 monthly running averages, weighted by weather conditions, resistance to the effort and adjusted for breaks in running. I use a variable base line, a 180 day average, so that age and body shape and weight is a factor, I also make small adjustments for weekly variances in body weight.’

  She stared at me like I had just kicked her up the arse, before returning to the detail. ‘And the variables on the right?’

  ‘Speed and incline is a variable, wind conditions adding to resistance, temperature and humidity. Basically, the worse the conditions the more leeway I give myself on adjusted time and resistance.’

  ‘This box, lower right corner?’

  ‘Optimum fitness for least effort.’

  She snapped her head up.

  I explained, ‘If I run three days in a row only, out of seven, I lose optimum, but if I run four I maintain it if the last run is longer or harder, and if I run three days every other day I maintain it for less effort.’

  ‘You little bag of shit,’ she let out as she studied the sheet, my eyes widening.

  ‘Flt Lt?’ my CO called.

  She ignored him and turned over. ‘German, Arabic, Russian, Latin? What are these?’

  With an amused frown, I said, ‘I apply similar techniques to study aids and revision intervals to maintain optimum recall.’

  She cough out a laugh and stared at me.

  ‘Flt Lt?’ my CO called again. ‘Is there ... a problem?’

  She glanced at him. ‘This little shit has years worth of research on a scrap of paper.’ She waved it. ‘My research grant over
the next seven years is to come to conclusions that he’s already got written down, and ... it’s brilliant; a variable baseline, minimum effort.’

  ‘It is?’ my CO puzzled.

  ‘This piece of paper is worth millions,’ she said.

  ‘Buy me a beer and it’s yours,’ I told her.

  She faced me. ‘You have to join my programme, I can get you extra money.’

  ‘And what exactly would I be doing, Ma’am, there are floors that need sweeping around here?’

  ‘Wilco,’ the CO quietly warned.

  ‘You would run on the treadmill, as I said, the rest would be explaining this to me. You get an extra thousand a month, but I can fiddle that to two thousand, and a grant at the end of three months, and I can suggest you were injured and get you five thousand.’

  ‘Flt Lt!’ my CO called. ‘That’s a great deal of money -’

  She scowled his way. ‘I have a multi-million pound grant, and he’s just given me the answer,’ she told him. She waved the paper. ‘This should be adopted by all branches of the armed services.’

  ‘It should?’ my CO queried.

  ‘How much data do you have?’ she asked me.

  ‘About five years worth, Ma’am.’

  ‘Five ... years ... data?’ She almost fainted. ‘I could speak to the Joint Chiefs and have them order you to join.’ She waited.

  ‘You had me when you offered me three months away from this place,’ I told her. ‘But I accept the money you promised. Just put it in writing, please.’

  She opened her case and produced the forms. To me, she said, ‘Your CO can’t block this unless you’re in a vital position.’

  I laughed loudly, getting a pointed finger from the CO. ‘I’ll be sorely missed, the floors not cleaned.’

  I signed three forms, and that was that; I’d be shipping out for three months, and this weekend, the CO most put out about the money. I informed the corporals, and they were not impressed by The Programme till I told them about the money, and then they were right pissed off.

  On the weekend I drove home and stayed with my parents, my kit stowed with them in case my room at the base was broken into, and on the Monday morning I turned up at the medical facility in civilian clothes, my gym kit with me, and my files on my QMAR research.

  On reception was a beautiful blonde girl, and I smiled cheekily at her. ‘I’m Wilco.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re him. We’ve been expecting you.’ With a cute smile she made a call, and a guy in a suit came out, shaking my hand and welcoming me, and he helped me carry my kit to my room on the second floor. It was like a posh magnolia hotel room, en suite bathroom as well, window with a view of green fields.

  Back downstairs, he led me to the canteen, half a dozen people sat around, most in tracksuits. They stood.

  ‘This is Wilco the marathon runner,’ my guide keenly informed them.

  ‘I’m Smurf, SAS,’ a short and thin guy said, shaking my hand. ‘I’m a big fan of yours, seen you box and run.’

  The next guy was just as short. ‘I’m Smudger, Engineers, saw you in the London Marathon.’ I shook his hand.

  ‘I’m Massey, Paras, saw you box.’ We shook.

  ‘I’m Tomo, Royal Marines. I saw you put my unit sergeant in a coma.’

  I stopped smiling. ‘That’s why I stopped boxing.’

  ‘Nature of the sport, you did nothing illegal.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m Doctor Allen, a Captain actually, but I get no respect around here.’

  ‘Good to meet you, sir.’

  ‘You’re medically trained, I understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir, to that of a nurse I guess, plus field trauma and a few other things.’

  The final guy said, ‘I’m Holly, an RAF male nurse, but also a runner, but here I do a little of everything.’

  We sat, and they filled me in on exactly what went on, but that the programme would change dramatically with my arrival, and that Dr. Kate - as they called, would not shut up about QMAR. So I fetched blank sheets and handed them out and explained what I did to fill them in, many questions asked, points debated.

  Kate turned up after lunch with another Flt Lt, a tall and thin guy, and by the body language I guessed that they were in a relationship. After lunch they asked that I give a presentation to the whole staff plus invited guests, so I found myself facing fifty people, many having come in just to see me, some of them senior RAF officers or Army officers.

  I took a breath, took in the keen faces, and I began, ‘During basic training for the RAF Regiment, 1985, the fitness policy was – there is no fitness policy. Men were tested, but at no time were men trained, it was as if they were expected to get themselves fit, yet there was little free time and we would not have been allowed to run around the airfield anyway.

  ‘There was a BFT at the start, one at the end, there was a five mile walk and run in full gear, one session on the assault course, and ... that was it. We ran from building to building, and we ran when on exercise, but that running was never structured. But let’s assume that they had actually tried at least to train us, and that we ran five miles a day.

  ‘Running as a group assumes that one size fits all, and that’s a mistake. The military ... is uniform, yet any squad is made up of individuals. In my intake there were two marathon runners, but there were also people who couldn’t complete a BFT in half an hour, yet the training was uniform.

  ‘And at no time did we see the weak runners given extra training, or the marathon runners being told to slow down. To my mind, a bad policy all round.

  ‘At the very least, those who were poor runners should have been given extra training so that they met the standards. It was true that they improved as time went on, and that was a natural side effect to running from building to building during training.

  ‘But ... they could have done so much more, and they could have passed basic training, and the time and money would not have been wasted. And what happened after basic training? Many of those I knew as being lazy and useless ... became fat, lazy and useless, just scrapping through the basic fitness tests once a year.

  ‘There were, of course, enlisted men that wanted to do well, and who trained themselves, but that’s not the point. The military, you lot, would like all of the armed services to have fit men, fit enough to go fight in a war should it become necessary, and some units do better than others, like the Paras and the Marines.

  ‘But even with those units, young men fail basic training because they’re not fit enough. There is no remedial programme to get an individual fitter, nor is there an educational programme to get a fit yet stupid individual to be better technically. One size fits all.

  ‘I started running because I was bored, simply that. At no time did anyone, anywhere, push me to run, and I could have gotten fat in 51 Squadron, fixing tanks and drinking down the pub.

  ‘I started running for myself, and not to win competition, that came later. I found that the more I ran the less sleep I needed, and the more energy I had, and as I got fitter – I got noticed, and then criticised by the fat people around me. I got some praise from other runners, and the officers, but no encouragement to run as part of my daily working life in the squadron.

  ‘I was running around the airfield at the base from 5.30am to 7.30am each morning, because if I went to bed at 11.30pm I woke at 5am; don’t know why. I did not, ever, need to force myself to get up. I simply woke up at that time and felt OK.

  ‘And, early on, I experimented with food supplements and diets. I would avoid drinking anything for two hours before bed, because I might wake too early and want a pee, but I would always make sure that I drank well after my evening meal, aiming to pee at 10pm.

  ‘I would also have a tin of spam before bed, the result of much experimentation, so that I would have more energy in the morning. I tried biscuits, fruit, all sorts. I did, however, notice that two pints of beer, one packet of peanuts and a cheeseburger before 9pm ... improved my running slightly.’


  They laughed.

  ‘And there’s the first question: how do you know if you’re improving, and if you run the same distance every day - how do you know that you’re doing well or not. Some people will run the same distance and rely on the time as an indicator, some will run for a set time and measure the distance as an indicator.

  ‘I had the benefit of an airfield perimeter track, a set distance, a flat surface. What I suffered from was a head wind, then benefitted from a tail win, and sometimes it would rain. If it did rain then I ran in full kit, carrying a backpack and a piece of wood that weighed more than an old SLR.

  ‘It’s fair to say that my leg and upper body muscles were developed by running with heavy loads, as much as running distance, and early on I struggled with how to measure a run. Distance and time was obvious, but I also added in the weather, and how I felt at the start and at the end.

  ‘If I felt terrible at the end I would add a few minutes to the time, lowering my averages. So, if I ran the same distance in the same time, yet felt like crap, I marked myself down and my peak performance indicator would be affected.

  ‘I ran - after four months - ten laps of the airfield, believing the airfield to be two miles, but only later found out that it was 2.64 miles. So I was running a marathon every day and not realising it till someone pointed that out.

  ‘Now, my running was not linear; I did not simply run around the airfield every day. I worked out early on that to maintain my peak performance I needed to run four times a week, certain distances and times, or three times a week every other day – again certain distances and times.

  ‘If my desired peak performance was ten laps in two and a half hours, I needed to run twelve miles for three days, the final day being fifteen miles, then a few days rest. You do not need to run twenty six miles a day to maintain your ability to run twenty six miles in a decent time, the distance required is less than 60%, but the pace should be about the same.

  ‘This early breakthrough meant that I could maintain the level of performance I wanted ... but without running every day. I also trained in the gym at night, and once or twice a month I would push myself to run more laps, or about thirty miles. When I did so I would not bother with timing, I was interested in stretching my body beyond normal.