by Geoff Wolak
I nodded. ‘I’m popular with girls in school.’ He turned to make eye contact. ‘Half the lads want to be my mate because of it, half of them want to smack me in the mouth.’
He smiled widely. ‘You’re sixteen, and you’ve learnt a very valuable lesson early on. At least, you know how to recognise the outward symptoms. It gets harder when the guys who want to be your mate secretly plot to kick the shit out of you – so beware; look for the wolf in sheep’s clothing.’
I nodded. ‘What do you do, in the Army?’
‘I was, at first, an enlisted man, RAF Regiment, then an officer, now with the SAS up the road. Hereford.’
‘What do they do?’ I asked, the publicity over the Iranian embassy siege not registering with me.
He regarded me for a moment. ‘They ... are the best of the soldiers, the fittest, the best shots. They parachute into places, kill people, and get out quietly.’
‘You’ve parachuted?’
He nodded. ‘Dozens of times.’
‘I’d love to have a go, but I don’t like being up high really.’
He took a deep drag, and blew out. ‘You’re young, so everything seems exciting to you, exciting and new. If it was just me, and me alone, then the Regiment would be great. But there are people involved, egos, ambitions, and careers.’ He regarded me coolly. ‘A few weeks ago someone interfered with my kit and, if I hadn’t spotted it, I would dead.’
I puzzled that with a heavy frown. ‘Who did it? Were they arrested?’
He looked over my head at next door’s washing line. ‘I don’t know who did it. I ... suspect someone, but I’m not sure, and that makes life ... difficult. That makes you ... get up in the morning and say why the fuck am I bothering? It makes you ... wonder what a bunch of tossers you’re working with, when you’re all supposed to be on the same side, when you fight side by side, when you have to rely on each other.’
‘Can’t you report them?’
He tipped his head. ‘If I was certain, and if I had evidence ... maybe.’
‘My Uncle Richard had trouble like that, but not – you know – like a soldier and all. He was working as a welder, and some of the others didn’t like him because he replaced an older guy who was popular. They tried to blow him up somehow.’
‘So ... did they succeed?’ he toyed.
I shook my head. ‘My Uncle, he figured out slowly who these two guys were, and when he was sure he went around one night, late on a Saturday, and as they came out the pub drunk he smashed their legs in with a metal bar – his face in a balaclava.’
The officer straightened, his eyes wide.
I continued, ‘And after that no one tried to blow him up, and he got sacked anyway – because he was crap and a drunk.’
The officer smiled, nodded, and took a reflective puff on his cigarette. ‘Your uncle broke the law, broke the rules, and crippled two men. Hardly the right thing to do.’
I shrugged. ‘No, but better than getting blown up.’
My part-time neighbour stared hard into my eyes.
I added, ‘And those two men, if they had succeeded, they would be murders, so ... they should be crippled, or sent to prison for life or something. And if someone knackers up your kit and you die, what does that make that bloke?’
He peered down the garden. ‘A murderer possibly, at best someone guilty of a very serious crime worthy of a long sentence.’
‘My Uncle said – better them than me.’
My part-time military neighbour nodded, put out his cigarette and walked off without a word.
Two days later, and he was looking rough, unshaven and tired.
‘You ... OK?’ I risked. After all, he looked like he was ready to kill someone, and I was sixteen.
He peered at me through tired eyes. After a long moment he said, ‘You know what stress is.’ It was not a question. ‘Stress ... is that which lies between forty percent and sixty percent. If something is forty-five percent, it’s hard to say if it is one thing or another. Get above sixty percent and ... it’s starting to look like you were right.
‘At ninety percent, or ten percent, it’s one thing or another, but at forty-five fucking percent ... it’s neither thing, and you bounce back and forth, back and forth. Every time you convince yourself that you’re probably right you have that fifty percent of doubt. Stress is ... sitting on the fence of indecision when the facts are not clear either way.’
I nodded, it seemed to make sense. ‘You’re still thinking about leaving?’
He nodded, looking past me.
‘Shouldn’t have to, should you.’ He gently moved his eyes towards me. ‘I mean, if those other people are in the wrong, you shouldn’t have too. And what happens if you do leave?’
‘They ... they replace me with a keen new volunteer, and I ... I get a job overseas as a bodyguard, or maybe I teach first aid, or ... fuck knows.’ He looked away.
‘But you want to stay here?’
He shrugged, barely perceptible.
I gave it some thought, some sixteen year old logic. ‘If you leave, what’s stopping them from doing the same to someone else?’
His eyes met mine. ‘You’re saying, at least I think you’re saying, that I should act ... and act not out of my own interests, but for my replacement as well, who may well suffer the same ... situation.’
‘If those blokes had blown up my uncle and got away with it, they could have done the same to someone else when they should have been in prison.’ My mouth was moving quickly. ‘What would you do if you saw them do it to someone else?’
‘I’d deal with them, harshly,’ he snarled.
I shrugged, and frowned. ‘But when they do it to you...’
‘I blame myself,’ he said as he straightened. ‘If they did it to someone else I’d work hard to find the fucks and deal with them, but ... but when it’s against me ... half of me blames myself, and I stress myself out.’ He nodded. ‘Of course that’s the case; I’d deal with it differently if it was done to someone else. And with a clear fucking head. They’re not attacking me, they’re attacking the rank and position.’
He brightened. ‘Sometimes, you just need to talk things through with a simpleton.’
As he walked off I scratched the back of my head; did he mean me? Surely not, we were mates.
The long hot summer, which turned out to be quite wet most of the time, resulted in me finding a new girl. And what a girl. I had lied about my age – I was tall for my age and already 6’1’ – and had told her I would soon be eighteen and leaving school, hoping to join the military. And that idea, of joining the military, had crept in thanks to my neighbour.
The new girl was tall, 5’9’, and had huge breasts, but nicely shaped breasts, and I never got tired of playing with them. On the bus, in the street, in the park, anywhere I could play with them I would. She said I was good looking and had great shoulders, which left me wondering what the hell girls found attractive about shoulders.
I got used to condoms, just, and they fell off a great deal, so as a diversion to a condom moment I would go down on her and she would give me a blowjob, but spit afterwards.
A week after our last man-to-man chat, me and Captain Richards, he had seen me walking down the road and had pulled over in his car, sat then in his green army uniform. ‘Busy for a few hours?’
I shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Hop in.’
And I did, and we drove down to Ross-on-Wye and to a shooting range. Parked, we walked past a few military looking brick buildings and opened to a field. Across that field we joined the back of a long shooting range, behind it open grassland leading to a wooded hill. A dozen soldiers were spread out, some shooting, some cleaning weapons, some sat having lunch and a drink from a flask.
‘Right, Boss?’ one asked as we neared, none of the soldiers jumping up to attention or saluting.
My guide nodded to the man, then grabbed a long rifle that had parts painted green. Ten minutes later I was stood in a trench with wooden sid
es, leant forwards, the rifle into my shoulder. I feared the first recoil, but there wasn’t much of a recoil, and I knocked over a metal plate about twelve inches square. And I went on to knock over another nine in sequence.
‘Robbo,’ Captain Richards called. ‘He shoots better than you.’
Robbo, a scary man with a big bushy moustache, eased in next to me. ‘Ten quid says no.’
‘You’re on,’ the captain told him, the other soldiers now keen to observe. As well as to insult my opponent.
I now had to aim at a large target with concentric rings, and I hit the ‘bull’ or the ‘inner’ with ten rounds, and the scary guy with the big moustache beat me by just one point, much leg pulling of that fact that it had been so close. I tried not to be offended when they said that ‘the acne-faced snot nose kid’ had nearly beaten him.
I got to fire an American M16 on automatic, the soldiers telling me that the automatic setting was not allowed on this range because the people living nearby complained, but that they didn’t give a shit. I even go to try a pistol, and when a friendly docile rabbit was spotted I was allowed to shoot it with a rifle, blasting the poor little thing in half.
A week later Captain Richards took me to the SAS base in Hereford, and a sergeant spent an hour with me on a small shooting range, at the end of which I could strip, load, fire and unload the pistol. I even got a quick flight in a small helicopter.
An idea had been firmly planted into my sixteen year old mind that this soldiering lark was great fun, and you got to fire cool weapons and to fly in helicopters.
1985. 51 Squadron, RAF Regiment, RAF Catterick Depot.
With my kit moved into a shared room in a block, my military kit and my civilian clothes, I turned up at the admin offices of 51 Squadron, and was told to go to a room just off one of the hangers used to house the Scorpion tanks.
A few people were already sat around a room that reminded me of school – numerous informative posters on the walls – the men grey overalls all sat with cups of tea in hand, so I helped myself to a tea and sat, lazy nods exchanged.
The room filled slowly, people ambling in – most overweight and scruffily dressed, finally a sergeant taking the front desk.
‘OK,’ he loudly called, and he proceeded with a roll-call, just like being back in school. A few people were off on courses, some sick, one in hospital. Finally, he said, ‘Anyone we missed?’
I raised my hand and then stood. ‘Milton, Sergeant, just arrived from basic training.’
‘Milton,’ he repeated, making a note. ‘OK, sit.’ He reminded a few people of which of the Scorpion tanks were knackered, which might be knackered, of a lorry that needed work, and that some areas needed cleaning before and inspection in a week.
‘OK,’ he finally called. ‘Need someone to attend a poxy first aid course down in ... Lyneham, and – if the candidate does well – then can advance towards a higher level poxy first aid course or some bollocks.’ He waited. ‘Oh, come on, some fucker has to do it.’
Silence. I glanced around, but no one was keen. We waited.
Then I raised my hand. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, and it sounded like and easy number, as well as being stationed somewhere close to home for a few days.
‘Excellent,’ the sergeant began. ‘You’ll go far in this squadron if you volunteer for all the crappy fucking courses that no other fucker wants to do.’
They laughed, but I was happy to do the course; first aid was important, and I had read the thick manual that I had borrowed from the SAS - and had never returned.
And that was that, people were dismissed to duties, and I was sent to the admin offices, where I was given ‘joining instructions’ and a rail pass for the journey. The course would start the following Monday, and ... it would last three weeks.
‘What the fuck...?’
I clarified the course length with the admin guy. It was a long course, not just a quick overview of first aid. Ah well. As I was about to leave I was informed that the C.O. wanted to see me, Squadron Leader Witson. I knocked, entered when told, marched smartly and stamped to attention with a stiff salute.
‘OK,’ he nodded. ‘Take a seat ... er ... Milton.’
I sat, and as I did I considered that he looked like a typical officer; posh public school and little common sense. He sat in his light blue shirt, three blue bars of rank on his shoulders, and I noticed two flags on poles resting against opposite corners, a picture of The Queen on the wall – and an organised desk.
‘Is there another one?’ he asked with a puzzled frown. ‘A ... Rafael?’
‘Yes, sir, but I haven’t seen him this morning.’
‘Oh. Well, welcome to 51 Squadron,’ he said as he read my file. ‘Ah, you’re the lad with all the qualifications.’ He looked up. ‘Had you not considered a commission?’
Now it was my turn to frown. ‘I applied, and I passed all the selection -’
‘You passed?’
‘Yes, sir, but they said there would be a delay of two years, maybe more, so I came in as an enlisted man.’
‘Ah, right.’ He took a moment. ‘Well, if you keep your nose clean and progress, then there’s no reason why you can’t re-visit the Commission Board down the road. Your training starts in earnest now, a skill perhaps, many courses to attend. Basic training doesn’t really prepare you for squadron life, but I’m sure that you’ll fit in.’
From what I had seen so far they were a lazy fat bunch of useless fuckers, but that I kept to myself. I was soon back in the school-type classroom, and found the same sergeant having a coffee and chatting to someone.
‘Sergeant Harris, I’m supposed to ask you about my training,’ I told him.
‘Wilton, right?’
‘Milton, Sergeant.’
‘Whatever. Go down to the first hangar, find Richie, and ... follow him around; he’ll give you a tour if he’s in a good mood.’
And off I went to find Richie. I found a large hangar with a few tanks, many men in blue-grey oily overalls working on those tanks – seemed like every tank we had was broken – and was finally directed to Richie.
He was an SAC, not an NCO, and made me a cup of tea as he ‘informed’ me, not taught me. I got to know where everything was that day, and did fuck all else. Observing the men, they did fuck all else as well, an anti-climax after basic training. All I learnt was that a Scorpion was a “reconnaissance vehicle” and not a tank.
I dared to ask about fitness.
Richie made a face. ‘Once a year you have to qualify for the BFT, mile and a half in twelve minutes or so.’
I ran it in nine minutes, but most of these fat wankers could barely walk it – so Richie informed me. And as an enlisted man got older the time allowed was stretched. But there were apparently some fit men, even a marathon runner, and my ears pricked up at the mention of the Recon Platoon.
They were a volunteer unit of about nine men who had been put together by a corporal who had been in the self-praising and ‘elite’ 2 Squadron, and they would be a foot patrol when the tanks were sat in a field someplace during an exercise.
The patrol would go out and recon on foot into places the tanks couldn’t go, and they held regular meetings as well as overnight exercises across the airfield and in the woods. It sounded like I needed to volunteer and sign up, after I got back.
The next morning I woke early, I often did, and so figured I would go for a run. Gym kit on, I limbered up before heading out, no one about at 6am, a dew on the grass, the air chilly. On the airfield, disused for many decades but still with a concrete runway running southwest to northeast, I ran south, past the “basics” admin building, past the fenced-off ammo store, the dark outline of Castle Hill looming.
Being called Castle Hill was odd, because the muddy outcrop was little more than ten metres high, and there was no castle nor any ruins. I passed by it, passed the assault course that I had only ever used once in basic training, soon to the southern tip of the runway, the River Swale in view.
Turning north, the woods we trained in as “basics” was on my left, dark and scary, this next stretch of the airfield perimeter track straight, and it took me due north to the A1 dual carriageway, a few cars passing, headlights on in the grey dawn light.
Hitting the A1 I turned east, the top end of the perimeter track dead straight as it ran parallel to the A1. Reaching the end of that stretch I could see the main gate, the village houses beyond where many servicemen lived.
Turning south again I passed the two big hangars on my left, past 51 Squadron Admin, down past the armoury, the indoor 25yard range, and I was back to the start. And puffing in the cold air.
I had run two laps, four miles, and got stitch, so I walked back to my room and sat. I was soon bored, but it was too early for the canteen. I would have to run longer, or wake later.
When I got to RAF Lyneham down in Wiltshire, home to the RAF’s Hercules fleet, the bored guardroom staff ticked my name off a list and gave me directions, and I lugged my kit, got lost, backtracked and eventually found the billet, a non-descript two story brick building with windows open and music coming from within.
I found my room, numbers of the doors, and there would be just me in this small room. But it was clean at least, and smelling of floor polish.
Kit down, door locked, I wandered out and found the training centre, where a corporal gave me a stack of papers and files, and told me I was a day early, so I showed him my joining instructions, to which he just said, ‘Bollocks, come back tomorrow, 9am.’
Back in my room I dumped the papers and headed to the canteen, a large lunch downed, and in the NAAFI shop I bought bottles of juice and some chocolate, soon back in my room and studying the course material, nothing else to do.
I headed back to the canteen later, and to another solitary meal – no one bothering to talk to me, and back in my room I again studied the material, but it was mostly stuff I had read about before.
At 5am I was awake, and so went for a run, being stopped twice by the RAF Police since they did not see people jogging at that time normally. After a shower, people stirring, I read the documents further till 8.30am then headed to the training section, the first one there, a corporal opening up.
