by Geoff Wolak
I made myself a tea, then sat as others arrived, a few RAF Regiment, a few aircrew, a few RAF regulars that just wanted a break from regular duties, a good number of ladies on the course, some quite tasty, others built like tanks.
After a roll call we started simple, but whenever our instructor asked a question I was the only one who would bother to answer it, and I got them all correct, which got me disapproving looks from many of the men in the room.
‘You done this course before?’ our instructor finally asked me.
‘No, sergeant, only been in a few weeks.’
‘And ... your background?’
‘Er ... school,’ I said with a shrug, getting laughed at.
‘So how come you know so much?’
‘I read the papers last night, Sergeant.’
‘And memorised all this?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Smartarse.’ And he gave me a quick quiz, and I got them all right, some of the men in the room now looking like they wanted to hit me.
That evening I sat with the two other RAF Regiment lads for our meal, but they were a bit pissy, so the next day I ate with the best looking girl, playing it cool.
On the Friday I realised that I had a weekend to play with, and so headed home to Gloucester, out drinking on the Friday and Saturday and reconnecting with a few girls I knew, most of whom seemed to now have jobs as barmaids, and I got my end away twice.
After another week of first aid, more notes issued and read, and with candidate Sandra from RAF Kettering getting keen, that weekend I booked a local bed and breakfast for us – RAF girls not allowed in male rooms on base and vice versa. We enjoyed a few drinks, a meal, and a long sex session, and I made her scream.
But in the morning, sat having breakfast in the small bed and breakfast hotel, our instructor came in with a lady and, spotting us, he looked horrified. He tried to ignore us, and after he lady had left he took me to one side.
‘No mention of me being here, or you’re a dead man,’ he threatened. ‘My wife thinks I’m away this weekend.’
‘Your secret is safe with me, Sergeant, so long as you don’t mention me and Sandra being together.’
He glanced at Sandra, smiled and nodded; he had a hold over me, if only a minor one.
That week I learnt that the front of the body was anterior, the back was posterior, that something higher up was superior, lower down was inferior, and that the body was split into quadrants. I could point out the inferior right quadrant of the abdomen.
I knew the bones and the veins, but we also went through the major nerves, and the autonomic nervous system. I learnt that shock was nothing to do with being afraid, and that any loss of blood or reduction in the function of the lungs caused shock.
Hyper was too much, hypo was too little of something, making me think about Star Trek on the TV. Doctor MacCoy always had a hypo-spray, which meant a spray with too little something.
We learnt about saline and IV drips but were not allowed to insert a needle, how to reset dislocated shoulders yet forbidden to ever try it, how to pull down a dislocated ankle but warned of legal consequences if we ever did. It was all very confusing. I went to bed at night thinking about myocardial infarctions and hypovolemic shock, not heart attacks and blood loss.
At the end of the course I registered the highest score ever, a letter of commendation to go back to my CO, and an offer of the second part advanced course down here. I had been running every morning, studying in the evenings, time with Sandra, so things had been good, and I agreed to the course there and then – provided my CO agreed.
Back at Catterick, the days getting shorter and the air getting colder, I went to see the Squadron Leader and mentioned the second part of the course, and he had just read the letter, happy that one of his had done so well.
‘Always a need for medics,’ he loudly enthused.
Back in my shared room a new guy had moved in, so there were now two of us, room for four. He was called Bongo, was an overweight time-served armourer, and he snored something terrible. He also needed to bathe more often, and to get some exercise, or any exercise.
But we got on well enough, and I didn’t wake him when I went for a run. In fact, a bomb going off would not have woken Bongo ahead of time, and I became his official alarm clock. He had an alarm clock, but he never woke when it went off.
I was getting to bed around 11pm each night, often a beer with a microwave burger in the base bar, but I woke at 5am full of energy and could not get back off to sleep.
So I would set out for a lonely run around the chilly perimeter track in the dark, and those runs were getting longer and longer. If it was raining or snowing I would be in full combats, plastic coat over the top, otherwise gym kit, running in the pitch black, my mind in neutral most of the time.
As I pounded out the laps I had time to think, but most of all my brain was in neutral as I counted out my steps in my head, a steady beat. But the one thought that hit me most mornings, and several times during each run, was that I had a pride in myself when I was running. With each lap behind me I was achieving something, and the military liked fit men, so I should have been popular.
The day-to-day life in 51 Squadron was mundane, a real let down after basic training, where the exciting elements of Regiment life were overdone, and the recruitment films they had shown me now seemed like a lie.
In reality, if you took all the range days and exercises spread over a year and compressed them into a ten minute film, then life in the RAF Regiment looked exciting. Thing was, range days were twice a year, exercises were few and far between, riding around in helicopters was rare. Day to day life was that of a car mechanic.
But here on the track I was doing something, something productive, and as with the first aid exams I had a sense of achievement that was lacking as I helped clean an oily pipe or swept the floor on a daily basis. Here, on the track, I had a pride in myself.
Richie was trying to teach me things, when he could be bothered, and I slowly started to pick things up about Scorpion tanks – which he kept reminding me weren’t tanks but reconnaissance vehicles, and I even had some tank driving lessons.
I was down to do the basic vehicle driving course, Land Rovers, but there was a queue, so I had Bongo and his mate give me lessons in return for beer and petrol money, and I made good progress.
Then Bongo mentioned an armourer’s course, and they were a man short – few Regiment Gunners wanting to do it. This course, he explained, was lengthy and led to a formal qualification, and RAF Regiment lads did it because they needed men qualified to maintain the 30mm cannon and the GPMGs used on the tanks – but that the course covered basic pistols and rifles as well, a lengthy course at twelve weeks the first part and sixteen weeks the second part - they would even cover mortars and artillery.
That seemed like a great deal of study, and I was unsure of what I should be doing. Did I want to learn to be a driver, a tank driver, an armourer, a fitter or engineer, or just be a regular Gunner?
The following Monday, and I was tasked with getting under a tank and cleaning a pipe after opening a valve. I should have known better. The valve opened, and sprayed me with freezing oil. My grey overalls were black, people laughing, and the overalls would have to be binned, a new set asked for in stores - as well as a shirt. And there started the problem.
Stores issued me a pair, as well as a new shirt, but sent a note to the CO, and he sent me a note to say that I would have to pay for the overalls and shirt, and they were not cheap. I was mad as hell.
That evening, Bongo said, ‘Ain’t your fault, they ordered you to get under that tank, and you follow fucking orders, like. Go see Mark in Admin, he’s up on all the laws and shit.’
So I did, and Mark – a bit effeminate – told me that it was not my fault and that I should appeal and kick up a fuss. I went and found the grey-haired squadron Warrant Officer – a hermit who was rarely seen, but who had seemed like a reasonable man when I had met him before.
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He said, ‘Fuck the CO, ain’t your fault, don’t pay, get legal counsel. Every enlisted man is entitled to legal counsel – a little known fact.’
I went straight to the Squadron Leader, knocked and entered when told, saluted, then let rip. ‘Sir, you want me to pay for oil-damaged overalls and a shirt, the result of a practical joke -’
‘That happens when you damage kit!’
‘I did not damage kit, sir, I was following orders,’ I calmly stated, but with attitude.
‘Then don’t follow silly orders like that!’
‘I’m new here, sir, junior, and I do what I’m told, and if they tell me the building is on fire or a man is wounded ... should I take it seriously, sir?’
He took a moment. ‘You’re expected to apply some common sense.’
‘I did, sir, and I’m seeking legal counsel, plus I’ll take it up with the base commander and my local member of parliament ... and I’ll write to the Prime Minister himself! Sir.’
He sighed loudly. ‘Who ordered you to get mucky?’
‘Hill and Dunny, sir.’
He regarded me coolly, annoyed, and took a moment. ‘Return to what you were doing, I’ll look into it.’
I saluted and left.
The next day, Hill and Dunny were furious and threatening to kick the crap out of me; they would have to pay for the damaged kit, and Sergeant Harris was just about taking their side; these men had families and mortgages - and could not afford to lose money.
‘Sergeant Harris,’ I loudly called in front of a room full of men. ‘Which orders do I follow ... and which do I ignore in case they’re practical jokes?’
‘You should know the difference.’
‘Sergeant, should you tell me tomorrow that someone is hurt and bleeding, and to get help ... I’m not going to lift a finger, because I don’t know what’s true and what’s a joke.’
As I said it, the CO had appeared behind Harris. ‘Sergeant,’ he firmly called. ‘Next time someone damages kit from a practical joke ... you, Sergeant, will have your pay docked.’
‘Right, sir. I’ll deal with it.’ Harris now looked like he wanted to kill me as well, and that helped me make up my mind; any courses away from here would be most welcome.
I put my name down for the armourer’s course, which would start a week after I got back from the next first aid course, most everyone glad to see the back of me – apart from Bongo because no one would be there to wake him when he overslept.
Being back at Lyneham gave me time to think, and to think that I might quit the RAF. So far, it seemed like few made an effort, few cared, and most were complete arseholes.
I greeted familiar instructors, the officers glad to have their star pupil back, and I got back into a familiar routine of early morning running – weather permitting, studying, and eating well in the canteen.
I was enjoying my running, or at least I was enjoying the fact that I could run further and faster week by week, and 2 Squadron was an option now that my fitness levels were up, but I still had no particular desire to parachute.
I had started running during my first course here, and now I was running for more than an hour each morning, and feeling less pain as I did so. I was starting to enjoy it, or rather I disliked the pain and discomfort – but liked the fact about what I had done after I had done it, and was in a warm shower.
At the end of the first week I had made eye contact with a lady corporal, and she had seen me running, so I invited her out that Friday night, drinks and a meal, but sex did not seem to be on the cards.
I met her the next evening, and after a few drinks sex did indeed seem to be on the cards, so I booked into the same bed and breakfast, and they remembered me. We showered together, a tight fit, and then I went down on her despite long pubic hair, and I made her scream – getting an angry fist banged on the wall from the next room.
I made sure I gave a good account of myself - another bang on the wall, and my fitness training was helping here, and we enjoyed a lengthy breakfast the next morning.
As we were about the leave an RAF doctor spotted me then hurried his lady out, and I had to hide my smirk on Monday – since she could not have been his wife. It seemed like this bed and breakfast was a hotbed of intrigue and extra-marital affairs amongst RAF staff at Lyneham.
I settled into a routine of running, studying, and seeing my corporal a few nights a week, and all of a sudden things did not seem so bad – I was getting paid to do this!
By time the end of the course came around I was a little bored of my corporal and she was getting a bit pissy with me, so we parted without so much as a parting word. I had passed the course with a top score, I had enjoyed the studying, and my fitness levels were great. But I was not looking forward to Catterick, and I was back to considering my future.
I got back on a Saturday, Bongo greeting me, and we had a few beers that evening. But the first thing I had done after dumping my kit was to go for a long run around the perimeter track - which was just under two miles, and I ran eight laps at a good pace, which I figured to be around 15 miles. I was unsure of what distances I had covered in Lyneham, they felt longer than these fifteen miles – but I had jogged slower in Lyneham due to winding roads and pavements.
What I started to do was to write down the distances and the times, the weather conditions, and how I felt at the end, any injuries. A doctor at Lyneham had said an interesting thing, in that if you are not measuring something you cannot improve that something – so I was hoping to see my performance on a graph in blue ink, and maybe learn something from it.
The next morning, the Sunday, I was awake early, Bongo snoring, and he’d be in bed till noon. So I set out for a run at 6am, a frost on the ground, and I found that I liked the stillness of the airfield at that time, no one around. On my second lap another runner caught my attention, and I caught up with him as I choked out freezing cold air.
‘Morning,’ I offered as I passed him.
He sped up. ‘I’ve seen you run before, weeks back,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Wilco, 51 Squadron, sir.’
‘How’d you know I’m an officer?’
‘Saw you drive past, you live over the far side, that old house.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘This your normal pace?’
‘This is steady, sir – not too fast, not plodding either,’ I puffed out, my breath steaming.
‘When do you run?’
‘Most mornings when I’m here, 5.30am ish, for an hour or two.’
‘Christ, don’t you have a life?’
‘A life, sir?’
‘Most people are in bed!’
‘Got a life, sir?’ I teased. We turned the corner, heading due south.
‘I have an objective, the London Marathon in April. You in it?’
‘No, sir, never thought about it. Almost three months to go.’
‘I run weekends, maybe an evening, keen not to damage my knees. Could do with a running partner, and I prefer early mornings.’
‘I’m off on an armourer’s course in a few weeks, sir, but till then I’ll be here 5.45am each morning, running clockwise – as now. If you wait by the gatehouse corner, or run anti-clockwise, we’ll bump into each other, sir.’
We jogged down towards the ammo store, past Castle Hill and the assault course, past the woods and back up, a steady pace maintained.
‘You keep a steady pace, mine goes up and down,’ he complained.
‘Know what I do, sir? I count in my head. Try this: every left boot down. Left – left – left – left. If it sounds too fast or two slow I adjust it. Got that beat in my head now, sir.’
‘Good idea, I’ll try it in my head.’
When he was ready to give up we eased up, both blowing frosty breath, hands on hips and panting, faces reddened, noses bright red.
‘I got that beat down,’ he said. ‘You out tomorrow morning?’
‘Plan to be, sir.’
‘Hope to see you then. Thanks.’ And off
he jogged to the far side of the airfield.
On the Monday I went and found Sergeant Chandon, ex-SAS and a fitness freak that taught karate. One of the lads had told me that he was “L” Company SAS, which meant that he had been “released” but was still available to call upon, and if the SAS were short of men they could call him back in.
What that lad had also told me was that you left the SAS from injury – or death – or because the arsehole above you didn’t like you.
‘I’m thinking about running a marathon,’ I told him, trying not to stare at his sharp beak of a nose.
‘I heard you run early,’ he noted.
‘Most mornings when I’m here, 5.30am.’
‘Must be dedicated,’ he quipped.
‘Just no social life, Sarge.’
He laughed. ‘That helps with training, yes. How far do you run?’
‘I clock eight laps at least.’
His eyes widened. ‘That’s a good distance, knees hurting?’
‘Not yet. Anyhow, I wanted to ask you about setting a pace. What I do now is count every time my left boot hits the floor, and I have that in my head, so I can judge too fast or too slow.’
‘That’s what some runners do, but ... in a marathon you’re against people, not the clock, so fast or slow you race against the others, no need to worry about pace – need to worry about beating the guy in front, and the lead runners keep to a pack, taking it in turns to lead.’
‘But I want to run at a pace that’s good, and to set that pace and get it right in my head, because ... it’s just me training here most of the time.’
‘Get someone with a bike and speedo, get them to set a marathon pace. Nine miles an hour should do it for starters, that would be you finishing in two hours fifty, kindof. If you can keep that pace, that is.’
‘What’s a good time?’
‘Three hours or under. World record is two-twenty something I think. Under three hours is good, finishing is respectable. Not many fuckers around here any good, but chat to Corporal Hesky.’
