by Geoff Wolak
‘Did you see who it was?’
‘I was a bit slow getting out of bed, sir.’
‘Yes, of course, you’re hurt. Any idea who might want to do it?’
‘A few on the list, sir, yes. Not that many were impressed with my running.’
‘So why didn’t you report it to the guardroom?’
‘I did, but Corporal Dire told me to fuck off and stop wasting his time.’
‘Did he now? Well he’s in the shit. As for the window, not much can be done till Monday I’m afraid.’
‘We’ll survive, sir. I just wanted it written down.’
‘It is now, and I’m going to see that fucking corporal; his job, not mine.’
With the officer gone, Bongo went to bed, and I lay on the bed fully clothed, just in case. And I heard two Land Rovers half an hour later, kind of expecting them.
I knocked the lights on, and opened the curtains, Bongo not waking – that would need a bomb. Cpl Dire looked mad as hell, two Army MPs with him, a quick look at the window as they approached.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ a tall MP asked, Bongo snoring happily.
‘I was the guy tripped in the London Marathon.’
‘Shit, that was you, saw it on the TV. You let that little wog bastard trip you.’
I nodded, irritated, wishing them gone.
‘So what happened here?’
‘I was asleep when a brick came through the window.’
‘See them?’
‘No, Sergeant, just outlines running away.’
‘Any enemies?’
‘A few, yes,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Been getting some shit since the marathons.’
‘Jealous fuckers,’ the sergeant said, a glance at Cpl. Dire. ‘So when did this happen?’
‘An hour ago, more.’
‘And you reported it...?’
‘An hour ago, but Corporal Dire here told me to get lost till Monday, not his job.’
The sergeant squared up to Dire. ‘You the duty man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes Sergeant, you cunt!’
‘Yes Sergeant,’ Dire forced out.
‘Then why the wait to call us?’
‘Figured there was nothing anyone could do till Monday.’
‘Save freeze to death in bed,’ the second MP stated.
‘If you report it when it happens ... we might catch someone. Did you check the area? Ask around?’
‘Er ... no, couldn’t leave the guardroom.’
‘You left the guardroom ... to show us where to go, second man there, tosser. Now get a torch and look outside for footprints, write up the incident log, and write a note for the base commander, because that window won’t get fixed without a dozen forms being filled in – will it.’
‘No, right.’ And off he went.
The sergeant faced me. ‘Next week we might get a break and find someone who saw someone stagger in around that time, brick in hand. Maybe not. Anyhow, good run, young man, keep it up. And learn a lesson right now – if you do well, always some cunt jealous of you. You can expect more bricks. If you had won, it would have been two bricks. Way it is I’m afraid.’
I thanked them, closed the door and lay on the bed, too angered to sleep, but no more bricks came through the window.
At 10am Sunday morning two men from the Buildings and Maintenance Dept turned up, a surprise to say the least.
The first man explained, ‘Flying Officer Mason is our boss, sends his regards.’
I smiled widely; I had a friend in the right place. They replaced the window, cleaned up the mess, had a cup of tea with me and headed off, Mason turning up a short while later in civvies.
‘Window all fixed?’ he asked, a look at his men’s handiwork.
‘Yes, sir, and thanks – it could have taken a while.’
‘The machinery can move slowly, and we’re not supposed to do anything without the proper forms, so I called in a few favours. So how you feeling, you look like shit?’
‘Wrist hurts, head hurts, nose hurts, foot hurts, but apart from that – great.’
He laughed, Bongo stirring, so I walked Mason out, a five minute chat about the inter-services Marathon; he would be having a go at it.
On the Monday I got to the admin building early, and waited for the CO. He did not look happy to see me.
‘I heard about the incident already,’ he said as he led me to his room. ‘But why don’t you tell me what happened.’
‘I was asleep early Saturday night, a brick came through the window, didn’t see who. I reported it to Corporal Dire, who told me to ... get lost till Monday. I wanted it reported in case someone blamed me, sir. So I got the duty officer.’
‘And he reprimanded Corporal Dire, who then called out the MPs, who had a look and made a report. I got a call Sunday from the MP Captain.’ He took a moment. ‘Any idea as to who may have been responsible?’
‘After the marathon, many of the lads were ... less than supportive, sir.’
‘Oh. I see. Well I’ll see about the window -’
‘Already fixed, sir.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes, sir, the Buildings officer, he was ... driving past, saw it, so had it fixed on Sunday.’
‘Oh, that was quick work. Normally takes ages. We’ll investigate, see who was drinking where Saturday night, you ... get back to resting.’
‘Right, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Back in my room, I knocked the kettle on and set about my Russian phrase book, quietly wanting to kill someone, or several someones.
But being bored, very bored, I went for a run, rather a slow steady jog, figuring that it may help. I ran for an hour, and coming back a Land Rover pulled up.
‘Back at it?’ Cpl Hesky asked.
‘Trying to.’
‘Don’t worry, fitness doesn’t drop that quickly, you still have it. You up for the inter-services?’
‘This weekend? Unlikely, wrist is bound up, and they’d see the bruises and not let me run.’
‘This weekend is the half-marathon down in Aldershot, full marathon a week later in Lincoln.’
‘Will they let me run like this?’
‘If the MO says so, yes. Go ask him.’
So I popped into the MO the next day, and asked. He shrugged. ‘You feel OK?’
‘Er ... yes, sir.’
‘Then run, I guess, down to you.’
I wanted to thank him out loud for his brilliant medical assessment, but bit my tongue as I left. In the Admin section I got looks, and knocked on the CO’s door.
‘Come in!’
I entered, and closed the door.
‘Ah, Milton ... no more trouble I hope.’
‘No, sir. I was wondering about the inter-services.’
‘We’re very keen for you to run, but ... are you better?’
‘MO says I can run if I feel OK, wrist will stay bandaged, but maybe that pink sticky tape, rest is just my face bruises, sir. I was thinking of doing the half-marathon as well.’
‘As well? People don’t normally do both.’
‘I think I can handle it, sir, week’s rest in between.’
‘In that case, see Pilot Officer West, he has the forms, and they need to be in sharpish.’
‘Will do, sir.’
P.O. West was surprised, but filled in the application as I stood there and he faxed it off somewhere, and he would let me know.
I got to the gym that evening, Muscle-Mouse greeting me back, and I ran on the spot with light weights, my wrist twinging. He thought I was mad to try the half and full marathons so soon, but complimented my determination.
In the morning I was up at 5.30am and taped up, and soon on the perimeter track and picking up the pace. At one point the stitches in my head hurt, and my wrist was an issue, but I knocked out the laps and felt better for having tried this.
After ten laps I was completely knackered, hacking and bent double, but I recovered quickly enough, and by the time I walked to my room I h
ad recovered.
That afternoon, bored and still on light duties, I headed back out to the airfield and completed a fast four laps, the final lap a sprint that was witnessed by many of the squadron lads – since they had the tanks out for something.
But the Squadron Leader was about to make my life even harder, and make me even less popular. Later in the day, addressing the entire squadron, he mentioned my running – whilst bound up and hurt, and that they could all learn a thing or two from my dedication. Well, now even those who had never met me hated me. When I heard about it I was furious, but what could I do, Cpl Hesky joking about my sliding popularity.
I was soon beyond caring, and asking discrete questions about how a man went about transferring to another squadron, and what it cost to buy yourself out of the RAF.
I had been placed in “A” Flight upon arrival at 51, but I hardly ever did anything with the other men in the flight. My immediate boss, Fl. Lt. Marsh, came and found me in my room at 4pm.
I stood. ‘Sir?’
‘At ease.’ He took in the room, and took off his hat. ‘I ... hear that you’re not happy, thinking of leaving us.’
I shrugged. ‘When they played practical jokes on me the CO wanted me to pay for ruined uniform, so I complained and they had to pay, and that caused a problem.’
‘Not your fault.’
‘No, sir, but I have to work with these men. And then after the marathon -’ I thumbed at the window. ‘- a brick came through the window, making me wonder why.’
‘Again, not your fault, jealous individuals.’
‘And then, this week, the CO told all the men they should be more like me and make an effort...’
‘Ah, I had heard, and I suppose a comment like that could cause friction. I can place you with Cpl Hesky when the MO signs you off, you get on well with him.’
‘That ... would be fine, sir, and may help some.’
‘You running this weekend?’
‘Yes, sir, half marathon.’
‘You still look banged up,’ he noted.
‘Doesn’t hurt much, sir, so I’ll give it a go. Besides, it gives me something to do save sitting around here.’
He nodded. ‘Well good luck with that, you get the train down Friday morning, night in a barrack block I’m afraid.’
‘Be alright, sir, be in with other runners.’
He smiled. ‘If things are getting you down, come see me before you make any rash decisions.’
‘I will do, sir,’ I promised before he left.
On the Friday, myself Mason and Hesky got the train down, and I felt good in their company. At Aldershot we were directed to a dated barracks, but the heating was on and it was clean enough, and we had brought supplies. My face and wrist had caused some interest, an officer called, and I explained that my MO had signed me off.
As a group we bent and stretched a few times in the evening, had a good meal, and got to bed at 10.30pm, a few runners coming in late – odd giving that they would be running the next day.
I was awake early and stretching quietly, then snuck out for a quick run to get my legs going. We all ate a light meal in the canteen at 8am, the race not starting till 11am, and I was fortunate to have a small shit on the toilet after breakfast. That small movement would have been a problem later.
Hesky teased me, suggesting that he had a chance against me at this distance, but to watch out for the Ethiopians. I took in our competitors, and they were all white servicemen, all bending and stretching as we waited, the day promising a hell of a downpour soon, dark clouds approaching.
The start came around too soon, and I was nervous, and then they called my name, and I was placed near the front, a surprise.
‘Good run in London,’ came from a few.
‘You still look hurt,’ came from a few others.
I was about to make some new friends. ‘Running is running, and you can’t live without it,’ I said with a shrug and a smile. And this lot, they’d rather run than have sex with their ladies.
Lined up, bent over, warning given, shot fired, and I was off, my heart pounding from the nervous excitement, and I told myself to keep turning right. The pack got ahead of me, so I went wide on the next long leg and moved to the front, tucking myself behind the front three runners as they moved off ahead of everyone else.
For now, I was happy to be positioned here, and I settled down to some steady counting in my head. A few miles on, and that count was causing me to inch towards the lead man, but he was in no mood to race me, and probably thought me a fool to be breaking so early.
This was a race against the men, not the clock, a good time an added bonus, but my count was pushing me, and I was running at the pace I would if I targeted four laps of the airfield. This half-marathon was not far beyond four laps, so I gave it all I had.
My wrist had been taped by Hesky, and it hurt at the start, now starting to go numb, which was probably a bad sign. My face bruises throbbed hot, and where my stitches had been taken out – a few days ago, they stung like hell on and off.
Right on queue my anus opened up, but nothing came out, and so I relaxed and ran on down the country roads and through villages, crowds cheering. We hit a section of dual carriageway that was more than three miles long, and I glanced back, the previous lead man now fifty yards back.
Head down, straight stretch – the rain holding off for now, I worked on the count, and the distance passed quickly, the runners behind not trying to take me.
A tight right turn, a glance back, and I was somehow two hundred yards ahead. The sign said three miles, so I put my head down, swung my arms and gave it everything I had, getting the pace up, the aim to be under 75 minutes.
My left knee then decided to twinge, a great pain coming and going, my diaphragm deciding to complain, my left shoulder sending out shooting pains. I grimaced and took the pain, an RAF photographer getting a great shot of my pain - as well as the gap I had created.
The end line came into view far quicker than I had imagined, and I was still counting in my head. The last four hundred yards I pushed even harder, the pain almost unbearable, waves of pleasure mixed in, a great urge to pee, hot flushes shooting around my scalp, and my chest hit a ribbon. I slowed, was caught, and I bent double, about to die on that spot, figuring that a six minute recovery would be more like an hour.
A blanket was placed over me, people clapped, runners came in – I saw their legs and feet, and after several painful minutes I managed to stand upright. I accepted a drink, and stood there as Hesky came in, probably about thirtieth place, and he looked worse than I felt.
Two grey-blue uniforms closed in, a Flight Lieutenant and a Group Captain. ‘Well done, Wilco,’ the Group Captain offered me.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I puffed out. ‘Name is Milton, but everyone calls me Wilco, sir.’
‘Saw you in London, knew you’d do well from the off, and you’re here winning this when you should probably be in sick ward. Excellent effort.’
‘You get addicted to it, sir, I hate just sitting around.’
They smiled and nodded.
‘You down for the full marathon?’ the second officer asked as the runners came in, space blankets thrown over them.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then we’ll be looking for a good result there as well. You know your time?’ he teased.
‘Eh, no ... sir,’ I said, the clock facing away from us.
‘Sixty-eight ten, a new course record, damn close to the world record.’
Hesky moved in and I put an arm around him. ‘You look half dead, Corporal.’
‘Feel it.’
Mason nudged through. ‘How’d you do?’ he asked me. Then he clocked the officers. ‘Sir.’
‘A new record,’ the Group Captain enthused.
I motioned toward Mason. ‘This is Flying Officer Mason, from Catterick, sir, we train together with Corporal Hesky here. No social lives, you see.’
They laughed, Mason looking half-dead and red in the face.
‘I got twenty-fourth place,’ Hesky put in.
‘I got thirty-six,’ Mason reported.
‘RAF got three and four, as well as first of course, so we’re more than happy,’ the Group Captain told us. ‘Well done, all of you, now get warmed up.’
An hour later, and dressed in civvy’s, I stepped forwards through the crowd and accepted my small medal, as well as a certificate, thanks from some Army colonel, and after Hesky and Mason got their certificates we were off to the train station for the long haul back – sore feet and sore legs rested. And we slept most of the way.
On the Sunday we met up in the same curry house in Darlington, Bongo driving and promising not to drink, a dozen of Hesky’s local club runners joining us – they had heard about my time. It was amazing how something so simple as running down a road could occupy a conversation for some many hours.
On the Monday morning I headed into the briefing in uniform, a loud chorus of rude jibes echoing, few of them positive. Apparently, my competitors on the day were poor.
The CO appeared with an Air Commodore, everyone standing, Sergeant Harris saluting.
‘At ease,’ the CO called, and everyone sat. He focused on me. ‘Milton, with us.’
I stood and moved forwards, saluting the Air Commodore.
He shook my hand. ‘Well done on the weekend, a new course record, and well done in London as well, despite that ... travesty of justice.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And I understand you’re running this weekend as well.’
‘Yes, sir, hoping to get around without being tripped.’
‘Come, let’s talk.’ And he led me out and to the admin offices, a photographer waiting. ‘We’d like some photographs of you in your normal workplace, then in running kit.’
‘Of course, sir,’ I offered, secretly wanting to tell him to fuck off.
An hour later I was photographed in gym kit on the airfield, and earlier – in uniform, I had been snapped working on a tank’s 30mm cannon.
‘We have a snap of you from last Saturday, but to be honest – you like death, so if we get a better one this weekend we’ll use that.’
‘And use them ... for what, sir?’
‘The RAF magazine, as well as recruitment posters and the like. It all helps to have a super-star in the ranks.’
