by Geoff Wolak
‘Get ready...’
Bent over, sprint stance, heart racing.
‘Steady...’
Mouth a little dry.
A crack and we were off, and I sprinted forwards before settling, soon realising that they were all intent on following me and keeping on my heels. None tried to overtake me.
I set the pace in my head, settled down to straight flat roads and great scenery, and realised that I was getting paid to do this, a smile coming to my face.
At the first turn that could be called tight, perhaps five miles out, I glanced back, a tight group of five runners about sixty yards back, which was fine. These days I was happy about my sprinting, and my sprint finish, so if someone got close I could pull away.
The spectators were sparse, plenty of German police officers in yellow and green, and every mile someone would step out, kneel down and snap a picture of me before darting out the way.
At the ten mile mark I slowed and grabbed a drink, throwing it down my throat, and today I felt like I needed it more than usual.
At 15 miles I again grabbed a drink, slowed and tossed it back, wondering if there was a problem, or was it the heat? But there was a cool breeze blowing through the trees, and I did not feel like I was overheating.
No sooner had I said that than my eyes started to sting from sweat, which happened in the early days of running but not after. Was it the heat, or something else?
I slowed and wiped my brow, a little worried, and at the twenty mile mark I was blinking a great deal and wiping the sweat, suddenly finding a man on my shoulder. He stayed there, not wanting to overtake, and at the next drink station I grabbed a drink and downed it, so did he, but I also grabbed a second cup and put it over my hair.
Wiping my forehead one last time, I glanced at him, smiled, and shouted, ‘Come on then, let’s go!’
I put on the power, he put on the power, and the count in my head said that we were over my usual speed. I felt OK, in fact I felt happy, very happy to be here in Germany, happy running, and my resentment towards 51 Squadron was waning. I was enjoying my life for a change.
With a smile on my face, a grin for the guy at various points, I saw the three mile marker and gave it everything, leaving him behind to struggle along. And what I didn’t know at that time was that I had been snapped smiling at him.
On the final long straight leg I was going mad, sprinting for all I was worth and smiling at the same time, anus wanting to open up. I was desperate for a pee that would not release, and about to have an orgasm at the same time.
I hit the ribbon with my chest, slowed, but did not double over as usual, I stood there panting, and smiling as I turned – being snapped.
My closest competitor came limping in second and collapsed, needing assistance as I sipped a drink. They stretchered him off; he had given it everything. A sea of blue uniforms or blue berets closed in, congratulations given.
The senior officer quipped, ‘The bruise from that hooker didn’t slow you down any.’
I smiled. ‘No, sir.’
‘And you hardly seemed tired as you crossed the line. Time was two twenty seven.’
I nodded. ‘This time they followed me, so I had no one to catch, I was setting the pace, so maybe that’s why it was a bit slow.’
‘Always hard at the front of the pack,’ he commented. ‘Easy to follow others.’
I got my medal and certificate to sedate applause, was photographed a dozen times, and we boarded the coach, Cpl Donovan having come in thirty-second.
We drove back tired and happy, chatting away, but as we neared the base I got a twinge, and it would not go away, getting stronger. I doubled over.
‘Driver!’ I forced out. ‘Base ... medical ... station.’
Cpl. Donovan was concerned, now shouting instructions as I just about fainted. I could hardly remember being carried off the bus, soon on a stretcher, questions being asked and hurried answers being passed back.
‘Hernia,’ I croaked out, and pointed at the right spot.
Someone shouted, and I was led into surgery, and the lights went out.
I woke to find it night, and wondered where the hell I was. I went to ease up and screamed in pain, a nurse rushing over.
‘Take it easy, lie down, you had your appendix removed.’ The voice sounded oddly familiar.
‘Appendix? I ... I thought I had a hernia.’
‘Nope, good old fashioned appendix. Good job that didn’t burst on the run you did.’
She gave me a drink, my nurse just a dark outline, and I drifted back off to sleep. In the morning a dozen senior officers appeared, the Station Commander introducing himself.
‘You won a marathon with a burst appendix, or maybe the marathon burst it for you. Was it hurting during the marathon?’
‘It always hurts during the run, sir, be hard to know the difference.’
‘Yes, quite. Well you won for us, then worried us, so take it easy for a few days. But I understand you’re down for the NATO run - have to scrap that idea, you’ll be out of action for a while, your CO back at Catterick notified. Just get well, and ... well done again.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Corporal Donovan came in later with some of the armourers, who took the piss no end, got bored and sloped off after ten minutes.
Not long after they had gone, a familiar face came into view; Corporal Sandra ... something.
She walked over. ‘Still with us?’
‘Sandra? What you doing here?’
‘After the first aid I elected to start the nurses course, so I study and work at the same time, takes years.’
‘Not mad at me, are you? Not going to cut my balls off while I sleep?’ I teased.
‘No, don’t be silly, and I’m engaged to be married now. Was a shock seeing you on the TV, that London Marathon.’
‘I prefer this base, might try and get a transfer here.’
‘Cold in the winter, damned cold, even with the heating on, a few feet of snow.’
‘Yeah? That might slow up my running a bit.’
‘And it gets boring after a while, Germany.’
I did very little for a few days save lay on the bed or sit in a chair, but was finally allowed out of the medical bay, to be back in ten days to have my stitches out. I was driven back to my room in pouring rain, all as I had left it, and Singleton started driving me to the canteen each day.
I gingerly stepped into the Education Centre the next day, and they queried my state till I explained. They allowed me to sit and while away the time behind the tapes and transcripts, and my Russian was coming along by time my stitches were removed. I bid farewell to many new friends two days later, driven to the airport, and soon in Luton and on a train west to my parents, two weeks medical leave granted.
My parents were glad to see me for a whole day, then got on with their routines, so I headed up to Catterick and reclaimed a cold bed, Bongo at least happy see me.
In civvies, and not looking forwards to it, I wandered into the briefing the next morning to cheers and jeers and ‘stupid cunt’.
‘Ah, Milton, how’s the wound?’ the CO asked when I went to his office.
‘Much better now, sir.’
‘You’re supposed to be on leave.’
‘I am, sir, but here, because after two weeks with my parents I’d want to shoot myself.’
He smiled. ‘I quite understand. We got a good coverage of the marathon, plenty of praise, so keep at it.’
‘Be out of action for a week, then I’ll try running, sir.’
‘Oh, armourer’s course Part II starts ... a week Monday. You up for it?’
‘Yes, sir, I can sit in a corner and listen, I won’t need to lift anything heavy.’
‘Good. Well you know where it is.’ He handed me my instructions.
A week later I turned up at the Armourer’s school in uniform, explaining that I was on medical leave and not supposed to be here – or lifting anything, and I showed them the scar. I needn’t have
worried, they were all like family, enquiring after the marathon.
Bongo drove me most days, but we had a new roommate called Stevenson, known as Slack for some odd reason, and Slack was on an engineering course near the Armourer’s School, so he drove me some days and we got to know each other as we commuted – notes compared at the end of the day. He was tall like me, slim, a pointed face and short black hair.
Unlike Bongo, Slack was fit and keen, two years in, and a big fan of mine already, so we hit the bars that weekend in Darlington and met a pair of girls, splitting a taxi back.
That following weekend we again headed out, but bumped into Mason and a fellow officer, soon chatting about running – as well as appendix operations. But we had accidentally picked a new pub, and Dunny’s mates were out, and as soon as they saw me they came over.
‘How’s that appendix,’ a big lump called Sloan asked. ‘I mean, if I hit you hard, it going to open up – and you going to die?’
‘I’m Flying Officer Mason, and you’re one step away from charge.’
‘We’re off duty, sir, so bollocks,’ he slurred. ‘You ain’t got no authority out here.’
Mason was on dangerous ground, because if he got into a scrape here he would be in trouble himself, no matter who started it; officers did not get into bar brawls.
I was about to hit Sloan when Slack beat me to it, a great unseen side punch, Sloan knocked cold, and Slack moved quickly to the second man as that man’s eyes followed a sliding Sloan, a nose demolished.
I grabbed Mason and his friend and led them out, and we legged it away to another bar. ‘You were never there, sir, it would harm your career. And he won’t remember your name when he sobers up.’
‘Yes, a risk,’ Mason agreed, so we ducked into a curry house and sat drinking in safety, a curry enjoyed.
I said to Slack, ‘Where’d you learn to fight?’
‘I had four older brothers,’ he informed us. ‘And it was a tough estate we lived on.’
On the Monday the CO summoned me early, and I had half an idea what it was about. Sergeant Harris was waiting with Sloan’s mate, a nose covered in tape and two giant black eyes displayed.
‘Milton,’ the CO began. ‘Sloan has a broken jaw, he’ll be off for quite some time and, as you can see, Morris here has a broken nose, and I’m led to believe you knew the man who did the damage.’
‘Why not just say that I did it, sir,’ I suggested with a shrug.
‘It wasn’t you,’ Morris growled, sounding very nasal.
‘Do you know the man?’ the CO pressed.
‘He’s a sergeant, Armourer’s School, but my mind is a blank as to his name. Smith maybe, or Jones, sir.’
‘And why, exactly, did he hit our men?’
‘Sloan said that he wanted to hit me hard in the stomach to see if the stitches would open up, and the sergeant didn’t like that idea.’
‘No, I can imagine not, and hitting someone in a recent wound would be cowardly in the extreme.’ He turned to Morris. ‘Did you express a desire ... to open up Milton’s wound?’
‘No, sir,’ came back very nasal. ‘I didn’t hear what was said.’
‘You got a punch on the nose for Sloan’s reprehensible behaviour, so maybe you should pick you drinking buddies a little better next time.’ The CO faced me. ‘If the police ask, you will have to identify this sergeant.’
‘Conk, they call him.’ I saluted and left.
Later, at the Armourer’s School, I went and found Conk, a six foot six monster and a former heavyweight boxer.
‘Hey Wilco,’ he greeted.
‘Listen Sarge, I got a problem, need a favour. Saturday night I was drinking with an officer, fellow runner, when two of my lot picked a fight, and I needed to get this officer out before he got into trouble and ... well ... this bug drunk lump starting saying he would open up my stitches -’
‘What a cunt.’
‘My mate slugged both of them, broken jaw and a broken nose.’
‘Good job.’
‘I didn’t want to get my mate into trouble, so when my CO asked I said it was someone from here I knew that did the damage, and you fit the description...’
‘I was miles away, plenty of witnesses, no worries.’
‘Good. But I know these boys, and they’ll come looking, so ... how about you go chat first and ... I owe you fifty quid and a curry.’
He nodded. ‘Lunchtime.’
And lunchtime we drove the short distance, chatting about kids – not least because he had six by three women. The fifty quid would come in handy, and he loved his curry.
Parked up, I led him to the common room, finding Morris sat nursing his sore nose. I called over Sergeant Harris as Conk attracted strange looks.
‘Morris, Sergeant Harris, this is Conk, from Saturday night.’
Conk pointed a huge finger at Morris. ‘You fuck with me again in Darlington and you’re a dead man – I was with my misses.’
Morris looked terrified, as did those in ear shot.
Conk towered over Harris, and jabbed Harris hard in the chest. ‘You keep your boys in check, or it’ll be you I come looking for, and you’ll get a nice long stay in fucking ward someplace. And if these wankers go to the police, you don’t send no more boys for training with us, tosser.’
I led him out, and we drove back chatting, and I wondered what the chat was back at 51 Squadron.
That evening, Slack came back to the room. ‘So why is some giant fucking guerrilla taking the blame for what I did?’
‘Because I gave him fifty quid and kept you out of it.’
‘Oh. Right. Well curry on me this weekend. And Morris is shitting himself, Harris not happy at being caught up in it.’
The next day, and the Armourer’s Major came and found me. ‘Had you CO on the blower, worried about upsetting us? Some bar fight?’
I explained the story, all of it.
‘Conk would scare me shitless,’ he said with a smile. ‘But let your CO know there’s no bad blood. Yet anyhow. This fucker wanted to open your stitches?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What a bastard, eh. You work with some right arseholes over there.’
‘Hate to think what would have happened if I had actually won in London, sir.’
‘I told you, my boy, come work for us.’
I explained about the armoury work in Wildenrath.
‘I was in a place near your Bruggen base back years ago, went onto the base a few times. Saw those Harriers at a dispersal site, a mini airfield, vertical take-off, marvellous stuff.’
‘Now the Americans are copying the design, and improving it, sir.’
‘They have the money, for sure, and we get by and a shoelace budget.’
I went and found the CO the following day at 5pm. ‘Sir, I had message from the armourers, just to say that there’s no bad blood about the fight if any of our lot are down for further courses.’
‘That’s good to know, and we don’t need bar fights setting groups against each other, we have to get on with the various Army units. Had one of ours punch a range warden once, and every time we wanted to use that range they had misplaced the damn keys.’
‘I try to avoid our piss-heads when I’m out, sir, but it’s only a handful of them that like a drink and a punch up.’
‘Yes, well, they learnt their lesson this time.’
On the Friday night, after a week working on fifty cal and 30mm cannon, the study now getting hard, I took Conk out for a curry with Slack, talk of boxing. And Conk ate enough for three people, downing seven pints, and was not even wobbly at the end of it; his stomach was a damn cement mixer.
I met a girl that next weekend, small and cute, and called Betty. I named her Blowjob Betty, because she loved to give blowjobs but rarely shagged because she always seems to have an infection and was on antibiotics.
Still, any time I wanted a good blowjob she was available, her technique excellent, and she always had cheesecake available afterwards. It was, a
pparently, the only thing that she was good at making, having learnt in school cookery lessons.
The weeks studying at the Armourer’s school were pleasant, cold and wet outside now, and my technical knowledge was growing rapidly. I could measure the barrel of a GPMG, I could check the bearings on a machinegun tripod, I had learnt all about mortars and even tank barrels, ballistics and cordite mixes, misfires and procedures.
As for the dated SLRs and the new SA80, I could strip and clean them in my sleep, expert with the GPMG.
I passed with a great score, and we all went out for a celebration, Christmas approaching.
Turning point
I woke to find a warm smelly liquid on my face, some in my mouth, and I coughed and spluttered, spitting. Smelling piss, I opened my eyes and saw a dark shadow over me, someone laughing. Jumping out of bed, I shoved the dark figure, unsure of what had happened, and what was happening. He fell back with a groan, a chair knocked over.
I stepped to the lights and switched them on, wiping my face. Sloan.
I was ready to kill the bastard when Slack walked across.
‘What the fuck is he doing in here?’
‘Pissing on my face.’
‘Er ... fuck.’ He kicked Sloan in the ribs, but not hard. ‘He’s well out of it. You hit him?’
‘No, shoved him, he hit the chair.’
Sloan tried to say something, and vomited.
‘Er,’ Slack said as he turned our unwelcome guest on his side. Bongo appeared in his underpants. ‘What the fuck?’
It was rare for Bongo to wake up, but he admitted he was desperate for a pee and did not want to wet the bed - again.
Slack knelt down next to Sloan. ‘Something ain’t right with him. Hit his head or drank too much.’
‘I’ll get an ambulance for the cunt before he dies on us,’ I suggested and got dressed in a hurry, washing my face before I jogged to the guardroom.
