Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  At Catterick, my small fan club stood shocked for a whole minute before some of Sloan’s friends laughed. Then all hell broke loose, bottles flying.

  Across the UK, and further afield, RAF personnel had stood cheering, and now stood gobsmacked and stunned. In Wildenrath, celebrations from those who knew me turned to anger, the TV smashed, the Medics in Lyneham staring silently at the screen.

  In London, the AOC was white as a sheet, knowing that the publicity would be huge, and that he did not have any good answers for the press.

  As I lay there, I turned my head, seeing a woman on the floor some twenty yards away, shot in the head, frantic police giving CPR. Another injured man was being looked after by paramedics, being given CPR. I was moved onto a stretcher, and bundled into the ambulance, soon speeding off.

  “...we’re getting reports of deaths at the scene, but we don’t know yet who has been shot, but the RAF runner was seen to have been given desperate CPR by the paramedics...”

  Colonel Bennet stood staring at the screen, mortified beyond words.

  Back down the track the race had been halted, Massey and Worksmith wondering just what the hell had happened up ahead, bent double and hacking, trying to get their breath back.

  I was awake for the ambulance ride, my two wounds now sore as hell and throbbing, and I felt chilled, like a block of ice as they held pads on me. Bumped down, many new faces, ladies and men, and I was given a mask, an odd taste, and the lights went out.

  I woke to find it daylight, and I wondered why I was sleeping during the day. I then wondered why I hurt all over and I grimaced as the pain built and subsided. Curtains, there were curtains around me, and I turned my head.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Alright son. Had us worried for a while there, but they says you’ll be right as rain. I’ll fetch your mum, she’s off to use the toilet.’

  None of that made any sense at all, and I somehow figured I was ten years old and on holiday. A blue RAF uniform appeared, a stern face offered to me, a glance taken, a chat to the doctors. My memories started to return, and I was fully aware by time my mother appeared.

  ‘How you feeling, love?’

  It was an odd question. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘They say you’re out of danger and were very lucky. And the nice people from the RAF got us a hotel, and we spoke to this Colonel Bennet a few times, he’s here somewhere. Surprise it was, seeing you running like that, and you look like you’ve lost some weight. Hope you’re eating properly.’

  I smiled at the absurdity of it. Dad came back, and they sat, soon chatting about the neighbours, my dad telling me how well his garden was doing before Colonel Bennet appeared with a senior RAF officer.

  ‘How you doing, my lad?’ he loudly asked.

  ‘Hurts like hell, sir. What happened?’

  ‘Irish chap shot you, and he killed two bystanders, but he was not IRA, just a nutcase apparently. But you in RAF colours may have had something to do with it.’

  ‘That’s two London Marathons I never finished.’

  ‘You were doing well, well placed, and you got way more coverage than anyone else – which pissed off the RAF no end.’

  I slid my gaze across to an Air Commodore. ‘Good.’

  The Air Commodore began, ‘I’m up to speed on your case, and it will be dealt with expeditiously, and your CO will get a reprimand. Unfortunately, that may make life difficult at 51 Squadron, so maybe you should consider a transfer.’

  ‘I will, sir. Or buy my way out.’

  ‘Perhaps you could take some time to consider that and let us set things straight for a while.’

  ‘Maybe, sir.’ My parents were not following.

  The Air Commodore forced a polite smile at my parents, a glance at Bennet, and left us.

  Colonel Bennet began, ‘Papers are already in, I’ll get your conviction overturned, and some compensation, and I’ve lodged a complaint about your CO’s ability to read military law. He won’t be a happy chappy, but I guess that seeing you on the TV took the colour from his cheeks.’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  ‘Be positive, think of the money, and a fresh start somewhere else.’

  My parents left half an hour later, they had booked a show whilst up here, and somehow that seemed familiar. It also left me smiling.

  The doctors and nurses ran their tests, finding a low resting pulse, but since I was a runner that was not surprising. Worksmith and Massey turned up at 8pm.

  ‘You mucked up my race time,’ Massey complained. ‘Fucking knobber.’

  I laughed.

  Worksmith began, ‘They told us you had been shot dead, so it was fraught for a while after they stopped the race, calls to the Colonel. I know you wanted the publicity to piss off the RAF ... but did you have to go this far!’

  We all laughed, my stomach stitches hurting.

  ‘How you doing anyhow?’ Massey asked.

  ‘Doctors say the 9mm rounds missed anything important, so I’ll be fine, back running soon enough – running away from RAF officers wanting to shoot me. Had an Air Commodore in here, and Colonel Bennet has lodged papers against my CO, so I’ll get shit when I get back.’

  ‘If your CO is still there,’ Massey joked. ‘Might get his arse kicked out.’

  ‘That’ll make me very popular,’ I quipped.

  They came back the next day, newspapers handed over, and I had made the front pages, The Telegraph reporting the fact that I had been on remand in Colchester prior to the marathon, and even listed what I had been charged with. The RAF would be pissed-off at me.

  The rag newspapers had my heroic attempt to finish the race, not knowing about my desperate sprint to the ambulance, and they detailed last year’s marathon mishap. The Sun referred to me as ‘Man of Steel’, which was kind of nice, images of me resetting my dislocated shoulder last year, plus an image from the inter-services run.

  My parents popped in before they headed back to Gloucester, and the next day Colonel Bennet was back, newspapers in hand.

  ‘A shit storm brewing, with me centre stage, so I may get invites to the good parties.’

  I laughed.

  ‘They have you down as being wrongly imprisoned, no legal counsel provided – don’t know who leaked that bit, your CO named even, some shit for the RAF, their star runner wrongly imprisoned. Not good for recruitment, so they keep telling me.’ He handed me chocolates and some Lucozade. ‘From the gang.’

  ‘Thank them for me, sir.’

  ‘You’ll need to pick up your kit from us.’

  ‘When they release me I’ll come down. Am I allowed a few days there?’

  ‘Since I never signed you off to leave ... you’re still in residence technically. So yes, use it like a hotel for a while, but they will give you a few weeks at home. Would you rather not stay with your parents?’

  ‘Hell no, sir. A week of that and I’d take me own life.’

  He laughed loudly. ‘I can get you into Catterick Military Hospital. Good rehab centre.’

  ‘That would be better, yes. When do I leave here?’

  ‘Not for a while, but if it’s a case of a transfer to Catterick then that can be arranged soon.’

  ‘Well ... maybe that then, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have the corporals drive you up when the doctors here say it’s OK, your kit packed. But don’t go buying yourself out, not yet, you have to see the looks on their faces first and get some compensation money. Oh, and they’re re-running the marathon this weekend.’

  ‘Do I have a place, sir?’ I teased.

  He laughed loudly, the nurse asking him to be quiet; there were sick people nearby.

  The next day a nurse handed me a newspaper, little said but an odd look from her as she handed it over. It detailed the Glass House, in great detail, a few of those who passed through it lambasting the place and its brutality and ill treatment of soldiers, a few cases of suicide noted, grieving families. Colonel Bennet would be getting some shit from this, but none of it was recent
.

  I lay there wondering if the nurses felt sorry for me, and were sympathetic, and could I get a hand job from the tasty ones.

  No hand job came, just a lot of doctors smiling falsely and checking my healing wounds and few stitches, vitals taken twice a day, any infection looked for.

  On the Saturday, Bongo and Slack turned up with Cpl Hesky, all keen to chat, and then to bitch and moan about the squadron and the new CO – and the big bar fight on the day.

  Worksmith and Massey turned up after an hour, and the nurses asked them all to keep it down, the two groups swapping stories.

  Hesky reported, ‘In Swinderby, the new recruits were sat watching the marathon, all excited that you might win, then getting shot and reported as killed, and the RAF had to get all the staff back in on a Sunday and the recruits had counselling, or some bollocks like that.’

  Massey reported, ‘On the Falklands they were watching it, and in Cyprus and other places, so every fucker in the military saw it, and know that you came from the Centre. Colonel had letters and calls from all over, but not negative like.’

  ‘You’re even more famous,’ Slack quipped, and it hurt to think that I would get even more shit now.

  With the gang gone, the Catterick three off to stay with Bongo’s drunken uncle in London – a night on the town planned, it was just me again, staring up at the ceiling or listening to the sick people on the ward.

  On the Monday I was informed that I would be moved the next day, up to Catterick.

  Colonel Bennet turned up in civvies that evening, odd to see him out of uniform. ‘Moving you tomorrow, my lad,’ he began.

  ‘They said, sir.’

  ‘Be an ambulance or a van I suppose, bit of fuss, then up to Catterick. How you ... feeling?’ It was not a question about my wounds.

  ‘See how it goes, sir. Part of me wants to go get a job outside, part wants to stick it to them, small part wants to actually do the job I was supposed to be doing.’

  ‘I spoke to the RAF, and after you’ve settled your admin at Catterick they’ll look for a posting for you. So ... where do you fancy?’

  ‘Germany is an option, sir, they liked me over there.’

  ‘Bases over there are all set to close soon enough.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just pick at random then, sir, see what happens.’

  ‘Fresh start, but ... you are quite famous now, or indeed infamous. Oh, your CO has filed a letter of “No Contest” to my challenge on the decision, so it’s overturned bar the rubber stamp from above, but just to be spiteful I made a formal complaint about his handling of the matter. I reprimanded him myself as well, I am allowed to do that. So he’s having a bad week.

  ‘And I now use you as an example on the lecture circuit since everyone knows about the lad shot in the marathon. I cite your circumstances and we debate the matter. Probably be a chapter in my memoirs.’

  ‘Don’t you need to be a superstar or politician to have memoirs, sir?’ I teased.

  He laughed. ‘That’s how I see myself in the shower!’

  The next day I had a hand getting into a shower, but no hand job from the nice nurses, waterproof pads on my stitches. Dressed in the clothes that the lads had brought in, I sat in a lounge and waited, paperwork checked, date of birth checked, next of kin, and I was put in a wheelchair and led down and out into the cold, a posh people carrier with the words ‘Ambulance’ written on the side waiting for me.

  I stood to get in, telling them to stop fussing, and put the seat belt on. And we were off, a chatty fat driver with a cockney accent, and when I told him about the marathon there was no shutting him up. Still, it helped pass the time as we drove through the East End and towards the M25, soon around to the M1 and heading north, and I was not sure how I felt about any of this.

  We stopped at a service station and he did not stop me going inside for a pee and a nice cuppa, plus a full English breakfast. Back on the road we headed ever north, a long trip, and at 4pm we drove northeast along the A1, right past RAF Catterick and my perimeter track, and I smiled involuntarily. That track was etched into my heart.

  I could see a few of the Scorpion tanks out, life going on, but without me. It stung a little. If only I had been a fat drunk I would have fitted in well.

  We soon arrived at the military hospital, a large modern building and not looking much like a hospital at all, a great many people in uniform wandering around. My driver got the wheelchair down, checked my paperwork and pushed me in, my file handed over to a desk sergeant.

  ‘Ah, the famous marathon runner, Prisoner Milton.’

  I was on my feet. ‘Who the fuck you calling a prisoner, you fucking prick!’ I bellowed, a dozen people shocked turning around, including many officers. ‘Just where does it allow you to refer to an enlisted man as prisoner? And as you read in the papers, I was wrongly convicted, cleared, and due some compensation. So I’m not a fucking prisoner!’

  A major eased forwards through the stunned silence. ‘Sergeant, you will not refer to anyone as prisoner, this is not a prison.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘It’s him you should be apologising to.’

  ‘I’m ... sorry for referring to you as prisoner, eh ... Gunner Milton.’

  I shot them all an angered look and sat back down.

  Paperwork sorted, my driver thanked, I was pushed inside and taken up to a second floor, and shown to a nice room that had a bed and a chair and a desk; I had not been placed on a ward again.

  The orderly said, ‘This is your room, but you can use the common room save going mad in here, and there’s a gym and physio, meals are brought on the trolley.’

  I stood, and took in the room. ‘Thanks.’ Opening a large cabinet I found my kit.

  ‘So you’re the guy who was shot in the London Marathon.’

  I sighed. ‘Yes. Famous for all the wrong reasons. And the year before I made the papers for being tripped.’

  ‘You’re not having a lot of luck, are you?’

  I shot him a look.

  After checking my kit I found the common room, and a familiar face. ‘Where’d I know you from?’ I asked the man.

  ‘Dunno. I’m at the Armourer’s School.’

  ‘Ah, I did my courses there, parts I and II, I share a room with Bongo.’

  ‘Ah, Bongo. He got worked over by some RAF wankers.’

  ‘Yeah, sticking up for me. I’m Wilco, the guy shot in the London Marathon.’

  ‘I know that name, they talk about you in the camp.’

  ‘So what happened to you?’

  ‘Car hit my Land Rover, drunk driver, rolled me, fucked my back. Getting better bit by bit. Been eight weeks already, fed up of this place.’

  I made us both a tea, the guy still moving slowly, and we sat chatting. He introduced me to the other ‘inmates’ as he called them, and they asked after the Glass House. I gave them a lesson in military law that they were keen to get.

  A pleasant-faced doctor came and found me, and led me away. In my room, and with a nurse with a trolley full of kit, they wanted to check me over.

  ‘You were shot...’

  ‘Twice. Anterior, abdomen, lower quadrant, missed the intestine, no infection or internal bleeding, inside of the left shoulder, bone missed, main arteries missed, I was lucky, no loss of fidelity to the left arm, some pain in the rotator cuff tendon.’

  He studied me, the nurse having halted.

  ‘And you’re a ... Gunner in the RAF Regiment?’ he puzzled with a deep frown.

  ‘I did the first aid courses, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Well, let’s have a look at the stitches then, and we’ll check the range of movement in the left shoulder as well.’ He got to work.

  ‘Saw you on the TV. One of ours – a doctor, he was running, so odd for you to be here stood in front of me. And you were tripped up last year I understand. They said you could have been placed in the top ten.’

  ‘I won’t be entering it again, sir. Can only push my luck so far.’

&nbs
p; ‘And the time in prison?’

  I was not sure if I wanted to make small talk. ‘I woke to find a guy pissing on my face, shoved him back, he hit his neck on a chair, partial paralysis. I wasn’t given a hearing, no legal counsel, just sentenced.’

  ‘My wife is a solicitor, Darlington, and she explained that it was wrong. So if you need some outside legal help she’d be keen.’

  ‘Might come to that, sir, see what happens when I get back, but my CO has already been reprimanded, so I don’t think he’ll kiss me on the cheeks when he sees me.’

  The tests revealed that I was still alive, pulse low, blood pressure low, and I ate a meal off the trolley - not too bad, and joined the others in the common room, the TV being watched by bored faces.

  I did not sleep well, staring up at the ceiling a great deal, shadows being cast by traffic outside and creating triangles that elongated and then shrunk away.

  After breakfast I found the gym, and without permission I got changed into gym kit and walked at a brisk pace for two hours, feeling OK.

  A physio eventually asked who I was, and checked his sheet. ‘You’re not down for exercise yet,’ he told me.

  ‘I just walked ten miles,’ I puffed out. ‘Nothing wrong with me, minor wounds. Besides, the exercise is probably good for me.’

  He nodded. ‘You don’t come back in here without me saying so, Dumbfuck. Now be a good patient and fuck off.’

  Cursing the physio under my breath, I headed off for a shower, but wet the pads, so the nurse was not happy, and that was two people I had pissed off today. And after I saw the physio leave around 6pm I went back down and snuck in, lights left off, and walked for two hours, a quick wash taken afterwards. Back in the common room, I joined the other bored inmates as they stared at the TV like zombies.

  In the morning, after breakfast, I had a team of six doctors facing me as I lay on the bed, the man in charge describing the wounds and possible side-effects, secondary effects and infection, all done as if I was unconscious – not sat listening.