Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘North side, fenced off, NATO nukes in there, cruise missiles and shit. All stored down here.’

  ‘Well, I guess they store it here because if there’s an accident it’s a long way from the population centres.’

  ‘You a full-time driver?’

  ‘No, I’m RAF Regiment, but ... I had some problems, so now I’m driving.’

  ‘Got busted, eh?’

  ‘Got sent to military prison for a bullshit charge, got cleared, due some compensation.’

  ‘And the fella that sent you down, he probably ain’t to happy to be overturned, eh.’

  I shot him a look. ‘I had an officer arrested.’

  He pursed his lips and blew. ‘Ya must be right popular an all. If I did that ... my body would wash up on the damn beach! If we get stiffed, we suck it and take it. No appeals process.’

  ‘I might buy myself out, but at the moment I’m driving, helping out in the armoury a few days a week.’

  ‘Armoury?’

  ‘I’m qualified as an armourer.’

  His face brightened. ‘Fifty cal and FN machinegun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Got a spare hour?’

  I squinted at him. ‘For ... what?’

  ‘Got an inspection next week, our guy is off till Monday, so the pressure is on.’

  I shrugged. ‘Got some tools?’

  ‘Got what our man left behind.’

  ‘Show me.’

  We drove back, me following him, and through the gate, to the east end, up and around to the heavily fenced section – my entry explained to a Marine with an M16, and to their armoury, Marines wandering around.

  I was led to a staff sergeant.

  ‘Brit armourer, found him on his day off, he’ll help out.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll get ya’ll a couple of beers as well.’

  Bench adopted, tool bags opened, they brought out GPMGs and I stripped them down, the gas regulators spotted with carbon. I tutted loudly.

  ‘OK, OK, so we missed a bit,’ my new friend offered. ‘These ain’t our usual weapons, but we had this NATO exercise, the guys struggling with these SLRs and the FNs here. But we’re supposed to be able to use and maintain them.’

  An hour later and I had eight GPMGs fit for inspection. One was jamming, sand removed.

  ‘How the fuck did you get sand in it?’ I shouted. ‘Took it to the beach, eh?’

  They shrugged. ‘Wind blows the sand in around here.’

  It took a full three hours to check and clean the SLRs, but all were laid out ready after I insisted they pinch some white sheets. Sheets down, weapons on, the weapons were covered over, many thanks coming my way.

  ‘Guys, first rule of cleaning a weapon – don’t make it any worse. Clean your hands, use a clean surface, keep the dust off.’

  ‘You’re a life saver, buddy, got some Brit officer coming in,’ the staff sergeant said.

  They gave me directions to a pub outside the base, and we agreed to meet at 8pm. I had civvy clothes in my bag and would change.

  About to leave, a slightly built captain appeared. ‘God damn. You!’

  The others exchanged looks.

  ‘Sir?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re the RAF guy shot in the London Marathon.’

  ‘Who me, sir?’ I made a face. ‘I’m not even in the RAF.’ And I left a perplexed looking captain behind after saluting.

  At 8pm I entered the country pub after getting a taxi from the main gate, loud calls for me, a group of about twelve Marines in t-shirts, bulging biceps evident.

  ‘Your name is Wilco, right?’ one pressed.

  ‘Nickname.’

  ‘We checked, and it was you in London.’

  ‘Next time I’ll run in body armour,’ I said as they got me a pint, hundreds of questions fired at me for half an hour. Then the slightly built captain joined us, not averse to drinking with his men.

  ‘I was in London for the race,’ he began. ‘Went back the following week and did OK. You all healed?’

  ‘Back running, but I doubt I’ll enter any more marathons.’

  ‘Why, you could be placed?’

  ‘Long story, sir.’

  ‘No sir in here, I’m just one of the guys, not some rich-boy asshole. And thanks for the weapons. Guys are OK, not sloppy, but we’re short of time.’

  ‘Nice little posting you got here,’ I noted.

  ‘Guys love it, and trips to London. And we went to some placed called Bath, hot springs an all. Local gals like our accents so we get some as well.’

  ‘But you just guard the weapons?’

  ‘Yeah, but we do some NATO exercises as well. We’re only a few platoons. I have to keep the guys trained, not just on the wire.’

  I gave them my sob story over an hour, and they were amazed that I had had an officer arrested.

  The captain said, ‘You do well, you get noticed. Always hard being at the top, always having the guys below wanting to knock you off the top. That’s life. My brother was a racing driver till he did his back, NASCAR, and someone screwed with his ride, nearly killed him. Not just you Limeys that stab each other in the back.

  ‘And my major, he’s a career man – military family, and if he knew I was here with the men that would be another write-up for me, another talking at. But when there’s a war I’ll be in the mud with these guys, not back at HQ giving orders.’

  I nodded. ‘I passed officer selection.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘There was a two year wait, so I came in as an enlisted man.’ ‘And now?’

  ‘No way in hell I’d want to be an officer, not sure if I’ll stay.’

  ‘Then try and change the system from within, one day at a time. You said you study law, so give them some shit. Might do some good for the next guy.’

  Back at base, lying on my allotted bed, I remembered back to my SAS neighbour, Captain Richards. They had fucked with his kit, but he blamed himself. He felt better when he considered the next man after him. So, if I fought back and changed a few attitudes, that might do some good for the next guy in my situation.

  I picked up the Group Captain at noon, the car checked, fuel to the maximum, and we set off along country roads.

  ‘Not too bored, were you, Wilco?’

  ‘No, sir, I had a day at the beach then helped the US Marines here clean some weapons, out for a drink with them last night.’

  ‘Been making friends, then. Good.’

  ‘Get much done, sir?’

  ‘These Nimrods are an issue; they cost more to maintain that if we hired or bought American AWACS, ten times as much. It will come to the crunch in a few years.’

  ‘Just like the SA80 rifle. It’s a piece of crap, but British made, the contract given before the weapon was even tested.’

  ‘Yes, another MOD screw-up unfortunately.’

  On the A30 we picked up speed, and a split second was about to make all the difference. It was single lane, long and straight, the traffic doing fifty, double white lines down the middle.

  A bang, large bits of rubber flying towards me, and an oncoming lorry swung into my lane, coming head on, three seconds from a hitting me. Yanking the wheel left was my only option, no time to see what was left of me.

  I remembered flying through the air, bushes, slamming down on the left side and skidding, smashing glass, cold mud and grass hitting me in the face, the smell of the grass, rolling, coming to a stop upright, bonnet crumpled, water flowing.

  My nose was bleeding, a hand to it, a glance at the water as it got higher, the front of the car in a stream. There was little chance of drowning, the engine steaming in the cold water, cold water now around my ankles.

  I turned my head and screamed, my collar bone protesting that move. Belt off, I turned as best I could, the Group Captain bloodied and semi-conscious, wild staring eyes. ‘Take it easy, sir.’

  I tried and failed to open my door, then wondered why I was trying to - the window was missing. Scrambling out, I could see the road, and
a line of cars. To the back door, my back issuing shooting pains, I opened it and knelt inside. Belt off, I checked his neck.

  ‘Can you move you feet, sir? Sir? Try and move your feet.’

  ‘I can ... do it, yes.’

  ‘Not paralysed, sir.’

  Around to the boot, a tractor approaching, I got my neck brace out and secured the Group Captain. First aid kit on the seat, I cleaned up his face, tape on a cut, his eyes checked, one bloodshot. Collar bones, shoulders, arms, I went down the list and down his body.

  His knee was dislocated, and I told him that as voices registered. Shins, ankles, feet, all tested.

  ‘Sir, your nose is broken, cut on your head, collar bone is bust, kneecap is dislocated, but you’ll make it.’

  ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘Not too bad, sir. Stay there, don’t try and move, might have a back or neck injury.’ I eased out, a farmer with red complexion stood ready to help, a man and a woman approaching.

  ‘I’m a policewoman, off duty. What are the injuries?’

  ‘I’m a military medic; my boss is stable, needs a back board just in case.’

  She ran back to the road, slipping a few times in the mud.

  ‘I saw what happened,’ the man offered. ‘I was behind the lorry. You were lucky, car behind you – elderly couple, both dead.’

  I looked towards the road, but the trees were hiding it. Flashing blue lights appeared, a policeman running across with a first aid kit.

  ‘We’re OK,’ I told him. ‘Need a back board.’

  ‘There’s a Life Guard’s van,’ he said, and ran off, waving someone over and shouting for a backboard.

  I eased inside and knelt on the back seat. ‘Take it easy, sir, soon have you out. Ease forwards just a fraction, sir.’ I ran a hand down his spine, nothing hurting, nothing feeling out of place as shouts came from behind.

  I found four keen men and one back board. ‘I’m a military medic. He has a dislocated knee, broken nose, a few cuts and bruises, no spinal injury – fidelity in the lower regions. We can move him or wait the Fire Brigade.’

  ‘If you think he’s OK we’ll move him.’

  I eased inside as the other door was opened. ‘Sir, lean towards me, left leg out the door. Slowly. Tell me if anything is hurting.

  ‘Ribs are sore,’ he got out in a strained whisper.

  ‘That’s to be expected, sir.’ I moved the leg with the dislocated knee, making him cry out. ‘OK, sir, doing well, nearly there.’

  Once he was elongated I got the back board behind him, and struggled to fasten him inside. Rolling him almost face down, several hands helping, I tightened the straps and we rolled him back and slowly twisted both him and the backboard upright. He was soon on the muddy grass.

  The Four RNLI crew lifted him and carried him off with practised ease as I grabbed his briefcase. I handed it to a waiting policeman. ‘RAF documents, classified, have them sent to RAF St. Mawgan. Make sure no one has a look.’

  He nodded. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Need a cup of tea and a good cry.’

  Led away, I rode with the Group Captain to Exeter General Hospital.

  He turned his head as best as he could. ‘That lorry...’

  ‘It hit the car behind, sir, killed and elderly couple.’

  ‘I’m bit banged up, but we should be dead.’ He reached for my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m out in nine months, wife has been nagging.’

  ‘Whether you are in our out, sir, UK roads are still death traps.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘Try doing this job,’ the paramedic quipped. ‘I see two like this every fucking day. It never gets better, and just painting a white line down the middle means nothing.’

  I grabbed a pen I saw in the paramedic’s pocket. ‘What’s your home number, sir?’ He detailed it for me. ‘I’ll call your wife, sir, let her know.’

  ‘Good of you.’

  At the hospital I was told to lay down on a stretcher, soon having a torch shone in my eyes, my skull felt, neck felt, spine and limbs. X-rays, and great deal of waiting around, revealed two broken ribs, so I’d be getting some time off. A stitch in my scalp, cleaned up, a cup of tea offered, and was allowed to finally make a call, the Group Captain’s fraught wife soon to be on her way down.

  I called Mackenzie. ‘It’s Wilco, I was in a smash with the Group Captain, he’s banged up, so go see Admin quickly.’

  ‘Fucking hell, they’ll crucify you. Was it your fault?’

  ‘No, don’t worry.’

  ‘What state is the car in?’

  ‘You don’t ask about me, but ask about the fucking car?’

  ‘Sorry, what state are you in?’

  ‘Busted up, in Exeter Hospital, let my CO know.’

  ‘OK, and ... what state is the car in?’

  ‘A write off.’

  ‘Shit...’

  ‘Fill in some fucking form, eh. And let them know in the armoury.’

  They would keep me in overnightbecause I had hit my head, and I sat next to the Group Captain much of the time. He had been X-rayed and checked over, a fractured collar bone, bruised sternum, broken nose, dislocated knee, his back found to be sore but not damaged.

  His wife arrived at 8pm, having been driven by another RAF driver from the pool at Brize Norton. I led the lad downstairs and for a cup of tea from a machine, and I gave him the story.

  ‘Lucky, damn lucky,’ he reflected. ‘You should be dead. And the more miles you do, the more chance of one of these. I was on the M4 a month ago, coach tyre blew, smashed my window, I swerved and hit the central reservation but managed to control it. Shat myself that day.’

  ‘You staying the night?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Bed and breakfast, claim it back, she’s in a hotel for a few days.’

  ‘They’re letting me go in the morning.’

  ‘I could drive you back,’ he offered.

  ‘You a safe driver?’ I pressed, making him laugh.

  With driver and wife gone I went back in to the Group Captain as he lay there, neck brace still on. ‘Wife OK, sir?’

  ‘Upset, obviously, near miss. What happened to my briefcase?’

  ‘Police took it. I said it had classified documents.’

  ‘Have to try and get that back.’

  ‘I told them to take it to St. Mawgan, so I’ll call them tomorrow for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Wilco. And your first aid came in handy back there, I felt like I was in good hands. If there is anything I can do for you when I get back you let me know.’

  ‘Good to know, sir, I find trouble easy enough.’

  Once more I went to sleep staring at the ceiling of a hospital ward, an old man moaning down the ward, lights from the street creating triangles across the ward’s ceiling, a pattern overlapping shades and angles.

  Checked over at 9am I was signed off, but I knew I would have to report the base MO at Brize Norton. I said goodbye to the Group Captain just as his wife arrived back, and I found my driver sat waiting. We were soon on the M5 heading north, and chatting about all sorts.

  He knew about the marathons from the lads in Transport, but now got the full story over three hours. He had started in Admin but hated it, and so moved over to a dull existence in Transport, but was teaching himself engines, soon to leave and get a job in a garage.

  At Brize Norton he dropped me at the MO, and I lugged my kit.

  The clerk for the doctor looked up. ‘Been fighting?’

  ‘No, Fuckwit, and if you make an accusation like that again you’ll meet my legal counsel.’

  ‘OK, OK, keep ya panties on. Name?’

  ‘Gunner Michael Milton, RAF Regiment Detachment. I had a car crash in Devon on driving duties. Night in hospital, they signed me off.’

  ‘OK, take a seat.’

  I waited half an hour, finally led in to a grey-haired doctor with a male nurse.

  He looked at is sheet. ‘You are ... Gunner Milton.’ He looked up. ‘Milton, decorated in Ke
nya..?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ve stepped down from overseas duty, retired technically, but I was with them for many years. So, you were in a car crash.’

  Jumper off, shirt off, and he could see the wounds straight away. ‘What are those?’

  ‘Bullet holes, sir.’

  ‘Wounded in Kenya?’

  ‘London Marathon.’

  ‘That was you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘Thought you were from Catterick?’ he asked as he tested my ribs.

  ‘I was, sir, now here.’ I winced and recoiled. ‘Yes, sir, broken.’

  ‘Well you have six weeks of light duties, a week off, not least because you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. I’ll send a note to your CO here. Anyone hurt with you?’

  ‘Group Captain Black.’

  He shocked upright. ‘I know him well. How is he?’

  ‘Not great, sir, but he’ll make it. Exeter Hospital.’

  ‘I’ll have to call.’

  ‘His wife is down with him, sir.’

  Medical done, I lugged my bag to my room and dumped it down. Coming out the building, the big lump I had hit stopped in my path.

  ‘Should see the other three guys,’ I told him as I walked past, leaving him staring.

  At the Detachment they all stopped, questions fired. I knocked on the CO’s door and entered when told to.

  ‘Bloody hell...’

  ‘I’d salute, sir, if I had some arms that actually worked.’

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘Car crash, not my fault, Group Captain busted up.’

  ‘A Group Captain was hurt?’ He stood. ‘Whose fault was the accident?’

  ‘Not mine, sir, lorry had a blowout, swerved into my lane, I took avoiding action. And the lorry killed the people in the car behind me. I ended up in a field.’

  He blew out. ‘Lucky. But they’ll be lots of paperwork.’

  ‘I’m signed-off by the MO for six weeks, sir.’

  ‘I’ll let people know.’

  ‘I’ll wander over now, sir, armoury and Transport.’

  ‘OK, well ... take it easy, and we’ll see you when you look human again I guess.’

  I wandered to the armoury, and they were mortified at my state, the kettle knocked on, the story recanted over an hour. They did not want me driving any more, but with them, all secure behind thick walls and locked doors.