Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘You -’ He pointed at the Pilot Officer. ‘- then arrive, and Milton screams at you to get an ambulance, which you fail to call, and by this time Milton is frantic, and he kicks out at you, desperately shouting at you to get an ambulance, which you fail to do for another thirty minutes – and by that time someone else had called for an ambulance on a pay phone before you.

  ‘During that delay a man might have died. So, the three of you will face formal charges of gross misconduct, and you’ll be kicked off my base afterwards. You NCOs will lose your rank till after the hearing.’

  He roared, red in the face, ‘If someone tells you to get a fucking ambulance, you get an ambulance! You’re NCOs, police, and you should actually give a fuck about a man dying right in front of you! You didn’t even offer the injured man first aid! You didn’t even check if he was alive or dead at the scene!

  ‘You had a medic screaming at you to get an ambulance, so what the fuck were you three screw-ups thinking! You’re finished here!’ He jabbed a finger at the young officer. Quietly, he said, ‘You’ll be fucking Pilot Officer for the rest of your career!’

  He turned his head. ‘I want the duty corporal in the guardroom charged as well, rank removed.’ Turning back, he said, ‘You three, get out of my sight.’

  They marched out after saluting, the station commander trying to control his anger. He faced me as I stood to attention. ‘Are you banged up even more now?’

  ‘Door hit me in the face, sir, then the MPs slammed me down.’

  ‘And exactly what happened?’

  ‘I woke to loud banging, opened my door as it was kicked in, hit and knocked back, a man charging in. I hit him, he fell out the door, unconscious, but already stinking of booze.’

  An officer cut in, ‘He’s an SAC from Lossiemouth down on a course, seen to be very drunk last night, got the wrong block, he’s billeted next door, sir.’

  ‘So he lost his key and wanted to kick in the wrong door. How is he?’

  ‘Broken jaw, concussion, sir.’

  The station commander turned back to me. ‘Of all the rooms on the base ... he had to pick yours.’ He sighed loudly and threw his hands in the air. ‘Witnesses confirmed the story, and that you placed him in the recovery position as a medic might – after flooring someone, and your desperate attempts to get help for that man were admirable given that he was kicking in your door. Did you assault the officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wanted to wake him up as to the seriousness of the situation; unconscious drunks often drown on their vomit, especially after being punched. I knew the man could die quickly, and the officer was ... not very interested in that fact.’

  ‘And the NCOs?’

  ‘I swore at them, and resisted their orders, sir.’

  ‘But did so out of desperation to save a life so ... we can’t be mad at you for that.’ He sighed again. ‘Go see the MO.’

  I saluted and headed out.

  ‘Christ, what now?’ the MO said when he saw me, so I gave him the story. ‘Many a drunk serviceman has drowned on his vomit, yes. And the MPs should have checked the man, they know that, one man left with him to monitor vitals. I’ll shout a little, they should all know that.’

  After a check over I was released, still on light duties, and I popped into the Education Wing.

  ‘What you done now?’ they asked. Loudly. So over a cup of tea they got the short version. I promised to return soon, and headed for my own CO.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said, throwing his hands in the air, my face a mess, a massive black eye. I sat and gave him the story. ‘They’re not charging you?’

  ‘They have other things to worry about, sir. Three to be court martialled. Four with the duty corporal.’

  ‘You’ll be popular. And this attacker..?’

  ‘Drunk, wrong room.’

  ‘A lesson learnt for him, a very painful one. Where you been hiding out anyhow? People say that they see you on base.’

  ‘Been studying hard at the Education Centre, sir, Russian and Arabic.’

  ‘Better than sitting around I suppose.’ He shook his head. ‘So I can expect a shit load of paperwork for this.’

  ‘Start with my door, sir. Please.’

  Walking back to my room, the big lump I had hit that first week was on a converging course. He glanced at my black eye.

  ‘Should see the other guy,’ I quipped.

  ‘You broke his jaw and knocked him out, ambulance called, and the MPs.’

  ‘He got the wrong room, kicked my door in drunk.’

  ‘Painful lesson then.’

  ‘What trade are you?’

  He reluctantly got out, ‘Building maintenance and sheds.’

  ‘I got a door that needs fixing.’

  He shrugged. ‘Need a form or ten filled in...’

  ‘How about twenty quid in your pocket?’

  He considered that. ‘It can be arranged.’

  We approached the block.

  ‘And a metal door,’ I quipped.

  ‘Get a metal cabinet, big and heavy, stick your stuff in there. I got one in the storeroom, last guy using it left.’

  ‘How much, that and the door?’

  ‘Forty quid..?’ he risked.

  ‘Done deal. You have two hours.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Deal is good if you’re quick. I’ll be in my room.’

  ‘Fuck. OK, and hour.’

  And he was good to his word, four lads struggling up the stairs with a metal case, placing it on a bogey and moving to my room. And it was solid; my kit would be safe inside from late night drunks who got the wrong room. They fixed the bent lock, metal sheet around it for added security, and I gave them £50 for a job well done.

  Popping to the NAAFI afterwards I bought two of the largest padlocks I could find, and I soon had my important kit in the metal case, and now locked. I felt better. In the top corner of the room was a vent and I hid the keys there, not wanting to lose them whilst out jogging.

  I lay down, my hand sore, and stared at the ceiling for a while, wanting a quiet life, and I fell asleep for an hour, the sun beating through the window. Seeing the state of my face in the mirror I decided to tell Sue that I had a course this weekend. Explaining another mishap would be awkward.

  The next morning I shocked myself when I looked in the bathroom mirror, my face black and blue. I ran cold water on a towel and dabbed my face, hoping to somehow become less conspicuous, a forlorn hope.

  The lad from next door appeared as I left the bathroom.

  ‘Sorry about waking you last night,’ I told him.

  ‘That guy kicking in your door woke me. Who was he?’

  ‘SAC down on a course, in the block next door, got the wrong block and room.’

  ‘They all look alike, these blocks,’ he noted. ‘You being busted now?’

  ‘No, the station commander bollocked them for not calling an ambulance or checking the body.’

  ‘Was a bit odd, leaving the drunk like that.’

  ‘The two MP’s have been busted down in rank, facing a court martial.’

  ‘You’ll be popular,’ he said as he entered his room.

  I headed to the MO at 8.30am, just as he arrived, and nagged for some ice. He also had some cream that would help. His nurse then kindly assisted with some make-up, and now I looked like a drag act up close.

  Sunglasses on, I headed to breakfast, attracting some looks, not least because I kept my sunglasses on.

  In the Education Centre they stopped dead. ‘You got make-up on?’ they puzzled.

  ‘Nurse helped me out.’

  ‘Not quite your shade,’ the lady officer joked. ‘I’ll bring some in. Want some eye liner as well?’

  I gave her a pointed finger as they laughed, and I headed to the machines, and it was good to just have a mundane day. Over the weekend I studied in my room, eating in my room to save awkward questions, snacks and tins of meat. I now had a kettle, a
mug and teabags sat on the metal cabinet, so I was comfy.

  Bumping into my reluctant and cautious new friend from Building Maintenance I asked about a toaster, and he had one, £10 handed over when it arrived. I cleaned it out, a year’s worth of crumbs in the base, and bought bread and butter from the NAAFI, plus jam. I had no fridge, so shelf-life was a factor.

  On the Sunday morning I had tea and toast in my room, not bothering with the canteen, and I made myself a tea every few hours whilst I was studying.

  I called Sue that afternoon from the armoury and said that I had just got back early, but had not slept and was feeling rough. We arranged to meet the following Friday.

  The days ticked by, the bruising going down, but I had become a study recluse, making use only of the Education Centre - and the kettle and toaster in my room; I was hardly seen anywhere else. I saw Sue on the weekends, and when I felt better I joined the gang in the local village pub for a Thursday night quiz, which I did well at.

  By time my six weeks was up I was back to running each morning, and I had sat two exams, sent off for marking. I reported back to my CO, who simply sent me to Transport. When they didn’t need me I helped out in the armoury, and my CO would not have known if I was dead or alive.

  Sue got a stomach bug, followed by an infection, a Urinary Tract Infection, but a test revealed that she had cancer. I was devastated, but stunned when she stopped seeing me. I had been prepared to look after her, to visit her in hospital, but she wanted none of that, her father explaining that she wanted no outside contact and that they would take a family holiday.

  The episode left me shocked, and I felt like a cunt for leaving her alone, but what else could I do.

  The following week I got a note to see my CO, and when I reported he had a form for me.

  ‘It’s a medical course, quite lengthy, but the station commander has written his signature where I would have put mine – or not, as the case may be, so he’s kind of made my mind up for me,’ the CO unhappily reported.

  ‘I told him that first aid was helpful after that car crash, so I guess he took it literally, sir,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, nothing I do can except get put against a wall and shot, so ... you’re on the course next week.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be missed around here, sir.’

  He shot me a look as I hid my grin, and handed me the form.

  A week later I had one of the Transport lads drive me and my kit down to Lyneham, where I would be based for three months. And what my CO didn’t know was that parts of the course would be held overseas, or on rough training areas around the UK, like the Scottish Highlands; there was an element of rescue skills to it.

  I greeted officers and doctors like old friends, and it was all quite informal, just a shit load of study. We started with moving a patient in a variety of scenarios, from improvised stretchers to body-boards, to helicopter basket stretchers, IV drips in patient arms, vitals tested and recorded.

  As a team, we were on the ground as Paras landed on exercise, those stretcher skills used when ankles were broken or backs were strained, a day out of the base now and then.

  During the third week we studied hyperthermia and remote-area patient care, a flight up to Scotland in a Chinook, soon down and camping in the trees, cooking rations. We practised on each other, but also got a call out, a hill walker with a broken leg. We found the group on a nearby hillside just as the weather closed in, so we had to stay put for the night, the man given morphine, his vitals monitored all night long.

  The dawn offered thick fog, but I assured everyone of my map reading skills, and led the group down and to a track, the track followed a mile – an ambulance waiting with Mountain Rescue teams about to set off looking for us.

  A week later, and I was excited to be on Tristar and heading for Belize, a few sexy nurses along, one starting to warm to me, but she was a few years older. Settled into a small camp away from the main British base, we attended daily lectures of jungle hygiene, infections and treatments, regular trips into the main base to visit enlisted men with interesting conditions, or up to the training grounds to act as medics on standby.

  One week of my time was spent on the helicopters, part of the rescue team, all great fun, one broken ankle dealt with, and several nasty bites from all manner of creatures. And I was getting used to being covered in sweat day and night.

  The nurse I liked got drunk one night, and we had great sex, sweaty sex, but the next day she blanked me totally, a bit of a disappointment.

  For the last week I was required to give hygiene lectures to young soldiers, two-hour lessons. I found that I enjoyed teaching.

  On the flight back I was reflective, because I loved all this, and I had a new respect for myself. Somewhere, somehow, I would find the right career and the right place, I just needed to figure out what I wanted to do, and to get the pieces of the jigsaw together.

  The next month was spent on nursing work, long term patient care, and by long term they meant more than a day. I learnt what to look out for in a progressive condition, I was even taught how to categorise stool samples and to test urine, and I know knew all the various types of IV drips inside out, and how to add painkillers or antibiotics to them.

  Arriving back at Brize Norton on a rainy Saturday, I claimed a cold empty room, and stood staring out the window for an hour, or maybe three.

  The following Monday saw me back on the Transport rota, a Group Captain to pick up; Loughton. He was a friendly man, talkative, and we got on well, his job that of military logistics, much time spent in London. I studied the maps, and found my way to the MOD building easily enough, getting into a routine of sitting and reading much of the day, the other drivers always curling a lip at my choice of book – I was not reading paperback spy novels.

  I could be found reading about pre-industrial politics in South America, Roosevelt, or studying my large book of quiz answers. Since I took part in a Thursday night quiz often, and I liked general knowledge, I had spotted the book in a store – “One millions quiz answers”. Did they think anyone would actually read it?

  Well here I was, crossing out those questions and answers I already knew and studying the remainder. All the world’s capitals, and which river ran through them. The average population of each country. GDP in order of size. Who won the Eurovision song contest, 1968 onwards. What are the symbols for which chemical

  Sometimes Mister Loughton would test me as we drove, and it helped to pass the time. I was running when I could, and writing down my times and distances on my QMAR sheets. I was also working on my theory of least effort to maintain optimum fitness, since I could not run every day.

  So far I was leaning towards four runs a week in a block or runs every other day. When I could run four days in a block they would be uniform distances and times for three days, the fourth day being longer and faster – to work on capacity. I started to create graphs and moving averages to test my fitness.

  Two weeks into the new assignment, and we were stuck in London traffic, not far from the MOD building. A shout from my passenger, and a woman slammed into our car, seemingly thrown by a man. As we observed, my seatbelt coming off, he punched her then stabbed her.

  I was out the car quickly, around the bonnet, a flying kick sending the assailant backwards, a heavy impact with the pavement felt. I ran to him, and as he lifted his head I punched down, the man knocked cold. After putting him in the recovery position, I ran back and grabbed my first aid kit from the boot as the Group Captain now exited the car.

  The woman, looking like a druggy, was bleeding badly, and she had a collapsed lung, now gasping for breath. I lifted her t-shirt, finding a scar on her ribs; she had undergone some sort of procedure on her left lung, the one not stabbed. I had a stethoscope, and so listened to the left lung for a minute as she rasped.

  ‘Fuck, she’s only got one lung, and that’s where she was stabbed,’ I told the Group Captain as he hovered, bystanders gathering.

  A police woman ran in.


  ‘He’s a medic,’ the Group Captain assured the police woman.

  There was nothing for it, and knelt on the side of the road I taped the wound closed and got a drain in above rib three, a tube attached, and I sucked – time was against me. With frothy blood rising up the tube I stopped before I tasted any, the tap turned off, the tube detached and discarded, my patient breathing better immediately.

  Telling the police woman to fuck off – firmly – I pressed down on my patient’s chest in rhythm with her natural breathing, the tap opened and closed, frothy blood issued and pooling on the road over ten minutes, before the ambulance got there.

  As the paramedic knelt and opened his bag, I told him, ‘She only has one lung, and was stabbed in it, but the wound missed the liver.’

  He took over.

  I stood, a glance at a second paramedic dealing with the assailant, and I nudged the Group Captain back into the car, and off we drove, not bothering to leave our details behind.

  ‘Good work back there,’ the Group Captain offered.

  ‘Simple enough, sir.’

  The next day, the Group Captain did not have his happy face on. ‘You, Wilco, were the runner shot in the London Marathon.’

  ‘Probably just someone that looked like me, sir,’ I said as we drove off, but over the next hour I had to give him the full story.

  ‘The system is at fault, shameful the way they treated you. Will you ever run again?’

  ‘Unlikely, sir, my heart’s not in it. I might join the aero-meds.’

  ‘Well if you did it would not be a waste of your talents, maybe a commission with them at some point. And if anyone gives you any shit you let me know.’

  ‘There is one thing you could do to help, sir.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If I’m driving senior offices around, I should probably do the Close Protection Course.’

  ‘I thought it was just for the police?’

  ‘It is, sir, normally – hence the favour.’

  ‘I’ll look into it, I know the Red Cap colonel.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  That Friday, after I drove him home, he insisted that I join him and his wife for some food, and he gave her much of the detail of my short career thus far.