Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  The following week I was off Transport and back to the Armoury, and now training in the unofficial base gym in the evenings, part of a garage in Transport, the kit supplied by the men themselves. I bought a second hand punch bag and donated it with some gloves, and would spend time each evening on the bag, a little time on the free weights.

  Chatting to one of the regulars, he mentioned a Kung Fu club down in Swindon that he attended, Tuesday and Thursday nights. I offered to pay petrol if he drove, so on the Thursday I joined him, gym kit with me. Changed, he introduced me to the instructors, and I had my first lesson after some warming up – and had paid £3.50.

  ‘Imagine someone is in your face, pointing an angry finger at you. Try that to me.’

  I did so, pinned down and hurting a moment later.

  Back upright, my elbow hurting, he said, ‘Always good if someone offers you their wrist like that. So, grab left wrist with right hand, right with left always, bend the knee in the direction you’ll spin, forearm on the elbow, spin and down and around.’

  I tried it several times, getting better, and faster. We tried it both ways, dozens of times, and I was happy that I was learning something. He gave me gloves, and I hit his mitts.

  ‘You have a hell of a punch there, fast an all. You fought before?’

  ‘Had some boxing training in the RAF.’

  ‘Keep your elbow in, and don’t advertise the fact that you’re about to punch, try and be sneaky.’

  I adjusted my approach, now picking up street-fighting techniques – which was what I sought. By the end of the session I had also picked up the roundhouse kick to the head, and how to fool someone into thinking it a kick to the balls.

  Back at base the next evening I practised my kicks till my legs hurt, and used my Kung Fu buddy to practise holds.

  A week later, and the Kung Fu instructors were amazed at my kicking, and I was very happy to be learning street fighting techniques. One of the instructors had a Saturday workshop so I travelled down with a borrowed car, several hours practising new techniques.

  He gave me exercises to repeat when back at base, and I would even practise a few in the mornings, often seen in the make-do gym throwing around willing - and sometimes unwilling - volunteers.

  My request for the Close Protection Course finally arrived, my CO not a happy bunny. He called me in.

  ‘Sir, the Group Captain asked if I had done the course, and when I said no he said I should do it – or not drive senior officers.’

  ‘What! Half the drivers are fucking Admin clerks! And this course says it’s for RAF Police only!’

  I shrugged. ‘Go tell him that, sir.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s two months away, but I think they’ll send you back on day one. Pack your stuff, but I guess it’s a useful course for you – if they let you do it.’

  The course would not start for four weeks, so I ventured to the Police Depot, getting frosty looks from many as I entered. I found the CO, who sighed when he saw me.

  ‘Wilco. What now?’

  ‘Well, sir, the Group Captain I drive around wants me to do the Close Protection Course -’

  ‘You’re not in the police!’

  ‘I know, sir, it says so on my ID card. Anyway, the Group Captain has pulled a few strings, and I’m to do the course.’

  ‘You are? You haven’t even covered the basics!’

  ‘Is there a manual I could borrow, sir?’

  ‘There is, but why bother, they’ll not let you do the course?’

  ‘The other option, sir, is that your men here teach me for a few weeks after the Group Captain shouts a bit.’

  He glared back, stood, softened, and handed me a thick manual from a cabinet. ‘Don’t lose it, I know you have it so I’ll want it back – when they turn you away from the course. Or you’ll be billed for it!’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ I saluted and left, glad to be out of there.

  In Admin, I asked for the station commander, being told to politely fuck off and that he was a busy man.

  ‘He told me that if I ever had a problem, to come see him. So, here I am, and I’m not leaving, and I could get my legal counsel up here to assist my progress in getting to see the Group Captain.’

  The Admin sergeant curled a lip, but made a call. I was allowed an audience.

  I entered and saluted, manual under my left arm.

  ‘Ah, Wilco. Not in any trouble I hope, because I hear good things from Group Captain Loughton.’

  ‘No trouble, sir, but Mister Loughton did suggest that I do the Close Protection Course, given that I drive senior officers around.’ I tapped the manual. ‘It’s just for RAF Police, so I think he wangled it, but the clever money bets on them just turning me away.’

  He held up a finger, and made a call as I listened. Off the phone, he said, ‘He knows the colonel in charge of the Depot, they were in university together, old friends, favour called in. So turn up and see what they say.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You don’t mind ... driving jobs?’

  ‘I prefer the first aid courses, and the exercises, sir. Feels like I’m doing something useful.’

  ‘Loughton told me about the woman you saved – after slugging her attacker, so it’s hard to see where your skills lie? Knock ‘em down or patch ‘em up?’

  ‘A bit of both, sir,’ I said with a smile.

  That evening I studied the manual, and I already knew what the course would entail, and its consequences. I had an agenda, a hidden one as I studied the manual; threat assessment, assets and resources, local assistance and deputising others, planning routes, counter-surveillance, pistol work, it was all interesting stuff. I just hoped that they’d let me do the course.

  I also worried because I would be in with MPs, all seven feet tall and built like gorillas.

  Two weeks later I had my joining instructions and paperwork, kit packed, civvies packed, and one of the transport lads stretched the rules and put me down as Air Commodore Wilco in the list, sure to cause a few smiles. He drove me to Pirbright Barracks, and to the MPs basic training camp, paperwork shown – and puzzled, through and to a barrack block.

  In the block I found a small room and used the key I had been issued, kit down, soon heading back to the Admin block, getting odd looks from the Red Caps, the “monkeys”.

  Inside, I stood at the main desk with my paperwork, a lady officer puzzling me and reading the paperwork.

  ‘Close Protection Course?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘RAF Police?’

  ‘No, RAF Regiment.’

  ‘Not had any of them before,’ she noted, but did not kick me out the door. ‘You have a room?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am, kit down.’

  She handed me a map. ‘Canteen times are listed, briefing is 1600, Block “D”, Room A2.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

  I sat in my room with a tin of meat, some kit taken out, the manual read again, and at 1600 I was outside the room in question. A few men were sat inside, so I ventured into the lion’s den and sat, beret off.

  ‘RAF?’ a big corporal asked me.

  I nodded.

  The room filled, thirty men in, one other RAF, an MP corporal, who frowned my way – and they were all corporals, a captain finally entering with files. Everyone stood.

  ‘Sit please.’

  A colonel entered.

  ‘Ten shun!’ We all stood. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Carry on, ignore me,’ he told the captain He sat at the back.

  I wondered if it was Group Captain Loughton’s university buddy at the back, and there would not be more than one colonel on a camp like this.

  The captain performed a roll call, surnames, and I answered, wondering when the shit would start. The captain took in the faces. ‘The fact that you’re sat here does not mean you’ll complete the course, standards are high, we don’t just hand out certificates. If you think being here is a chance to get away from the wife and get to the fucking
pub then you’re mistaken. Come in hung-over and I’ll kick your arse off the course.

  ‘And close protection means that you’re in close proximity to a Government Minister or senior officer, so manners and personal hygiene count, not picking your nose or farting in the car, so if we don’t think you have the etiquette then you go. If you don’t have respect for such VIPs ... then you go.

  ‘Part of Close Protection is being sensitive around VIPs, and maybe the guy is on the phone to his wife as well as his mistress. Your job is to switch off your ears and never repeat anything you hear. So being big and tough is not what this is about, it’s about using your grey matter and applying some thought to the job at hand – which is to keep the principal safe.’

  He glanced at his sheets. ‘OK, we have ... Stenson, second time to attend this course, so pull your fucking finger out. Bradley, you did well previously - till some cunt ran over your ankle whilst you were pretending to be a VIP. Lesson to be learnt – don’t run over the guy you’re there to protect!’

  They laughed.

  ‘We have two RAF police, and ... an RAF Regiment Gunner?’

  ‘Sir,’ I said.

  ‘What is an ... RAF Regiment Gunner?’

  ‘RAF Regiment are soldiers protecting airfields, sir. Not police.’

  ‘So ... why are you here?’

  I stood. ‘I’m a driver for senior RAF officers, sir, who wanted me to do the course.’

  ‘And did they think you capable of completing the damn course?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He stepped forwards to get a better look at me. ‘You fit?’

  ‘Fitter than anyone else in the room, sir, by a long way.’

  Angered faces turned towards me.

  ‘Quite a bold statement. What makes you think that?’

  ‘You remember the stupid cunt shot in the London Marathon? Well you’re looking at him, sir.’

  All faces now focused on me.

  The captain closed in. ‘You were hit by a protestor the first year, and reset your own dislocated shoulder, then tripped, but tried to go on till they stopped you. Second year, you were shot, got up, and tried to go.

  ‘You tried to finish a marathon after being shot twice, and I’ve been shot, and I’ve seen men shot, and I’ve never before seen anyone get back up and try and complete a fucking marathon after being shot. So yes – you are fitter than anyone else here, probably with more guts and determination as well. You also spent time at the Corrective Facility..?’

  ‘Wrongly convicted, sir, overturned. They said sorry ... then put me on shit driving jobs out the way.’

  ‘You don’t like driving VIPs?’

  ‘Whatever I do, sir, I’ll do it 200% just to piss off the RAF.’

  He smiled, a glance at the colonel, and returned to his podium. ‘First aid skills?’

  ‘Way better than anyone in the room, sir.’ He waited. ‘Fully qualified medic, decorated as such in Kenya, field trained.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Full qualified and time served armourer, sir.’

  ‘You don’t sit on your arse, do you. Hand to hand?’

  ‘Competent, sir, but not the best in the room - yet.’

  ‘Any languages?’

  ‘Russian, German and Arabic, sir.’

  The colonel at the back stood. ‘I think he has a chance to complete the course, Captain,’ he said as he left.

  The captain said, ‘Sit down. Er ... Wilco. OK, as you leave you’ll be given notes to study, be back here at 0855, civvy dress, start getting used to civvy dress because most close protection will be out of uniform.’

  Everyone stood, the captain walking out, and we all headed back to the canteen. Food grabbed, I put my tray down, two of the MPs joining me.

  ‘Saw you run that day,’ the first began. ‘I’m good at distance, but I never got the speed to try a marathon, I’d take four hours.’

  ‘I can teach you how to get capacity up,’ I offered. ‘You teach me what gaps I have to fill in here.’

  ‘Fair enough. You can help me on first aid as well.’

  The second guy said, ‘How come you did all those specialities?’

  ‘Never liked just sitting around, and few others wanted to do the courses. Armourers’ course is not uncommon in the RAF Regiment, they need armourers, first aid is optional but available. I wangled extra medic courses, but you won’t see any others like me.’

  I had two new friends, Frost and Calder, and I taught them my marathon training techniques over a cup of tea.

  In the morning, two sergeants stepped in with the captain, but the sergeants were in civvies like the rest of us. The captain began, ‘Today is a required first aid refresher, but maybe we can go one better. Wilco, do you think you could add some expertise to basic first aid.’

  I stood. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Up front.’ The captain and a sergeant left us, one sergeant sat and observing.

  I took the podium. ‘Since this is close protection, and it involves people getting shot, let’s start with gunshot trauma.’ I pulled a white board closer. ‘I need a volunteer who doesn’t mind getting his shirt off – and has washed this morning.’

  They laughed.

  The sergeant stood. He pointed at a man. ‘You. Get on with it.’

  The man in question stripped off his shirt, and I grabbed a red pen. ‘Sorry, but it will wash off. Eventually.’

  They laughed.

  ‘OK, let’s imagine our guinea pig here is hit with a 9mm, and I have two scars, so I know what it feels like. There is no pain, it feels like a punch. After a few seconds it burns, then feels numb, an unpleasant numbness. Is it a screaming agony pain? No, not all.

  ‘But, on the TV you’ll see old cowboy movies where they say I’ll gut shoot you, as a threat. What they meant was the lower stomach and abdomen.’ I drew a red line where the diaphragm would be.

  ‘Below that line, and inside the hips, we have body organs, not muscle. When hit in that area, the body fluids mix. Stomach acid, if taken out and put in your eyes, would make you scream. It’s strong acid. In the intestine you have waste products, in the bladder you have urine, and when you’re shot in the gut – as a cowboy might say, chemicals go where they’re not supposed to go.

  ‘If the intestine wall it breached, acid, shit and urine gets to be where it’s not supposed to be ... and yes, you will scream, or take your own life to make it end. If you’re shot in the bladder, the pain is unbearable, no matter how tough you think you are.

  ‘If the stomach is hit, acid gets into your veins and you burn on the inside, and scream for someone to put you out of your misery. I was hit in the shoulder, in the muscle, and the side of the abdomen, missing the intestine. I was lucky.

  ‘If you’re hit in the shoulder by a 9mm, it won’t hurt much and it won’t slow you down – to start with. But what happens following a gunshot trauma, or any serious injury, is that your good old body tries to repair itself, so energy is diverted away from other places – good – but you get very tired very quickly and pass out.

  ‘You don’t pass out because you’re dying, but you faint. A medic will be able to tell if you’ve lost a lot of blood, or if you’re just dog tired. Rapid blood loss causes a drop in blood pressure, which means that the heart does not operate as efficiently as it should, and oxygen and glucose getting to the brain stem is reduced. You only need a small reduction to feel faint.

  ‘If you all sat there for four hours, then stood quickly, you may black out for a few seconds. Same effect, sudden lowering of blood pressure to the brain stem. Now, is that painful?’

  ‘No, feels good,’ a man said.

  ‘Yes, it does, a sense of euphoria. Gentlemen, most deaths are painless deaths, especially being shot. How do you feel when you’ve been badly wounded? You feel like you do when you stand up too quickly. You feel dreamy and happy ... and then the lights go out. Worst case scenario would be being shot in the lower stomach by a small calibre pistol a few times. Then you’re sc
reaming and - not dying.’

  I drew on my helper. ‘OK, the heart. Not where the old cowboy movies had it. It is not under the left nipple, nowhere near it, and it’s higher than most people think.’ I stood back. ‘Want to kill someone quick, that’s where to aim, high in the chest.’

  I drew again. ‘That ... is where your stomach is, under the ribs. And this -’ I drew again. ‘- is the soft spot.’

  ‘Soft spot?’ the sergeant asked. ‘I’ve heard that phrase.’

  ‘If you want to shoot someone and take them alive, you hit them in the soft spot. They go down, traumatised, they think they’re dying, but they don’t die. Inside of the shoulder is a gap between the top of the lungs and the collar bone – no major blood vessels. The lung does not reach that high. Aim for that, and you take the man alive.’

  ‘Interesting,’ the sergeant noted.

  I drew the liver. ‘OK, the liver. Take a round there ... and you’re fucked. You’d need to be on the operating table in ten minutes, and even then you’re fucked. The liver does not take kindly to bullets.’

  I drew the descending arteries on my helper. ‘Being hit in the stomach, there’s a chance at cutting the main two descending arteries. They’re big arteries, and if cut you’re dead in minutes, no way to stop the bleeding. Even the surgeon would struggle.

  ‘I won’t take his trousers off, we don’t want to scare people -’ They laughed. ‘- but the inside of the thigh is known as the kill zone.’

  ‘Kill zone?’ the sergeant repeated.

  ‘Inside of the thigh and the side of the neck are the two places where a high pressure artery passes the closest to the surface skin. In the neck the arteries are protected by muscle, not so much on the thigh. Inside of the thigh, at the top, and a needle could pop an artery and kill you. Slitting someone’s throat will kill them quickly, slitting the inside of the thigh will do it just as fast.

  ‘Take a round in the thigh, and the blood will spurt six feet. You then have sixty seconds or less to have that skilled medic next to you.

  ‘First, let’s look at that stomach wound.’ I pinched his lose skin. ‘On the abdomen, front and back, the skin is lose, not attached, and it moves when you do sit-ups. Under the skin is muscle in a sheath, and it moves as well. Under the muscle are the intestines, and they’re not bolted down, and they move, but there’s no air inside and so it’s all pressurised.