Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

‘He shot out my tyres!’

  One of the MPs had a look. He faced me. ‘You discharged your weapon?’

  ‘Yes, corporal.’

  ‘Then you’re for it.’

  ‘Fifty quid says otherwise, and don’t make a mistake here, you’ll need to stick to procedure and the law, or you won’t be a corporal tomorrow.’

  He appeared hesitant. ‘Make safe your weapon.’

  I did as asked.

  ‘Hand it over.’

  I did as asked.

  ‘This man will be taken in and identified, you’ll need to make a statement.’

  ‘Someone needs to replace me here, standing station orders, or you’re culpable, corporal.’

  ‘You wait here till we’re back.’

  Another MP jeep pulled up.

  ‘OK, Wilco, with us.’

  I followed them, a glance at the window, a concerned Admin corporal peering out. At the MP depot they put my magazine and rifle in a plastic bag, sealed, and I signed.

  ‘Discharging your weapon is a serious offence.’

  ‘Stop talking shit!’ I shouted at the sergeant. ‘Standing station orders, guard duty, revision 67, paragraph 11. A forced entry to the gate must be met with appropriate escalating verbal, physical and then firearm force. Look it up!’

  ‘You memorised all the regs?’ the sergeant snarled.

  ‘Most of them, yes.’

  Unsure what to do, he took my statement. I signed, and I got a photocopy.

  ‘You’re relieved of duty on the gate.’

  ‘And that man, if he is an officer, drunk driving? You going to sweep that under the rug, because my next call will be Colonel Bennet, and an MP captain will be here inside an hour, expecting to take a breath sample – or to find one.’

  The sergeant controlled his anger. ‘That individual will be treated like a member of the public trespassing till he can prove who he is.’

  I stood and smiled. ‘Fine, then I don’t need to make a call. Permission to go off duty, Sergeant.’

  ‘Granted,’ he said with false civility.

  Monday morning, and I figured I should go see Fl Lt Peters.

  ‘You discharged a firearm!’ he hissed, about to have a heart attack.

  ‘Not to worry, sir, all above board and correct procedure.’

  ‘You did it just to piss me off for putting you on guard duty...’

  ‘No, sir, and that’s a very negative view. Irish gentlemen said he lost his ID, insisted I let him in, then rammed the gate.’

  ‘Well, that’s not allowed, officer or not. Next time, drag him from the car and punch him instead!’

  ‘I’ll go see the base commander now.’

  I stepped outside, an MP jeep pulling up.

  ‘Base commander wants to see you.’

  I jumped in, stroked the dog, and off we set. We arrived just as the MPs dragged a very dishevelled Irish gentleman in handcuffs, an Army MP Captain now present in greens. All were led into a large side room.

  The base commander stepped in with several senior officers, and he looked over our Irish prisoner. Quietly, he began, ‘You drive up to the gate with no ID on you - losing it being an offence, you were ten times over the legal limit to drive a car on a British road, you shout threats to be let in and then ram my gate.

  ‘Pilot Officer O’Leary, your time as an officer in the RAF is at an end.’ The base commander glanced at the MP captain, and the captain took away his unshaven prisoner.

  The base commander faced the corporal and sergeant that I had dealt with Saturday night. Whilst facing them, he said, ‘Wilco, was proper procedure followed?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Three verbal warnings, threat to shoot, but when he tried to drive around the gate after ramming it I shot out his tyres.’

  ‘Apparently, you would have been within your rights to shoot him...’

  ‘I would never do so unless as a very last resort, sir.’

  ‘Good to know. And did the MPs at any time breach standard procedure, or give you a hard time?’

  ‘No, sir, they were boringly by the book and stated regulations to me.’

  ‘Well, boringly by the book is what they’re there for.’ He faced the MPs. ‘Do either of you have a complaint to register against Wilco?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the corporal offered.

  The sergeant said, ‘I’d prefer it, sir, if when I state regulations ... some smartarse doesn’t correct me to the letter.’

  ‘That is annoying,’ the base commander noted. ‘Wilco, don’t be a smartarse, no one likes a smartarse.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And for the record ... if someone with an Irish accent tries to blag his way onto my base again ... shoot the bastard!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ we all agreed.

  ‘Dismissed.’

  The gossip was all around the base, and in Transport they wanted all the details. I was down to drive the Air Commodore, but he had not heard, horrified at first, then ready to crucify the young officer.

  ‘Drunk driving, lost his ID in a pub! I’d lynch the man. Officers don’t do that.’

  Two days later, and the Air Commodore told me to wear a pistol. I was authorised following the Close Protection Course, but informed Fl Lt Peters anyway.

  He said, ‘INLA have threatened attacks to stop the new peace accord, so be careful. And please ... don’t discharge it unless 100% sure.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Green plastic holster on over my shirt, jacket on top, it would be warm in the car, the air con needed. I informed the Air Commodore I was “packing heat” when I picked him up, and we discussed the upcoming peace accord.

  ‘Still swimming?’ he asked at one point.

  ‘A few times a week, sir, and once a week I do six hours if I’m not on something else. A few weeks from now I’ll take some leave and swim down on the south coast.’

  The week passed quietly, no INLA bombs found under the car, and I checked twenty times a day. But my luck was about to be tested, and the following Tuesday I was set to drive the Air Commodore to the MOD building.

  Approaching London eastbound along the M4, I was in the fast lane, but we slowed to around sixty, suddenly side-swiped into the central reservation by a black BMW with tinted windows. I managed to control it, hit the brakes, and indicated, moving lane by lane to the hard shoulder and easing to a stop. The BMW was ahead fifty yards and halted.

  A passenger window opened, smoke emerging; skank. A black face appeared, pistol in hand.

  ‘Get down, sir!’ I roared, and floored it forwards in first, slamming into the back of the BMW and jolting them forwards, quickly into reverse and back at speed, fifty yards and stop. Jumping out, pistol out, I took aim and shot off a wing mirror.

  The driver poked his head out, a glance at me, then floored it away down the hard shoulder, his tyres issuing grey smoke. I had his registration, and wrote it down as the Air Commodore lifted up.

  ‘Not INLA, sir, black druggies.’ I handed him the number and, now shaken, he took out his fancy mobile phone and reported the incident - shots fired.

  I pulled the car onto the grass, the engine steaming. We would need a new set of wheels, and Transport would not be happy with me. Stood on the grass verge, traffic whizzing past, I asked, ‘You OK, sir?’

  ‘My heart was racing back there, glad it was you and not some Admin corporal. Why ram him?’

  ‘He had the angle with his pistol, could have shot you. I wanted to be behind him so that he had no angle, and to jolt them. I shot out his mirror, but I could have hit them.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have minded if you had done, bunch of criminals.’

  A police car raced in, the Air Commodore soon giving details.

  With two police cars here now, an officer said, ‘We’ll need your pistol.’

  ‘Regulations state that I do so when the principal is safe and where he’s supposed to be. You can pick it up later from the MOD building or RAF Brize Norton. I still have a job to do today.’

  They t
ook the details off my ID, a tow truck organised, Brize Norton called for another vehicle and driver, the police taking us to Reading Central police station. Tea and coffee offered, we both gave statements, and I informed the police that was qualified under the Close Protection Course.

  Statements signed, our driver turned up, the Air Commodore telling him to take the train back – despite being in uniform, and I drove us on to London, now an hour and a half late.

  Sat in with the other drivers in the MOD building, I opened my “One Million Questions” quiz book; I was onto longest rivers and deepest lakes.

  When I saw Fl Lt Peters the next day he sighed. ‘I got the detail, and I guess everyone on the base has by now. Since the Air Commodore is praising your actions I doubt anyone would find fault.’

  ‘There was no fault, sir. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time, car full of black druggies with guns, no INLA terrorists on the horizon.’

  I reported into the MP depot, they were expecting me, statement made, and I called Colonel Bennet for a chat, but then had to wait till Army SIB arrived.

  The SIB captain said, ‘That car was found by police in south London, burnt out, usual tactic.’

  I told him what I had done, and why. ‘If I had reversed, he could have got off ten rounds, so I closed the angle.’

  ‘If the technique works ... it’s a good technique. And you showed restraint when you could have shot them full of holes. I would have.’

  When I picked up the Air Commodore the next morning, pistol on me, his wife was concerned.

  ‘Not to worry, Barbara, I won’t let anything happen to him.’ We set off. ‘She OK, sir?’

  ‘Shaken up, like me, but relieved it was just a random act, and not a targeted attack.’

  ‘More likely to meet someone like that on a London street than the INLA, sir.’

  ‘Has opened my eyes to the dangers, yes. Keep that pistol, and if anyone questions why ... send them my way.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  With the weather getting better, the days longer and hotter, PTI Sergeant Trevors had an idea. ‘There’s a place in Cambridgeshire, a canal of sorts, they use it for canoe racing and boat racing, coxless pairs, that sort of thing. It’s shallow, so it warms up, not too cold. And it’s two miles long, dead straight.’

  ‘We can reserve it?’

  ‘After 5pm, yes. Maybe for a whole day. But ... here’s the thing. How long could you keep going?’

  ‘Well, I get bored before I get too tired, so I can keep going all day.’

  ‘British lake record is thirty four miles, Windermere, but cold up there.’

  I cocked an eyebrow. ‘Thirty four miles, seventeen lengths, twenty eight hours or so.’

  ‘No one in the RAF or Army has done anything like it, so however far you go you set the record.’

  ‘What about drinking water?’

  ‘You can stop and take a drink, yes, bar of chocolate, but they normally say you’re not allowed to leave the water. Pee in your wetsuit.’

  ‘I’ll make a hole,’ I joked.

  The next day I went to see the base commander.

  ‘In trouble again?’

  ‘Not so far today, sir. Long distance swimming records, inland, lakes and canals. No one from the military has ever done one, so I could lay down the challenge after I’ve done one. There’s a canal in Cambridgeshire, two miles long, and we should be able to book it for a day. I swim up and down till fed up, and ... that’s the record.’

  ‘And the non-military record?’

  ‘Thirty four miles, sir.’

  ‘Do what you can, we’ll post the distance and see who challenges it. Could always do it again next year.’

  ‘I’ll get some practise in then give it a go, sir.’

  A week later we set off at 3pm, and arrived at 4.30pm, having reserved the canal after 5pm, boats being taken out the water as we arrived. I stared down the course, not seeing the end, the land all around us dead flat. Wetsuit on, limbered up, oil on my face, hands and feet, white cap on so that the support team could see me, and in I went.

  ‘This marker is the start,’ Trevors told me as I got ready, goggles adjusted. ‘Similar one the other end, turn on that.’ He got his pushbike and stopwatch ready, the support team to follow in one of the jeeps.

  I waved, he acknowledged, and off I went, the surface water pleasant and not cold. Into a good rhythm, I put on the power whilst keeping the style tidy, and just over half an hour later I turned, heading back, many an inconvenienced duck scared into flight, many a small fish seen – and scared away.

  Halfway back, feeling good and in my stride, I accidentally whacked a large Pike with my hand, scaring it away. But the size of it scared me as I tried to maintain my stroke; I had images of losing a finger to a cheeky fish.

  The dead calm water helped with speed and style, and it was easy to stay straight and on course. Four lengths completed and I exited the water.

  ‘Easy,’ I told them as I stripped off, the light fading a little.

  ‘Good time,’ Trevors noted. ‘Like eight 1500metre races end to end.’

  ‘Without the pool-turns it’s faster,’ I suggested. ‘I get into a good rhythm and stick at it. Like marathon running.’

  Pushbike in the jeep, we drove back, chatting away.

  The next day, Trevors posted the detail: RAF swimmer completes eight miles in two hours forty.

  The rain kept us away for a few days, which was odd given that I would be getting wet, and we booked it again for a dry day. This time I pushed myself, eight miles in two hours twenty eight. Trevors posted that straight away. So far, no challengers.

  Having booked the course for an entire day, a Monday, we set off early, 6am, and I hit the water at 7.30am, more ducks than usual scattering at my approach. I tried to keep the same pace, same count in my head, and the eight miles came and went. At ten miles I was thrown a water bottle, swigging it down quickly before I set off again.

  At twenty miles I was slowing, and I had been in the water more than eight hours, but the benefit of this was that I had no target to reach. So I plodded on, Trevors on his bike, a few people watching, the usual people out walking their dogs, many of the dogs barking at me, one jumping into the water after me.

  I kept going, but felt hungry as hell, considering the rules on food for this type of event. I decided to try and stick with it, but desperately needed another water bottle thrown in.

  My mouth now tasted funny, and I figured I had swallowed some of the mucky water, and when I threw up I halted, clambering up the bank to the support team.

  ‘Fucking mucky water,’ I explained as I sat down in a heap. ‘Made me sick.’

  ‘That’s twelve hours and twenty minutes,’ Trevors approved. ‘Thirty six miles.’

  ‘I don’t feel good,’ I told them, peeling off my wetsuit. Driving back I felt terrible, so we diverted to Oxford General Hospital.

  ‘Pond water,’ the doctor said. ‘Full of germs.’ He injected me with a cocktail. ‘That will help, but monitor it, there are few nasty bugs you can get. You really swam thirty six miles?’

  Trevors put in, ‘This is the lad who was shot in the London Marathon.’

  ‘Ah, I saw you on the TV. Swimming safer is it?’

  ‘Not today it ain’t,’ I told him.

  I was sick again after I had eaten, and had intermittent stomach cramps during the night, in to see the MO in the morning, another shot given, a horrid pink potion to swallow. Trevors had posted the event distance and time, and it would appear in the armed forces magazines - whether I died of a stomach bug or not.

  It took a day or two to work the germs through my system, liquid shit for a day, and I took it easy, not that Brize Norton taxed me at the best of times.

  The following weekend, the weather forecasted to be good – which in Britain was like Russian roulette, Trevors and I drove down to Bournemouth on a Friday night knowing that it was the start of the holiday season – and so full of kids.

&nbs
p; We found a bed and breakfast on the outskirts with a sign for “vacancies” and got two rooms after asking if it was OK to be up early. We would be the only ones in with the little old lady, breakfast booked for 10am.

  The pair of us got to bed early after a few pints at a pub down the road, and the next morning we stirred at 5am, to the beach for 5.30am – parking spot found a few streets back. We were soon walking down a zig-zag path and to the deserted beach, just a man with a dog dumb enough to be up at this time.

  The water was calm and inviting as we walked east, to the pier, and I would be swimming between the piers, a mile. Wetsuit on, cap on, greased up, limbered up, and in I went, the water chilly compared to the canal. Beyond the end of the deserted pier I turned west, the second pier in sight, a gentle swell, and I kicked off.

  As I got into my stride I considered Trevors on the promenade, walking to stay with me. Well, at least he’d be getting some exercise.

  First leg complete, I turned around and kept going, and it was two hours before the first pensioner took a dip, also in a wetsuit. She said good morning.

  Another half an hour, and someone said “good morning” and then tried to keep up with me. I lost them, but we crossed paths on the way back.

  At 9am I heard the whistle from Trevors and headed in with the small waves.

  ‘Not too bad,’ I told him as the beach started to fill. ‘Not too chilled, but a horrid taste of salt in my mouth.’

  ‘Nine miles give or take.’

  ‘How about 5pm?’ I suggested as I put clothes on over the damp wetsuit.

  ‘Try it,’ he suggested.

  Back at “the digs” we had a huge breakfast, much appreciated, and went back to bed for a few hours. Up and showered, we drove to Swanage, where he had spent his honeymoon twenty years ago.

  Sat in a cafe, tea mugs in hand, I said, ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Typical RAF mistake marriage. She got a posting away from me, we tried travelling, then just got fed up’.

  ‘I’ve heard that tale a few times,’ I told him. ‘Kids?’

  ‘No, thankfully, but I have a nineteen year old daughter from a mistake, a girl at a party. She never told me it was mine till after the girl was born, then DNA tests, and I paid for it ever since. I can stop paying now, but I like to look after her. Tall girl, wants to be a copper.’