by Geoff Wolak
‘I’m due an award, sir. Another one.’
I popped into the armoury first.
‘Fuck me, he’s back,’ Mickey said. ‘Back from purgatory.’
‘You been in Kenya all this time?’ Bongo asked.
‘Yep, and it was great. Even shagged some nice ladies.’
We caught up on gossip for an hour, before I headed over to Transport. Shouts and calls from the lads announced my arrival, another hour spent catching up.
After lunch I went to see a few of the MP corporals that I used to get along with, tales of Kenya recanted. At 5pm I drove out in civvies, and to the Air Commodore’s home, Transport telling me he was there today.
‘Wilco!’ the Air Commodore greeted. ‘Great tan. Come in, come in.’
He made me a tea, his wife keen to chat about Kenya.
With his wife popping out, I said, ‘You’re a smart old bastard. If I hadn’t gone to Kenya I would have quit.’
‘I learnt a few tricks along the way you know.’
‘Your new driver been looking after you, sir?’
‘They’re OK, but not as safe as you. You keeping fit?’
‘Fit, yes, but no more competing. My aim now is to shag as many beautiful women as I can.’
He laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll do well.’
‘Did you cover my arse, sir?’
‘Well, there was some shit over the boxing, and they wanted to chat after the deaths, but we blocked it. All put to bed now, but I had to shout at a few people.’
‘Sometimes, sir, I can see the families at the graveside, and it bothers me greatly.’
‘You have a conscience, as well a mean left hook, so yes ... it would. But many a boxer got a blood clot or brain swelling, nature the sport – not your fault. We even had the professional civvy boxing associations wade in and give the MOD some shit. Would have set a bad precedent if you had sat an enquiry for a sporting injury.’
I nodded. ‘I was in a bad mood that last bout, a real bad mood.’
‘I think your opponent felt it. So what’ll you do now?’
‘For now ... same old job as I think about what’s next. There are other branches of the RAF I can look at. And, if my friends in high places are kind to me, I was thinking of the parachute courses at Brize.’
‘I could wangle something, yes. There’s a course for irregulars, not Paras, not 2 Squadron, a mixed bag. Marines, Army Engineers, all sorts. You could be in with them.’
‘I’m going to try a civvy jump first, sir. Might not like it.’
Back at base I went looking for PTI Trevors, to find that he has been posted away.
That week I drove the Air Commodore, never a hard task master, a day in the armoury, and I was back to running in the mornings.
On the Saturday, the wind low and the rain holding off, I travelled to that fateful airstrip outside Oxford, and after a morning’s basic training – bend and roll - I dropped out of a Cessna 172. The initial rush was unpleasant, like a rollercoaster only worse, but when the chute opened I very much liked drifting down to Earth. Landing was more fun that leaving the aircraft.
I went straight back up, three jumps that day - trying hard to shout out the count whilst my guts were up in my throat, and I returned on the Sunday, three jumps completed, the main instructor being an ex-SAS guy, Wilmot.
After the final jump he said, ‘You’re him, you’re Wilco.’
‘I don’t always admit to that.’
‘Beer?’
I considered the offer, and I wanted to jump here regular, so I did not want to upset the main man. ‘Just the one.’
We drove to the local pub.
‘Why’d you stop boxing?’
‘They pissed me about, and the MOD stopped me; I damaged too many servicemen.’
‘That’s the sport, what’s their fucking gripe?’
‘I ... killed two men, others had to leave the services, and they’d rather not lose any more men, which makes sense anyhow.’
‘I saw you box once, all over in six seconds. And I was in the London Marathon that day. Airmen who use this place said you disappeared after the boxing...’
‘They sent me to Kenya for three months, save me quitting – or hitting an officer.’
‘I know that feeling,’ he said. ‘In the desert, I was ordered to open fire on a car approaching us, rifle seen. I killed the gunman, but also his hostages – that no fucker knew about. I got the blame.’
I nodded. ‘People ask me about the SAS, but it would just be more shit.’
‘They can be competitive, aye. And sneaky. You swam the Channel.’
‘And broke the record. I like competing against the clock, but other people don’t like me doing well, always some cunt damaging my car or trashing my room while I’m away.’
‘Takes the edge off, doesn’t it. You start to wonder – why go on?’
I nodded. ‘You understand my pain.’
I had a new buddy, and we got on well, and I returned the next weekend for more jumps, and when I could sneak away from work early I was there.
After twenty static line jumps, I tried my first freefall from 7,000ft, my new buddy Wilmot with me and holding my wrist. I managed to hold a stable position, he let go, and I pulled on time. We landed together and safely, straight back up for another go.
With four freefall jumps under my belt, the Air Commodore finally sorted a two-week course placement for me, a spare slot. And, oddly enough, many on the course were housed in my block.
I walked to the Parachute School that morning, getting funny looks.
‘Wilco, who you looking for?’
‘No one, I’m on the course.’
‘You are?’ they puzzled.
Everyone else was listed by name, rank and unit, I was down as “Wilco”. The CO queried it, made a call, and had to allow me to stay, the other candidates wondering what was wrong with me.
That first day was theory and history, terms used, aircraft, all the background detail to do with military parachuting. Including the balloon drops either at Weston-on-the-green or RAF Little Rissington, but this course would not have any balloon drops for us – we were not Paras. At 5pm the instructor asked, ‘Anyone jumped before?’
A few raised their hands, me included.
‘Where’d you jump, Wilco?’ he asked.
‘With Wilmot in Oxford. Twenty static line, four freefall.’
‘So why you on this course anyhow?’
‘They’re thinking of dropping me behind the lines, as a way of getting rid of me once and for all.’
He laughed. ‘That I can believe.’
‘You the boxer?’ a solder asked, a corporal.
‘Not anymore.’
‘Why’d you stop?’ All eyes were on me now.
‘They ... stopped me, a few men ... they died.’
‘Not your fault.’
‘Some thought it was my fault.’
‘You never lost a bout, and none lasted more than twelve seconds.’
I shrugged. ‘In the past. I don’t do it anymore.’
‘Don’t run either, I heard,’ another soldier put in.
‘Don’t believe in Santa Claus anymore either,’ I told him as I walked out.
The next day we were in the huge hangar, the harness described in detail, getting it on and off, adjustments, correct stance for leaving the aircraft. We all put on dummy harnesses with empty chute sacks, helmets on, and walked in a tight line, clips fastened overhead and checked by the instructors – all PTIs, and when it was my turn I jumped out of a mock-up door and landed six inches later feeling silly. We repeated it.
Emergency procedures covered, we watched a film about the actual process, from kitting up, to walking to a Hercules, sitting down, standing when told, clipped on, hand on the shoulder in front, shuffling forwards, wait where told, to the door and shoved out, counting out loud just like the civvy school, look up and check the canopy – if not pull the reserve. If you were in a twist you kicked out.
&n
bsp; Hands up on the harness, pull down as you land, knees bent, roll with it, chute off in a hurry, grab one side of the harness to collapse the chute – wind an issue, how to roll it up.
The next day we all practised pulling on a harness to collapse a fluttering chute, and how to fold the chute guides around your arms, how to correctly pack the chute into the holdall, and carry it back. We went over it a dozen times.
In the afternoon, in full kit, we jumped off a twelve inch step onto rubber mats and rolled, each trying it a dozen times, a few getting shouted at.
Shouting out loud, we all performed a mock jump – “counting, look up, check canopy, assess drift, release your kit pack”. With time left we tried the simulator, and drifted down slowly and rolled, one guy managing to twist an ankle badly. He was off the course.
Everyone got three tries on the door simulator.
With the weather the next day no good, we went back through it all again, over and over.
I woke the next day to find low wind and clear skies, wondering if we would jump. Most parachute courses here were a washout, men sat around a lot of the time – often in my block.
But we had a go signal, first jump to be from 1,000ft without a kit pod. Kit on, harnesses adjusted, we sat in two rows on the concrete floor – very damn uncomfortable, a Hercules seen landing, and twenty minutes later we awkwardly go to our feet, marched in two rows to the plane doors as the engines roared, and this was a bit like my civvy jumps.
Into the dark hold, we sat where directed, the Hercules soon moving off, taxiing around, a pause, lined up on the runway and powering up – vibrations felt through our feet, and we were gently rising as I strained to peer out of the small porthole style windows, the harness being just about the most uncomfortable and restrictive thing I had ever been lumbered with.
A ten minute flight east and we stood, clipped on, hands on the man in front in the dark interior, bright points of light coming from the windows, and we shuffled forwards, bright white squares where the doors were, a man in a harness looking out and down, his hair blowing.
Clips checked, static lines tugged by a familiar PTI – a smile towards me, and we moved forwards like chocolate in a vending machine, one at a time.
My turn came, and I was nervous of a fuck-up more than being killed. The previous man was out, the instructor glancing out, I was waved forwards, held, boot in the right place, not holding the sides, and out I went – soon with my guts in my throat like a roller coaster as I shouted the count.
A stiff jerk, and I looked up, my arms on the reserve correctly but my legs flying wide open. The green chute was OK, I was not twisted, and I closed my legs and bent my knees. Then I remembered to grab the harness above, assess drift, turn into the wind.
The ground came up quickly, Weston-on-the-green being a huge flat area, few trees, a few large green bushes, some puddles seen, a stream seen.
I landed sideways with a thud, dragged a little till I remembered to grab one guide and pull it in, getting to my knees, then my feet. Arm over arm, I wound up the guides to the chute, stumbling in the thick heather beneath my feet. Chute grabbed, harness reversed and the chute tied off, I knelt on it to make it smaller, adjusting the ties.
Pack lifted onto my back, helmet off, I plodded towards the waiting jeeps with the others, one man clearly nursing a broken ankle, one with a twisted ankle. They were off the course, failed.
‘Still in one piece?’ a PTI I knew asked.
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Chute packs handed over and in a three-tonner lorry, we walked along a tack to the waiting buses, the bored drivers waiting. I grabbed a seat as names were ticked off a list, injured men in the military ambulance, and we set off, PTIs sat at the front.
Most of the men went to sleep as we drove back, but I chatted to the PTIs about the Channel swim. One of them fancied giving it a go.
After a mini-debrief in the lecture room, injured men noted and off the course, we were let go early. Back at the block it was soon quiet, and when I looked in they were mostly asleep.
With the weather OK the next day we would be back up, but it was the general rule that candidates did not drop twice in the same day, the rule stretched now and then to speed up the course due to bad weather and missed days – which was the norm. With bad weather now forecast for the end of the week we would attempt two drops today, again from 1,000ft, the second to have the kit container, the pod – even though it was cloth and not plastic.
Chutes collected in a line, harnesses placed on and tested, helmets collected – our names on them, and we again sat on the damp cold concrete in two lines, a twenty minute wait for a Hercules to come up from Lyneham. It was on time, and we repeated yesterday’s drop exactly, but when my chute opened I had a twist, ten seconds trying to kick out of it and yank my guides apart.
It snapped open and corrected itself, and I looked down with a ‘Shit!’ and bent my knees just in time, no assessment of drift made.
As I bundled up my chute a PTI ran in smiling. ‘Almost forgot your drills!’
‘Needed to kick out of that twist.’
‘You can land with a twist,’ he reminded me, smiling.
At 3pm we went back up, now with kit pods. But again I had a twist, this time kicking out of it faster, and I remember just in time to release the kit pod, legs together. Again I was spotted.
‘Almost Wilco,’ the PTI threatened.
And he meant that I could have almost been kicked off the course. But I was sure that the Air Commodore would have made sure I was right back on it.
Driving back in the RAF bus, the rest of the intake all fell asleep as I chatted to the driver, none other than a chirpy Ellis.
The next morning displayed high cloud, but low wind, so we were a go. This drop would be 800ft without the kit pod, less time to kick out of a twist – as they reminded me.
We soon found ourselves awkwardly sat in two lines on the concrete again, eventually up and towards the Hercules, inside to the darkened hold, sat down in the damn uncomfortable harness. It was all getting to be routine, yet scary with it.
My turn came around, that bright white square, man with a harness grabbing me, and out I went. This time I felt a small jerk at the count, and looked up, my chute 90% closed. Eyes wide, I had a minor heart attack, twenty seconds to do something, and I yanked on the guides like an idiot till I realised that was wrong.
Head down, hands down, legs flailing around, I pulled the reserve, which took an age to unfurl, and it finally decided to explode into life, jerking me upright just two seconds before I hit a bush on my back.
I stared up at the grey cloud layer, wondering if I was dead. Or paralysed. Helmet off, I eased up, harness off as PTIs ran in. I started to reel in the guides.
‘How the fuck are you alive?’
‘Got the reserve in time.’
‘I saw you hit the ground before the reserve opened!’
‘Yeah, but soft here.’
‘You’re not hurt?’
‘Nothing broken.’
‘Fuck, that would have been a lot of paperwork.’
‘Air Commodore would have roasted you all,’ I told them, smiling. ‘From the grave I would have been enjoying him bollocking you all.’
Chute packed up, straps tightened, they walked to the lorry with me, then to the bus, names checked off the list, one twisted ankle, the man now off the course.
Back at the school I was led in to the CO.
‘You’re still alive, Wilco, which may come as a great disappointment to some around the base.’
I smiled. ‘Still alive, sir, not so much as a scratch.’
‘You’re OK to go on?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be, sir?’
‘A normal human being would be in the chapel and considering their near-death experience, but we both know you’re too stupid to contemplate the afterlife.’
‘I have enough trouble with this life, sir.’
‘Indeed. Well, see you in the morning.’
With the rest of the day off, I went for a swim, but coming out the pool I bumped into Trish entering the pool. ‘Ma’am. Didn’t know you swam, or that you looked that good in a one-piece.’
She blushed. ‘I swim a few times a week.’
We paused, and stared.
‘So,’ she began, ‘you’re on a parachute course.’
‘It’s turning out to be good fun, but I Roman-candled this morning.’
‘Ah, I heard. So that was you. You don’t seem bothered.’
‘CO asked me about the afterlife, and here I am looking at an angle.’
‘Behave.’
‘Why, I might quit any day. Bollocks to them all.’
‘I’m leaving next year, civilian air traffic control.’
‘You any good at keeping secrets?’ I asked.
‘Why..?’ she puzzled with a suspicious frown.
‘No reason,’ I said with a smirk, and walked off.
Sat in my room, thinking, I had an idea. And it was a safe idea. I drove out, things to buy.
The next morning, as I jumped at 800ft with the kit pod, Trish was puzzled to receive a parcel, chocolates inside, her male colleagues taking the piss. The note was from Count Russell Bourbon III. All of the men denied sending the gift, and each pinched a chocolate.
I survived my drop, a great disappointment to many, the weather holding, so we would complete a night drop tonight, 1,000ft, no kit pod. Jumping that night was the scariest thing I had done so far, I couldn’t even see the chute to see if I had a twist, and ground took me by surprise, the wind knocked out of me.
With two night drops completed, seven drops in total, I was – reluctantly – awarded my wings by the CO before he set off to award the rest of the intake at Weston-on-the-green, a ceremony ‘for proper enlisted men’ he told me. Holding the wings, I had no intention of sewing them on.
Saturday came around, and I was nervous, expectant, angered for a while, then resigned to the fact that Trish may not have figured it out.
A thirty mile drive, and I arrived at a country house at 2.30pm, owned once by Count Bourbon II, there never was a third. Today was a rare opening of the old family home, as advertised a few weeks ago, and the public could look around.
I sat outside on a bench under trees, observing the crowd wandering inside, most of them pensioners. At 3pm, give or take a few seconds, Trish walked into view. My heart raced, a massive hard-on coming as I stood and walked around behind her. She did not hear me approach, now dressed in skinny jeans and a white blouse under a smart blue jacket.
