by Geoff Wolak
Trish stepped out, my neighbour closing in. ‘I heard what happened, it’s all over the base. Fucking soldiers. We host them and they do this. Good job you hit the fuckers.’
Back in my room I lay down, thinking.
In the morning I walked to Transport, knife in pocket, getting odd looks, more than normal. I called the Corrective Facility, the colonel already on his way up. I headed to the MP depot, and informed them that the Colonel was on his way, then sat in Admin waiting.
Colonel Bennet and his team walked in ten minutes later, and demanded a room from the staff – and tea.
‘Christ Wilco, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.’
‘Feels like it, sir.’
‘Well, this story is all over the Army rumour service, and probably a bit distorted, so start at the beginning.’
‘Very simple, sir. Corporal saw me, a boxer, and it was his best mate that died in the ring.’
‘Ah, black and white.’
‘I backed off, he came at me and threw a punch, his mates joining in. And somehow three became thirteen. I fought them as I walked backwards, ending up a hundred yards from where it started.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘Dozens, sir, even officers.’
‘That helps greatly, and it’s clear cut.’
I took a moment.
‘Something..?’
‘My mind was on defending myself, not fighting in the ring. I used Kung Fu techniques, I broke a few knees, and hit a few men in the throat.’
‘Ah, yes, but when it comes to defending yourself from attack there are no guidelines unfortunately, so if you picked up a knife and stabbed one – that’s OK.’
‘Can I be called to account for not pulling my punches, sir?’
‘When it’s thirteen to one – no!’
I gave the Colonel a statement, there was not much to say, but I could not sign it, so he witnessed it. Outside, I asked if the base commander was free.
Ten minutes later I was sent for, Colonel Bennet with me.
‘Ah Wilco,’ the Group Captain sullenly let out. ‘And this is Colonel Bennet.’ They shook. ‘Come in.’ In the room already stood an Army major and a captain .
We remained standing.
After a moment studying me, the Group Captain asked, ‘Are you well enough to be out of bed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have the story, not least from an Admin SAC that works for me. She was right there, saw it and heard it.’
‘Quite simple really, sir. The boxer corporal, it was his best mate that died in the ring.’
‘Corporal Mansel,’ the captain put in. ‘Yes, it was Corporal Davis that died a month after the boxing match.’
‘I walked off, he ran at me and threw a punch, his two mates with him.’
The Group Captain thumbed at the captain. ‘The captain and his sergeant are in trouble, they’re responsible for their men – especially on my fucking base.’
‘Sir, the corporal started it with his two mates. Those emerging from the canteen saw fighting without knowing what happened, and went to the assistance of their mates. They were not at fault.’
The Group Captain considered that. He faced the captain. ‘He just saved your career.’
Colonel Bennet put in, ‘Most honourable man I know.’
The major turned his head to me. ‘I was in the hospital this morning. Two of the men are not expected to make it, brain dead. They’ll be an enquiry, a coroner’s court.’
‘I’ll be there in my civvies, sir. Just as soon as this hand can sign something I’m out of here.’
Colonel Bennet closed in, ‘You’re hurt, so don’t rush into it, take some time to heal, a holiday, or they win and you give up.’
I glanced at him. ‘Am I going to be battling them for the next ten years, sir?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ the Group Captain put in. ‘The other week you moved fast, DIY surgery in an open field and saved the life of a young Para. Be a waste if that ability was thrown away. So take a break, and heal, then decide.’
‘That hand won’t be signing anything for weeks anyhow,’ Colonel Bennet noted. ‘I could sign for you, as your counsel, but I’ve lost the use of my right hand.’
I shot him a look, and faced the Group Captain. ‘Permission to take some leave, sir.’
‘Granted. Check in with MO.’
Outside, I thanked Colonel Bennet, no energy in my voice, and walked to Transport, finding Ellis – who was very concerned for me. ‘I need a lift.’
‘I’ll ask the CO.’
He got permission, and after seeing the MO I got changed, a bag packed, books packed, and I locked my room, soon heading north of Oxford and to the B&B.
‘Do me a favour, absolutely never tell anyone I came here, but if I call you – this is the place to come get me.’
‘Yeah, no problem.’
I carried two heavy bags inside.
‘Christ, what happened to you?’ came from the landlord.
‘Rolled my car. Listen, what rate can you do a week for?’
‘Quiet now, so I can give you a good rate.’
‘If you-know-who calls, tell her I’m here all week.’
‘Will do.’
Key handed over, I claimed a familiar room and lay down, dosing off to sleep since I had slept little last night, my ribs too sore.
I woke to find Trish stroking my face. ‘An angel?’
She smiled. ‘You look terrible.’
‘And no sexual demands like usual, woman, my ribs are bust.’
She lay down next to me. ‘Whole base is talking about it, all mad at the Army.’
‘PTS CO will be vindicated, he sees me as bad news.’
‘After you saved that young Para?’
‘One good deed does not wipe out years of gossip.’
‘What’ll you do?’
‘Wait a week here, sit and think, read, stew, cogitate.’
‘By yourself?’
‘It’s a B&B, not Dodge City. What can happen? I’ll sleep, eat, feed the ducks – without aiming at them I promise.’
‘I can pop in a few nights.’
‘I neither expect nor demand, my lady. But ... seeing you last night was like seeing a vision. It helped.’
‘Some wine?’
‘Hell yes, it’ll deaden the pain.’
We went downstairs to the small bar, an old couple sat there, and horrified at the state of me.
‘Drunk driver hit my car,’ I told them, getting lots of sympathy.
At 10pm the landlord made us melted cheese on thick toast, delicious, but at 10.30pm Trish had to go.
‘I’m on early, I’ll try and get back tomorrow.’
‘Don’t ... stress or fuss, I’m fine, I’ll just be sat reading a book. Do what you need to do, and reassure your nervous housemate.’
I didn’t sleep well, my ribs killing me, but the wine had helped, and smelling Trish on the pillow helped as well. She popped in for an hour the next day, but not with her happy face on.
‘They say that one of the soldiers you hit has died.’
I turned my head to look out the window, and sighed. ‘I’ll have to sit a hearing, coroner’s court maybe.’
In the morning I rang the MPs, but I had not been summoned to anything yet. I rang Fl Lt Peters, and he had no mail for me demanding my presence anywhere.
Trish came back on the Friday lunchtime, but needed to sleep. She had been on all night. I lay down next to her, and dosed myself.
On the Saturday we went for a drive, a walk along a river as the weather held, but I got odd looks whenever we encountered other people. She headed off Sunday evening, an early shift to start, and her presence here had lifted my spirits.
But I considered that the company of a quality lady was not a facet of military life, it was more likely to be found outside the military, so I gave some thought to what I might do. The things that I was good at all involved being a long way from ladies like Trish. So ... what could I do in
Civvy Street?
After a great many hours, I had no idea what I would do in Civvy Street, nor any dreams or desires that would push me towards a yet unseen career that would fulfil me, as well as make a few quid.
On the Monday night I sat with the landlord, and we had a long chat.
‘I was a racing driver when I was young, believe it or not, good and all, then I crashed, broke my back, couldn’t walk too well, put on weight, and ... well, that was an end to it. Broke my heart it did, and a year later I saw this idiot, No.3 to me he was, and he won the championship, married the girl I had been dating.
‘That’s the difference, champion, or a fat old fucker running a bed and breakfast. So what do you want to be? Champion, or forgotten?’
I lay in bed that night, thinking. Champion, or forgotten. There was the Marines, Paras, SAS. There was also the MPs, and Close Protection. And from Close Protection I could move into private work, bodyguard work. Good wages, nice hotels.
I could see a future, and I felt better for it. When I was back I would do the Close Protection refresher, volunteer for more driving, and see what was involved in moving over to the MPs. I had a plan, and it did not involve me clocking-on in some factory as a nobody.
Trish appeared on the Tuesday night.
‘I’m going back tomorrow, I’ve decided,’ I told her.
‘Decided ... what?’
‘I’ll do more Close Protection work, a view to getting a civvy job in body-guarding; good pay, nice hotels, travel. Work out of London.’
‘I might be in Heathrow or Gatwick inside a year.’
‘Be bored of me by then. Anyway, madam hasn’t moaned for a while.’
She cocked an eyebrow. ‘You are feeling better.’
Back in my room in Brize, knife put away, I set about studying something, and languages were the key. The Education Officer greeted me, ten minutes of chat about the incident, and I started on the machines.
Two days later, and SIB were here, but admitted it a waste of time. It was black and white, self defence, but they had two dead bodies and so needed to escalate the investigation.
‘Two?’ I queried, shocked.
‘Yes, two.’
It took the edge off, and I sat in my room and stewed for a few hours.
The next day I was back to the languages, and I tried to ignore what had happened, my spy called back in from the cold, and we practised for a few hours, my Russian getting better.
My hand was getting better, I could use a knife and fork without dropping most of the food, but I got odd looks when I entered the canteen, so I went to breakfast early and skipped lunch there.
The following weekend I took Trish to Bude in Cornwall, the cold wind an issue, so most of the time we were sat in the car or shagging in the hotel room.
I had enquired about a Close Protection Refresher, and there was such a thing, so I wrote and requested to be on it – but not for a month, my hand not capable of firing a pistol yet.
Oddly enough, Fl Lt Peters now had work for me, proper work, and I assisted one of the corporals with an NBC lecture and practise session, and a week later – my hand better, I assisted a corporal with pistol work, cleaning the weapons afterwards, Hamster surprised that it was me handing them back in, and I was surprised that he was awake.
Trish then dropped the bombshell over dinner. ‘I’ve been offered an exchange-posting to the States, and ... it has a civilian element to it, through traffic, and could help with my career afterwards.’
‘You do what’s best for you, not worry about me,’ I said, but did not mean a word of my own speech. Inside, my guts were turning, and I was angry at the world again.
We became distant, and then she disappeared without even saying goodbye.
A few days a week I now helped in the RAF Regiment depot, Corporal Marsh, a new guy, and he was quietly spoken and understated. We had lunch often, and we got on well; he was on my side, some of the corporals still frosty towards me, most just ignored me.
Off to war, in a hurry
I was helping out in the armoury when a phone call came in. ‘Wilco,’ came a shout. ‘You’re wanted back, and on the double.’
‘What have I done now?’ I complained as I eased up, checking my watch. It was 4pm. ‘Guys, finish this GMPG, eh. And do a good job this time.’
‘Yeah, yeah, fuck off back to the real world, some gate needs guarding,’ Bongo said without looking up.
I rushed back, jogging, and found the CO in the admin section.
‘Ah Wilco, good. The Air Commodore rang and asked for you, wants a driver in ... forty-five minutes, overnight bag.’
Off I went, back to my room at a jog. I kept such a bag for times just like this, and it did not take long to check through it; spare underwear and socks, folded shirt, wash-bag, bar of chocolate, the basics. I locked my door, double checked it, and hurried back, thinking that I would miss quiz night.
At the armoury, I told them, ‘I need my pistol, quick, driving the Air Commodore in fifteen minutes. Holster and two magazines please, gentlemen. Chop chop.’
‘Keep your panties on,’ Mickey told me.
I checked the pistol and magazine, signed, and headed to the Admin building.
I made sure that I looked OK, straightened my beret and entered the HQ building, wondering about a vehicle, and had one been assigned yet; the usual BMW had been back with BMW for a service.
I found an admin sergeant I knew. ‘Air Commodore?’
‘In a meeting, not sure when they finish.’
‘I’m driving him, and we’re due to leave about now.’
A slightly built man in a blue RAF uniform stood up, looking familiar. ‘I’m supposed to drive the Air Commodore.’
‘So ... why am I here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ the man said, and we both sat.
When the Air Commodore appeared, being walked out by senior staff, we both stood. ‘Ah Wilco, good. You fit?’
‘Yes, sir, but ... you have a driver.’
‘Need some muscle. Come on.’
Myself and the other driver fell into step and followed the officers outside, the driver fetching the car, the usual silver BMW 520 – back from its service apparently, and I put my bag in the boot, getting into the passenger seat, taking my beret off and putting on the seatbelt. We pulled off with the Air Commodore and a lady Flight Lieutenant in the back, soon out the gate.
‘Wilco, when we get to Northolt, Peter will go home, and you’ll take over.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Bit of a flap on, because the Iraqis are moving troops towards the Kuwaiti border.’
‘Was a reckoning on the cards, sir.’
‘Flt Lt, you don’t know Wilco, but he’s smarter than us both. Wilco, give me a rundown on the history there.’
‘Well, sir, recently ... the UN has agreed that the Iraqi’s claims against Kuwait are valid, claims that Kuwaiti oil wells on the border are drilling down at an angle, ten miles into Iraq.’
‘That’s cheeky. And a provocation.’
‘There’s also the matter of reparations for the long Iraq/Iran war, where the Iraqi’s often protected Kuwait - and its oilfields, from the Iranians. The Iraqi’s claim they had an agreement in place for financial assistance that the Kuwaitis never honoured. There’re also the loans that Kuwait made to Iraq during that war, and the interest calculated pissed of Saddam Hussein.’
‘So, they’re feeling hard done by, and by sabre rattling they hope to get a better rate of interest.’
‘They hope, sir, to get about twenty billion dollars.’
‘Ouch. And if he was of a mind to invade?’
‘He’d take Kuwait in two hours, sir. We have nothing in the area except for American hardware in Qatar, some in Saudi. Since the Kuwaitis like to keep a little gold in the banks, he’d get the lot and take it back. He has a standing army of a million men, mostly conscripts doing a kind of national service, but the Republican Guard is good, and they have tanks and artillery.’
>
‘And what would we need to dislodge them?
‘A miracle, sir. It would take months to get any hardware there, and British soldiers would be fitting in thirty-five degree heat, and he could put five hundred tanks up against us. We and the Americans, we don’t have that many tanks available, sir. There’s also the Russian dimension.’
‘Russians?’
‘He’s been snuggling up to them, and they’ve made a few loans to him. They won’t want to see him gone, sir.’
‘So if he invades, it’ll be bad all around.’
‘He has two hundred Scud missiles, and can fit nerve agent to them, and he likes to use nerve agent. Our boys will be in thirty-five degree heat, in NBC suits. They’d be dead in an hour, sir, cooked like chicken in a microwave.’
At Northolt we all showed our ID cards, and the driver legged it away home. After adjusting the seat back, I parked the BMW in the usual spot and locked it, following the Air Commodore inside, and sat for two hours chatting to other drivers.
When Mister Loughton finally emerged we were off to the MOD building, but at least we were going against the traffic this time of day.
The traffic into London was heavy, it always was, but we made good time, pulling into the MOD’s underground car park after ID’s were checked, mirrors used to check the underside of the vehicle, the vehicle given a quick search as I handed them the keys. I once again found myself sat on a chair, paperback to read – the rise and fall of the Inca Empire.
Opposite me were six driver-bodyguards, and we swapped units and stories in a whisper. Most had done the Close Protection Course and were military police, and all NCOs. I was the oddity, and they could not believe that I had a personal firearm without at least being a corporal.
At 8pm a tired Air Commodore led me down to the car, and I teased the security staff on the gate, asking them if I should have handed in my personal firearm.
‘You’re supposed to declare it, but hanging onto it depends on who and what you are. What are you?’
‘A trainee chef,’ I told them before pulling off, the Air Commodore laughing in the back of the car.
He pointed me towards the Prime Minister’s retreat at Chequers, were he had an early meeting planned, and we eventually found a small country hotel in Kent that his wife had found in some magazine; he had paid by credit card over the phone, and would claim it back.
