Wilco- Lone Wolf 5

by Geoff Wolak

  Three reluctantly raised arms, stared at by the others.

  ‘I did time too, and I don’t care what you did in the past. What you do now matters. Who are the civvys?’

  Four raised hands, tough older men in their thirties, and they looked the part – spy material.

  ‘If you need kit, ask for it, and if you’re not up to speed on some of the weapons ask for extra training. I assume that you’re all fit enough to start this.’

  I faced the main group. ‘You’ll get an orientation tonight from Sgt Crab. For some training you may be split into groups, and if you’re injured or you have a blister – don’t worry, this is not cut-throat, just tells us, take a day off. If you have a blister, wear trainers for a day or two, and there’s classroom work you can be doing. If you fail a section you can do it again, or ask to do it again. OK, who’s para trained?’

  Ten raised hands.

  ‘You’ll all receive parachute training with us right here, including free fall. But, that will not be an official para wing on your uniform, for that you need to do the official course at Brize Norton.

  ‘Now, swimming is an element of this course. Not regular swimming, front crawl, but swimming in full kit pushing a float. If you’re not a great swimmer ... it doesn’t matter that much, no butterfly to do. If you need extra training you’ll get it, just let us know if you’re not that hot on swimming.

  ‘Tomorrow you’ll meet four of my lads who are also doing the course. They’re already good lads, they’ve killed many men, but they’re doing this course to refine their skills and to specialise. One even asked to do it, something he may regret when he realises how tough it is.

  ‘With our lads - you can ask them questions or ask for help or extra training, don’t be shy. If you don’t know something, don’t hide the fact. This first week or two is basic training, a bit dull, some of you in need of going over the basics. We’ll also be looking for attitude, fitness, and skill levels.

  ‘What matters, gentlemen, is that attitude, and if you piss me off it won’t be a charge or a fine, it’ll be a broken nose - then your arse kicked out the door. I’m not like other officers, and no one is ever going to prosecute me if I bust you up.’ I faced Sgt Crab. ‘Sergeant, have I ever unfairly beaten a man?’

  ‘Not the last three I saw, no, sir. But in Mali we did stop you shooting a lad in the foot.’

  I made a face. ‘If I had shot him in the foot ... then I’m sure I would have apologised afterwards.’

  ‘Apologised?’ Crab queried. ‘Yeah, I’m sure that would have smoothed it over with him.’

  ‘Anyway, they stopped me, no harm done. Right, settle in, lights out at 11am, not a peep from anyone, MPs on patrol outside – don’t wander. If you have questions, Sgt Crab here will assist. And when you get time to rest, do so, you may find that the next day you get no sleep.

  ‘Take the rest when you can, eat well after training. You get some weekends off, use them to rest rather than drink hard. In the morning just a drink of water and a chocolate bar, plenty of protein tonight. And ... good luck to you all.’

  ‘What’s them metal bars out front for?’ Crab asked me.

  ‘Ah, you reminded me. Everyone, outside are bars for pull-ups and push-ups, so when you get a minute late in the day do some, and inside the hangar are, or will be soon, ropes to climb up. When you get spare time, go climb a rope. Don’t use them in the mornings before a run, you’ll stiffen up.’

  Back at my house I called Tomsk. ‘Is Napoleon at home?’ I asked, Big Sasha laughing.

  ‘Napoleon?’ Tomsk queried.

  ‘A great military leader.’

  ‘He was very short!’

  I laughed. ‘No.2 is here, a few extra scars, quite a few, but he was very glad to see me, now in a safe house. He’ll mend in time, some operations yet.’

  ‘What a pair you are, eh, a pair of zombies.’

  ‘I’ll let you know about the Congo, if they send me.’

  ‘Does No.2 ... does he ... have harsh words for me?’

  ‘No, he knows there was nothing you could have done to get him or me back. And you helped me, he knows that.’

  ‘That’s good to know. He could chat to the men here ... yes?’

  ‘Yes, me too. Don’t worry.’

  I called Bob. ‘Tomsk thinks you got Sasha out of a Colombian jail, that he’s bust up but OK, and he knows that Sasha is with me, and he’s fine with it. Tomsk knows our Russian target in the Congo and wants him dead anyhow.’

  ‘You’re wasted in the military, you know that.’

  ‘Put that idea out of your mind. I am but a humble soldier.’

  At 6am, the day already quite bright, a cool breeze blowing, I checked my watch as I approached the men lined up outside the barracks, two groups of two rows eyeing each other, Duffy on duty and organising them.

  The “E” Squadron men displayed an assortment of uniforms, the Wolves more uniform in their appearance, all of the men with webbing on. I noticed Smitty, Tomo, Nicholson and Gonzo at the end, and grinning.

  If Crab had done his job, then this lot would all have two full water bottles, rations in tins, lead weights in pouches where ammo might be.

  I approached the “E” Squadron men first. ‘Mally, you’re in charge for now. I want run-walk-run, at your best pace, six laps, clockwise always, avoid the others. I will be watching. Go!’

  Mally led them off, boots echoing.

  ‘Ten-shun,’ Duffy called, and saluted.

  I returned the salute. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Facing the Wolves, I said, ‘At ease.’

  They moved to the at-ease position, arms clasped behind backs.

  ‘OK, some of you are familiar with QMAR, the way I train. If not, we’re going over it now.’

  And for twenty minutes I gave them a lecture on my early days of training and running, and how to maintain optimum fitness.

  ‘Gentlemen, let’s be clear; I’m alive because I’m fit, I survived Bosnia because I was fit. If you’re behind the lines and injured - cold, wet and tired, your fitness keeps you alive. Don’t get fit for me, or for the Army, get fit because you may need it someday soon to get out of some hell hole.

  ‘If you do well here you may be called back to do a job somewhere, a live job, shots fired. If you get a minor wound then you patch yourself up and walk back to our lines. We don’t want you fit for bullshit or for punishment, we want you fit so that you do the job and stay alive longer.’

  I demonstrated leg lunges, sideways running, and then we set off, the “E” Squadron men across the airfield, the airfield’s grass covered in dew, the air a little chilled, a flock of starlings gathering on the runway.

  We passed the old timers at speed, almost keeping to a neat group, and made a steady four laps, no one dropping out or complaining yet. Lap four was made up of leg lunges and sideways running, lap five sprints and rests.

  That completed, they were led to the hangar, Sgt Crab stood grinning, each man given a four foot lump of wood that weighed the same as a GPMG. But at least the wood was smooth enough, no splinters to be suffered.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Tomo sarcastically offered him. ‘Is it loaded?’

  I took one myself, and led the team off at a brisk pace, the “E” Squadron men heading back for a shower and then breakfast.

  On the second lap I demonstrated a move, the team to copy. When I lifted the wood they were to lift the wood. Up behind my head, push up and down, and every twenty paces or so I lifted it, sometimes walking backwards and observing the lads. A few faces looked pained, but they did not look like they were about to drop out.

  At 10am we were still at it, at 11am the men starting to sag - the civvys looking pained, and I led them to the hangar, the Major waiting. Wood handed back, drinks taken, they sat in the briefing room, the Major to give a lecture on JIC, UK Special Forces, and how it all worked and integrated. At least, how it was supposed to work in an ideal world, competing units aside.

  I headed for some breakfast, then to
the range, finding Sasha with Rocko’s troop, running and firing, pitted now against Slider.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ I asked Rocko.

  ‘Like you trained him,’ Rocko quipped. ‘He knows our style, words and phrases.’

  ‘Can he keep up?’

  ‘Yeah, good operator.’

  ‘He was in a helicopter smash, busted up, still recovering. Keep that in mind.’

  Sasha joined me as scores were tallied, a wide smile on his face. ‘I am back in groove, no?’

  I smiled. ‘Hope so. Body OK?’

  He made a face as he grabbed some water. ‘Some things hurt.’

  ‘For me too, my friend, me too.’

  Poncho down, he stripped his weapon and cleaned it next to the lads, impressing them. I left him to it.

  On the 25yard range I found Sandra with Henri and Jacque, blasting away. ‘How’s she doing?’ I asked Henri when they paused.

  ‘She is determined, and gets better and better, yes.’

  Sandra shouted, ‘I have hands like a farmer after.’ She showed me her palms.

  With the Major still talking, I checked on paperwork, a coffee with O’Leary as we discussed the old timers, the men now upstairs in the pistol range.

  I wandered up half an hour later to find much laughter amidst the gunfire, a whiteboard annotated with names and scores, Sgt Crab supervising.

  Mally checked his target and cursed, returning to the firing point.

  ‘How they doing, Sergeant?’ I asked Crab.

  ‘Some are still shit hot, some of these old wankers losing it a bit.’

  ‘Push them hard,’ I encouraged him, and observed as Mally fired, moved and fired whilst being jeered, swapped magazines in haste and fired again, his scores better, insults returned, the board updated.

  I made a point of chatting to some of the men, wanting to get into their heads to see how they ticked, and what their attitudes were.

  With the Major finished, the Wolves now hungry, the RSM pulled up, right on time. Teas were made for the lads, they sat again, and the RSM went over his experience of Oman, the Falklands War and the Gulf, more than an hour used up.

  The Major took me to one side. ‘We have a Russian soldier with us?’

  ‘Russian soldier then a Russian gangster hitman, sir,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Here on the base? Are you mad?’

  ‘I know him well -’

  ‘You know him well? From things you do for Bob and the CIA on the weekends? Other people go fishing on their day off!’

  I smiled. ‘He defected to our side after I saved his life, British passport now. I trained him, fought with him, I can trust him with my life.’

  ‘You have some fucking odd weekend pastimes!’

  I nodded. ‘Yes I do. Trust me, sir, he’s OK, all checked out by Bob.’

  ‘First a girl, now a Russian hitman!’

  ‘Well at least it’s never dull, sir.’

  When the RSM finished the Wolves were led to their bits of wood, Swifty to now take them around, four laps, and at the end of it they lined up in front of the hangar, many looking spent, most sweaty and strained, my lads coping.

  ‘Feeling hungry, no doubt,’ I said. ‘Tough shit.’ I split them into two groups. One was sent upstairs after the old timers came down, one to the 25yard range with Swifty and Duffy, pistols collected from the armoury – and lots of ammo.

  Upstairs, I gave advice on stance and holding, moving and ducking, and then each lad attempted the targets in quick succession, scores written down, and they repeated that for an hour before a lesson on stripping and cleaning from myself and Crab. And so far, it could be said that standards varied greatly, from Billy the Kid - to nervous.

  That took us to 5pm, the lads sent to the canteen, to be back at the hangar at 7pm.

  At 7pm they were lined up, two rows as I came out, clipboard in hand, Crab, Swifty and Duffy at my side.

  ‘OK, Tomo, Smitty, take the following five lads upstairs, pistol work with Duffy. You help coach them.’ I read the names. ‘Go.’ They moved off, Duffy following.

  ‘Any sore feet or blisters, pulled muscles?’ I called.

  One of the civvys raised a hand. ‘Got a wicked blister coming, sir.’

  ‘Me too,’ another civvy put in.

  ‘Over there,’ I pointed. ‘Swifty, have a look, alcohol and tape.’ They stepped aside. ‘Rest of you, in the briefing room.’

  Sgt Crab gave a lecture on the structures of the SAS, bases, day to day life. Captain Harris appeared at 8pm, taking over for an hour after teas were made - the role of Intel and Signals in support, the lads from upstairs having come back down and joined us, and at 9.15pm they were allowed to buy things from the NAAFI shop before it closed - which included pie and pasties, and they were finally allowed to rest.

  The old timers had just run three laps, and completed them with the bits of wood, arms sore afterwards no doubt.

  At 6am they were stood ready, two groups, Duffy again on duty, but with Henri helping out the old timers. They were called to attention, and I led the Wolves off with a ‘You know the routine’ in their ears, two civvies in trainers.

  Today I allowed them lunch, all told not to eat too much, and at 2pm they were all on the range. It had stopped raining, but everyone was damp anyhow. Ponchos down, they took it in turns to strip and clean our old SLRs, then to fire them – running from firing position to firing position as a group, and back again, forty rounds used.

  The next group took over, stripped and cleaned and fired. And they repeated that till 6pm, dark clouds approaching, a hasty retreat called.

  At 8pm they were all sat in the briefing room, a lesson on the GPMG from Crab and Duffy, some not that familiar with it, some rusty, my four lads given the night off.

  At 9pm I led the Wolves to the Killing House, candles placed down the corridor and in certain rooms, a spooky effect created.

  ‘You, first man,’ I called. He stepped forward, accepting a pistol from me. ‘In there are targets, dummies with guns. Go in quietly, shoot them. Cock the weapon. Advance.’

  He moved inside, pistol ready at 45degrees, and nosed into various rooms, double-taps sounding out. I observed on the screens, a score given; good, bad ... or just plain shite.

  Everyone had a go, Leggit and Swan naturals at this, and at 10.30pm the Wolves were sent back to the barracks for some much needed rest.

  The next morning was bright and crisp, no wind, so I would make a call after the run, now with four lads in trainers, the old timers bashing out slow laps.

  I cut short the run and walk, just two hours, and the Wolves were allowed a quick breakfast as we made arrangements. After breakfast my lads helped out, basic parachute training for an hour as Moran and Swifty again bounced the Mi8.

  The Skyvan touched down and taxied around to us, and those lads with the least parachute experience – or none, were kitted out, trained for half an hour, final checks made, final advice given, and off they went, a quick circuit gaining height and out they went, round grey chutes soon opening.

  But number five became a Roman Candle, my heart skipping a beat. His chute opened in time, scaring the poor lad. And me with it, Rizzo and I exchanging looks, not least because we were stretching a few laws here.

  ‘That his first jump?’ he asked me, and I nodded. ‘Poor fucker.’

  With everyone back, no broken ankles, I asked, ‘Who’s chute failed to open?’

  ‘Mine, sir.’

  ‘You go back up now, just to test your luck. Are you ... greatly concerned?’

  ‘I’ll do it, sir.’

  ‘Good man. You get extra dessert later.’

  Open chutes placed in bags, fresh chutes prepared, the same man went back up, the second group consisting mostly of lads who had already jumped in their careers. Ten grey chutes pleased me, and I breathed again.

  Three of these lads had previously jumped freefall, one an expert. They would jump now with Rizzo and Swifty, who would hold the arms of two of the novices.r />
  As the rest of the Wolves ran around the track I observed the specs above, and none ploughed into the farmer’s field, all drifting serenely down to me. With enough chutes left, I sent the two less experienced lads back up with Rizzo and Swifty, happily not having to write up reports of deaths.

  At 8pm, inside the hangar, Crab and Henri handed out ten live and wriggling bunnies, two dropped and running for it as I observed with a smile. Karate chops applied, one rabbit would not succumb, so the lad grabbed its hind legs and smashed it into the concrete a few times. It did the trick.

  Those with rabbits skinned them as the others looked on – a mess made, cut them up, everyone getting a piece, tins used to cook the meat, some cooked over open fires on sticks or knives, the lads soon downing the rabbit meat.

  ‘Those two lads who dropped the rabbits,’ I called. ‘A lap each, and don’t drop the fucking rabbits next time.’

  At 6am I led them off in a familiar routine, still four lads in trainers, and it poured down, everyone soaked through. I let them all change clothes and get a warm shower, an hour off as I went and changed, plastic camouflage jacket placed on when I left my house.

  In the briefing room, Batman and Robin helping out today, the Wolves each had an AKM to strip, and Batman had them unload, strip and assemble over and over as I stepped into the Major’s office for a chat and a coffee.

  ‘How they doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Too soon to tell ... is the answer, but so far no one stands out as a dickhead or a liability, and the lad with the Roman Candle was OK and went back up, so he gets some smarty points.’

  ‘And the old timers?’

  ‘On the range this morning, dated FN SLR and GPMG work, but they seem to be enjoying it, they compete like mad – which is good. As with the Wolves, standards vary greatly.’

  When I returned to the Wolves they were cleaning rifles, and I offered pointers on what to look out for, how to clean, where to oil, before we led them around to the long range – now free of old timers. Ponchos down on the damp gravel platforms at 200yards, the first eight stripped, assembled, and loaded ten rounds, then fired at the metal plates, varying degrees of accuracy shown.