Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  Checking his breathing, I again lifted him up, this time without the rubber mat around us, and I headed slowly south, avoiding the rocks.

  After an hour of slow plodding I found a track, and I wondered if I was hallucinating. It led northeast to southwest, so I followed it southwest, and after a mile I found an isolated square of green produce in the middle of nowhere. Since the produce did not look very appetising I plodded on, the day warming up.

  Another hour, and I found another isolated square of produce, this time much larger. I knelt down and grabbed a cucumber-like vegetable and broke it open. It tasted terrible, and probably needed to be boiled I considered, so I plodded on.

  Another two miles, in my estimation, and I could see a hut. I readied my weapon whilst bent double and balancing Crab, then plodded on. I could not see anyone, but a hundred yards short I put Crab down, shook the blood back into my arms and limped forwards, weapon levelled.

  The mud-walled hut was empty, just an old wooden cot, a faded calendar on the wall, several acres of the odd cucumber patches, and a wind-powered water pump. Finding a trickle of water coming out I tasted it and nearly puked. It was OK for crops apparently, not for people.

  Back to Crab I slung my rifle, lifted him up and plodded on past the hut and the crops, my brow covered in sweat, sand and dried blood, and after an hour I was desperate for a drink. I dumped Crab unceremoniously on a soft sand bank and took out the lukewarm water and gulped down several mouthfuls. With Crab unconscious I could not risk any water in his mouth, but I poured some over his face and clothing to cool him down a bit.

  Opening the Fanta can it fizzed, and I stood holding it for five minutes, waiting for the bubbles to disappear. I drank it all down and tossed the can, soon taking in the horizon, and now I could see distant huts and low stone walls to the south.

  Looking up, I could hear a Cessna, its drone not getting any closer. I had the ration pack, and I considered a fire, but there was nothing to burn around here.

  Sighing loudly, and wondering if we would make it, I lifted Crab and locked my thumbs in my belt, setting off down the sandy track. At a fork in the track, one branch went due south, one due west, and I figured west was probably better – since the border was west. Sweat dripped from me into the sand as I plodded on, my back protesting the exercise.

  Every hundred yards I would stop, kneel, bend forwards to stretch my back, then stand again, an odd ritual that was keeping me going. I started counting paces.

  As the sun grew hot after midday, torturing me, I could see an optical illusion ahead, something shimmering. The closer I got the more distinct it became, till finally I realised that it was the road. It headed southwest, so after some thought I followed it, thinking that this was probably a very bad idea. I had my rifle, but I did not have any arms that would work in a hurry, so this was a gamble.

  Past 2pm I was still counting the paces, but after every fifty steps I would look around and check the road, at a hundred steps I would kneel and stretch.

  An hour down the road, a dull headache coming from dehydration and the lack of sunglasses, I counted to fifty and turned, a small truck approaching. Stepping to the side of the road, I dumped Crab down, a moan coming from him, swung my right arm to get some blood back into it, and readied my rifle.

  Stood in the middle of the road, the small truck slowed and stopped, and I could see that it was just big enough for an old man and a boy in the cab, some produce in the back. I approached.

  In Arabic, I said, ‘My friend is hurt, so I beg a ride south, for which I will pray for your living relatives and pray that you are well received after your death.’

  The old man smiled, and thumbed towards the rear. I stepped across and lifted Crab with a burst of air from my lungs, and back at the truck I dumped Crab on the produce and sat on the tailgate. We chugged forwards, and were soon doing thirty miles per hour.

  After a while I looked up, and I could see a Cessna heading away from us, but I had no way to signal it, and after what seemed like an hour the truck eased to a halt and squeaked. Jumping down, I figured that the main road east to west could not be that far away.

  At the cab, the old man pointed an old bent finger to a track, and towards produce, and that he wanted to go that way. I thanked him, lifted off Crab, and stepped to the side of the road, the small truck trundling off, the young boy waving.

  Heaving a big breath, I started south down the road, little in the way of features ahead of me. I had only gone thirty minutes when a roar built, and as I turned a Cessna nearly took my head off before climbing and banking around.

  I smiled widely. They had found us, and were now radioing it in.

  As I stood there the Cessna came around, slowed, and gently touched down on the road, easing to a halt just twenty yards from me. Moran jumped down, a huge smile, and ran around to me.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sergeant Crab is out of it, but alive, punctured lung. You radioed our position?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Moran said. ‘I have a first aid kit, and water, I’ll get them.’ He turned, but the pilot was waving us over, so with Moran helping I carried Crab around to the passenger door, my backpack left on the side of the road.

  The pilot pointed at Crab, then at the rear of the Cessna. There was no seat, little room, it was a two-seater, and I puzzled his meaning. Would Moran stay with me as we waited for the Pumas? Moran helped me get Crab inside, the pilot assisting, the left seat pushed forwards and down.

  The pilot then pointed at Moran and urgently indicated for him to get in the back. Moran made a face, glanced at me and clambered in, practically sitting on Crab. The left seat was moved back and up, the pilot waving me in as I stared back at him. I eased in my rifle, sat down and closed the door, lifting the headset as the pilot pushed the throttle forwards.

  With the headset on, I faced the pilot, ‘We overloaded?’

  ‘Hell yes.’

  ‘So ... we could still take off?’

  ‘Fuck no, the wings would break off and we’d crash.’

  We picked up speed, and I sat with a stupid puzzled look on my face as we topped sixty miles per hour, just past the take-off speed of this aircraft. And we kept going, the pilot concentrating hard.

  I turned my head to Moran, who was just as puzzled, and we kept going. I stared at the side of the pilot’s head as he concentrated on our high speed taxi. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Perfectly good engine, fuel, enough room. When she’s down she’s a car.’ He offered me a smile and a shrug as we pelted down the road.

  I turned my head to Moran, who started laughing, and I joined in, shaking my head.

  Ten miles on and vehicles could be seen, and we approached them at speed as they approached us. Closing in, my heart racing, I could see that they were open-top British jeeps. Their drivers, quite sensibly, pulled over, and as we passed them they ducked, incredulous stares given as we passed.

  Approaching a junction the throttle was eased right back, and we turned right and powered up, a small blue truck swerving off the road to avoid us, a smile and a wave from the pilot, leaving me shaking my head, and we made the ten miles quickly.

  ‘Colonel,’ Captain Harris called. ‘Aircraft approaching, a Cessna, it’s ... taxiing down the main highway.’

  ‘Mechanical fault, it set down early?’

  ‘It’s ... approaching the gate, coming in.’

  My ride turned onto the access road, and powered straight towards two RAF Regiment gunners on the gate, and they dived clear. Slowing, and turning right, we bumped across sandy soil and powered down next to the medical tent, the brakes hit, the engine cut, puzzled faces staring at us.

  I opened the door and eased down with my rifle, the seat shoved forwards and bent forwards, Moran out, Crab pulled out and carried into the dark interior of the medical tent. ‘He has a punctured lung, right side, his right, concussion, dehydrated.’

  Many hands lifted him onto a bed, his shirt cut off with practised efficiency as
orders were shouted out, kit brought over.

  ‘You hurt, Captain?’ a medic asked me.

  ‘Just cuts and scrapes. And really sore fucking back, I swear I compressed some discs.’

  ‘You want us to take a look?’

  ‘No, I’ll be OK.’

  I led Moran outside, the pilot stood waiting, checking his aircraft. ‘You’re a crazy fucker, you know that.’

  ‘Did the job, saved time, save the Pumas coming out,’ he insisted with a grin.

  Shaking my head, I led a smirking Moran off, and the short distance to the command room, people stopping do to do a double-take when they saw me.

  Inside, everyone stopped and stared, then rushed me, a barrage of questions. ‘I only answer questions when the kettle is boiling, I need a cuppa.’ I dumped my rifle on a desk and sat in a comfy chair, letting out a theatrical sigh. ‘My back is gone.’

  ‘Long walk back,’ Rawlson noted. ‘And a damn stupid thing to do.’

  I fixed him with a look. ‘Go tell that to Sergeant Crab, he’s in the medical tent.’

  Rawlson took in the faces. ‘Yes, quite. But you shot up that town, the Mali government has been complaining about it. Fortunately for you the British press have been all over it, high level complaints to the Mali Government about their police shooting my men, and the French have been giving them some shit.

  ‘A French patrol went into that town with the UN and Red Cross, and they found some equipment belonging to Sergeant Crab, and people admitted that a British soldier has been brought in, another rescuing him. So not much they can say.’

  Captain Harris asked, ‘That Cessna that taxied in..?’

  Moran said, ‘We spotted Wilco on the road, just north of the first junction, landed, and gave him and Crab a ride, a fast taxi, couldn’t risk taking off, overloaded.’

  Rawlson stared at Moran. ‘You taxied ... how far?’

  ‘Ten, fifteen miles.’

  ‘You taxied an aircraft fifteen miles?’

  ‘Did the trick,’ I said.

  Rawlson pointed at the map. ‘Where did you find them?’ he asked Moran.

  Moran put a finger on the map as people closed in, our trusty reporter bursting in.

  ‘How far is that?’ Rawlson asked. ‘Walking from the burnt out jeep?’

  Moran measured the distance. ‘From the burnt out jeep, to here, forty-six miles.’

  Rawlson faced me. ‘You ... carried a man across desert for forty-six miles, in ... thirty hours?’

  ‘No, sir, Sergeant Crab was awake most of the time, and he walked himself. And ... when I got to the police station, he lifted a rifle off the floor and shot ... six men.’

  ‘That’s going to be your official report?’ Rawlson queried.

  ‘It is. Maybe seven men.’ I winked at our reporter with Rawlson seeing it.

  Rawlson faced Moran. ‘What condition was Sergeant Crab in when you found them?’

  ‘Quite chipper, sir,’ Moran replied. ‘Two of them walking along at a good pace.’

  Rawlson took a moment to study me, and he seemed suspicious. ‘You need a doctor, Captain, you look terrible?’

  ‘Just a few cuts and scrapes, sir.’

  Captain Harris asked, ‘Why did you set fire to the jeep? A signal?’

  ‘No, an RPG to the engine grill,’ I quipped, a cup of tea handed to me. ‘I jumped clear, and shot three men.’

  ‘And you set off southwest?’ Captain Harris asked.

  ‘Not much choice, had to get off that road,’ I told him.

  Our reporter closed in, appearing more than happy with my safe return. ‘My paper ran a big spread this morning, all over the BBC news last night, murder of British soldiers by local police, you going after them alone - couldn’t have wished for a better story.’

  ‘I did it with you in mind,’ I told him, many people laughing.

  Rocko and Rizzo burst in, rudely nudging Rawlson aside. ‘You made it.’

  ‘Nice to know that I was missed. Have you two been earning your keep?’

  ‘We’ve had patrols out,’ Rocko said. ‘I told them you’d just walk it back. Rizzo had twenty quid on you stealing a jeep.’

  ‘Sorry, Rizzo,’ I offered him, and he shrugged.

  ‘How’s Sergeant Crab?’ Rizzo asked.

  ‘He was busted up by the police, they stomped on him a lot, but he’ll be fine, just tired out from a long walk. How’s Captain Hamble?’

  ‘He’ll make it,’ Moran put in. ‘Bone was not shattered.’

  ‘Any other incidents, or wounded?’ I asked.

  ‘We ambushed a group south, sneaking up on this place,’ Rocko reported. ‘Nine killed, no wounded on our side.’

  I sipped my tea. ‘Good to know. Right, you two, get some work and some training done, please.’ Rocko and Rizzo headed out, chatting. I sipped my tea, and focused on Rawlson. ‘You learning much about us, sir?’

  ‘More than I would back at base, or reading reports.’

  I eased up slowly, grimacing. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I need a few hours kip.’

  ‘Yes, of course, get some rest, we’ll chat when you’re better.’

  I headed to my hut, Moran helping me, and Rawlson strode straight to the medical tent. He stood over Crab, a drip in Crab’s arm they worked on him.

  ‘What condition is he in?’

  ‘He’s half dead, sir, but he’ll make it. Punctured lung, scrape, loss of fluids, badly beaten.’

  ‘Could he have walked forty miles back here?’

  ‘Hell, no, he couldn’t walk ten yards. Ever tried to walk with a gunshot wound to the leg, broken ribs both sides and a collapsed lung? Wilco had a drain in him, must have cleared the lung every thirty minutes to keep him alive.’

  Nodding to himself, Rawlson strode out.

  I handed Smitty my rifle. ‘Unload it, clean it, there’s a good lad.’

  Smitty got to it, Henri and Swifty sat opposite me as I raided my first aid kit, antibiotic cream rubbed in many cuts.

  ‘Don’t worry about noise, carry on what you’re doing,’ I told the lads. ‘I need to lie down before I fall down.’

  I lay down, my back killing me. ‘Swifty, when I wake, I most definitely .... will need help getting off this bed, my back is in two.’

  ‘You carried Crab all that way?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘My official report will say that Crab walked himself. If I say I carried him he’ll whinge forever.’

  They laughed.

  ‘And the police I shot, we’ll say that Crab single-handedly overpowered them – and that he rescued me.’

  I woke in agony four hours later. ‘Henri, medic for me.’

  He rushed out, a doctor and nurse rushing back the short distance.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the medic asked as he knelt.

  ‘My back ... is wrong, very wrong.’

  The doctor ran his fingers down every vertebrae. ‘No signs of a slipped disk or a specific area of damage, but carrying a man on your back you compressed the disks. You can still move your toes?’

  I tried as the lads looks on. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK, lift up.’

  I did so with his help, grimacing, and he lifted me slowly into the sitting position and encouraged me to bend forwards. My back clicked a few times.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said.

  ‘It don’t sound good from over here,’ Rocko put in.

  ‘That noise is the release of areas of compression, common for students sitting all day.’

  Bending up and down a few times, I felt better.

  He lifted me up, Henri on one side, and we plodded around to the medical tent, yet very slowly. They made ready a bed, but it would be sloping, my hips slightly higher than my head and ankles as I lay face down. Shirt off, boots and smelly socks off, I lay down, soon getting a massage from a nurse, certain areas worked on.

  And for the next four hours they worked on me every thirty minutes, Crab now gone, before easing me up after dark. With four people assisting, I either bent for
wards or followed the directions of the senior doctor, my movement coming back, the pain easing, and after fifteen minutes I was almost back to normal.

  ‘What will happen now,’ the senior doctor told me, ‘is that when you sleep you’ll wake up stiff. So ... don’t sleep in a shell scrape, take it easy, lots of hot showers, lots of gentle walking – I’d say swimming but we’re in the wrong spot for that, and keep bending forwards. A few days and you should be OK, no permanent damage we hope.’

  Holding my smelly socks and boots, shirt back on, I plodded back around, a medic walking with me, and I grabbed my wash kit. Henri assisted me, and we walked to the wash room together, where I enjoyed a lukewarm shower.

  After a bite to eat and a cup of tea in the canteen I felt better, and I entered the command room, Rawlson still with us.

  ‘You feeling better?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll have a sore back for a few days, sir.’

  ‘A sore back from having not carried Sergeant Crab.’ He waited.

  ‘I carried him fifty yards, sir, but he’s a fat bastard.’

  Captain Harris and the others laughed.

  ‘I’m glad I stayed, I’ve learnt a great deal,’ Rawlson began. ‘I had heard the stories about you, I had my doubts, but now ... now I don’t have any doubts, either of your abilities as a soldier, or as an officer and leader.

  ‘You risked your life for a man that I gather you don’t get on too well with, and you even give that man some credit when you could easily just tell the truth – that you carried him all the way. I dare say a medal will be in the offing, another one, and that reporter chap has been busy, plenty of copy run by the major from the Press Corp. You also made the BBC news.’

  I nodded. ‘When elevated to such great heights ... there is only one direction to travel, and that’s down, sir.’

  ‘You have made a rod for your own back, yes,’ he agreed. ‘And I can see why some like to have a go at you. I spoke to Major Bradley on the phone at length, and your Bob Staines – I think we see eye to eye on most things.’