by Geoff Wolak
‘That’s good to know, way too much politics in this job, sir.’
‘Your man Bob said that little more could be achieved here, so we’re pulling out tomorrow.’
I nodded. ‘Yes sir, that seems like a good idea, we’d just rack up a few more casualties. We got the headlines, a good result at the mine, rest is down to the French.’
‘I asked the troopers here about you hitting one of theirs, and they’re all suffering from amnesia, even an ability to remember who that man was.’
‘Makes a change to have them on my side, and not kicking my car door in.’
He nodded. ‘We’re four men down, five including Sergeant Crab, and the wounded will be gone for weeks.’
‘Nature of the business, sir, we fight at the sharp end. SBS took a hit in Djibouti, damn helicopter went down.’
‘And we lost two injured there,’ he noted.
‘Still, if you have an operation that needs the men, I have a few good men you can borrow, sir.’
We packed up kit in the morning, two Hercules taking out my lads plus jeeps and kit, the RAF Regiment due to be the last to leave - they would cover the retreat, and we flew to the airfield near the coast, a Tristar taking us north, and we landed in the cold wet rain after midnight, soon on the coaches and heading back with our police escort.
At the base, men collected cars and headed off in groups, and I drove home after checking my car at length, to my apartment in ten minutes, no one following me. I checked the underground car park, pistol tucked away, and lugged my kit up, the flight having made my back worse from inactivity, and I reclaimed a cold and empty apartment.
After checking that the windows were secure, no one hiding, I switched on the lights, the heating on, and I enjoyed a very hot shower. Bending and stretching, I was feeling better, so microwave-cooked a frozen burger and sat with a cup of black tea, thinking for an hour, and wondering just how poisonous the stale milk in fridge was.
Getting into bed I issued a sigh, and tried to get some sleep, my back twinging when I turned over, my face sore.
I woke in pain at 3pm and eased to the side of the bed, bending over for five minutes, my back clicking. A hot shower helped, and I found one last microwave burger in the fridge, and that was breakfast, my bread grey and blue in colour.
Checking the yellow pages, and realising that it was Thursday, I found a physiotherapist that claimed much experience of sport injuries, and the name – K.Turner - turned out to be a she, and she could come over as an emergency callout, a stiff rate. But I asked her to bring some bread and milk, which I would pay for, since I was bed-ridden.
She arrived an hour later, bags in hand, and she was an attractive and curvy lady in her mid thirties. She liked the apartment and the view, and had a nose around as I made us a cup of tea.
‘Are you OK, you were in a car accident?’
‘No, I ... fell over onto my face.’
‘So what do you do?’ she asked.
‘Military medic,’ I told her.
‘Won’t they send someone?’
‘Probably, but I can’t be bothered with the paperwork, I’ll pay cash and claim it back.’
‘How did you hurt your back?’
‘A training exercise, I carried a man for ... a quarter mile.’
‘Compression injury,’ she noted as she sipped her tea.
Five minutes later I was required to strip down, and I knew what was coming.
‘What the hell happened to you!’
‘I was ... near a grenade that went off ... in training.’
‘My god. Any residual problems?’
‘A few twinges here and there.’
Down to my underwear, thankfully clean, I lay on the bed, and she tested vertebrae and tendons and muscles, looking for pain, and we agreed that L1 and L2 were painful.
A knock at the door, and I had to ease up, and she helped. ‘Sorry, I’ll get rid of them.’ I peered through the eye hole and opened the door to Swifty.
‘I figured you’d be out of bread and milk,’ he said as he barged in, dumping down a bag. ‘Just got up?’
‘No, I have a physio in with me.’
She popped her head out and said hello.
‘You have a nice physio in with you,’ Swifty said with a smirk, which my physio did not appreciate. ‘I’ll get the kettle on, you go get prodded.’
I turned to my physio. ‘Sorry, but I work with him.’ I lay down, and a few minutes later Swifty rudely came in and sat on a chair, smirking my way.
‘You carry someone on your back, that’s what happens,’ he noted as she stretched and rubbed a few areas, and five minutes later he was roped into helping. With me bent over, he pulled my wrists as she pulled my hips, an elbow into my tendons at the same time, making me groan in pain.
She tested my range of movement, making notes where the movement became painful. ‘You need an x-ray, just in case, you may have a tiny chipped disk, that does happen. Feet tingling at all when you sleep?’
‘No, no tingling, nor bladder malfunction.’
‘I know a specialist in Gloucester Hospital, I can get you in quick.’
‘Please do, money is not an object, I’ll claim it back.’
‘Bob will sanction it,’ Swifty agreed. When his phone went, he said, ‘I’m in with Wilco,’ and my cover story was blown.
She stood erect, hands on hips. ‘You’re Wilco?’
‘No, he said he’s in ... with him, meaning that he’s friends ... with him – for now.’ I shot him a look.
Swifty’s laughter was not helping.
‘You were in the papers, you carried a wounded man on you back forty miles,’ she said.
‘Don’t believe everything you read, it was not forty miles. So, that appointment – and the name is Milton.’
‘I’ll get it organised and call you back,’ she promised.
‘Miss Turner,’ I called as I dressed. ‘I would greatly appreciate that you not think me that Wilco chap, or tell anyone that you think me that Wilco chap, nor discuss with anyone where I live.’
She glanced at a smirking Swifty, and she nodded. I closed the door on her and her bags after paying in cash, and knocked the kettle on.
‘You any good undercover or what?’ I asked Swifty.
‘She’s nice, and ... you’re single,’ he noted.
‘I have a bad back, no shagging. Worry about your own damn social life.’
We sat with our fresh teas.
‘You out of action?’ he asked, none too concerned.
‘Well I’m not a hundred percent.’
‘We figured we’d find your body in the town.’
‘I was lucky. That and the fact that they built their police station from single breeze blocks. As I drove toward it, two hundred yards out, I fired the GPMG, and kept firing till I came to a stop, holes through the walls. I used up a two hundred round belt.’
‘So how far did you carry him?’
‘After my jeep was hit I nicked their jeep, but only got ten miles before it ran out of fuel. Then I struck out southwest across the desert, maybe ten or twelve miles till I needed to rest a few hours during the night. Two or three hours kip, then walking on, but when I hit that road I flagged down an old man in a small truck and he took me ten miles south.’
‘So how many miles in total did you carry Crab?’
‘Twelve plus ten plus one plus two.’
‘Twenty four. Still good going.’
‘He’s light, and we had no kit, either of us.’
‘The new colonel did the rounds while you were gone, spoke to many of us, asked about operations, being right nosy.’
‘He seems OK,’ I said with a shrug. ‘And Bob checked him out.’
‘Two funerals coming up, three men in hospital, local wives are not happy,’ Swifty noted. ‘And this not long after Djibouti. Regiment has taken a hit.’
I nodded. ‘We were doing OK till the police sided with their in-laws.’
‘That pilot got some ribbing
, taxiing down the road,’ Swifty said with a smile. ‘Fucking RAF Regiment lads were gob smacked, and the patrol you passed.’
‘Did the trick,’ I noted.
‘Need to find a copy of the papers, see what that reporter twat said about us, could do with a laugh. And now every enlisted man thinks you carried a man on your back for forty-six miles.’
I tipped my eyebrows. ‘Like to see someone try and beat that!’
‘Your bullshit reputation has indeed been topped up with fresh shite, lots of it.’
I took a moment and frowned. ‘What’d you mean, bullshit reputation, eh? Some of it is deserved.’
The next day, after a call back from Ms Turner, Swifty drove me to Gloucester Hospital. It was an NHS hospital, paid for with taxpayer’s money, but queues could be jumped and good help delivered if you had the spare cash.
They x-rayed me, and I waited with Swifty - having a cup of tea in a posh lounge not for ordinary taxpayers. When ready, the specialist called me in.
‘Mister Milton, yes?’
‘Yes, doc.’
‘Well I don’t see anything wrong, but I would say that L1 and L2 are a little closer than they should be, and that there’s some swelling. So, ice, deep heat cream, alternate it, and walking and swimming is good, and keep seeing the physio. As far as long lasting problems go, I can’t see anything in the x-ray that would suggest a problem. Can you take your shirt off.’
I did as asked, knowing what was coming.
‘Bloody hell. What in blazes happened to you?’
‘I was close to a grenade that went off, training accident.’
‘Crikey.’ He examined my Lumbar region. ‘The fact that you’re walking around suggests no serious problems, but with injuries like this they can ... well, twinge for years I’m afraid.’
‘That’s OK, I have a few other twinges.’
‘Yes, it looks like you have.’
We drove back, and into the base in civvy clothes, and as expected I found Moran tackling paperwork with the Major and O’Leary.
‘You fit?’ the Major asked me.
‘Just been to a specialist in Gloucester Hospital, sir, and he x-rayed my back, no issues, some pain for a while. I’ll claim the cost back. And my physio costs.’
‘She’s nice, his physio,’ Swifty put in.
I shot him a look. ‘Did you keep a copy of the newspapers, sir?’ I asked, and he handed them over. ‘Much bullshit?’
‘Not too bad, well balanced considering. Broadsheets are in there, they’re a little better.’
O’Leary lifted his head. ‘The new colonel has frozen the troopers complaint against you, a lack of evidence, since the rest of the troopers can’t even remember him being there.’
‘Nice to know I’m popular,’ I quipped.
The Major loudly stated, ‘Just because you may get away with it doesn’t mean you should consider it normal practise!’
‘Right, sir.’
O’Leary asked, ‘How far did you carry Sergeant Crab?’
‘Twenty five miles,’ Swifty put in.
‘Your secret is safe with us,’ Moran said with a smirk. ‘Who in their right mind is going to think you carried him forty-six miles.’
‘Sun Newspaper readers!’ O’Leary quipped.
‘We had a call,’ the Major began, ‘from that reporter, wanted to know how you were?’
‘I’ll call him back later, sir.’
‘Tomo is in pain,’ Moran told me.
‘He was hit?’ I puzzled.
‘No, something bit him, swollen leg, he’s down in Cardiff hospital.’
‘He’ll be getting numbers off nurses,’ Swifty suggested.
After reading the papers, and laughing at some of the comments, I went to see the RSM, and we booked an early curry, the lads notified. As per Bob’s new rule, local armed police were in a car outside.
Many of the gang sat down at 7.30pm, the beer flowing, and I told them the true story of my epic walk, Rizzo wanting his twenty quid back from Rocko since I had indeed stolen a jeep, if only for ten minutes. Rocko gave him five quid back, pro-rata, making us laugh.
On the Saturday Ms Turner called me, after some business, and I invited her around. One thing led to another, and she risked her professional license by shagging me, a large pair of firm breasts for me to play with as she got on top. Seemed that my fame was a turn-on for her, or that she liked a body with problems, one that was a challenge for her professional mind. Still, if I couldn’t keep a secret, who could.
Sat having a cup of tea, she explained how at twenty-one she had made a terrible mistake, marrying a young captain in Signals attached to us. He was away a great deal of the time, she got bored and had an affair, and when he found out he shot the guy in the leg and got twelve months inside.
‘You like picking losers, babes,’ I told her. ‘I spend a great deal of time away, my life expectancy is not great, and I sometimes shoot people in the foot – or the arse.’
‘Well, I’m not marrying you, I’d never do that again. I almost made a mistake again when I was twenty-seven, a doctor, but he worked long hours, and just as we got engaged he had a job offer in London, three years, but I didn’t want to leave my parents and sisters. We stayed in touch, but it didn’t work; I’m a small town girl at heart.’
‘I was born and raised in Gloucester, shit tip that it is.’
‘I do physio on some of your lot, at least I did, none are recurring patients. A Captain Tyler, but they said he died.’
I lost my smile. ‘He was ... a close friend of mine. I ... I was there when he died, he died ... in my arms.’
‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry.’
‘No bother, I don’t let things like that get to me, you can’t, or ... you’d go mad.’
‘You’ve seen a lot of men killed I guess.’
‘Yes, and I’ve killed many.’
She stared back. ‘Does that not bother you?’
‘Someone asked me a question recently, and I said ... that in Bosnia I felt sorry for the men I killed, young enlisted men, but then I came across them raping and killing at will, and I stopped feeling sorry for them. To my men, I say ... for every gunmen you kill you save ten lives, because that gunmen will not go on to rape and kill and burn down a village. That helps get it in context.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose. In Bosnia they massacred tens of thousands, women and children. And there was that thing in the paper, a group of people you saved all lined up with their children.’
‘Yes, stuff like that makes us feel better about what we do, and after Bosnia I met a man and his daughter – who I saved, and she was pregnant, so someday that kid will grow up when her mum should have got a bullet to the head and a shallow grave.’
She sipped her tea. ‘My life is so simple compared to yours.’
‘It’s all relative. So what do your sisters do?’
‘Both teachers, one local, one in Cheltenham Girl’s School.’
I smiled widely. ‘I went to Cheltenham Girl’s School.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘No, really. They had a computer room, my school didn’t, so we used there’s part time. I still have a t-shirt from there.’
She laughed. ‘Wilco, in a girl’s school.’
‘Which you are not allowed to discuss, my boss would have you arrested.’
‘Would he, I mean ... really?’
‘Yes, so keep it quiet.’
She nodded. ‘You can claim back the money ... because I’m kind of skint, mortgage to keep up, sorry.’
‘Yes, don’t worry, I save my pennies, nothing to spend it on when I’m abroad.’
‘I’m free tonight if you want to spoil me to a nice meal, so long as you’re paying.’
I laughed. ‘Don’t be shy, just speak your mind. Where would you like to go?’
‘Somewhere away from here, Cheltenham maybe, they have a few good restaurants. I’ll leave my car here. You could stay at mine but my mum might come around early Sunday morning, an
d if she saw a man ... well, she wants me married off with kids.’
‘That’s what mum’s are there for,’ I said with a smile.
After she left I had Bob run her name, and she was clean, records going way back, so I relaxed.
On the Monday I welcomed back the gang, asking after injuries or problems, Tomo with us but walking with a limp, his leg still sore.
‘OK, you have two weeks, then we do the fitness tests,’ I told them, Bradley making a note. ‘Flyers, no more flying lessons, you’ve had enough accrued experience to last you, unless you – Swifty - need more.’
‘I could tighten up in a few areas, didn’t fly much in Mali – sat looking out the window.’
‘Travis, do I need to worry about pregnant RAF nurses?’
They laughed at him.
‘No, Boss, never got the chance,’ he timidly replied.
‘Henri, Jacque, if you meet ladies and are serious, we need their names and address to check them, they could be spies.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Henri joked, the guys laughing.
‘Jacque, keep security in mind. Rizzo and Rocko...’ I held my stare on them as they guys laughed. ‘You don’t need to worry about pillow talk.’
They took in the smiles of the lads.
‘OK, Troop Sergeants, I want the treadmills used, I want route marches planned. I want a day for each troop up at The Factory on fences and doors, a day on the Killing House and pistol range, and then ... I want jeeps borrowed, GPMGs fitted, and at Sennybridge you can practise driving and firing.’
I faced the Major as he took notes. ‘We need some mortar training, sir.’
‘I can arrange that up in Sennybridge,’ he said, making a note.
I faced the gang. ‘I have no complaints about anyone’s performance from Mali, you all did OK, but we all learnt a lesson from that police attack – trust no fucker. We got experience of using spotter planes, long jeep patrols, so all in all I think it added to our skills – and there were no fuck-ups apart from mine. Rocko, you got way more kills than Rizzo, well done.’
‘Hey, he just happened to be in the right place for his OP,’ Rizzo protested as the guys laughed. ‘And Moran sent him south to ambush people!’
