by Geoff Wolak
We now had four 2 Squadron lads booked in for the three-day, and four Pathfinders who wanted to beat Rocko’s score, a few wagers made, a few insults inferred.
I had missed the fitness tests and the 24hr speed march, delicate questions asked about my back, a few worried that I was now permanently injured. I jokingly told them that I was now a proper captain and would be staying behind a desk in future. When the words left my lips I had to stop and consider that, and I was not sure how I felt about it.
I had been using the treadmill each day, and had started running, but although my fitness was OK my back hurt, and my back was the one thing that I did not want to be taking risks with.
Taking pain killers, I increased my time on the treadmills, and I was getting back my fitness, but I was also taking four strong painkillers a day – and that led to a mishap. I forgot about the pain killers and had a few beers and a curry on the Friday, and collapsed.
I woke in hospital, Swifty sat in a chair, a uniformed police officer stood at the door. ‘What ... happened?’ I puzzled.
‘You collapsed, had us all worried,’ Swifty said, yawning. ‘They did a heart check and blood check, then found the painkillers in your jacket.
I rubbed my face. ‘I’d forgotten about them, and not drinking.’
He stood and stretched, then took a moment to study me. ‘Can’t run without the painkillers?’
‘It’ll get better.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’ he posed.
I sighed. ‘Then ... then I plan missions and train people to go out, or I take pain killers with me – no drinking on the job. Simple.’
‘And the MO?’ Swifty posed.
‘Not his call, it’s down to Bob,’ I pointed out.
‘And he’d be sending you out even with an arm missing,’ Swifty unhappily noted.
I sighed. ‘Yep, that he would.’
Swifty took a moment. ‘You’ll keep going till your dead?’
I nodded. ‘Can you see me in civvy job behind a desk?’
On the Monday the lads were all concerned, as was Bob. I took a call, went home and changed into civvies, and got the train up to London, booked into a specialist Harley Street clinic around 3pm. They took me straight to St. Marys, where I was placed inside a large high-res scanner, real time images peeked at by three specialists.
They found a small crack, and a chip of bone – just a few millimetres long. That was the good news. The bad news was the operation booked for the next morning. I got calls into the Major, Bob and Ms Turner, and reassured them all that I had no idea how the operation would turn out, but that the specialists were optimistic.
I spent a lonely night in a posh room, just the dull roar of London traffic for company, and I stared at the ceiling, wondering about the future. Being away from the lads was not pleasant, they were like my family, and I realised what Smurf had gone through, and I could understand his state of mind when he took his own life.
In the morning they took me in an ambulance, which was odd given that I was fit and well, well-ish, and I was soon put under. I came to in a ward, a man sat next to me reading a paperback.
When I turned my head he looked up. I stared at him and waited.
‘You’re awake then. I’m from SO13, your nursemaid, just ... you know, take it easy or whatever. You want a nurse?’
‘Some water,’ I croaked out.
He pushed a button and a nurse appeared, water dispensed, and an hour later my three surgeons came in.
‘How are you feeling?’ the first one asked. ‘Can you move your legs and toes?’
I had already moved my legs and toes. ‘They’re fine.’
‘Operation went well, we removed the tiny chip of bone, small graphite pin in a disk, you should be up and walking today, just that we need the stitches to set. Try and lie still, but movement should not be an issue, you could sit up.’
Later, I did sit up, and was fed, and I spent hours just chatting to the SO13 guy, who had been a Para for a while, then a local police officer in Dorset before a move up to London and SO13 – the pay terrible, shifts not great, his boss an arsehole.
The next day they eased me out of bed and inspected the stitches, the pad changed, and whilst wearing a medical girdle I walked around then hopped up and down, no pain felt, just a tiny twinge.
I got into the routine of eating, drinking and walking, bending my knees and doing squats on the spot, gentle upper body twists, and the following day they let me go, two SO13 guys driving me all the way back to my apartment – which they thought was posh, and they complained at length since they were sharing apartments in far worse state than mine.
I made them both a cuppa, thanked them, and sent them on their way, and Ms Turner popped in an hour later, but sex was not an option at the moment – despite me suggesting various positions, or a blowjob. She stayed the night, keeping an eye on me, and I wore my uncomfortable girdle. Every time I got a hand onto the large boobs it was pushed off.
In the morning, after she had left for her first appointment, the MO popped in and had a look at the stitches, happy with them. These were not NHS stitches, but private hospital stitches and well done, hardly a scar would be left. We chatted over a coffee, and he agreed that I could tackle paperwork, so I headed into the base around noon, in uniform.
Those in the detachment all stood and closed in, dozens of questions, a few worried looks.
I sat. ‘Operation went well, they think they know what was causing the pain and dealt with it, so ... be an end to it,’ I told them.
‘Can’t go on taking painkillers every day!’ the Major stated.
‘I’m sure Bob would not have objected, so long as I’m here.’
We tackled the paperwork, chatted about training, an exercise planned, and Sergeant Crab popped in. Faces turned up to him.
‘I heard your back gave out,’ he began. ‘You ... er ... going to be alright?’
‘I had an operation in a posh London hospital, top team, and now it’s better, should be OK long term, Sergeant, thanks for your interest.’
‘Well, my fault kinda,’ he timidly got out.
‘I’d risk my life for any of the lads, mine or yours, so don’t worry about it, Sergeant, just get yourself fit for the next job.’
‘I’m doing much better,’ he insisted. ‘Working hard on my fitness, breathing OK, ribs still a little sore now and then. Be ready for the next job.’
‘Will you tackle the modified three-day?’ Moran asked him.
‘I heard about it, yes, and ... it scares the hell out of me, but I’ll have ago.’
‘Good for you, Sergeant,’ I commended. ‘And come for curry some time, don’t be a stranger.’
The four 2 Squadron lads had tackled the three-day, scores in the high eighties, and they would now be deputised as Echo Detachment External Members. The Pathfinders were finishing today, and we got the reports the next day, three scores in the high eighties, one broken ankle – the man having been badly bitten as well till they realised he had broken his ankle. They had to apologise at length.
External members now totalled seven, and Bob was happy that we had extra men to call upon, Colonel Rawlson not happy with that. Still, his lads would always come with us, there would not be many jobs where his lot were left reading about it.
The RSM then brought me a new face. ‘This is Corporal Nicholson, Army Sniper School. He scored ninety-two.’ The corporal looked the part, fit and keen, a small moustache.
‘He did?’ I puzzled as I stood looking him over. I made eye contact with the corporal. ‘When was that?’ I puzzled.
‘When you were in Djibouti, sir.’
The RSM put in, ‘He asked me about a placement here, but his wife was not happy, but that’s ... less of an issue now.’
‘How so?’ I pressed. ‘You talked her around?’
Nicholson said, ‘She was in a car accident, badly hurt.’
I puzzled that with a deep frown. ‘And you ... don’t want to spend time looking afte
r the nice lady?’
‘No, sir, because the man driving the car was shagging her, and without the accident I wouldn’t have known. So fuck her.’
My eyes widened. ‘Looking for some action in far off places to take your mind off it, not worried about getting killed?’
‘Yes – interested in some action, no – not worried about getting killed. Sir.’
‘You’re in the right place then. And you could work with us part time or full time.’
‘Either, sir.’
‘At the moment we have enough warm bodies, so part time. You stay where you are, but come with us when we do a job, and attend training with us, and exercises.’
‘Sounds ideal, sir,’ he offered.
I thanked the RSM and he headed off. ‘Mr O’Leary, sign this man up for external membership, please. Major, we’ll put him through The Factory, and drag him along on the next exercise.’
The corporal saluted the Major and sat, a few forms to fill in. I called Bob, and he was pleased, but would check the man out anyway.
Later I took a call from Bob.
‘The Evening Standard is about to run a story, claiming you’re addicted to pain killers, and that you collapsed.’
‘Mostly right on both counts,’ I told him. ‘I did collapse, and I have been using the pain killers to keep me upright, but ... since the operation it’s better, too soon to tell.’
‘You still take pain killers?’ Bob asked.
‘Not since the operation, and it feels a little better. I’ll call my guy at The Sun, sort it, don’t worry about my reputation – your arms sales are safe.’
Ten minutes later, after chatting to the officers about this odd turn of events, I called Clifford at The Sun.
‘Ah Wilco, got a story for me?’
‘A small one, and I need a favour, and if you don’t cooperate you don’t come along on the next job.’
‘What’s the favour?’
‘The Evening Standard is going to run a story, saying I’m addicted to pain killers and that my back is fucked.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Was last week, not this week, I had an operation at a posh hospital in Harley Street, back is better now, I’m off the pain killers. But some fucker talked, maybe the ambulance driver -’
‘Ambulance?’
‘Last week I was on pain killers and forgot, had a few pints and collapsed. They’re going to print that, so you can say it’s true.’
‘I’ll knock together some copy now, grab the editor.’
‘I’m going to try and get the doctor to chat to you, he may call you.’
I rang Bob back. ‘Listen, The Sun will run a counter-story, or at least explain that my back is better now, but can you get that doctor who saw me to chat to them, diagram of a spine, my x-rays, people are always interested in this crap because everyone gets a bad back sometime.’
‘I’ll make the call, it’s not classified, and you can’t be identified from your x-rays!’
I laughed. ‘True, very true.’
An hour later and the editor of The Sun was on the phone. ‘We’ll run the story, but I’m interested in this three-day test. Reason I say that, we’ve got a photographer, thirty-one, marathon runner, did the Royal Marines assault course thing and then something with the Paras. Could he ... have a go at it?’
‘I don’t see why not, it’s not classified, and if the MOD gives the OK we’ll get him some training in, he’ll need to be able to shoot like Billy the Kid. I’ll let Clifford know if the MOD says yes.’
I called General Dennet, being put through several people first.
‘Captain?’ he finally answered.
‘That still sounds odd, being called Captain.’
‘Get used to it. What you after?’
‘The three-day scenario; The Sun newspaper wants to run a story and they have a super-fit reporter guy they want to put through it.’
‘Be very happy to have a good story on it, excellent for recruitment. I’ll get the relevant man to contact the editor, the chap will have to sign some forms and have a medical – just in case he drops dead.’
I gave Clifford the good news, then went and found the RSM, and he checked with his mate in the Sniper School, and when he mentioned that a reporter would run a story the Snipers keenly dropped a man from the list to fit in the reporter, the following week.
I delayed the planned exercise, because within a week or so my back would be better, but the Major then pointed out that a NATO joint special forces exercise was planned for Canada. I chatted to Bob and he was happy enough, but then I had to ask Rawlson to drop his lads attending in favour of mine.
‘No!’ was his first response, and a loud response.
‘Sir, if my lads go and do well, you’ll get the credit and so will the SAS, but ... if your lads behave as they did the last time -’
‘How did they behave last time?’
I pointed at the phone. ‘Could you get the RSM, please, sir.’
With a scowl he called in the RSM. With the RSM stood at my side, Rawlson asked, ‘How did this lot behave in Canada on a previous exercise?’
‘Well ... we kept them out of prison, sir,’ the RSM offered.
Rawlson rubbed his face and took a moment, and I tried not to smirk. Looking up, he said, ‘Are you smirking?’
‘No, sir, old injury in my cheek.’
Now the RSM was smiling, and trying to hide it, and getting stared at.
‘OK, your lot can go, best behaviour, and win everything.’
‘We’ll do our best, sir.’ I saluted, and led the RSM out. ‘What do they do on these things?’
‘Long patrols, map reading, observation, stealth. There’s a timed team route march, shooting contest, infiltration competition, plenty of streams and rivers to cross, always getting wet. I recall a canoe contest I think, Canadian style canoes.’
‘When is it?’
‘Just about two weeks time, three weeks over there. Some lads already have names down for it, they’ll have to be told, most don’t want to do it, long flight, long drive to get there.’
‘How many are they expecting?’ I asked.
‘You can take up to twenty one I think, to allow for injuries.’
‘I’d say twelve or thirteen of mine, leave the SBS lads behind, so that leaves room for eight regulars.’
‘I think seven wanted to go.’
‘Then tell them they still can.’
The next morning, and with everyone gathered, I began, ‘OK, two weeks from now we’re off to Canada, NATO special forces exercise. Rizzo, Stretch, you done it before?’
‘Once, yeah,’ Rizzo replied. ‘A lot of sitting around doing fuck all.’
‘We’re going to need to know the exact format of the competitions, because I want to win everything. I already know about some of them.’
Rizzo listed off what he remembered and we took notes.
I faced the Major. ‘Where can we practise Canadian style canoeing, sir?’
‘No, idea, we use proper canoes. I’ll find out.’
‘Wye valley,’ O’Leary said. ‘Warm enough now, and they have lots of Canadian style canoes. Place called Biblings Campsite, they do boy scouts and the like.’
I faced the Major and he made a note.
O’Leary added, ‘You can go up and down the river for miles, so that’ll get you fit.’
I nodded. ‘So, troop sergeants, check the weather forecast, four or six lads at a time, a few hours canoeing in civvy clothes, work the lads hard, always compete against each other. When not in the canoes I want long route marches, and I’ll plan a few map reading exercises that will make you think. Rizzo, what’s the accommodation and food like?’
‘We were in tents mostly – fucking midges everywhere, log cabins for one exercise – just overnight, local barracks were used as well, and they had a food tent, reasonable grub.’
The Major put in, ‘And the trouble you got into?’
‘Couple of lads from “B” Squadron,
plus Sergeant Crab and Doddy, night off in the local town got out of hand.’
‘Why?’ the Major pressed.
‘They went into a redneck bar, all fucking lumberjacks seven feet tall, and were a bit rude.’
‘Any trouble during the exercises?’ the Major pressed.
‘They blew up the Americans, minor wounds, burnt down an American tent by accident.’
‘By accident,’ the Major repeated.
‘And they left trip flares and thunderflahes on the map reading contest,’ Rizzo added with a smile.
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ I put in. ‘Soldiers should be alert to trip flares and should avoid obvious tracks. But, you know, don’t do that this time. So, weapons practise, map reading, canoes, fitness, we aim to win everything, and to behave very well – or else. Oh, SBS guys – except Mouri, you ain’t coming, the Colonel is not happy to have you lot representing the Regiment at this bash.’
Dicky said, ‘We could go with the SBS, they usually attend.’
‘Yeah? If you want to, and you’ll get some valuable training in, then by all means contact your old boss.’
‘Not sure about valuable training, they don’t push you hard over there,’ Dicky pointed out.
‘I’m interested for a few reasons; it gets the lads away from here for some training, it helps with teamwork, and it adds a new terrain to our normal terrain – which is the Brecon Beacons or a sandy desert. It also – if we win everything – get’s us some good press.’
The Major asked, ‘You’ll take along your reporter?’
I made a face. ‘Won’t be much interest for him, sir, but it’ll get him away on expenses for a few weeks.’
They laughed.
I faced Henri. ‘Have you done it?’
‘I went once to America, Washington State, a big NATO exercise, not so interesting.’
I nodded, ‘If we do well and break some records it’ll be a good story, The Sun readers will like us to beat the other nations – like Germany. And it will come on top of the reporter doing the three-day next week.’
‘Will he survive it?’ the Major asked.
I shrugged a shoulder. ‘Guy is a marathon runner, sir, and he did the Marines survival course.’ I faced the lads. ‘Rizzo, Rocko, running machines and range time today, then route marches and canoeing. Gentlemen, we have a competition to win.’
