Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon Read online

  As a trained signaller, many doors are open to you. It is not a skill that everyone takes to. However, security tests were my interest. Some were easy, some not so easy, but I soon became master at breaking into all manner of civilian or military establishments. I remember one very well. Our patrol had been tasked to penetrate a storage depot in western Scotland, in order to lay dummy charges against some missile warheads. The depot was miles from anywhere, frequently patrolled by Ministry of Defence personnel, the MOD police, with dog handlers and some military support. They were all told we might attempt an attack. Other SAS patrols meanwhile were ordered to infiltrate alternative establishments around Scotland, including the sabotage of a nuclear submarine. The submarine group was completely successful.

  We decided to infiltrate by night, reconnoitre (‘recce’) the place, and return twenty-four hours later for the definitive attack. Aerial photographs had been given to us, the primary target of the warhead store being barely 100 feet from the MOD police base. We were also given a secondary target, a transformer, in case our efforts on the warhead store failed. As part of our pre-operation planning we had established that the primary target’s main door was secured by a huge, bulky padlock. Carrying a thermolance, a device like a welding rod, was impractical, so the technical boys in London made a special tungsten carbide hacksaw blade. We were assured it would cut through anything within ninety seconds. That would be fine, I agreed.

  The recce went well. Dropped off some distance away by Land Rover, we approached the depot across country from some ten kilometres. The area was largely uninhabited, which was good to see. Locals can be the enemy on occasions such as this. They notice if even a blade of grass has been moved and are on the telephone immediately to the police. The annual exercises in Scandinavia were classics in this respect. There, the whole civilian population was warned, well before the SAS ever arrived, that UK troops would attempt to sabotage their various key establishments. Advertisements would be pinned up everywhere. The result was the entire civilian and military populations would be mobilized to catch you. Families would go for picnics, dogs would be taken for a walk, in the desperate hope they would stumble over an SAS trooper.

  The guard routine at the depot was predictable. Every fifteen minutes someone would visually check the door, though would not necessarily go right up to it and inspect it. An occasional patrol van, complete with searchlight, would drive round the large remaining expanse of depot to ensure security of the smaller, outlying buildings. Armed with such information, I signalled London that all was in order, while the patrol laid up for the day. For a signaller there is no such thing as ‘lying up’. This is when other patrol members, during daylight hours, sleep or cook. In this lying-up position, or LUP, totally camouflaged, the signaller is still hard at work. As a radio operator, sleep is an impossible luxury. Being exhausted becomes a way of life.

  We had positioned the LUP one kilometre from the target, to avoid unexpected perimeter patrols. The day passed uneventfully and by dark we were again ready to move. The approach to the depot went easily, save for one thing. Bullocks. During the day a local farmer had unexpectedly placed twenty of them in the field immediately adjacent to the depot. That night they were extremely frisky. On the one hand we were four heavily armed and camouflaged SAS soldiers crawling towards a highly secret government establishment. On the other, were twenty boisterous animals refusing to ignore us. They cramped and crowded us, butted us and pawed the ground incessantly. By the time we reached the fifteen-foot security fence we had gathered a crowd of not-so-admiring onlookers. If there is anything good to say about them, they were at least silent.

  The security fence was a latticed affair, with three strands of barbed wire leaning backwards at the top. You can either go under or over such fences. By under I mean tunnelling through the ground underneath the latticed portion. However, on this occasion the fence was well bedded into the earth, so tunnelling was impractical. Cutting a hole through the wire would have been an idea, but our aim was to get in and out without detection. Leaving a gaping cavity in the security fence would have been an advertisement for all to see. So over we went. At least, over three of us went. Number 4 could not make it, however hard he tried. He was not strong enough. Fifteen feet was too far. Poor man. Here was the supposed superhuman SAS, surrounded by bullocks, struggling to get past only the first hurdle the MOD had thrown at us. Fortunately it was dark and no one else could see. Number 4 eventually gave up and waited for us at our emergency RV. There was an obvious limit as to how long we could remain at the fence waiting for him to cross.

  When designing the depot, the MOD had, perhaps, the welfare of the saboteur in mind. There was the occasional hedge, and frequent earth mound, to hide behind. It did not take long to find a position immediately outside the MOD police base, directly opposite the target store. Beside the door was a metal dustbin, the entire area being bathed by orange spotlight. The angle of light, however, meant that part of the door was in shadow. At last it appeared things were getting better.

  We waited for the next MOD patrol to pass. To say ‘pass’ is optimistic. It was a windy night, not conducive to staying outdoors, unless really necessary. The MOD patrol thus consisted of a policeman putting his head outside the base’s door for several seconds, checking all was in order and disappearing inside again. You rely on human failings on such occasions.

  As soon as the policeman’s head had disappeared inside the warmth and security of his base, we set to work. Two of us stayed in the shadows opposite the target, to act as early warning of patrols for the third, whose task was to cut the lock. Ninety seconds was all it would take, the technical boys had advised. The lock was taped rapidly to a small, hand-sized piece of chipboard to allow it to be held securely. Number 3 set about cutting the hasp with the new, magic saw. Ninety seconds later he had barely made any impression. He dashed over to join us in the shadows.

  ‘Jesus! The bloody thing’s useless!’ he said. ‘What the **** are we going to do?’

  We knew we had several minutes to play with, so decided to keep going, certainly until the next patrol was due. Number 3 returned to his task. The remaining two of us could always overpower anyone who became too inquisitive, though our element of surprise would then certainly be lost.

  By the time we had warned number 3 of an impending patrol, judged by the shifting noises emanating from the police base, it had become apparent our task was going to take a long time. The lock was now bound to a block of wood, and partially cut. All it would take was a close, visual inspection and our efforts would have been wasted. MOD’s technical guys were not popular with us that night.

  Yet somehow, for reasons I still do not understand, no close inspection was made. I can only suppose it was the weather that kept the guards inside. We took it in turns in the end, in twelve-minute shifts, waiting for the next head to appear before resuming our task. On one occasion a policeman did come very near to the target door, when number 2 was sawing the lock. The patrol, if that is what I can call it, was unexpected. Number 2 got the fright of his life. We had decided, if caught, to abandon everything and run. The SAS operative thought he had been rumbled, throwing the hacksaw firmly into the dustbin beside the door. As he did so, the dustbin lid slid off, landing with an enormous crash on the ground. The noise went on forever. Number 2, meanwhile, was stood in the doorway, bathed in orange light, as clear as day. I can see the policeman now, looking disinterestedly our way. He missed number 2 altogether, ignored the clattering dustbin lid and returned to his warm base. Perhaps he felt the wind had been responsible for the noise. After all, no self-respecting SAS patrol would make such a din, would they?

  After ninety minutes, not ninety seconds, we were successful. The lock had been cut, dummy charges laid and we were away, heading towards the secondary target. Perhaps we were being overambitious, but by now our blood was up. It was as we approached the transformer that the police discovered evidence of our successful primary attack. All hell broke loose
. Sirens, lights, cars, dogs. You name it and they had it. The number of times a searchlight passed directly over me that night was horrifying. On each occasion I froze and on each occasion it passed me by. We had now been rumbled, though not captured. It was time to beat a hasty retreat if we could, though via the transformer, our secondary target. I almost made it there, but had to go to earth ten metres away when a dog patrol arrived to inspect it. Now, at last, the police were taking their job seriously.

  The dog went crazy, jumping, leaping, growling and barking. I could hear it straining at the leash, pulling hard on the handler’s shoulder. I lay there, inches away, completely motionless. On one occasion the animal came so close its saliva hit my neck, but it was dark and the transformer had no floodlights to illuminate it. Several times the handler shone his torch at me, and over me. Each time he failed to see me. I knew I was there, the dog knew I was there, but the handler did not. A guard dog is only as good as the person controlling it.

  Target attacks like this are the staple diet of any SAS soldier. They can be immensely challenging and at times dangerous. No holds are barred on either side. I remember well a night attack on a dockyard, near Southampton. We were successful, in that charges were laid on several naval vessels. The security forces, however, were certain two of us had taken shelter under their main quayside, having approached it from the sea. They were right, though could not prove it. It was high tide, but there was a tiny pocket of air between the water’s surface and the underside of the quay. It was a perfect place to hide, allowing easy access to the boats moored each side. The security people were not to be deterred and ran their patrol vessels up and down the water either side of the quay at top speed. If we were there, I am sure they felt, their wash would drive us out. Their ploy nearly worked. The two of us hung on for dear life, being thrown forcibly and repeatedly against the barnacled underside of the quay. Like a fool, I had not worn gloves and so had to grip the razor sharp barnacles with my bare hands for protection. In my frantic efforts to prevent my head from being smashed to pulp on the quay’s underside, the skin from two fingertips was ripped completely away. They have since recovered, but made surgery impossible for several weeks thereafter. I still cannot feel properly as a result.

  Throughout these events, I was part civilian, part soldier. The transition from one to the other was frequently difficult. As a medical student, neither bosses nor colleagues had any idea of what I was up to. It was best kept that way. Jim T, my parachuting friend, had long since returned to Hull after his confirmation of my insanity for joining the SAS at all. I noticed my loyalties slowly changing. Civilian friendships began to fade, while military ones developed. Relationships with girlfriends struggled to survive. I was either working all hours God gave in hospital or miles away from London on SAS training. I was engaged to be married, but my wife on this occasion was the SAS. I imagine those girls who knew me must have thought I was gay. The reality was simpler. I was more interested in medicine and the SAS than lifelong liaisons or carnal satisfaction on a Saturday night.

  For my last six months at medical school I packed away my camouflage uniform and studied hard. The final medical examination is no laughing matter and needs endless hours of book work and research. Twelve hours of reading a day would not be an exaggeration. Having failed my SAS medical course I was determined not to do the same with its civilian equivalent. I found the only way truly to concentrate, apart from the vivid terror of forthcoming examinations focusing my mind, was to remove all distractions from around me. Nonmedical books, guitars, pictures on the walls. All had to go, otherwise I would find an excuse to tinker with them rather than deal with the prime object of qualifying as a doctor. A medical colleague taught me a particularly good way of staying awake during the endless book work. He, too, would remove all extraneous distractions from around him. For maximum concentration he had to sit facing a blank wall, the one relevant textbook open on the desk before him. He would place a scalpel vertically, blade upwards, beside the textbook and rest the palm of his hand gently on the tip of its cutting edge. Each time his concentration lagged, or should he fall asleep, his hand would sag and the blade would jab him awake. It was an excellent method of cramming in the book work over the shortest possible time. Painful, occasionally bloody, but a brilliant idea. I take no responsibility should you try it.

  I was fortunate to qualify at the first attempt. Now, grandly, I could be called Doctor Villar, Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery. It sounded tremendous. My chest was puffed with pride. As with SAS Selection, however, such feelings last for barely a day. Suddenly you realize that these grandiose qualifications represent only the beginning of medical life. You have not yet treated any patients at all. So far it has been theory, plus closely supervised instruction. The real thing, making life and death decisions, is far more terrifying. Becoming a surgeon, particularly an orthopaedic one, was still a long way away.

  It was a difficult time for the UK’s National Health Service. Healthcare is a political football, from whichever country you originate. You must become accustomed to rules and regulations changing almost every year, often for no apparent reason. Despite my deeply held ambitions to become a full-time SAS doctor, it was still hard to take the final plunge. Until now I had always the option to switch between SAS or civilian medicine at will. To leave the warm, parental feel of my teaching hospital worried me, even if I also felt the place was too constrained and political. Six months away from SAS activities while I qualified had put tiny, infinitesimal doubts in my mind. They did not last long.

  I had the good fortune to have the British monarch’s surgeon as my first boss. He, and his colleague, were charming and professional, but their job immensely demanding. A 120-hour week was routine. That would not be accepted now, but in 1978 was regarded as normal. The moment I realized the intensity and impracticality of such a rota, I welcomed an alternative. Within six weeks I had volunteered for Regular Army service. The NHS, well used to its junior doctors showing signs of strain, did not bat an eye.

  I was not allowed to join as a soldier, irrespective of what military skills I possessed. My recent medical qualification prohibited it. I did not wish to anyway. It was SAS medicine that interested me now. I had long ago decided that 22 SAS Regimental Medical Officer it would be. 22 SAS only had one doctor. At that time the route in was through the Royal Army Medical Corps, the RAMC. As before, the civilian world thought me mad, advising against stepping outside the bottomless rut of NHS hospital practice. By then it was too late. I had already applied to join. Determined, and with a chest full of anticipation and ambition, I arranged to meet 22 SAS’s commanding officer, Colonel M.

  Despite extensive experience with the Territorial 21 SAS and all manner of Special Forces activities over several years, I had only ever passed through Hereford’s Regular 22 SAS camp for very brief periods, usually in transit elsewhere. I was invited to join Colonel M in the Officers’ Mess bar. He was a huge man, positively charming. He explained that the SAS doctor’s post used to be the most unpopular in the British Army. Now, for some reason, he said, ‘Everyone wants to join.’ He was right. There was a list of applicants as long as my arm, including one who had left 22 SAS several years earlier, specifically to train as a doctor. My heart sank. He was bound to get the job, I thought. In the event, it was I who was successful. I do not know why. Whatever the reasons, I was shortly to embark on the most astonishing journey of my life.

  CHAPTER 3

  Press the Bleeding Button

  Entering the main gate of 22 SAS’s Hereford Camp, an immense wave of awe overtakes you. Instantly, you become aware that the place is special. Few ever have the chance to enter. Those who do guard this privilege jealously.

  Unsignposted, and surrounded by a housing estate in Hereford’s suburbs, the then Bradbury Lines was a forbidding sight: a central encampment, consisting largely of slatted wooden huts, surrounded by twelve-foot high unfriendly fencing. The Officers’ Mess, my home when I started as Medi
cal Officer, stood apart from the rest. Again wooden, again fenced, it struck a lonely figure immediately beside the main camp. It was drizzling, cold and misty. It is always drizzling, cold and misty in Hereford. I remember one year when the sun did not appear until May. Despite being a fully badged member of 21 SAS I knew this occasion was different. No longer did I have the security of civilian medicine. I was now committed to full-time service with the most feared and professional military unit in the world.

  With a trembling hand I approached the reinforced gate, aware I did not have the magnetic card which would allow me to enter. I pressed the button to one side. ‘Yes?’ came the instant, crackly, male reply from its adjacent loudspeaker. I withdrew my hand immediately, as if I had received an electric shock. I could see no one. No cars. No lights. No pedestrians. No guards. No dogs. Just me, and a gate in a fence, standing twenty yards from a lonely wooden building. Taking a deep breath, I bent towards the loudspeaker and whispered, glancing either side of me as I spoke. I was imagining all manner of things in my insecurity, including hidden IRA men lurking in nearby hedging, telescopic sights aimed to kill.