Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon (11 page)

Feeling uneasy, I whispered my misgivings to the selection team, but was overruled. The officer was through. I was not surprised, sometime later, to find he had left the Regiment, apparently unable to cope with the rigours of operational life.

Medical tuition of SAS operatives was my overall responsibility, though in practice it was capably run by two Royal Army Medical Corps non-commissioned officers. Both were brilliant and much admired by the Regiment and me. I would often turn to them for medical advice, once I realized my civilian medical training was inappropriate for this new, strange life of mine.

A major part of the medical course was an attachment to a civilian hospital. Before an operative could be fully qualified as a medic he had to complete one month working in a casualty department. We naturally did not advertise the fact the men were from the SAS. Arrangements were generally made directly, and informally, with the various casualty consultants involved. Some were openly hostile to the idea of SAS operatives working in their departments, but many were welcoming. For the most part, the intelligent SAS operative was an asset to a casualty unit, well able to give as much training to the civilians as they could give him. Sometimes their presence was life-saving, such as the letter of commendation I received from a hospital in the west of the country. It ran something like this:

‘We wish to acknowledge our grateful thanks to Mr W for his prompt action in saving the life of one of our nurses recently. A patient ran amok in the department, eventually taking the nurse hostage and holding her forcibly against a cubicle wall, a scalpel to her throat. Mr W capably and reliably disarmed the assailant, who is now in police custody.’

I later discovered their letter was a gross understatement. Mr W was, in reality,
Sergeant
W, and an expert at unarmed combat. The poor hostage-taker would not have stood a chance. He could have been armed with a Samurai sword for all Sergeant W could have cared. Predictably, the Regiment’s response to this event was one of disapproval. Sergeant W should not have attracted attention in the way he did. My own approach, one I made known to those in power, was supportive. Sergeant W had done us proud and the hospital was delighted.

It was important to make those civilian consultants who helped us feel involved, reinforcing the special position they held in our eyes. By offering their services they exposed both themselves and their departments to some risk. You can never truly tell what a terrorist will do next. In those days the media was not over-invasive. Now, the incident with Sergeant W would probably be headlined ‘SAS THUG ATTACKS DEFENCELESS HOSPITAL PATIENT’, or some such line. I therefore spent many hours visiting the various hospitals, updating their consultants on what we needed, and why. We also held meetings for them in Bradbury Lines, demonstrating our military skills for their interest and enjoyment. It was wonderful to see casualty consultants, and a handful of nurses, blasting away with Browning automatic pistols at terrorist targets in the killing house, our indoor range. They loved it. Perhaps there is a streak of aggression in everyone, however caring they may outwardly appear.

As well as training others, I had my own career to consider. I knew that one day, however much I enjoyed it, my time with the SAS would end. Though I had done much practical surgery, I needed the qualification to go with it. The qualification is called Fellowship of the Royal College of Surgeons. Now a three-part examination, it was then a two-parter, involving book work night and day for months. An isolated SAS job is not the best training environment for such a qualification, so I would travel weekly to Birmingham to study alongside civilians there. My Birmingham colleagues had no idea what I did, but it was good to see there was life outside the military.

Examination day eventually arrived. At the time I was very hyped up. We had just completed the successful Iranian Embassy assault and I had been required to go overseas for a short tour. Consequently, I was fit, very alert and looking unbearably healthy. The moment I walked into the examination room, giving the examiner a confident smile combined with a bone-crushing handshake, I knew I had failed. Around me were dozens of young civilian surgeons, each looking like death. For months they had been burning the midnight oil and were now bulging with knowledge. I could not compete. The examiners failed me with dignity, but fail I did. Cheeky and impatient to the last, I asked our Adjutant to send a letter, on fully badged Regimental paper, requesting that I be considered a special case and allowed to pass. At the very least, I said, my examination fee should be refunded. The College of Surgeons, of course, had seen it all before. Unimpressed by such a request from the hard-nosed SAS, my failure was reaffirmed. For the re-sits six months later I made certain I looked the part. I read and revised endlessly, staying indoors for a complete fortnight. I drank endless whisky, smoked myself halfway to an early grave and attended the examination looking terrible. I passed with flying colours.

One major advantage of its Hereford location is the physical separation from the rest of the Army given to the SAS. Medically, this was vital. The Army is rigid in the way it classifies diseases and injuries. Large books exist that contain the name of every disease imaginable and what it means to the service potential of a soldier. A knee-ligament injury, for example, means you are no use to them. Loss of an eye, or an amputated arm, makes you highly suspect, and so on. Physical grades, P grades, are given to every soldier, with P1 being superfit and P8 being disastrous. At P8 your next step could be the grave. For some reason no one can ever be P1, the best you can reach is P2.

If a man is injured, his P grading is adjusted upwards, depending on his degree of incapacity. He will go back to P2 once fully recovered. If your P grading goes
up
the Army calls this a downgrading. Only those with a P2 grade can officially take part in high-level, physical, military activities. Grades P3 and above mean a man is not permitted to do much physical activity and his chances of promotion may be severely curtailed. The Army insists that each soldier should be categorized into an appropriate grade. Consequently, as a military doctor, if you refer a soldier to a military hospital, he may return from his appointment having been medically downgraded. To an SAS operative this was an unacceptable fate. As a result, I only rarely referred patients to military specialists and hospitals. The nearest was more than a 100 kilometres away. Moreover, the local civilians were brilliant and were well capable of handling anything. It meant I could receive an instant opinion, from a leading expert, whenever I needed one. More importantly, the operative’s medical grade remained untouched. Likewise his salary and promotion prospects.

I hated the medical grading system, as did my patients. Partly this was because I could barely understand it. I had no time to wade through the pile of reading material needed to categorize an injury accurately. More importantly, the system never took motivation into account. Nowhere in the world will you find people more inspired than in the SAS. Superficially, to examine many senior Regimental operatives is like reading a walking pathology textbook. Over many years they have acquired all manner of different diseases, injuries and strange conditions. Pieces of limb have flown off here and there, joints are wobbly and worn, but mind and will-power are as strong as ever. It is these that carry them through, which is why Everest can be climbed without toes and Military Medals won without fingers. An astonishing crowd.

Women were a problem in the SAS - the lack of them in particular. I had not realized it until one morning more than a year into the job, when a gentle knock on the consulting-room door disturbed me from some paperwork. Slowly I heard the door open, my eyes still firmly on the paperwork before me. Whoever it was walked quietly to the patient’s chair at one side of my desk and sat down. After a moment’s further hesitation I looked up. I was dumbfounded.

‘B-but you’re… you know. W-well, you’re a
woman,’
I said, completely lost for words. I can remember that astonished feeling even now.

‘That’s right, doctor. Well done. I’m a woman. Is there anything wrong?’ She was gorgeous. Small, very petite and clad in tight jeans and baggy sweater. I recognized her as one of the operatives from 14 Intelligence Company, the covert Northern Ireland people. The sweater most likely covered her holstered pistol.

‘No,’ I replied, trying hard to regain composure. ‘It’s just that… well, it’s just that I don’t know much about women, you see.’

‘What on earth do you mean? You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s true. But I’ve sort of specialized. In
men
you see.’ I indicated a crowd of male SAS operatives outside my window, waiting for a helicopter to take them elsewhere. I prayed the floor would open widely and swallow me up. The trouble was that she was right. It had not crossed my mind before, but since becoming 22 SAS’s doctor I had never treated a woman.

Her request was for a supply of the contraceptive pill. That, too, confused me. I had no idea of names, dosages or side-effects. In the end I confessed ignorance and asked the local general practice to help. Had she arrived with a gunshot wound or worms, malaria or any other tropical disease, I would have managed admirably. The Pill for a woman? Not a hope.

In a male-orientated environment such as the SAS, maintaining any form of adult relationship with the opposite sex is as difficult as Selection. Away for months at a time, in largely male company, I was as hopeless at talking to women as one gets. Civilian girlfriends had not been able to cope with their changed partner and went their own way within weeks of my arrival in Hereford. A few would telephone in an attempt to keep things going. That was disastrous, as quiet conversations would frequently turn into noisy arguments when I was unable to tell them what I was doing. I was also fairly sure that telephone calls into, and out of, the camp were monitored. The last thing I wanted was Her Majesty’s Government knowing what little remained of my love life.

On one occasion, and in the wake of the Iranian Embassy assault, I was elected Regimental stag. I do not know why. A young woman wrote, asking if she could meet an SAS man in the flesh. I was duly chosen. In retrospect it was a dangerous move and could easily have been a setup. However, I requested that Special Branch did a search of their records to ensure she was genuine. This proved to be so. Several weeks later I arranged to meet her, somewhere near London’s British Museum. I asked that covert surveillance also be given, in case of trouble. I never saw the followers so must assume they were either very good, or did not appear at all. The girl was, in the event, good fun and genuinely interested in what I did. We saw each other on several occasions thereafter. However, like any relationship I had while in Hereford, my attitude and absences made it die before it ever began.

There was one woman who did attract me. Of course, I had never met her. It was her reputation that did the trick. Apparently, somewhere in Northern Ireland, the RAMC had a medical officer working for a cavalry regiment. She was infamous for her large, out of control English sheepdog, curvaceous figure, encyclopaedic knowledge and total fearlessness when under threat. Why, I thought, do I never meet a woman like that?

Special Forces units around the world are two-a-penny. The SAS, however, sets itself apart from the rest. As a result Hereford is frequently visited by outsiders. Selection is regarded as a model on which many others base their own - the United States for one. Their Special Forces are different to ours. Larger, noisier, less covert. Their SAS lookalike is the Delta Force, beginning to form during my Hereford days. Whereas the US Special Forces would arrive thoroughly crewcutted and barely able to remain upright due to the number of medals they wore, Delta was different. The Delta operatives I met were pleasant, hard-working people. Their boss, Colonel F, was a muscular, confident, powerful man. His second-in-command, Major N, was somewhat younger and romped around our Selection course as if it was a mild inconvenience. His only faults, some would say attractions, were a deep Southern accent that was impossible to understand and the disconcerting habit of chewing and spitting tobacco when talking to those in authority. We followed the development of Delta with interest, in particular their attempt to rescue the Teheran hostages some time later. Putting names, friendships and personalities to some of the bigger military operations of this century does make you see them in a different perspective.

Maintaining one’s own personal security was a continuing process. It was plain fact that many terrorist groups around the world would have given anything to take a shot at an SAS man. For the IRA in particular this was a great challenge, but from their viewpoint would have been a difficult task. Not only had the Regiment let it be known that any such attempt would lead to instant reprisal, but the entire Hereford population acted as a giant security cordon. Walk into any shop, pub or garage in the Hereford area looking or sounding remotely odd, and the Regiment will hear of it before you arrive within a mile of their camp. The local people are fiercely proud of the SAS and are immensely supportive. We were frequently stood ready, and then stood down, because an Irish couple on holiday might have stopped to fill their petrol tank fifteen kilometres from town. The last thing Hereford wanted was a bomb in its midst, so it went to great lengths to avoid it.

Eventually, you become accustomed to living under constant threat. Rank and regiment disappear from letterheads and envelopes, uniforms were forbidden outside camp, and long hair with stubble actively encouraged. The best approach was to follow simple instinct. If it felt wrong it was likely to be so and was therefore best avoided. You develop a sixth sense for these things. No more so than my mother who one day received a long, thin, unidentified package from the Republic of Ireland. Her first and natural reaction was to telephone the police. At the time, letter bombs were being regularly received by various public figures in the land.