Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon (27 page)

The operation was enormously risky, depending almost exclusively on surprise. Scheduled to strike many miles from the front line, the SAS would be stranded, or even annihilated, if events went wrong. The Argentinian forces were not a placid enemy. They were well-trained, and very well equipped. This was not the Third World, whatever the news bulletins had suggested. Furthermore, intelligence sources had warned the enemy we might attack and they were upgrading their defences as a precaution. It was as if they were waiting for the SAS to arrive.

A number of senior Regiment personnel had already made their feelings known before leaving Hereford that the operation represented a needless risk to Squadron life. Simpler alternatives were suggested. When experienced SAS operatives start to worry, you can be sure there are likely to be problems. Major A had been brought in to shore things up. He was an excellent choice. It would have been difficult for the Squadron to have done better. For sure, he was the type who would see the operation through to its conclusion, whatever the risks involved. You had to admire him, however terrified you felt.

Major A’s briefing had been very matter-of-fact; a man with no doubts. I decided an identical surgical team should be present on each of the two aircraft to be used, in case one was shot down. Martin would command one and I the other. Unless fate smiled on us, there was little chance we would be going home.

It is difficult not to mope when you are told you are going to die, especially if it is unexpected. What impressed me was the self-control of the operatives. They knew the exact nature of the operation and the risks involved. Most had families and loved ones at home. For three weeks they had been stood by to kill themselves for Queen and country. At first appearance they seemed remarkably relaxed and accepting. ‘That’s why we’re here, Doc,’ one old hand remarked. But behind the facade, many were deeply and significantly affected. As the days passed I was to become introduced to their worries on frequent occasions.

The camp was small, stranded in the centre of an area of black, volcanic rubble. We were put with the signallers, in a large green tent away from prying eyes. When live operations are under way, the principle of quarantine is important. It stops awkward questions at the wrong moment. The political repercussions, had the operation leaked out, would have been vast. Barely forty-eight hours after completing a comfortable, peaceful, operating list in London, I was now lying in a canvas tent waiting to die. That has a profound impact, however tough you may think you are. My main worry, as well as for my own safety, was what to tell the others. Each had agreed to come at short notice. None realized he might never see England again.

I decided not to tell them the full story, a decision that rests on my mind even today. It was easier that way. Perhaps it was a reflection of my inability to face reality. My whole approach, every innermost feeling, is best shown by the letter I wrote to a friend in the UK a short while after arriving in the holding area. It was kept deliberately vague, without mention of unit or location, in the interests of security at the time. My request it should be published in a leading medical journal immediately following the conflict was rejected by the Army. I should add that, by nature, I am not a depressive.

By the time you read this the Falklands conflict will be over and I shall be dead, though if I manage to survive then the words I am writing now will no longer carry the same meaning
.

It was only forty-eight hours ago that a faceless gentleman from the Ministry called me from my comfortable bed and asked me to take part in a particular military operation. There is no one I know who would turn such an offer down and it is only as I sit here now that I realize the full horror of what I am about to do. This is no exercise, no war game, but the real, very frightening thing. I have brought with me five other medical men, some far more qualified than I shall ever be. Somehow I cannot bring myself to tell them the full facts of what tomorrow holds, for how can you tell good friends they may become national heroes but their chances of returning home are almost nil? I think we all realize how important is the task that lies ahead, for the lives of countless Servicemen and Falkland Islanders may depend upon it. But to me, my life is precious and the prospect of imminent death something I find hard to accept. I cannot pretend I am a stranger to war, but always I have had the upper hand and never have I seen it on the scale I see it now. Friends have died, comrades have been burned, but still the fighting goes on
.

Fear is a peculiar sensation and each time I feel it I convince myself I shall conquer it next time. I remember the first parachute jump when I could hardly breathe in my panic, or standing outside the viva room at my primary Fellowship when it seemed that every five minutes I wanted to go to the loo. Now things are different for I can see no way I can make it out of this operation alive
.

I haven’t made a will as I have very few possessions, though a good friend has just written to his brother to make certain everything is left to his wife. I thought I had better write to my parents before things get under way and am surprised how cheerful I sounded though I know my mother is frantic with concern. Families and friends are so important at times like these. I feel rather guilty that I need to be so close to death to appreciate their full value. My sheer existence is dependent on the orders of a person I have never met
.

I sometimes curse my medical education, for I am sure it makes my mind dwell on unpleasant thoughts longer than most. I can spend an entire day reading a paperback and yet find I have only read one page as my concentration has been elsewhere. Food is no longer attractive, and sex something I haven’t thought about since I left the UK. I visited a small local church today and spent most of the time sitting at the back praying that peace would be declared and we could all go home. Every World News bulletin has me transfixed for signs that the inevitable might be postponed, but all I ever hear is another ship has been sunk and no end is in sight. Such a strange contrast from the aggressive individual I was in London who reckoned that no holds should be barred and total war declared. It’s a different matter when you become involved yourself
.

Someone once said that war was long periods of boredom interspersed with brief periods of terror. How right they were, though it does not explain that permanent sickness I have inside me now. I feel, though, that I have come to terms with what is in store for me and writing this has certainly helped. Should I survive I shall be classed as a nobody, but if I die I shall be a hero and perhaps not forgotten
.

Those words were written from the heart at the time, a time when I genuinely felt I would die. I read them often. A reminder that each day is a bonus and any problems I may have now pale into insignificance.

That first night in the holding area sleeping was understandably difficult. At 3 a.m. I was woken by the shout of ‘Fire!’ A Land Rover was ablaze, whether by sabotage or accident I do not know. By the time I reached the spot, medical kit in hand, the situation was firmly under control. No one was injured, so I returned to our tent, settling again into a disturbed sleep.

We were up at dawn. The operation could be on at any time and it was important the aircraft were rigged for casualties. The Hercules C130 is a highly adaptable machine and can carry, or do, almost anything. Though I had travelled many miles in them, I had never had to deal with casualties on board. Rigging the inside for stretchers, and a makeshift operating table, was difficult but possible. By lunchtime the two medical teams had an accurate idea of what they would have to do, though were still unaware of the true spectre hanging over them. I decided to leave things that way.

That afternoon I was given a full briefing on Regimental activities throughout the Falklands campaign. It was good to hear the men were doing well, though so many had died when a Sea King helicopter plunged into the sea. Two of my former medics had managed to escape. Both always had a generous helping of luck and skill. Though it is a tragedy for anyone to perish, I was particularly saddened by Ray’s death. I had got to know him over the years and well remember running a mountain marathon alongside him. He was tall, seemingly immortal and immensely confident. Whether it is worth a life I do not know, but it was his troop that destroyed the Pebble Island aircraft. The SAS, as ground troops, destroyed more Argentinian aircraft than any other Service during the campaign.

The Sea King disaster was in a class of its own, the reaction it produced from friends and colleagues similarly inexplicable. It was a simple transfer between
Hermes
and
Intrepid
late one evening, in a moderate sea. Whether the helicopter collided with a large bird, perhaps a petrel or an albatross, will never be known. The result was the biggest loss of Regimental life, in one episode, since the Second World War. Worse still, it was not an accident that could be blamed on any one person. Even the hardiest, most callous colleague was forced to admit the event was beyond control. Not surprisingly, the crash affected many Regimental operatives in a profound way. Nothing could be blamed except bad fortune. Bad fortune was something that could affect anyone, at any time. Suddenly, each of us became human and vulnerable, even without the threat of our own operation lurking nearby.

From a medical viewpoint, the response of a soldier to the death of comrades is fascinating. Usually, if a man is killed in battle, or on the streets of Northern Ireland, his friends will find a way of blaming death on some military misdeed. ‘He wasn’t quick enough, Doc’, ‘It was his fault anyway,’ were said to me more times than I care to remember. This is not a criticism of the dead individual, it is simply a way in which survivors deal with the horror of what can so easily happen to them. It is important to feel in control of one’s destiny, even if in reality one is not. A soldier cannot afford the luxury of being morose and dwelling on the prospect of death. The fact that death might have been inevitable is an explanation most seek to avoid.

By the end of May it was becoming apparent, to my mind anyway, that Downing Street could not decide about us. At times we were stood by to move at thirty minutes’ notice, at others the operation was altered to two hours’ standby. Once we even climbed on the buses to take us to the aircraft before being told of a further postponement. Each time you prepare yourself physically, and psychologically, for what you are certain is imminent death. Each time, your emotions having been raised to fever pitch, the rug is yet again pulled from under you. This happened thirty times or more. It must be similar sitting on a US Death Row waiting for that last-minute reprieve.

As a doctor you are everyone’s confidant. I do not intend to characterize such confidences here, as that goes against everything I stand for in medicine. However independent and aggressive a soldier may be, he does need someone in whom to confide, someone who can listen to his innermost concerns. I remember one operative taking me to one side to say he was sleeping terribly, plagued by recurring dreams of an aircraft crashing in flames. What was he to do? It was an impossible question, particularly as his dream was an accurate reflection of what might occur. At such times I found it best to own up to my own fears and weaknesses. No one expects a doctor to be gung-ho, running around with a dagger between his teeth. Soldiers regard you with immense suspicion if you do. Honesty was best. I simply admitted to being terrified myself, reassuring all concerned there was no dishonour in fear. It was how one controlled it that mattered. The soldier with the bad dreams was reassured once he realized he was the eleventh person to consult me with worries that day. He had a wife and children in Hereford, a family I was careful not to mention. It was dangerous to remind him of his family or friends back home. I did not want to weaken his resolve. However aggressive or courageous a soldier may appear on the outside, he needs enormous self-control to cope with what is asked of him. The SAS is no exception.

Another operative took me aside, asking if I would put an intravenous drip into each man
before
they went into battle. In the trade we call it ‘keeping a vein open’. A small plastic tube, or cannula, is placed in an arm vein and a plug inserted into its outer end. If the individual starts to bleed, for whatever reason, it is a simple matter to remove the outer plug and insert blood, or saline or a plasma expander. It is the best way of minimizing the chance of shock due to blood loss. I found his request difficult to answer. Rather than dismissing the idea out of hand, I promised to discuss it with other members of the medical team.

When we did talk it over, we decided against the idea. Though keeping a vein open is part of routine hospital practice, for example to allow immediate resuscitation of a heart-attack victim, it would be dangerous in the field. What would happen, we debated, if the outer plug became dislodged in the heat of battle? Quite possibly an operative could bleed to death without even being shot. When I told the operative, he was not surprised, but I could sense he was now happier that someone had taken his worries seriously. I took Major A to one side at that stage, as I felt someone should highlight the troops’ concern. How hopeless they felt their situation was. In retrospect I was stating the obvious. We stood in an open patch of volcanic ground to avoid prying eyes and ears, be they friend or foe. He was, as always, very understanding, listening carefully to what I said. His reply was typical. That is why I like him.

‘I know the lads are worried, Doc,’ he replied. ‘But it’s got to be done.’ The conversation was over.

At midday I was summoned to Squadron orders. This is the daily update of what has been happening, and what is expected in future. I had not slept well that night. My diary tells all: