Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon by Richard Villar Read Free Book Online

was the instructor’s fault, letting someone so junior perform an operation so ill-prepared. Surgical training then frequently meant leaping in at the deep end without detailed experience beforehand. We would shudder at the prospect now, as I barely let juniors do anything unfamiliar without my gloved hands clamped firmly around their wrists. As I struggled with the vagotomy, I realized I had met my match, even if I had passed SAS Selection. I felt a surge of anger overtake me as I turned towards my two superiors, instructor opposite and anaesthetist beside. I tried to look each hard in the eyes simultaneously, though masks prevented me from seeing their full faces. ‘Sod you both,’ I said, spitting out the words. ‘Do the bloody thing yourselves.’ With a metallic clatter, I banged my forceps on to the instrument trolley to my left and in a few, short strides moved to the opposite side of the table. My two critics remained silent and motionless, dumbfounded by my behaviour. Medical students were the lowest form of human life in teaching hospitals, and I was no exception. But my blood was up. ‘Come on!’ I shouted, ‘If it’s so simple, show me. How the hell else do you expect me to learn?’ My instructor took the hint, quietly moving to the first surgeon’s position, completing the task with consummate, annoying ease. Needless to say, he never spoke to me again.
    Once badged, life opens up for the SAS soldier, be he Territorial or Regular. Enormous opportunities exist, plus a level of comradeship and support unrivalled elsewhere. Training continues throughout a man’s career, liberally interspersed with operations and lifelike exercises. You cannot get more convincing than SAS training.
    Interrogation is a typical example. I have now been interrogated several times. It gets no easier. The first occasion was late one Friday night. It had been a heavy week in the hospital, allowing little time to concentrate on anything other than medicine. Twenty of us were thrown from the back of a four-ton lorry outside a small village near Hereford. We had each been given specific instructions not to use tracks but to make our way to an RV the far side of some woods. Further orders would be issued when we got there. There were two routes to the RV. One, a safe, tactical journey around the outside of the woods used the available cover of hedgerows, farm buildings and tumbledown walls. The other was a broad, well-trodden bridle path through the woods themselves. This latter choice led directly to the RV and was very quick.
    Despite specific instructions to the contrary, another operative and I chose the track. We calculated it would be possible to dash through the woods to the RV before the enemy had got into position. It was the very start of the exercise and we both knew how long such things took to get under way. Unfortunately we guessed wrong. It was the last time I ever used a track for any form of SAS service.
    Leaping from the back of the lorry as soon as it stopped, the two of us ran as fast as we could towards the start of the track. I remember how inviting it looked. Quiet, seemingly undisturbed, a haven of peace and tranquility. It was as straight as a Roman road, allowing us to see moonlight at its far end, no more than 300 metres away. The remaining trainees chose to skirt the wood.
    I remember the exhilarating feeling of knowing we would be first to the RV and thereby ahead of the entire field. The gamble was not worth taking. Within fifty metres of entering the wood, from the blackness to our right came the unmistakable command ‘Halt!’ My immediate reaction was to turn and run. As I did so, three large figures emerged from the undergrowth. One took my neck, the other my waist, another my legs. There was no arguing, their combined weights being more than 600 pounds. I was thrown sharply to the ground, face down and by then severely winded. ‘Keep still you bastard, and don’t speak,’ one said. A large boot