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.
‘A parcel’s arrived,’ said Mum. ‘I don’t like the look of it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it won’t be a problem, madam,’ replied a sleepy police sergeant. He had already received four such calls that day, from over-anxious folk seeing a terrorist in every corner. None had the least reason to be targeted. Here was another, I could imagine him thinking. ‘I would just open it very carefully,’ he advised.
‘But what if it’s a bomb?’
‘It won’t be a bomb, madam.’
‘But supposing it is?’
‘It won’t be. I can assure you of that. Anyway, why should anyone want to blow you up? What have you done to deserve it?’
‘Well, I have a son in the SAS, you see. Oh yes, and my husband is in Intelligence. Does that make a difference?’
The telephone went silent and within minutes Bomb Disposal was on its way, alerted by an embarrassed police sergeant. The parcel? I am afraid it is true: a controlled explosion of a box of smoked salmon. We never did learn who sent it.
To keep the local people on one’s side, it was important to be as helpful and cooperative to the public as possible. Boat Troop would thus turn out to rescue flood victims, while the mountaineers would help with Brecon Beacons’ rescues. Meanwhile I would do my best to advise several overseas expeditions what to expect when in far-flung lands. I was right most of the time though still feel guilty about my bad advice to a team aiming to canoe through North Africa. I gave them a list of diseases, medicines and vaccinations as long as my arm, but forgot the fearful schistosoma. Schistosoma, sometimes called bilharzia, is extremely common in certain parts of Africa. Found in water, the tiny parasite penetrates human skin and makes its way to the blood vessels of the gut and bowels. There it stays, clogging the vessels and destroying intestines and liver. It can slowly kill. Treatment, with potentially toxic medicines, is both dangerous and unpleasant. I understand one canoeist developed the condition, but was fortunately cured before its effects became too severe.
I also did not endear myself to my next-door neighbours. I tried hard, but lost much ground when trying to take an aerial photograph of my house. Living on a housing estate twenty kilometres west of Hereford, I persuaded Jim F, our brilliant helicopter pilot, to hover immediately over my house for several minutes so that I could take a photograph. He did the job beautifully, but neither of us noticed the estate’s entire complement of washing, hung out to dry, flying everywhere. Sheets, socks, knickers, took to the air and I do not believe were ever recovered. My local credibility plummeted, I thought as far as it could go. Unfortunately I was wrong. A few days later, I misbehaved again.
It was outwardly a straightforward day. I was late for work and was driving my small, metallic gold Renault 5 faster than normal. Exiting the housing estate, I turned right down a narrow country lane, high green hedges on either side. Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, a tabby cat shot out from beneath the hedge going from left to right. I could not avoid it and felt two gentle thumps as my wheels ran it over. I was horrified, looking in my rear view mirror at what I had done. There lay the poor creature, thrashing its last on the roadway, in obvious mortal agony. I knew I had to put it out of its misery, so stopped the car and got out. The road was quiet, the air was still. It was just me and this poor, wretched creature. Certain I was alone, I picked up the dying animal, two hands around its neck. Its body hung limply downwards, twitching only gently at that stage. Rapidly I squeezed its neck and within seconds it was out of agony. Upset, though pleased I had been able to dispatch it so quickly, I stood for a moment thinking what I should do with the body. My two hands were still around its neck, my arms extended forwards, with the lifeless form hanging vertically. As I stood there I realized I was not alone. Someone was behind me. I turned to greet whoever it was, my arms still extended, the corpse dangling. There before me stood a woman, middle-aged and very distressed. I knew I had to act first.
‘Do you know who owns this cat?’ I asked, inclining my head towards the limp creature still within my grasp.
‘Oh God!’ she cried. ‘She’s mine! You’ve killed her! You ****! How could you?’
‘B-b-but…’ I tried to explain. It was no use. Standing in her garden beyond the high hedge she had not witnessed me run over the animal at all. She had only seen me stop the car, stride towards her pet, pick it up and strangle it. ‘SAS murderer,’ she hissed as I went humbly on my way. From that day on ‘Killer Villar’ was my local name.
A single-handed doctor cannot be everywhere at once. The SAS highlights this admirably. With four squadrons, each with different functions and each split into smaller groupings throughout the world, it is impossible to keep track of everyone. I thought I had been busy with a no-hour working week in my London teaching hospital. That was nothing when compared to the SAS. I even developed chest pain on one occasion, standing outside the CO’s office and was quite convinced I was about to have a heart attack at the tender age of twenty-seven. It was unquestionably a false alarm, but it did highlight the stresses of the job. Everyone wanted you with them. Whether they were in Germany or Greece, Australia or Austria, Canada or China. When they could physically see you they thought you were marvellous. When you were somewhere else you were shirking your job.
In the pre-terrorism days it was easier. The Regiment had one major conflict zone with which to deal, say the Middle East, and all efforts could be directed towards that. By the mid-1970s, and to a greater extent now, the Regiment could have operatives in a dozen countries at any one time. The doctor had responsibility for them all. In the morning I could be arranging medical training for an operative in central Scotland. At lunchtime I might be discussing hostage extraction from Concorde with a major airline. By teatime I might be counselling a distressed couple with an ailing marriage and by nightfall be in an airplane to the Far East. Such a day did actually occur. Jobs do not come any busier. No wonder the Regiment has increased its complement of medical staff in recent years. It frequently crossed my mind, albeit briefly, to return to the civilian National Health Service for a rest.
Wherever an operative is located, it is important that a secure medical home base is available to him. He must know this, and trust it, wherever he is. Should he be injured or diseased, he must have faith in the individual handling his care, even if he is 12,000 kilometres away. A significant part of SAS activity takes place many miles from the UK. Whatever we might otherwise think, few countries in which an SAS operative is likely to work have a medical system as good as the British NHS. Much of my time was thus spent overseas; being certain the Regiment had access to the best care I could find. If nothing was available locally, I had to provide it myself. Being single-handed, the moment I left Hereford to visit far-flung lands, the home-based operatives lost their doctor. Consequently, doctors from a local civilian practice would stand in for me when I was gone. They were excellent. Unvetted, they did not talk out of turn and could be relied upon to maintain the medical grade of a sick operative. Without them my job would have been impossible.
The nature of SAS work lends itself to disease. Covert operatives, working in a civilized environment, may be an exception. However, the majority of SAS personnel undertake more traditional, soldierlike activities in strange parts of the globe. In many such countries, severe, debilitating diseases are rife. No more so, perhaps, than the jungle. If I had known how awful it was, I doubt I would ever have gone there.
CHAPTER 4
The Bastard Jungle
‘He’s going to die, Doc, isn’t he?’ said Tony’s distraught wife as she squeezed his limp hand tightly in her own. ‘God, what am I going to do?’
I had been up all night with the patient. Tony was a senior SAS staff sergeant. The sort of guy legends are made of, who had been in every major SAS action of the past ten years. He was ill, desperately so, and I had no idea why.
‘
Where’s he been, Jill?’ I asked, trying to sound as calm as possible. I had already sought the advice of the best physician the country could offer. Even he had drawn a blank. Jill rolled her eyes upwards, shrugging her shoulders, as if to say ‘How do I know?’
Tony would not say. He had returned only five days earlier from a highly classified military operation. Despite being his doctor and badged myself, he would tell me nothing. Seconded to a specialist defence agency, his work was of a nature that could bring down Governments if made known. I was frantic with worry. His temperature was sky high, well over 40 degrees, as he sweated and shuddered his life away. His neck was as stiff as steel. Already I had tried antibiotics on the assumption he had developed meningitis, but they had not touched it. This powerful man was deteriorating rapidly before me.
Then, for a second, Tony stopped his shuddering. His breathing, once irregular, quietened. ‘Venezuela, Doc,’ he whispered. ‘The bastard jungle. Can you hear?’
It had been enough. As soon as he had spoken I knew. Cerebral malaria. A killer if you cannot treat it fast. ‘I’ve got it, Jill!’ I exclaimed. ‘Chloroquine! We’ve got to use Chloroquine! I’ll be back!’
Tony and Jill lived almost next door to me, twenty kilometres west of Hereford. The drive that night, to and from Bradbury Lines to obtain the intravenous Chloroquine, was the most frightening of my life. Rain obscured my windscreen, wipers struggling uselessly against it, as I slithered along the country roads trying to prevent the ampoules from breaking in my pocket. By the time I reached the house once more Tony was worse. His breathing had now become shallow, his lips blue, his pulse barely palpable. I did not bother to measure his blood pressure as I knew it would be unrecordably low.
Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon Page 9