Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon

by Villar, Richard

  ‘Cor! That’s great!’ exclaimed the driver. By now his accelerator pedal was as far down as it could go, our speed hovering at around 210 kilometres per hour. He was out to impress and speed was his way of doing so. I began to pray silently that a flashing blue light would appear and stop us. My prayers were not answered.

  As the car vibrated at terminal velocity, the driver spoke again. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, do they pay you by the body or by the job?’

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed, suddenly realizing what this was about. The driver thought I was a professional hit man. Someone in the transport section had wound him up. He was most disappointed when I confessed to my medical training and that I could not kill a man however hard I tried. His speed also came down to legal levels.

  I have always felt Birmingham has one of the better airports. It was no exception that day. As with Heathrow, Northern Ireland passengers were channelled into a separate area, rather like carriers of the pox. One particularly disreputable fellow was wedged into a plastic seat opposite me as we waited to board. He looked most unsavoury. Unkempt, unshaven, filthy jeans and battered shoes with frayed laces. Terrorists come in many forms. They, too, have to travel between Northern Ireland and the mainland. It would be just my luck, I thought, to be on a flight the IRA chose to bomb. Meanwhile, standing to one side, was a small group of obvious servicemen returning to the province, looking totally relaxed.

  From time to time I saw the unkempt one cast me a glance, as if he was wondering who or what I was. I was tempted to stop a passing security officer - there were plenty of them — to ask that the man be checked out. Something held me back, perhaps a fear that I was being unnecessarily alarmist, so I resolved instead to keep a careful eye on him throughout the flight. He had been ahead of me in the check-in queue, so I knew he was slightly in front, and to the left, of my own seat once on board. For a moment I thought hard, going through the various techniques I would need to incapacitate him if it came to it. I had done karate for years and in my mind considered the alternatives open to me. By the time we had boarded I had decided what to do. A direct blow to the top of his right collar bone would paralyse the nerves to his right hand, followed by a stranglehold from behind. In my mind the job was as good as done.

  Throughout the short flight to Belfast I stayed poised on the edge of my aisle seat, two rows behind the unsavoury fellow. I watched his every move. When he twitched, I twitched. When he breathed, I breathed. Meanwhile the servicemen were chatting away, blissfully unaware of my worries. Then, glancing furtively around him, I saw the man stand up and reach towards the overhead locker. I had to get him! I bounded from my seat, raising my right hand in knife-like form to crash it down hard on the man’s collar bone. From the corner of one eye I could see the open mouth of an astonished stewardess as I barged past her drinks trolley, thumping it hard against an adjacent seat. To break a collar bone you have to strike very forcibly, starting with your hand almost behind your head to create the power. It was a fraction of a second before I struck that I saw it. The unsavoury fellow fumbled with the zip to one end of his black, plastic holdall and produced the device. My heart sank as I watched. It was not a bomb or weapon at all. A paperback. A bloody paperback novel. Villar, you are unquestionably a prat, I thought. I stood there, stranded, hand raised, wondering what to do. I must have looked a fool. Then, quickly, I realized the answer. Bringing my raised hand downwards I clutched my bladder in simulated agony and rushed past, cheeks glowing in embarrassment. For some reason I could not understand, I saw a tiny smile on my target’s face as I strode my way forwards.

  Needless to say, the unsavoury chap did no harm at all. We arrived at Belfast airport in fine fettle without hijacks, bombings, gassings or even surface-to-air missiles fired from the ground. The man highlighted the very nature of terrorism - a lot of it is in the mind. Because their actions are so unannounced and seemingly below the belt, terrorist groups exert much of their effect by keeping society on permanent edge. In reality, whoever you are, the chances of being bombed, shot or disembowelled in Northern Ireland are small. In your mind, however, such things are happening all the time. Every street corner has a lurking terrorist, every car is following you and each pair of sunglasses hides a murderer in disguise.

  In practice, however tense it makes you, suspecting everyone and everything is still essential. I remember having a drink in a local pub one rare, sunny Hereford afternoon with a very good SAS officer friend. He had just returned from the province after three months of covert operations and was one of the best operatives I knew - highly admired by everyone, irrespective of rank or social status. A car backfired in the distance, at least 200 metres away. Immediately and instinctively, he reached for his imaginary pistol and started to roll off his seat into a firing position before holding himself in check. Northern Ireland had made it impossible for the man to relax.

  Walking through the main exit doors of Belfast airport, I saw my unsavoury target being welcomed by the most voluptuous, leggy blonde I had seen in a long time. It was a passionate embrace that almost led to other things before the couple had reached their car. As I stood transfixed, feeling like a voyeur, a rattly voice disturbed me from behind. It was slightly high-pitched. ‘Are you the Doc?’ it said. I turned to see an enormous creature leaning over me. The man must have been at least six foot four. Huge, broad shoulders, wide enough to land an airplane on, stood above a chest as large as three beer kegs. The chest tapered to a tiny waist from which two massive thighs extended. The whole frame was squeezed into a tight, ill-fitting, grey suit. The face was smooth- shaven and the hair close cut, even shorter than mine. The shoes were black patent leather, slightly scuffed, covering two massive feet seeking to burst out. This fellow, whoever he was, came as near to the children’s Desperate Dan as one can get.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked the man suspiciously, every nerve, every muscle, braced for a cunning IRA trap.

  ‘Transport, Doc. I’ve come to take you to your location.’

  ‘ID? Have you got any?’

  ‘It’s in the palm of my hand, Doc. Don’t look down too obviously, but you’ll see it there.’

  I glanced down. In the palm of Desperate Dan’s right hand I could see the pink outline of his service identification card, the MOD 90. The picture looked identical to the huge brute standing before me. However powerful he looked, I had to admire his slickness in producing the card. With the two of us standing outside a civilian airport it would be unwise to display publicly our service occupations. Palming of ID cards was a common way of making it past searches in civilian clothes without showing everything to those around you. I nodded once I saw the card and followed Dan to a large, silver-grey Ford parked nearby. In the front passenger seat was another man, though of more normal size and shape than Dan. He turned and smiled as I climbed into the seat behind. A hundred yards away, in the same car park, I saw the other servicemen with whom I had flown entering a computer company’s minivan. Wrong again, I thought. They were not servicemen at all, but businessmen. It was part of a long education by the SAS that no one is who they appear to be from the outside.

  It was my first time in a covert car. Outwardly normal, it was in reality heavily armoured. As we pulled away from the car park, from beneath his tight grey suit jacket Dan produced his Browning automatic pistol, placing it under his right thigh for instant access in the event of trouble. I had been taught that in Hereford. At his feet was an open holdall containing a fully loaded, and cocked, MP5 submachine gun.

  ‘How about you, Doc?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got a short for you if you want.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be more of a hazard than anything else if we get into a shootout. I’ll leave it to you if I may. With my tangled experience on the floor of the killing house I felt it would be safer to avoid a weapon altogether. I could see that Dan understood and was probably relieved.

  Though there was little conversation between the car’s occupants as we made our way through the
tortuous roads of Northern Ireland, there was still much chit-chat. Dan would continually use his covert radio, reporting his position at all times. I did not understand the language he spoke, full of Tangos, Bravos and Zulus. There was obviously an effective, secure, voice-procedure system used by Northern Ireland’s covert forces. Occasionally we would pass cars going in the opposite direction, usually driven by single males. If the other car made a hand signal in acknowledgement, Dan would return with an identical signal. Sometimes he would lift his whole hand in a form of wave, at others he would simply raise a finger. Whatever he did, he would ensure his response was identical to the sign he received.

  Two hours’ drive from Belfast, I paid my first visit to a Northern Ireland military camp. Surrounded by high fencing, the SAS operatives were billeted in prefabricated bungalow-type buildings. Each building was covered by suspended wire netting to catch mortar bombs the other side might fire. I was astounded at how bored many of the operatives looked. For much of their time they were waiting for the next military operation. Life was not a continuous cycle of undercover activities deep inside enemy territory. That is not to say they were unwilling. Each was highly enthusiastic. They were simply victims of the political system. Time and again senior SAS officers would develop astonishing ideas to counter terrorist activities. Time and again they were turned down by the politicians for overstepping the mark. Fighting a war in a civilian, urban environment, surrounded by the media, is very different from all-out conflict in open countryside. Being kept in check by politicians can be immensely frustrating. It showed.

  Restriction by protocol does not come easily to an SAS operative. He is trained to act promptly, when the time is right, and is frequently seen as the final solution to many problems. Hence my amazement when operatives were arrested and tried for murder. It is most likely, should an SAS operative have a shootout with the other side; that the opposition will come off worse. Hence the Dunloy graveyard shooting, or for that matter Gibraltar. Both of these were operations following which SAS operatives were either tried for murder or questioned in bitter detail about their actions on the day. I cannot understand this, as the senior hierarchy tasking the SAS know exactly the nature of the beast involved. If you have a weapon in your hand and pose any threat whatsoever to an SAS operative, be it real or imagined, the chances are you will perish. I do not wish to enter the rights and wrongs of these episodes as I feel desperately sorry for everyone concerned. It is usually a waste of young life and a worrying time for the soldier involved, who is never sure of being cleared until the day. Trials drag on for months, if not years, during which time the operative would be less than human if he did not worry. Such emotions can affect his performance with other Regimental activities and can be a hazard to both himself and others.

  Added to the SAS, the people I admired were those of 14 Intelligence Company, whom we would call ‘the Det’, short for detachment. The Det was originally an offshoot of the SAS, being trained and selected by them in the early Belfast days. They are the covert operatives, out and about day and night, in full-time service on the streets of Northern Ireland. On two-year attachments, the majority come from a Service background. Very few now come from the SAS itself. Their selection is well described in The Operators by James Rennie and is something with which I would occasionally help. In particular the milling.

  Milling is a somewhat pointless exercise invented, I believe, by the Parachute Regiment. Two candidates are placed in a boxing ring, suitably gloved. They are then told to beat each other as hard as they can in the face for two minutes. No holds are barred and defending yourself is forbidden. When I tried it my opponent happened to be a flyweight boxing champion. This did not worry me greatly as my karate free-fighting had prepared me well, so I started both to block his punches and use my bare feet. Within seconds the bell was rung and I was publicly disciplined for defending myself and for striking my opponent everywhere except his face. Thereafter the two of us had to slog each other about the head for a two-minute period, simply to prove our aggression. Milling is mad, bad and unnecessary.

  The Det caters for both men and women. Most look very ordinary and try hard to look plain. Blending with one’s surroundings is not only a matter of what you wear, but how you behave - your mannerisms, your walking style, your general shape. You may, for example, be a muscly sort of person. Striding down Belfast’s Falls Road with shoulders drawn back is a certain way of attracting attention. Slouch a bit, scuff your feet and look a little overcome by the events of the day. Everybody else does and so should you. Security is naturally paramount. During their selection, Det candidates are referred to by number rather than name. That number follows them from beginning to end. This can create problems if you happen to know the person concerned. I remember Mike L, an excellent friend and capable soldier, applying to join the Det as number 124. As I was then Medical Officer to 22 SAS, our paths crossed on a number of occasions. It required enormous self-control on my part to avoid shouting out ‘Mike!’ at the top of my voice whenever I saw him. Saying ‘Good morning, 124,’ seemed most unnatural.

  It was Dan’s job to take me round Northern Ireland, so I could talk to SAS and Det operatives in their various locations. I soon realized that there was little requirement for my medical skills in the province. Surrounded by first-class civilian hospitals, any injuries are normally taken directly to them, whether military or otherwise. One major problem, however, is trench foot. This is a condition created by prolonged immersion of the feet in cold water. It was particularly common during the Great War. Hence the name. Gradually the water softens the skin, making it spongy, like blotting paper. Then it blisters and peels off, exposing the bare flesh beneath. Permanent damage is created to the tiny blood vessels in the skin, making it impossible for the victim to withstand prolonged water immersion for many years to follow. SAS and Det operatives are particularly vulnerable as they must remain motionless in their various observation posts, often for days at a time. Particularly in a rural environment, such as the southern border, a favoured hiding place such as a ditch can fill with water in no time. For fear of detection the operative cannot move, with trench foot the consequence. The only treatment is careful drying of the feet, antibiotics if the skin has exposed underlying flesh, and time.

  For some operatives, the condition meant they could never go on Northern Ireland OP duty again. Trench foot is one form of what is called ‘cold injury’. Other conditions in this family include frostbite and frostnip. Frostbite is the most serious, with extremities eventually turning black. Frostnip is between the two, with the extremities turning deathly pale but eventually recovering. In all three — trench foot, frostnip, frostbite - the result is often lifelong sensitivity to cold. For a covert operative this is, understandably, a catastrophe.

  As part of Dan’s Northern Ireland tour I was fully briefed on many aspects of counterterrorist activities in the province. Sometimes I was faced with unexpected surprises. On one occasion I was visiting a remote location, talking with some Det operatives about what they were doing. I was fascinated, becoming so engrossed by the detail that I did not notice the figure positioning itself at my side. Slowly, I became aware someone was there. I looked to my right.

  ‘Hi, Doc!’ came the smiling voice. ‘Remember me?’

  For a moment I frowned, struggling to hide my lack of recognition. I remember hips, knees and the occasional backside in clear detail. With names and faces I am hopeless. Then, with a flash, even I remembered.

  ‘You! But… what are you doing here? I don’t believe it!’

  The smiling face nodded, and then put its thin arm around my shoulders, head inclined slightly towards me. ‘Yes, Doc. It’s me. The airplane — do you remember? You were going to thump me, you bastard, weren’t you?’

  I nodded. I had to. It was him - the unsavoury fellow. I was dumbfounded. There, behind, was the voluptuous, leggy blonde busily cleaning her small pistol. Once again, I thought, no one in life is who they appear.

&nb
sp; Love them or hate them, the Det operatives are immensely brave. Exposed, often isolated, and occasionally unsupported, they must find it hard to fit into normal life when they return to the mainland. This was certainly the situation for many SOE operatives after the Second World War. The Det was involved with one tragedy that hit me particularly hard - the death of James R. Having listened to his comments on the effects of lignocaine when I had first arrived in Hereford’s Officers’ Mess, our old friendship had been rekindled. In a combined SAS/Det operation he was killed trying to assault a terrorist gun team. His SAS group was advised to assault through the wrong front door during the attack, the one next to the terrorists’ house rather than the house itself. James, last out of the covert civilian car, was shot dead. The sad photograph of his body lying covered on a Northern Ireland pavement appears frequently in newspapers and books to this day. I feel awful whenever I see it. It highlights the waste of life these things create. After the tragedy, I remember one SAS officer saying to me that James had died ‘because he wasn’t quick enough’. I realize the remark was a soldier’s effort at justifying death, something that is in fact impossible, but I nearly hit him at the time. The reality was death was unavoidable. At least he died quickly.

  As a member of the security services in Northern Ireland, one must accept a percentage of the population hates you. However nice you are, whatever you do to help, to them you represent something they truly dislike. It is what you stand for, not what you are, that is the trouble. Driving round the harder areas of Belfast, regions that look similar to a city in the aftermath of nuclear war, you can detect real hatred in some people’s eyes. Once, I was performing the simple task of carrying a ladder from one building to another. It was not a covert operation. All I was doing was adjusting guttering on the front of a house in which I was billeted, a very non-SAS activity. I was outside a military base, unarmed and looked outwardly like any member of the Northern Ireland civilian community. I would have done credit to the Det. As I walked along the pavement, the short distance to the building, a car pulled up to ask directions. Inside were four young men. None would have been over twenty years of age. Four youths in a Belfast car spells trouble, but my mind was on other things. I was stupid.