Within thirty minutes of arrival we were fully set up and ready to receive casualties. I knew that numbers could vary from nothing to a full plane load. Everything had to be ready for an instant response. Haemaccel drips were prepared, artificial airways laid out, shell dressings arranged in perfect order for easy access. I could see the civilians looking at us slightly perplexed, dressed in our black overalls and working well as a team. Two of our number, having set up their part of the resuscitation kit, had already climbed into their sleeping bags and curled up on the floor. In the Services you have to sleep when you can. On SAS operations anywhere in the world, a clear eight-hour snooze is unlikely.
Seeing their inquisitiveness, I went over to the civilians and talked with them, introducing myself but leaving out details I knew would make security worry. It was when I asked them, in the event of an assault, to deal with SAS casualties as well as civilians that I could see I was on icy ground. ‘If we do get casualties,’ I said, ‘it would be good to see anyone in a black suit and respirator being treated rapidly.’ There was a slight double take at that by the civilians, but to their credit they accepted the concept. Whether they would do it was another matter.
With such events there are highs and lows. One moment you are being stood to, expecting an assault at any minute. The next you are feeling interminably bored. The airliner hijack was largely one of boredom - until our first casualty appeared. There had been no gunfire, so I was surprised to be disturbed from my sleeping-bag slumbers by a tap on my shoulder.
‘Are you the doctor?’ came a voice I could hear through a rapidly resolving sleeper’s fog. I looked up to see the huge frame of a policeman, clad in fluorescent jacket, leaning over me.
‘Yes,’ I answered, hand on my forehead to ward off the bright lights. ‘That’s me. Are we on?’ As I spoke I could feel an instant adrenalin rush to my chest and leaped out of my sleeping bag. The things are designed for a rapid exit with a long, free moving zip fastener from top to bottom at the front. I could feel the policeman’s hand on my shoulder gently restrain me, but by then I was into overdrive. With a loud shout of ‘Stand to!’ I kicked the sleeping bodies of my SMT colleagues, each tucked away in his own peace and solitude. Instantly each man sat upright and then leaped from his sleeping bag, ready for action. I was delighted with their response. Within less than three seconds my SMT had changed from a dozing outfit to one prepared for anything. I could see the policeman looking concerned.
‘It’s OK. It’s OK. Don’t worry,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, don’t worry?’
‘There’s no assault yet. It’s just me. Have you got an aspirin for my headache?’
‘No assault? Aspirin?’ I stuttered. My heart sank. Here we stood, ready for anything terrorism could throw at us and all the man wanted was an aspirin. Sheepishly I turned to my colleagues. ‘Sorry gents,’ I said. ‘My fault. Stand down.’ Worse still, we had no aspirin. The equipment stood prepared to receive anything from full thickness burns to massive blast injuries. But an aspirin? Not a hope.
The hijack fizzled out in the end. Within twelve hours of our arrival the terrorists had given in. The so-called gunshot wound to the co-pilot turned out to be a knife attack. He was lucky, as the blade had passed perilously close to his spine. I recall how quiet and controlled he was when I examined him. You would not have imagined he had been in a hijack at all. One very brave man, I thought. The same applied to the passengers, all of whom came off the aircraft in perfect control. No one was hysterical.
Several hours later we had returned to London and were tucked safely away in our beds. Though nothing dramatic had occurred, preparation and anticipation can be more exhausting than action itself. The hijack had highlighted basic faults with the SMT system. Call-out was unpredictable, transport unreliable and function at the scene ill-prepared. I sent my comments upwards to the RAMC hierarchy, but imagine they have been lost without trace in the bowels of the MOD.
Terrorism, and hence antiterrorism, should be taken very seriously. It invariably catches you by surprise. One major problem is that it follows you everywhere. You are unable to leave it behind. Even though I cannot imagine why any group would be interested in a doctor, the fact is one never knows. Special operations in far-flung lands do not expose the operative to risk once he has left the area, apart from any diseases he brings home. The same does not apply to terrorism. The other side, whatever cause they believe in, are frequently a passionate lot and aim to achieve their end in large part irrespective of the consequences. You cannot assume, simply because you carry a red cross or are in a caring profession, that you are exempt from being targeted. Admittedly the risks are low, but they are nevertheless there. For many years after leaving full-time SAS service I would receive strange telephone calls, sometimes two or three a day. Threats would be made to send my details and full identity to Heaven knows who. Who it was I do not know, except to say, for the moment at least, such things have ceased. Whoever you are, and I imagine Special Branch now know you, please be sure you had the desired effect. I was at times very worried and even now answer the telephone with caution.
Back in London I worked hard at my orthopaedic training. It was a strange world, this life of hip replacements, keyhole operations and broken bones. Though orthopaedic surgery was my ambition, I still yearned for the SAS and their adventurous, outdoor existence. Their strange, unpronounceable illnesses; the singlehanded responsibility; the ability to pick up the telephone and talk to whoever I wished in the land. My colleagues saw me daydream as I began to feel frustrated and, to a degree, disregarded. Surely there was more to life than this? I need not have worried. The Regiment had not forgotten me. Within months, Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands.
CHAPTER 7
The Month I Should Have Died
It is difficult to tell this story. Difficult because I have never been so scared. I think about it even now, more than a decade later. When I read what others have to say about the Falklands War, it is a conflict I do not recognize. Either I was somewhere different or they are unable to feel fear.
The story behind the war is clear. Argentina felt passionately the Malvinas were theirs - the British Government, and hence us, felt differently. On the 2 April 1982 the Falkland Islands were invaded, South Georgia suffering the same fate the following day. By 5 April, 22 SAS was on its way south, throughout the campaign conducting its operations both vigorously and professionally. However, with every war there is much classified activity behind the scenes of which the public, and many senior Service personnel, are unaware. One such operation involved the Regiment. In retrospect I was privileged to be part of it. I learnt more about myself than I thought possible. We are alive, I believe, thanks to the merciful indecision of the nation’s politicians. As a soldier you consider the politics of the situation at your peril. Your job is to undertake the task you are contracted to do. You can pass comment on how a job is to be done, but not on why it should be performed. The reasons are for the politicians. You can only pray that your military superiors have sufficient leverage on Government to influence the final conclusions.
When the task force set sail, amidst all manner of tub-thumping and media hype, I was certain nothing would happen. I felt Argentina was sure to see reason and withdraw. Nothing of the sort. Slowly it became apparent they would have to be pushed off. Their politicians had too much to lose by capitulating.
While Britain hovered on the brink of war, I was hard at work as a trainee orthopaedic surgeon. Supervising my somewhat inept attempts at what surgeons call ‘cutting’ were two of the finest practitioners I have met. I shall call them Colonels Jack and Graham. Both had that enviable skill that so few surgeons have. When they used a scalpel to cut the skin, a patient would barely bleed. It cannot be learned and most certainly cannot be taught. My immediate superior was Martin. In civilian life he would hold the rank of Senior Registrar, an experienced surgeon shortly to become a consultant. Martin is, and was, one of life’s great charact
ers. Once a medical officer to the Parachute Regiment, he is a man of action, decision and firm convictions. Together we would sit in the surgeons’ coffee room between operations, bemoaning the fact we had been left behind as the task force sailed south.
‘It’s easy, Richard,’ he would say.
‘How?’ I would ask.
‘Just bomb the bastards. Drop a nuc. That’ll sort ‘em out.’
Our fanciful conversations would become ever more wide-ranging. By the time the ships had reached Ascension Island, the halfway stage, Martin and I had hatched dozens of different plots and secret missions. Galtieri was to be assassinated and the entire Parachute Regiment would be dropped over Port Stanley in a full frontal assault. President Reagan, meanwhile, was to be blackmailed to ensure American participation. Of course, in reality, none of these ever happened. Colonels Jack and Graham tolerated our manic discussions as only wise men can, while Martin and I resigned ourselves to the role of armchair warriors. True REMFs, as the Americans call them: Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers. Several of the guys from stores were whisked away to the South Atlantic at short notice. For the rest of us life continued at its weary, somewhat tedious pace. My role had been established as one of caring for casualties once they returned to the United Kingdom. The South Atlantic medal was not one for me.
It was at half past midnight in mid May that my life forever changed. I had been out at a stag night and was feeling terrible. I had had far too much to drink. The telephone rang in my central London flat. It was the Ministry of Defence - Major N, who had been trying to find me for three hours. The bleep system had let him down at every turn. I was summoned to an urgent meeting at the hospital and was given thirty minutes to attend. Major N did not explain the reasons over the telephone.
I met him in a small room in the building’s administration wing. Across a bare mahogany table the two of us sat. There was no one else present. Considering a war was in progress, his briefing was remarkably limited. In retrospect it was probable that he, too, had been told very little. The operation was highly sensitive. That night he had been asked to find two surgical teams for an SAS operation. My name had been given as a starting-point. There was no time to lose. He could not say what the operation involved, but it would mean working in the back of an aircraft. There would be no facility for fancy surgery. Our task would be to keep operatives alive as long as possible, until they could reach established medical care.
I asked several questions about the background to the request, and more specific detail of what was involved. He could not answer them. In the end I gave up asking and concentrated on bringing the teams together. Though SMTs were available, nothing existed for this new scenario. I imagine the RAMC had never considered such a situation would arise. Whatever the reason, everything created that night came from thin air.
At 2 a.m., forming two three-man medical teams by dawn is a difficult task. I had a free hand. Naturally, and immediately, I thought of Martin. We had both already imagined a multitude of situations in which the war could involve us. Here was our chance, whatever that might be.
To his eternal credit, the moment I telephoned, he offered his services immediately. When Martin says he will do something, you can be sure it will happen. Together we set about finding the other four we needed. There was no purpose in having six surgeons. Though a surgeon may be a good, practical person with his hands, he requires much support. We decided the others should be nurses and operating theatre assistants.
By 4.30 a.m. the MOD had its teams. I was astonished how readily everyone agreed to help, particularly when I could tell them so little about the operation. One assistant was due to move house that very morning. As he lived in a married quarter near the hospital, I went to his house. The assistant, his wife and I sat on the various packing cases that littered his living room to discuss taking the man of the house to war. I could see how torn he was. I was unmarried then, without children. It never crossed my mind he could have loyalties anywhere other than active service. I can still see his wife’s distressed face as, after initial hesitance, he agreed to come.
During war, RAF, Navy and Army have different agendas and varying ambitions. The senior hierarchy may speak with one another and cooperate, or so one hopes, but at ground level the situation is far from satisfactory. Inter-service rivalry may sometimes be frankly hostile. The Falklands War, known to us all as Operation Corporate, was my first experience of a major, tri-service, conflict. One might imagine that all involved are kept fully updated and briefed. The reality is different. You are a small cog in a very large wheel. Whether by accident or design, you are well-informed in your one, specific, tiny area of activity but rarely privy to the big picture. The Army calls it ‘need to know’. What you don’t need to know cannot hurt you. The SAS is better off than most. Even then information can be lacking. No surprise therefore that the CO learned of the original invasion from the BBC. No surprise also that all of us were glued to every World Service bulletin to hear how the war progressed. The BBC has a style, an accuracy, a relaxed manner, with which few can compete.
Whatever the reasons, the true hazards of the operation were never made clear at the initial briefing. I was subsequently to learn that I had been selected, and selected others, for a mission with an optimistic 30 per cent chance of survival for those involved. I knew that for normal troops the risk of dying in war was small. This operation, whatever it was, was something very different. Given a choice, I imagine my Boys’ Own approach to life would have ensured my involvement. However, I would have thought very carefully about taking married men if I had known.
You know things are bad when the military top brass have to get out of bed to agree things. I should have guessed the Director-General being woken at 4 a.m. by Major N’s telephone call spelt trouble, but I did not. With his blessing, we were told to be ready to move to a tiny airfield in central England by 1.30 that afternoon. I still had no idea what to expect. Even the destination after the airfield was kept from us.
Major N had asked that I should also collect the equipment needed for the job. As I had no idea what the task was, this was an impossible order.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Dunno,’ came the reply.
‘How many casualties can we expect?’
‘Dunno.’
‘OK then. How long will we have to keep them alive?’
‘Dunno.’
I got the message quickly. We were on our own. Eventually, Major N contacted me with a very vague casualty estimate, saying we should be prepared to keep them alive for twelve hours. I knew that, somewhere in the bowels of Hereford, there were several sets of antiterrorist medical kit for the SMTs. As there was no time to design and prepare equipment specially for this task, I asked that two complete sets be sent to meet us at the airfield. The equipment was mainly designed for use in a friendly country, where hospital facilities were close by. It could not cope with the large numbers likely on this occasion. I therefore instructed that extra surgical items be obtained from the Army’s main supply depot. They, too, pulled out all stops that morning.
The final hours before one goes to war can be immensely confusing. There is certainly no time to worry. From all corners come strange items of equipment the Quartermaster hotly denied existed during peacetime. Suddenly they miraculously appear from a hidden shelf, somewhere in a backroom. Everything for this operation was spanking new.
The administration must also have their say. You cannot go to war without every form being signed and fully completed. I must have put my signature to a hundred that day. My favourite was the FIdent 107, with its two brilliant red crosses at each top corner. Safely protected in its plastic cover, and carrying an appalling photograph and fingerprint of its immature owner on the reverse, it proudly proclaimed I was a doctor. ‘The bearer of this card is protected by the Geneva Convention of 12 August 1949,’ it said. Some hope, I thought, knowing what the average Argentinian would do to an SAS doctor captured in the field.
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The identity card was supported by the FIdent 189, specially designed with a tear-off portion to be handed to the opposition in the event of capture. As well as name, rank and number, it also proclaims, ‘If you are captured you are required, under the provisions of Article 17 of the Prisoner of War Convention, 1949, to give your captors the information set out below so that your capture may be reported to your next-of-kin. When you are interrogated, but not before, tear off the duplicate portion and give it to the interrogators, give no other information.’ War was coming frighteningly close.
That morning, before leaving London, I made one vital telephone call. To my mother. I could not tell her where I was going, even if I had known. With a husband in Intelligence, and a son in the SAS, she had become highly skilled at the art of veiled conversation. I suppose this was one more episode to add to the already lengthy list of worries I had given her since leaving home.
‘I’ve got to go away for a while, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure for how long.’ I tried to sound as jolly as I could. Mum picked it up immediately. I could sense her distress even though she would never admit it. Dad, the voice of reason, came on after her. Having been sunk himself three times in the Second World War, I was sure he knew what faced me. Neither asked any detailed questions, just calmly wished me well. Mum whispered, ‘Be careful,’ and hung up. While I was away she listened to almost every news bulletin, at least twelve in a day. She had also faithfully stuck pins into a model of Galtieri daily.
It took three and a half hours to reach the airfield, lurching our way in the hospital minibus, crammed together with our kit: Bergens, waterproofs, mess tins, Red Cross armbands. Everything was there.
Running a war is a massive logistic exercise. Running one 13,000 kilometres away is a challenge most will fail to meet. I can see now why the RAF’s palette-packers were awarded South Atlantic medals. They must have worked twenty-four hours a day to keep the likes of ourselves supported. With so much kit available, there is a risk you can lose your own. It must be instantly recognizable by day or night, indoors or outdoors, rain or shine, from the many other items going in the same direction. Therefore mark it you must, though without any sign of rank, name, unit or location. Nothing to give you away when caught or if your equipment is found abandoned. After heated debate we decided on a team logo. A small, fluorescent orange mushroom. It was not my idea.
Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon Page 20