Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon (3 page)

There is one major difference between Territorial and Regular SAS. The Territorial SAS soldier will have come in off the street, often without any prior military service. The Regular SAS operative must have come from some form of previous Services background. Those joining the Regulars are thus up to scratch with basic soldiering skills from the start. The Territorial soldier often is not. This difference was initially reflected in the roles of the various Regiments. Whereas the Regulars, 22 SAS, had a more aggressive approach to life, the Territorial units — 21 and 23 SAS — were more passive. Their primary role was one of observation. Their secondary role was more SAS-like, involving sabotage, snatches and the like.

Those who fail the SAS Selection course often bring back tales of deeds and happenings that defy imagination, an attempt to justify why they did not succeed. Such tales are unnecessary. There is no dishonour in failing Selection; you are in good company if you do. The SAS is looking for individuals of a certain type and
you,
however strong God made you, may simply be the wrong person. One thing is certain, the day you first decide to try for the SAS is immensely awe-inspiring.

I decided to join in secret. Apart from Jim, I did not want any colleagues knowing, in case I failed. To my earlier advisers, I had let the matter drop, though my parents knew I was up to something odd. One Thursday afternoon I found the remotest, tiniest, loneliest Army Careers Information Office I could, somewhere in south London, and strode resolutely inside. It was empty, save for one very properly dressed Warrant Officer, sitting ramrod straight behind an immaculately tidy desk. Everything was laid out in perfect order before him. Telephone, blotter, paper clips, files. Each item appeared to be parallel to the one beside it, like soldiers on parade. He looked directly at me as I approached the desk. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said as I drew near, a tight knot gnawing at the pit of my stomach.

‘I want to join the SAS,’ I said self-consciously, mumbling terribly — a family failing.

‘Sorry, sir?’ The man had obviously not heard me. I would have to try again.

‘The SAS,’ I said, still in hushed tones. ‘I want to join it.’ I could see the Warrant Officer was struggling hard to hear. His forehead wrinkled deeply as he leaned over his desk, head turned slightly to one side. With his hand he formed a cup behind his right ear.

‘Say again, sir. I can’t quite hear you.’

My heart sank. We had just spent two weeks learning ear, nose and throat surgery at my hospital, so I knew all about high-tone deafness. Particularly in soldiers exposed, unprotected, to rifle and artillery fire for many years. Surely not? My self-consciousness had by now disappeared. Checking around me to be sure I was still alone, I put one hand firmly either side of the Warrant Officer’s ink blotter, and shouted.

‘The SAS. You know, the Special Air Service. How does one join it? I want to join.’ I was leaning so far forward, my face was only inches from his own.

I was almost hoarse, but could see comprehension begin to dawn on the soldier’s face. He removed the cupped hand from behind his ear, raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth in realization. I had broken through at last. From the corner of my eye, on the pavement outside the office, I saw two passers-by stop in their tracks and look in the window. My heart sank still further. For sure, the whole of south London must have heard my request. I prayed the floor would open and swallow me up, but it did not. Instead, the Warrant Officer reclined back to his vertical sitting position, and reached for the pitch-black telephone to his left. ‘The SAS, sir? Of course, sir. I’m sure we can help.’

So it was, twenty-four hours later, I appeared at the end of a long line of hopefuls at a barracks in central London. I had decided A Squadron 21 SAS, a Territorial unit, would be the correct first step. It would allow me a better understanding of SAS life without compromising my medical training. After full qualification as a doctor, only three years away, joining the Regular 22 SAS might be a possibility. ‘You can take medicine anywhere,’ my aunt had once said. After qualification, anything was possible.

My companions in line came from all walks of life. You will never see such a cross-section of society as can be found at the start of SAS Selection. Black and white, straight or gay, rich or poor. Everyone is there from the streetwise mugger to the affluent professional. The one question you never ask is why someone wishes to join. For some it may be an escape, for others it might be a planned career move. You never know for sure. As far as the Regiment is concerned, you pass Selection first and they will ask questions afterwards, though there is obviously a degree of basic security clearance at the start. However, you are not exposed to the more covert, specialist SAS techniques until after Selection is complete. This can be immensely disappointing for some. Several years after I joined, a good friend tried the same. Having passed Selection with flying colours, and all the labour that entails, he was refused entry on security grounds. Whether or not it was due to his wife originating from the then Eastern bloc was never explained.

Standing in line that evening I was, as seems frequently my lot, at its very end. I learned that I had already missed the first two of five Selection weekends, leading to a fortnight away in Wales at a final Selection camp. At that time, the Territorial Selection was similar in design to the Regular, though slightly downgraded. For a civilian it was just as demanding. Nothing less than utter dedication would see you through. In recent years the situation has changed, both Territorials and Regulars taking the same course. The two are separated by speed. Regulars should average four kilometres per hour across country, Territorials three kilometres per hour. A Territorial who can keep pace with the Regulars becomes eligible for a high-readiness Reserve.

I noticed a total lack of conversation in the queue. At the far end, through an open hatch, a cheery quartermaster, the QM, was handing out equipment. His was the only voice to be heard. Everyone was taking this event very seriously. Twenty minutes later my turn came. I could see a vast expanse of empty shelves over the QM’s shoulder. He saw my gaze and spoke sympathetically. Sympathetically, that is, for an SAS QM. ‘Sorry, son. You’re new aren’t you? Afraid all the best stuff has gone. Here’s a Bergen rucksack and poncho anyway. You’ll find rations over there.’ He pointed to a pile of overladen, clear, plastic bags, being quietly decimated by the others. ‘I’d grab a few quick before they all disappear,’ he added. As I turned, the hatch was closed, eliminating any prospect of further conversation. I darted across to the pile of bags, grabbing the final two.

The other applicants, let me call them trainees, had spread themselves and their equipment along the length of one wall. Ponchos were being folded, rations unpacked and repacked, maps covered in plastic. The atmosphere was one of frightening, albeit silent, efficiency. I had no idea what to do. Finding myself a small space in a distant corner I, too, started to reorganize my kit. This was difficult, as no one had told me what to expect. All I knew was that I was to be physically tested, somewhere in South Wales.

The ration packs seemed a reasonable starting point. There were only three choices of SAS ration. Beef, mutton or curry. I subsequently learned that each tasted the same, even to the gastronome. I am sure they were identical. I suspect all the army ever did was to change the label on the pack, in the hope this would persuade the consumer the taste was different. They did not fool me. As I began to separate out my rations, mutton and curry had been my choices, a small orange pill fell to the floor in a tiny plastic bag. I picked it up and studied it, feeling it through the clear plastic, looking for some indication of identity. There was none. It was smooth on both sides, no grooves, no letters, nothing. What on earth was it?

Beside me was another trainee, arranging his kit with alarming speed. A thin, wiry individual dressed in a cream shirt with sleeves rolled up, he looked very much the man who had seen it all before. He sensed my quandary and glanced towards me.

‘Suicide pill,’ he said, his voice deadly serious.

I could not believe what I was hearing. I must have looked doubtful, as he started to nod his head sagely and spoke again. ‘Sure. It’s a suicide pill. All over in less than ten seconds. In case you get caught. You’ll probably not need it, but you never know.’ Then he turned back to his pile of very orderly equipment, rapidly packed everything away in his Bergen rucksack, and strode purposefully through a door at the far end of the room to join an increasing throng of trainees.

I stood there, mouth open, watching the rear view of the trainee disappear into the room beyond. The trouble with the SAS is that you can believe anything of it. Anything at all. It did not surprise me to find a suicide pill in a ration pack. I was only a volunteer, not a full-timer. “What about my medical studies? I may believe in my country, but not enough to kill myself. I had seen various films and read assorted books about the Special Operations Executive in the last war. The use of their lethal pill, buried deep inside a molar tooth, was well known to me. Naturally it made sense that the SAS should have the same. After all, what chance of survival would you have if captured behind enemy lines? It seemed odd to be issued with a suicide pill on Selection. Was this a way out for failures perhaps? Or even a test? Did I honestly have to take the thing when caught? How many had died on Selection as a result? Questions rattled through my mind. What were they going to do to me in South Wales? Would I ever get back at all? I can laugh about it now as I subsequently learned it was a vitamin pill. My competitive self was also secretly delighted that the man who teased me failed Selection.

To the regular hill walker, South Wales is a paradise. To the SAS trainee it is hell on earth. If you survive Selection, you know almost everything about the Brecon Beacons and Black Mountains by the end. That first weekend, having travelled by tube to Paddington, train to Newport, and four-ton lorry to the Brecon Beacons, it was 2. a.m. on the Saturday morning that we arrived. Unceremoniously dumped by some woods next to an old pub, the Storey Arms, we were told to be prepared for duty by 6 a.m. We should be packed and ready to move by then. That was it. No frills, no help, no light, no hot tea ready to welcome us. Nothing at all. It was pitch dark and pouring with rain. I was soaked to the skin within seconds of leaving the friendly shelter of the four-tonner. What on earth was I meant to do? Even the military parachuting course seemed a welcome relaxation compared to this. Already I was looking forward to Monday morning’s hospital ward round that, by tradition, filled most medical students with terror. In hushed tones I promised my Maker all manner of noble deeds if he returned me to London in one piece.

Looking around me I saw the other trainees disappear into the woods, in different directions. ‘No lights, you lot,’ was bellowed from the back of the departing four-tonner. ‘Any lights and you’re out,’ was added. Bastard, I thought. You come and find somewhere to sleep in this lot. I now realize, of course, that the man who shouted had himself survived Selection. He is also, now, a very good friend. I hated him then.

By the time I had finished fuming at the stupidity of it all, I was alone. Alone, lonely, tired and very wet. Deep within the woods I could hear the cracking of branches and twigs as the other trainees prepared their own sleeping arrangements. I could see nothing. The blackness of a forest at night is complete. I was to learn that again, several years later, with 22 SAS in the Far East. Fed up, with both life and the army, I produced my poncho from a sodden Bergen, wrapped myself in it, lay on the ground, and tried to sleep. I think I cried too.

It was a worse than awful night. The poncho made a half-hearted attempt to keep the worst off me, but by 5 a.m. I was as cold and as soaked as one gets. Every item of equipment I possessed, be it inside or outside my Bergen, was drenched. I had to eat. I knew that was essential. The sky had that dull, depressing lightness about it, when you wonder if dawn is ever truly going to break. Gathering my few things together, I stumbled from the wood to the roadside. What I saw staggered me. The place was a hive of frantic activity. Along a fence beside the road was a line of little green homemade tents. Each was made from an individually erected army poncho. Beneath each one was a soldier, looking as warm as toast, perfectly dry, earnestly cooking his breakfast on a solid-fuel stove. It was my first introduction to the SAS
basha,
a word of Malayan origin. Keeping dry was unquestionably an art form that I had not yet mastered. These men, the training-wing instructors, were obviously professionals at the game.

I can now make
bashas
of any shape or size and erect them anywhere in the world, day or night. In those days I had never seen one. The key is preparation. First, all holes in the poncho must be hermetically sealed. The head hole, for example, can leak like a sieve unless tied off. To small eyelets in each corner are tied lengths of military twine, the so-called ‘paracord’, looped at the outer end. Two elastic, roofrack bunjees and a few plastic tent pegs are the only extras. The whole affair fits neatly into a Bergen pocket, and probably weighs less than a kilogram. With the wise use of available vertical supports - fences, gates, trees - a
basha
can be erected in no time. It can be of any design, but should be angled into the wind and staked down so that rainwater runs off rather than on to you. For most of the world, a
basha
is all you require to survive. The only exception is certain jungle rainfalls. These can be so powerful they can soak through the poncho material. There is not much you can do about that, except choose a different material.

The delicious smell of cooking filled the air that morning. From one
basha
I could hear the sizzling of meat being fried. How did these guys do it? On a military ration? I obviously had to try for myself. With damp, wrinkled, trembling hands I ripped open one of the ration bags and read the instructions on the packet: ‘Reconstitute with water.’ There was certainly no shortage of that in Wales, I thought. Though the night’s downpour had now turned to fine drizzle, I could have squeezed out my clothes into a cooking pot if it came to it. Of course, like a rookie, I had forgotten the basic task of filling my water bottle before leaving London. I had been certain, in the warmth and security of our capital city, that water would be everywhere. In reality, the nearest river was fifteen frozen minutes’ walk away. By the time I had reached it, and returned, it was 5.45 a.m. Only fifteen minutes before I had to be ready to move. Around me were instructors and trainees looking highly organized.
Bashas
were being dismantled and packed away, maps studied, bootlaces tightened. I, meanwhile, was feeling much the worse for wear. My kit was by now strewn along the roadside and attempts to ignite a solid-fuel hexamine block with a soggy match fruitless. Time was against me. Already I was beginning to receive irritated looks from the instructors and smug ones from other trainees. I was not a happy man.