Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon (12 page)

‘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.

‘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.

It is difficult to keep a steady hand at times like that, but somehow I managed to insert the intravenous drip first time. Tony was a muscular man when healthy and had a large vein along one side of his forearm. The needle and plastic cannula slipped into it with ease.

As the first batch of Chloroquine went in I knew I had the diagnosis correct. It had been Tony’s only chance and without it he would certainly have died. Slowly I could see the colour return to his lips and fingernails, his breathing deepen. Ten minutes later his eyes opened and he managed his first effort at a smile. The relief I felt was overwhelming. Tony had probably been within minutes of dying. Once I knew control had been established, I ordered an ambulance to take him to the hospital as full recovery would naturally take several days. For months afterwards Tony would keep asking why the first thing he remembered was seeing his wife and me by his side, Jill with tears streaming down her cheeks. Relief is a powerful emotion.

Next to SAS Selection, the jungle is the end of the earth. Unfortunately, in the Regiment, you cannot escape it. My turn came unexpectedly, two days after Tony’s crisis, one foggy Hereford morning. As I staggered sleepily towards the Kremlin for my weekly operations update, I was waylaid by Major P. ‘Doc, Doc!’ he said urgently. ‘I thought I’d catch you here. We need you in Delight.’

‘Delight?’ I asked.

‘Yes, Operation Delight. You know, Central America. They’ve got problems down south and need you to set up hearts and minds on the border. When can you go?’

‘Tomorrow, I suppose,’ I replied doubtfully, praying the local practice could stand in for me at such short notice. I had all manner of things organized for the coming weeks in Hereford, including careful follow-up of Tony’s illness. Despite this, the nature of SAS service was that you had to move quickly should the need arise.

‘Good,’ Major P replied. ‘I’ll get it organized.’

So it was that I found myself seated on an RAF VC10, facing backwards as was traditional, heading across the Atlantic to Central America. It is the nature of operational codenames that they should bear no connection to the operation itself - Cloud, Prince, Bee, Rodent, Gravel. Who dreams these things up I shall never know. Putting SAS operations in Central America under the codename of Delight was typical. At that time it was a very pestilent place. If a disease featured in a medical textbook, it could be found in those fungating jungles. When you earn your living from human misery, as I do, it could be fascinating. Delighted? I think not.

The SAS has a long history of jungle warfare. Borneo and Malaya were major testing grounds for the Regiment - long periods of isolation for small SAS patrols, deep within enemy territory. This was the era of the SAS jungle specialist - the ‘jungle bunny’. The jungle brings out the best, and worst, in people. If you are claustrophobic, thrive on company or are in the least bit disorganized, it will defeat you. That is why the Regiment insists jungle training should form part of a trainee’s Continuation assessment, before he joins his Squadron. However powerfully he may walk across the Brecon Beacons, however well he resists interrogation, the jungle represents the ultimate test. Every year, a handful of individuals, and even the occasional trained SAS operative, are returned to their parent units for failing to withstand the rigours of jungle life.

Hereford Hospital loved the jungle trips. They were a mine of pathology once the operatives returned from overseas. The laboratory staff would run competitions, trying to guess which country in the world was involved, by identifying the large number of infecting organisms the men brought home. You can get a good idea where someone has been by looking at his stools, or his watery eyes, even his nasal discharge.

Gut rot, or gastroenteritis, was the commonest illness. This is a waterborne disease. A jungle animal, or more likely a local native without an understanding of hygiene, defecates into or near a jungle waterway. The excreta may be teeming with bacteria. Salmonella is particularly common. The SAS operative, in all innocence, creeps to the water’s edge to fill his waterbottle, praying that he will not be seen. High humidity has dissolved and destroyed his sterilization tablets and he cannot boil the water for fear of being detected by the enemy. He must drink it as it comes, salmonella going straight from tail end of native to stomach of operative. Florid gastroenteritis is the result. I learned to recognize salmonella by the smell. It has the most pungent, foul, penetrating odour imaginable. Routinely I would walk round the Squadron latrines once jungle trips returned home. I needed no laboratory support to diagnose the disease. The sound and smell of fifteen backsides excreting the stuff was enough. It was disgusting, though largely curable.