Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon (16 page)

‘For ****’s sake get this thing off me,’ replied Jack, still not daring to move. Lofty peered through the gloom towards his friend, though could not make out the problem. Quietly, he slid from his hammock, knife in hand, to see what he could do. Getting closer he, too, could make out the grey cylindrical shape coiled on Jack’s chest.

One could never fault the SAS for indecision, even when faced with problems completely outside their experience. Lofty leapt firmly into action. Grabbing his jungle blanket, he dived across Jack’s chest, seeking to smother the animal before it could retaliate. He braced himself for a ferocious fight, aware that some jungle snakes could struggle harder than a man. It was as he landed across his friend, as the entire hammock collapsed to the ground, that he realized what it was. No snake at all, but a camouflage face veil coiled neatly and tidily on Jack S’s chest. Somehow it had slipped downwards from Jack’s neck as he slept. The jungle can certainly play wonders with the imagination.

Not everyone was as resilient as Jack or Lofty. For some, the psychological strain of jungle service was more than they could take. The Army has long recognized the mental stress created by long periods of isolation in such a cramped, low-light, diseased environment. Psychologists were even attached to the SAS at one point, to analyse the effects of the jungle on the human mind. The SAS survived, the psychologists did not, having to be treated for stress once back in UK.

I had one psychiatric casualty in the Far East. Mick, a most unlikely individual for such problems. I had not realized, but he was obviously a man who kept his feelings bottled in. Not one to join in the general banter of SAS life, the continual teasing and cajoling that goes on between men used to long periods away from society. One of his patrol called me to see him in the early morning, several weeks after the incident with the civet cat. I found him lying, rigidly still, in his A-frame. ‘I can’t take it, Doc,’ Mick whispered. ‘I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m feeling all shut in. I’ve got to get out.’

I had never considered claustrophobia, a fear of confined spaces, to be a problem in the jungle, but with Mick it obviously was. We were so deep within the rainforest I could see how it might happen. The nearest clearing was fifteen kilometres away, the trees tightly packed and tracks non-existent. Progress on foot was painfully slow: 100 metres per hour was considered speedy.

In the UK I would have given Mick several days’ sick leave and sent him home. Such a course was not open to me now. I tried talking him out of it and for a moment thought I had succeeded. After two hours of quiet counselling he appeared to relax. However, the moment I turned to leave, he grasped my wrist firmly. ‘Don’t go, Doc,’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t go.’ Cruel though it may sound, with an entire Squadron to care for there is a limit as to how long you can spend with one man. I tried counselling again, feeling Mick relax once more. Yet, as soon as I tried to leave, my wrist was clasped tightly. Eventually, the only way of solving the trouble was to sedate him, first by injection and then by tablet. Sedatives are an essential part of any SAS doctor’s toolkit. However controlled and well-trained an operative may be, anxiety always lurks around the corner. Particularly so after gunshot wounds, when a sedative can be life-saving. The Army is well aware of the psychiatric effects of remote and active service and takes such things very seriously. Training for its doctors is now quite detailed. I put Mick to sleep for the best part of two days, just as the Americans did for their battle-stress victims in Vietnam. It cured his trouble, but I could not allow him to stay with us once he awoke. Next time he might not have a controlled breakdown, but an uncontrolled one. That could lead to anything. I thus recommended that Mick be evacuated as soon as possible, waving farewell to him as he was winched to safety by a hovering Huey. I never saw him again. By the time we returned to Hereford the Regiment had discharged him, returning him to his unit. There is no space for those who cannot take it in the SAS.

Returning from the Far Eastern jungle, it was traditional to pass through Hong Kong. At that time, Chinese handover was barely considered, the colony concentrating largely on money-making and enjoyment. It was a wonderful place to be. Particularly for SAS operatives who had been stranded in deep jungle for several months. For the single ones amongst us, doctors included I am afraid, thoughts tended to veer towards the opposite sex. I love my male colleagues, but not in any sexual way. Three months, surrounded by damp and trees, in the company of smelly, unshaven masculinity, does little for male hormones. I had heard that Macau was the place to go. Not only could one gamble, but the Portuguese colony was full of massage parlours. Having received my Dear John letter there was little reason to hasten home, so I decided that Macau it would be.

Having clambered from the hydrofoil that plies between Hong Kong and Macau, I immediately started searching for a massage parlour. I did not have to look far. The place was stuffed with them. ‘Special Massage’, ‘Total Massage’, ‘Heavy Massage’, ‘Massage With Relief’, were signposted everywhere. I did not understand this strange, new massage language. Guide books were understandably unhelpful.

Confused, I eventually narrowed my search to one tiny street and three adjacent buildings in particular. Each was a massage parlour and each looked equally attractive. Or disreputable, if you see things in such a way. The choice was impossible. How does one select these things? Eventually I went for the one with a flashing, neon arrow, pointing obliquely downwards at the parlour’s open glass front door. ‘Extra Massage’ it flashed. ‘Extra Massage’ sounded ideal — so in I went.

The parlour was everything I expected one to be. Behind the stained Formica reception desk sat a full-breasted creature, gorgeous in every outline, filing her nails. Her long black hair curled gracefully over her shoulders, her smooth, crossed legs exaggerated by the tiny red skirt. I doubt she spoke English, or if she did made no effort to communicate. Chewing visibly and obviously on gum, she indicated briefly a wooden panelled door to one side of her desk. ‘Please Enter’ was stencilled in several different languages near its top. I nodded my appreciation, now feeling almost sick with anticipation, as I entered this very unfamiliar world.

Closing the door behind me, I could see the narrow corridor leading away to my front. To each side were several curtained cubicles. All were drawn closed, save one at the far end on the right. Its striped orange drape lay wide open, beckoning me to enter. Tentatively I walked the short distance to the vacant cubicle, passing the closed curtains as I went. From behind each I could hear the sound of female giggling, or grunting. The air had that distinct smell of bodily sweat. This, I thought, is definitely it. This is ‘Extra Massage’. This is what happens when you receive a Dear John after three months in the jungle. Quickly, and silently, I followed the faded English instructions on the sign above the cubicle’s black, vinyl couch. ‘Remove your clothes and lie down,’ they proclaimed.

‘Remove my clothes?’ I thought as I stood in my underpants. All of them? Every stitch? I looked around briefly in the hope there might be someone to ask. Though I was surrounded by grunting and giggling, by many obviously satisfied customers, there was no one I might disturb. Anyway, it was obvious, I thought. Stop being so damned timid, Villar. You’ve travelled thousands of miles for this. So, with one swift move of my hand, I removed my underpants and lay face down on the icy couch.

As I lay prone, head in my arms, listening to those around me, I began to think. This was unquestionably a first experience. Life, after all, was a matter of gaining new experiences, was it not? Even so, I was starting to worry. Maybe this was not such a good idea. No one from the Regiment knew I was there, my girlfriend had shelved me and my parents thought I was still safely ensconced under military control. Anything could happen and no one would know. Mugging, murder, Heaven knows what. Then there was VD. God help me if I caught that. I had treated it dozens of times in my medical life, in all manner of individuals. Syphilis, herpes, molluscum contagiosum, Vietnam Rose - one diagnosis after another flashed past me. I began to feel sick, unfolded my arms and gripped the sides of the slippery couch firmly. I needed strength. Then, as I began to relax once more, a wave of doubt flooded back over me. Like the night I nearly failed 21 SAS Selection, I knew I had to escape. I had to get off that mountain, I had to get off that couch. It was a ridiculous idea anyway. I should know better. What on earth was I doing here? The sound of giggling and grunting disappeared into the background as I now concentrated entirely on my predicament. It was time to leave.

As I lifted myself with sweating, trembling arms, I suddenly felt a large hand push down hard between my shoulders. It was useless to resist. The force was overwhelming. ‘No leave, sir. Sorry, sir. Many people, sir. I too busy,’ said the deep, male, Oriental voice. ‘You want massage, yes?’

Male? A man? A bloke? What was this? Anyway, it was too late. I had decided to go. Determined now, I pushed up once again with my arms. This coincided with a hard thump from the man’s knuckles between my shoulder blades. ‘No problem, sir. I here now. I massage. You stay still,’ he insisted.

‘B-But…’ I turned my head as far as my prone body would allow, to see my assailant. The last thing I had been expecting was a man. From the power of his hands I imagined a huge, muscular frame with bulging forearms, as hard as iron. What I saw astonished me. He was small, with perfectly groomed hair. Smartly dressed in a spotless white coat, gold buttons gleamed at me on its front. He was pummelling hard now, an irresistible force, smiling down, as I attempted to look up. I was being kneaded from head to toe, like mutton being tenderized.

The man smiled, and spoke again. ‘You OK, sir? This good, yes? We good massage parlour. Not bad. You understand? I see you worried. No need. This good extra massage. Nothing funny. You fine with me.’

I succumbed at that stage. Small though he was, resisting was useless, his hands and technique totally professional. Nothing strange happened, nothing odd. Just a simple, straightforward massage. Unwittingly, and thankfully, I had chosen the one parlour in the row where peculiarities were not on offer. It was a near miss, not to be repeated. I returned later that day to Hong Kong, feeling refreshed, relaxed and glowing.

My experience in the massage parlour highlighted one thing in my mind. SAS life was lonely. The Regiment looked after you well, but emotional support was something you largely had to find for yourself. Naturally, if there was a crisis - death, divorce, illness - the SAS would pull out all the stops. You still need support at other times, however, a sustained feeling of belonging or being needed by something or someone. With the odd life I led, added to the many visits overseas, I found anything other than casual relationships impossible. You never physically plan to settle down as a man, or I never did, but it does occasionally cross your mind. Particularly after some life-threatening incident when the continuity of Villar genes was imperilled. Procreation is a strange, instinctive thing that I do not pretend to understand.

Each time I met a woman, and there were not many, I would naturally enjoy the moment. I would be less than human if I did not admit to the thought of whether this particular individual was right for life. Usually the conclusion was ‘No’, probably more my fault than theirs. Of course, those I found most attractive were the ones seemingly unattainable. Like the fearless cavalry doctor in Northern Ireland I had heard of before, or the paediatrician working in Hong Kong’s military hospital. A top-flight professional, my colonial contacts vouched, she was said to have five boyfriends simultaneously, three on the same rugby team. So clever was she that no boyfriend knew the others existed. Now there was a challenge I thought. Did anyone know her name?

I could not stop the bleeding. The girl had been haemorrhaging for three days. Not fast, just a steady, persistent ooze. The poor thing could only have been sixteen years old, but with vaginal bleeding you cannot get at it. No artery to press on, no spot for a shell dressing to be applied. Without surgery I estimated she would last another twelve hours. I had to get her to hospital - fast.

It was a postpartum haemorrhage, a potentially life-threatening bleed that can occur after childbirth. From between her legs flopped the now gangrenous umbilical cord, the child having long been detached and handed to its grandmother. The lower part of the girl’s belly felt hard and distended as the womb clamped down to expel the now useless afterbirth, the placenta. It would not come. The Arab midwife had been pulling steadily on the cord, but the placenta held firm. It was stuck.

This was the village of Haruj, stranded deep in the south of the Bawiti Sands, the Ramlaat Bawiti. Already I had been there for two months. Bedouin Arab families around had heard of the new medical facility we had opened and would come in their droves each day. The young girl had come from Dilma, a tiny village more than 120 kilometres away. Bundled into the back of a Toyota Landcruiser she had been accompanied by more than a dozen screaming, chattering women, none of whom I could understand. Though my SAS Arabic course had been helpful, it had not covered the hundreds of different dialects existent in this part of the desert.

At first all I had seen had been the pile of old blankets in the back of the open-top vehicle. A bundle of tatty, brown rags. But when the hysterical women had dismounted I picked up the tiniest flicker of movement from beneath the pile. A foot, I think. Slowly I removed the blankets, gently, one by one. There, exhausted on the grimy metal floor of the Toyota, lay the girl. Her normally pigmented face was deathly white, her breathing shallow. Her eyelids flickered faintly, as she did not have the strength to open them. I felt her now cold, clammy wrist for signs of a pulse. None. Her blood vessels, desperate to stop the bleeding, had constricted down hard. I moved my hand to her neck. There, thank God, was the feeble, thready thump of the carotid artery. Feeble it might have been, but its rate was phenomenal. Her heart was beating furiously, trying hard to push what little blood remained round her rapidly fading body. The girl was in shock, and the nearest operating theatre was across the sea, sixty-five kilometres away on the island of Greboun. What the hell could I do?