Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon by Richard Villar

clutching his belly, writhing on the tarmac in agony. He was in obvious, extreme pain. By the time I had dashed outside to help him, a four-ton military lorry pulled up. In the back lay a dozen further bodies, groaning loudly in their misery. Vomit was everywhere. The floor of the lorry was awash with the stuff. The stench made even my cast-iron stomach heave. Nappy changing and vomit are two things I find very hard to tolerate as a doctor. Within seconds another lorry appeared. Then another and another. Each contained the same sorry story. Large, highly-trained soldiers, clutching their bellies in pain.
    This was gastroenteritis in full flood. The men had barely made it to the Brecon Beacons before the first casualty occurred. Only a handful escaped the agony. Forty-seven were returned to Bradbury Lines. My quiet, routine day had suddenly turned to chaos. MI Room staff had to work fast. Drips, stool specimens, blood tests and the opening up of extra latrines. I soon realized that the ones to escape had been those who had missed breakfast. Few bugs attack the gut so viciously and suddenly as this. One that does is called ‘staphylococcus’, named thus because it looks like a bunch of grapes under a microscope (Greek staphule =grape). Each victim recovered rapidly, though not without significant misery and discomfort. It was then that the witchhunt began. In the Army, and that includes the SAS, there is no such thing as bad luck. Everything must have a reason. It seemed likely the bug had come from contaminated milk. My casual suggestion to MI Room staff was instantly passed up the line. Before I knew it my idea had become fact and the cook was being disciplined in the Kremlin, Regimental Headquarters. The poor man. We never did prove he had infected the milk. For that matter we never proved the milk was the true source at all. Despite this, judgement was instant. The cook was out and negotiation impossible.
    I could always guarantee Selection would keep me busy. Not only did I have to provide medical support on the hills of South Wales, but my clinics would be full of ailing candidates at the end of every day. Many were seeking an excuse to fail. A few had serious injuries they could not ignore. The determined candidate would not go near a doctor for the duration of Selection, whatever his state of disrepair. Pain was inevitable and injury likely. To pass SAS Selection without one, other or both was impossible.
    One evening, after a lengthy clinic was nearing its end, I looked out of the MI Room window. There was no sign of life, save for one lonely, uniformed figure walking slowly towards the Selection billets. I could see the man was in pain. Dragging his feet, barely able to lift them more than a millimetre from the ground, his rounded shoulders slouched terribly and his head hung low. He looked awful.
    ‘What’s wrong with that guy?’ I asked the MI Room Sergeant. ‘He doesn’t look too well.’
    ‘He’s not, boss,’ came Sergeant R’s clear reply. ‘We can’t get him to see you. God knows we’ve tried.’
    ‘What’s the problem?’
    ‘Blisters, boss. Terrible ones. The silly bugger wrapped all of his body, and his feet, with sticky tape at the start of Selection two weeks ago. He hasn’t taken the stuff off since.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘It hasn’t worked. He’s developed blisters under the sticky tape. We can’t take it off without removing most of his skin.’
    ‘Ask him to come and see me,’ I encouraged. ‘I’ll think what I can do to help. Maybe we can soak the tape off.’
    ‘We’ve suggested that, boss. He won’t have it. Says he’ll put up with it until Selection is over.’
    I rolled my eyes Heavenwards. There was no point in arguing or forcing the man to see me. For better or for worse, the candidate had set his own course of action for attempting Selection. He would have erected his invisible shield, determined to pass, irrespective of the consequences. The fact his overladen Bergen