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

were given an extra week of misery, over and above the normal Selection walks. During this so-called ‘Officers’ Week’ they were sleep-deprived, physically stressed and forced to perform in public. For example, an officer might have been kept up all night on a cross-country march before returning to barracks. Lulled into the impression he could then go to bed, he would suddenly, and unexpectedly, be ordered to attend the lecture theatre within thirty minutes, in full Regimental uniform and spotless boots. He would be tasked to give a ten-minute resume of his life story. The entire Regiment was at liberty to attend and frequently did so. They could interrupt, harass, insult and say what they wished.
    I felt sorry for the poor men, but despite this it was an important time. I was able to see things from a non-military point of view. Occasional weaknesses would appear in an otherwise unyielding exterior. I recall one officer who was performing excellently. He spoke clearly and succinctly, seemingly impervious to sleep deprivation. I could tell his SAS audience was hooked by the widespread silence. Something in his voice demanded attention. On this occasion it was my sixth sense that again spoke, as more than half of the life story he gave was describing his wife and family. For a potential SAS officer it sounded strange. It was more usual for an applicant to concentrate entirely on himself - some would regard this as selfish. I remember one very flamboyant individual telling the assembled throng how wonderful he was. How he could free-fall parachute, deep-sea dive, speak eight languages and defend himself against a second Dan black belt in karate. He was floored by a very senior member of the Regiment who stood up from the audience in the middle of the officer’s presentation. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the operative shouted, ‘have you ever thought of becoming a spaceman?’ The poor fellow failed.
    Feeling uneasy, I whispered my misgivings to the selection team, but was overruled. The officer was through. I was not surprised, sometime later, to find he had left the Regiment, apparently unable to cope with the rigours of operational life.
    Medical tuition of SAS operatives was my overall responsibility, though in practice it was capably run by two Royal Army Medical Corps non-commissioned officers. Both were brilliant and much admired by the Regiment and me. I would often turn to them for medical advice, once I realized my civilian medical training was inappropriate for this new, strange life of mine.
    A major part of the medical course was an attachment to a civilian hospital. Before an operative could be fully qualified as a medic he had to complete one month working in a casualty department. We naturally did not advertise the fact the men were from the SAS. Arrangements were generally made directly, and informally, with the various casualty consultants involved. Some were openly hostile to the idea of SAS operatives working in their departments, but many were welcoming. For the most part, the intelligent SAS operative was an asset to a casualty unit, well able to give as much training to the civilians as they could give him. Sometimes their presence was life-saving, such as the letter of commendation I received from a hospital in the west of the country. It ran something like this:
    ‘We wish to acknowledge our grateful thanks to Mr W for his prompt action in saving the life of one of our nurses recently. A patient ran amok in the department, eventually taking the nurse hostage and holding her forcibly against a cubicle wall, a scalpel to her throat. Mr W capably and reliably disarmed the assailant, who is now in police custody.’
    I later discovered their letter was a gross understatement. Mr W was, in reality, Sergeant W, and an expert at unarmed combat. The poor hostage-taker would not have stood a chance. He could have been armed with a Samurai sword for all Sergeant W could have cared. Predictably, the Regiment’s