Read Online Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon by Richard Villar - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Villar
Tags: War, Memoir, special forces, doctor, Army, Surgery, SAS, conflict, Military biography, War surgery
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will nevertheless be looking for you. Not only do they look forwards and sideways, they also look backwards. Consequently, if you look upwards once it has flown over, your white face will be perfectly contrasted against the green vegetation. You will be seen. It is essential to keep your head down until they have flown well past.
You are not allowed to rest on your laurels in the SAS. A special skill, preferably more than one, is mandatory. The typical, traditional, SAS patrol comprises four men: demolitions, signals, language and medical. The medical man is usually called the patrol or SAS medic. In practice, each operative needs a grasp of every skill, but you need one who is in overall charge of each specialty. My first shot, being a medical student, was to become a patrol medic. I thought it would be easy. After all, I was dealing with medical problems every day in my civilian life. I was wrong. I had not realized the level of sophistication of SAS medical training delivered by its various medical courses. Needless to say, the teaching given by the UK’s medical schools to their students is no use whatsoever to the SAS medic operating behind enemy lines. The medical student learns to deal with patients on a hospital ward. The SAS operative may be working under a hedge somewhere, without the trappings of modern medical care. I failed my SAS medical course, I am ashamed to say. It was a failing I was happy not to advertise at the time. It was due to no other reason than my cockiness. I felt certain a medical student was bound to know all the answers. In the event, I failed as I did not know the dosage of certain commonly used medicines. Aspirin was one of them. I felt suitably chastened and did not attempt the course again.
For the first time I began to have doubts as to whether my ambitions were viable. The vagotomy operation had highlighted how difficult it was to develop the skills a surgeon requires. If I were a patient, I would go for a manually adept surgeon for my operation, not necessarily a clever, hamfisted one. Intellect and manual ability do not always go together. It was difficult enough to become a surgeon, without the added complication of developing SAS skills as well. A small voice, Satanic this time spoke in my ear. I worried if I would ever make it. At times I even wondered whether I should forsake surgery altogether and take up soldiering full time. The SAS was certainly demonstrating there was an excellent, challenging life outside medicine. I would feel this way most often when I returned from SAS activities around the land. The moment I re-entered my hospital, however, I knew I could not turn my back on medicine. The Third World still beckoned and also orthopaedic surgery. I would simply have to find a way of doing them all.
Having failed the SAS medical course, I decided instead to become a signaller. It was a skill I thoroughly enjoyed. An SAS patrol is no use to anyone if it cannot report its findings to headquarters. I learned everything I could and was soon fortunate to win the Regimental signals prize. Morse code was vital. It is impossible. Dah, dah, dah, dit, dit, dit. The various combinations of dahs and dits are enormous. Eventually, I learned it from the back of my motorbike. To and from work every morning I would transpose the number plate of the car in front into Morse. Dit-dah, dah-dit-dit-dit, dah-dit-dah-dit, it might go. There I would be, ditting and dahing furiously at traffic-light stops all over London. Whatever my fellow commuters felt, it was an excellent way of learning the code.
The aim of the signaller is to send his message in the shortest possible time. Out there are people who want to know what you are up to. Spending too long on the air allows them to work out both your location and who you are. The way a signaller handles his Morse key is as unique as a fingerprint. Everyone uses the same dits and dahs, but the way they can be sent over the air is variable. A trained
You are not allowed to rest on your laurels in the SAS. A special skill, preferably more than one, is mandatory. The typical, traditional, SAS patrol comprises four men: demolitions, signals, language and medical. The medical man is usually called the patrol or SAS medic. In practice, each operative needs a grasp of every skill, but you need one who is in overall charge of each specialty. My first shot, being a medical student, was to become a patrol medic. I thought it would be easy. After all, I was dealing with medical problems every day in my civilian life. I was wrong. I had not realized the level of sophistication of SAS medical training delivered by its various medical courses. Needless to say, the teaching given by the UK’s medical schools to their students is no use whatsoever to the SAS medic operating behind enemy lines. The medical student learns to deal with patients on a hospital ward. The SAS operative may be working under a hedge somewhere, without the trappings of modern medical care. I failed my SAS medical course, I am ashamed to say. It was a failing I was happy not to advertise at the time. It was due to no other reason than my cockiness. I felt certain a medical student was bound to know all the answers. In the event, I failed as I did not know the dosage of certain commonly used medicines. Aspirin was one of them. I felt suitably chastened and did not attempt the course again.
For the first time I began to have doubts as to whether my ambitions were viable. The vagotomy operation had highlighted how difficult it was to develop the skills a surgeon requires. If I were a patient, I would go for a manually adept surgeon for my operation, not necessarily a clever, hamfisted one. Intellect and manual ability do not always go together. It was difficult enough to become a surgeon, without the added complication of developing SAS skills as well. A small voice, Satanic this time spoke in my ear. I worried if I would ever make it. At times I even wondered whether I should forsake surgery altogether and take up soldiering full time. The SAS was certainly demonstrating there was an excellent, challenging life outside medicine. I would feel this way most often when I returned from SAS activities around the land. The moment I re-entered my hospital, however, I knew I could not turn my back on medicine. The Third World still beckoned and also orthopaedic surgery. I would simply have to find a way of doing them all.
Having failed the SAS medical course, I decided instead to become a signaller. It was a skill I thoroughly enjoyed. An SAS patrol is no use to anyone if it cannot report its findings to headquarters. I learned everything I could and was soon fortunate to win the Regimental signals prize. Morse code was vital. It is impossible. Dah, dah, dah, dit, dit, dit. The various combinations of dahs and dits are enormous. Eventually, I learned it from the back of my motorbike. To and from work every morning I would transpose the number plate of the car in front into Morse. Dit-dah, dah-dit-dit-dit, dah-dit-dah-dit, it might go. There I would be, ditting and dahing furiously at traffic-light stops all over London. Whatever my fellow commuters felt, it was an excellent way of learning the code.
The aim of the signaller is to send his message in the shortest possible time. Out there are people who want to know what you are up to. Spending too long on the air allows them to work out both your location and who you are. The way a signaller handles his Morse key is as unique as a fingerprint. Everyone uses the same dits and dahs, but the way they can be sent over the air is variable. A trained
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