Read Online Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon by Richard Villar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Villar
Tags: War, Memoir, special forces, doctor, Army, Surgery, SAS, conflict, Military biography, War surgery
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picnics, dogs would be taken for a walk, in the desperate hope they would stumble over an SAS trooper.
The guard routine at the depot was predictable. Every fifteen minutes someone would visually check the door, though would not necessarily go right up to it and inspect it. An occasional patrol van, complete with searchlight, would drive round the large remaining expanse of depot to ensure security of the smaller, outlying buildings. Armed with such information, I signalled London that all was in order, while the patrol laid up for the day. For a signaller there is no such thing as ‘lying up’. This is when other patrol members, during daylight hours, sleep or cook. In this lying-up position, or LUP, totally camouflaged, the signaller is still hard at work. As a radio operator, sleep is an impossible luxury. Being exhausted becomes a way of life.
We had positioned the LUP one kilometre from the target, to avoid unexpected perimeter patrols. The day passed uneventfully and by dark we were again ready to move. The approach to the depot went easily, save for one thing. Bullocks. During the day a local farmer had unexpectedly placed twenty of them in the field immediately adjacent to the depot. That night they were extremely frisky. On the one hand we were four heavily armed and camouflaged SAS soldiers crawling towards a highly secret government establishment. On the other, were twenty boisterous animals refusing to ignore us. They cramped and crowded us, butted us and pawed the ground incessantly. By the time we reached the fifteen-foot security fence we had gathered a crowd of not-so-admiring onlookers. If there is anything good to say about them, they were at least silent.
The security fence was a latticed affair, with three strands of barbed wire leaning backwards at the top. You can either go under or over such fences. By under I mean tunnelling through the ground underneath the latticed portion. However, on this occasion the fence was well bedded into the earth, so tunnelling was impractical. Cutting a hole through the wire would have been an idea, but our aim was to get in and out without detection. Leaving a gaping cavity in the security fence would have been an advertisement for all to see. So over we went. At least, over three of us went. Number 4 could not make it, however hard he tried. He was not strong enough. Fifteen feet was too far. Poor man. Here was the supposed superhuman SAS, surrounded by bullocks, struggling to get past only the first hurdle the MOD had thrown at us. Fortunately it was dark and no one else could see. Number 4 eventually gave up and waited for us at our emergency RV. There was an obvious limit as to how long we could remain at the fence waiting for him to cross.
When designing the depot, the MOD had, perhaps, the welfare of the saboteur in mind. There was the occasional hedge, and frequent earth mound, to hide behind. It did not take long to find a position immediately outside the MOD police base, directly opposite the target store. Beside the door was a metal dustbin, the entire area being bathed by orange spotlight. The angle of light, however, meant that part of the door was in shadow. At last it appeared things were getting better.
We waited for the next MOD patrol to pass. To say ‘pass’ is optimistic. It was a windy night, not conducive to staying outdoors, unless really necessary. The MOD patrol thus consisted of a policeman putting his head outside the base’s door for several seconds, checking all was in order and disappearing inside again. You rely on human failings on such occasions.
As soon as the policeman’s head had disappeared inside the warmth and security of his base, we set to work. Two of us stayed in the shadows opposite the target, to act as early warning of patrols for the third, whose task was to cut the lock. Ninety seconds was all it would take, the technical boys had advised. The lock was taped rapidly to a small, hand-sized piece of chipboard to
The guard routine at the depot was predictable. Every fifteen minutes someone would visually check the door, though would not necessarily go right up to it and inspect it. An occasional patrol van, complete with searchlight, would drive round the large remaining expanse of depot to ensure security of the smaller, outlying buildings. Armed with such information, I signalled London that all was in order, while the patrol laid up for the day. For a signaller there is no such thing as ‘lying up’. This is when other patrol members, during daylight hours, sleep or cook. In this lying-up position, or LUP, totally camouflaged, the signaller is still hard at work. As a radio operator, sleep is an impossible luxury. Being exhausted becomes a way of life.
We had positioned the LUP one kilometre from the target, to avoid unexpected perimeter patrols. The day passed uneventfully and by dark we were again ready to move. The approach to the depot went easily, save for one thing. Bullocks. During the day a local farmer had unexpectedly placed twenty of them in the field immediately adjacent to the depot. That night they were extremely frisky. On the one hand we were four heavily armed and camouflaged SAS soldiers crawling towards a highly secret government establishment. On the other, were twenty boisterous animals refusing to ignore us. They cramped and crowded us, butted us and pawed the ground incessantly. By the time we reached the fifteen-foot security fence we had gathered a crowd of not-so-admiring onlookers. If there is anything good to say about them, they were at least silent.
The security fence was a latticed affair, with three strands of barbed wire leaning backwards at the top. You can either go under or over such fences. By under I mean tunnelling through the ground underneath the latticed portion. However, on this occasion the fence was well bedded into the earth, so tunnelling was impractical. Cutting a hole through the wire would have been an idea, but our aim was to get in and out without detection. Leaving a gaping cavity in the security fence would have been an advertisement for all to see. So over we went. At least, over three of us went. Number 4 could not make it, however hard he tried. He was not strong enough. Fifteen feet was too far. Poor man. Here was the supposed superhuman SAS, surrounded by bullocks, struggling to get past only the first hurdle the MOD had thrown at us. Fortunately it was dark and no one else could see. Number 4 eventually gave up and waited for us at our emergency RV. There was an obvious limit as to how long we could remain at the fence waiting for him to cross.
When designing the depot, the MOD had, perhaps, the welfare of the saboteur in mind. There was the occasional hedge, and frequent earth mound, to hide behind. It did not take long to find a position immediately outside the MOD police base, directly opposite the target store. Beside the door was a metal dustbin, the entire area being bathed by orange spotlight. The angle of light, however, meant that part of the door was in shadow. At last it appeared things were getting better.
We waited for the next MOD patrol to pass. To say ‘pass’ is optimistic. It was a windy night, not conducive to staying outdoors, unless really necessary. The MOD patrol thus consisted of a policeman putting his head outside the base’s door for several seconds, checking all was in order and disappearing inside again. You rely on human failings on such occasions.
As soon as the policeman’s head had disappeared inside the warmth and security of his base, we set to work. Two of us stayed in the shadows opposite the target, to act as early warning of patrols for the third, whose task was to cut the lock. Ninety seconds was all it would take, the technical boys had advised. The lock was taped rapidly to a small, hand-sized piece of chipboard to
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