Knife Edge: Life as a Special Forces Surgeon Read Free Page B

are worse for officers.
    There is one major difference between Territorial and Regular SAS. The Territorial SAS soldier will have come in off the street, often without any prior military service. The Regular SAS operative must have come from some form of previous Services background. Those joining the Regulars are thus up to scratch with basic soldiering skills from the start. The Territorial soldier often is not. This difference was initially reflected in the roles of the various Regiments. Whereas the Regulars, 22 SAS, had a more aggressive approach to life, the Territorial units — 21 and 23 SAS — were more passive. Their primary role was one of observation. Their secondary role was more SAS-like, involving sabotage, snatches and the like.
    Those who fail the SAS Selection course often bring back tales of deeds and happenings that defy imagination, an attempt to justify why they did not succeed. Such tales are unnecessary. There is no dishonour in failing Selection; you are in good company if you do. The SAS is looking for individuals of a certain type and you, however strong God made you, may simply be the wrong person. One thing is certain, the day you first decide to try for the SAS is immensely awe-inspiring.
    I decided to join in secret. Apart from Jim, I did not want any colleagues knowing, in case I failed. To my earlier advisers, I had let the matter drop, though my parents knew I was up to something odd. One Thursday afternoon I found the remotest, tiniest, loneliest Army Careers Information Office I could, somewhere in south London, and strode resolutely inside. It was empty, save for one very properly dressed Warrant Officer, sitting ramrod straight behind an immaculately tidy desk. Everything was laid out in perfect order before him. Telephone, blotter, paper clips, files. Each item appeared to be parallel to the one beside it, like soldiers on parade. He looked directly at me as I approached the desk. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said as I drew near, a tight knot gnawing at the pit of my stomach.
    ‘I want to join the SAS,’ I said self-consciously, mumbling terribly — a family failing.
    ‘Sorry, sir?’ The man had obviously not heard me. I would have to try again.
    ‘The SAS,’ I said, still in hushed tones. ‘I want to join it.’ I could see the Warrant Officer was struggling hard to hear. His forehead wrinkled deeply as he leaned over his desk, head turned slightly to one side. With his hand he formed a cup behind his right ear.
    ‘Say again, sir. I can’t quite hear you.’
    My heart sank. We had just spent two weeks learning ear, nose and throat surgery at my hospital, so I knew all about high-tone deafness. Particularly in soldiers exposed, unprotected, to rifle and artillery fire for many years. Surely not? My self-consciousness had by now disappeared. Checking around me to be sure I was still alone, I put one hand firmly either side of the Warrant Officer’s ink blotter, and shouted.
    ‘The SAS. You know, the Special Air Service. How does one join it? I want to join.’ I was leaning so far forward, my face was only inches from his own.
    I was almost hoarse, but could see comprehension begin to dawn on the soldier’s face. He removed the cupped hand from behind his ear, raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth in realization. I had broken through at last. From the corner of my eye, on the pavement outside the office, I saw two passers-by stop in their tracks and look in the window. My heart sank still further. For sure, the whole of south London must have heard my request. I prayed the floor would open and swallow me up, but it did not. Instead, the Warrant Officer reclined back to his vertical sitting position, and reached for the pitch-black telephone to his left. ‘The SAS, sir? Of course, sir. I’m sure we can help.’
    So it was, twenty-four hours later, I appeared at the end of a long line of hopefuls at a barracks in central London. I had decided A Squadron 21 SAS, a Territorial unit,