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

allow it to be held securely. Number 3 set about cutting the hasp with the new, magic saw. Ninety seconds later he had barely made any impression. He dashed over to join us in the shadows.
    ‘Jesus! The bloody thing’s useless!’ he said. ‘What the **** are we going to do?’
    We knew we had several minutes to play with, so decided to keep going, certainly until the next patrol was due. Number 3 returned to his task. The remaining two of us could always overpower anyone who became too inquisitive, though our element of surprise would then certainly be lost.
    By the time we had warned number 3 of an impending patrol, judged by the shifting noises emanating from the police base, it had become apparent our task was going to take a long time. The lock was now bound to a block of wood, and partially cut. All it would take was a close, visual inspection and our efforts would have been wasted. MOD’s technical guys were not popular with us that night.
    Yet somehow, for reasons I still do not understand, no close inspection was made. I can only suppose it was the weather that kept the guards inside. We took it in turns in the end, in twelve-minute shifts, waiting for the next head to appear before resuming our task. On one occasion a policeman did come very near to the target door, when number 2 was sawing the lock. The patrol, if that is what I can call it, was unexpected. Number 2 got the fright of his life. We had decided, if caught, to abandon everything and run. The SAS operative thought he had been rumbled, throwing the hacksaw firmly into the dustbin beside the door. As he did so, the dustbin lid slid off, landing with an enormous crash on the ground. The noise went on forever. Number 2, meanwhile, was stood in the doorway, bathed in orange light, as clear as day. I can see the policeman now, looking disinterestedly our way. He missed number 2 altogether, ignored the clattering dustbin lid and returned to his warm base. Perhaps he felt the wind had been responsible for the noise. After all, no self-respecting SAS patrol would make such a din, would they?
    After ninety minutes, not ninety seconds, we were successful. The lock had been cut, dummy charges laid and we were away, heading towards the secondary target. Perhaps we were being overambitious, but by now our blood was up. It was as we approached the transformer that the police discovered evidence of our successful primary attack. All hell broke loose. Sirens, lights, cars, dogs. You name it and they had it. The number of times a searchlight passed directly over me that night was horrifying. On each occasion I froze and on each occasion it passed me by. We had now been rumbled, though not captured. It was time to beat a hasty retreat if we could, though via the transformer, our secondary target. I almost made it there, but had to go to earth ten metres away when a dog patrol arrived to inspect it. Now, at last, the police were taking their job seriously.
    The dog went crazy, jumping, leaping, growling and barking. I could hear it straining at the leash, pulling hard on the handler’s shoulder. I lay there, inches away, completely motionless. On one occasion the animal came so close its saliva hit my neck, but it was dark and the transformer had no floodlights to illuminate it. Several times the handler shone his torch at me, and over me. Each time he failed to see me. I knew I was there, the dog knew I was there, but the handler did not. A guard dog is only as good as the person controlling it.
    Target attacks like this are the staple diet of any SAS soldier. They can be immensely challenging and at times dangerous. No holds are barred on either side. I remember well a night attack on a dockyard, near Southampton. We were successful, in that charges were laid on several naval vessels. The security forces, however, were certain two of us had taken shelter under their main quayside, having approached it from the sea. They were right, though could not prove it. It was