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

down. Each time I struggled I sank further, the slimy pressure of the ice-cold hand becoming ever greater. I screamed and shouted for help, but it was windy. I had no idea where the nearest person was. He could have been five feet away, or five kilometres. I hadn’t a clue.
    There were two choices. I could either give in and die, in this case a realistic option, or I could fight. I fought, slowly dragging myself hand over hand to the surface until I lay there spreadeagled, sodden and very lonely. Then, suddenly, I felt completely overcome. An overpowering desire to get off the mountain at all costs swept over me. Selection didn’t matter, being badged didn’t matter, even the penultimate RV didn’t matter. I had to get off. Staggering, running, lurching, I dashed from the mountainside as fast as I could go. I recall looking back frequently over my shoulder, as if some evil spirit was pushing me away.
    When I got to the bottom I was breathless, but more relaxed. I stood on the forbidden track that led to the final RV, whose lights were twinkling only 200 metres away. Instructors were allowed to use lights. It was trainees who were not. Here, at the foot of the mountain and protected by trees, it was warm and windless. Welcoming. Relaxing. Tempting. This was it, I thought. The SAS was not for me. What a stupid idea. It was time to give up. I would be thrown off for missing the penultimate RV anyway. Purposefully I walked along the track towards the four-tonner at the final RV. There was a definite spring to my stride, now that I had made the decision to withdraw. I was looking forward to seeing my warm London flat again.
    It was as I emerged from the wooded track into the clearing of the final RV, that the little voice started speaking. Almost inaudible at first, it became louder, and louder, and louder. For Christ’s sake, it said, do you mean this? All this effort just to give up now? I tried to ignore it, but it would not go away. For a moment I hesitated at the edge of the clearing, perhaps twenty-five metres from the instructor manning the final RV. He was in the light of his gas lamp, blinded by it. I was in the shadows. I saw him look up and stare in my direction. He put up his hand against the light to get a better view. Squinting, he challenged loudly, ‘Who the hell’s that? Whoever you are, you’re on a track. You’ve failed. Come here.’ Then my little voice took over, a wave of determination rising up within me. Quickly, before the instructor could get to his feet and grab me, I bolted back from where I came. No way, dear SAS. You’re not going to get me yet.
    I made it in the end, though I had to climb that evil mountain again to do so. I was so late, the penultimate RV had almost closed. Instead of being first back to Sennybridge, I was last. Instead of being relaxed and ready for the next day’s walk, I was exhausted and ill-prepared. I had come within a hair’s breadth of failing, but was determined the same would never happen again. That little voice has spoken on many occasions since.
    Long Drag, the final endurance march, is exactly what it says - tedious. It goes on forever, or seems to, being at the end of a week that has already exhausted the hardiest trainee. I started it with blisters and when I finished they were worse. The principle is to drag yourself, rifle and forty-five-pound rucksack over a set fifty-kilometre course. For the Regular SAS, endurance came at the end of a two-week walking period and included a rifle and fifty-five-pound rucksack over a fifty-five-kilometre course. I have done both and can promise they were equally miserable. RVs are scattered along the route at regular intervals, the whole event having to be completed within twenty-four hours. It’s mad.
    Mad or not, if I was to be badged I had to do it. It helps if you find someone else with whom to walk. Peter B was a possibility, but he seemed happier to walk by himself and I did not wish to interfere with this. In