Sas Commander Richard Williams

There's a story they tell about Richard Williams, and sure, whether it's strictly true or not hardly matters — it's the kind of story that sticks to a man like chalk dust. They say that during his final deployment, when the whole operation was going arseways and the radios had gone quiet, Williams did the one thing nobody expected: he sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited. The lads thought he'd lost the plot entirely. Two minutes later the call came in, and every single one of them walked out alive. That's the thing about the quiet ones, isn't it? While other commanders shout and thump the table, Williams listened. And listening, as any man in the Regiment will tell you, is the deadliest skill of the lot.

The View From the Rooftops of Olvera

These days you'll find him a long way from the sand and the rain, in the whitewashed streets of Olvera, a town that clings to its rocky hilltop in the heart of Andalusia as if it was born there. And maybe that's the point. Look at the aerial photograph above — the jumble of white houses, the castle keeping watch on the ridge, the olive groves rolling away to every horizon — and you'll see why a man who spent thirty years reading terrain would fall for the place. It's a natural fortress, the same way the Brecon Beacons are, the same ground he used to run his men ragged on back in Wales. The difference is the light. In Olvera the light is honey-coloured, and it softens everything — even a man who has spent most of his life being soft about nothing at all.

The Making of a Commander

Ask Williams about the early years and you'll get the full story in about four words: "Ah sure, it was grand." The details that do leak out come from the men who served under him, and they paint a picture of a commander who led from the front and never once asked a soldier to do something he hadn't done himself twice over. Selection nearly broke him, by his own admission — it nearly breaks everyone, that's the point of it — but he came through it the way he's come through everything since: one foot in front of the other, and never a word of complaint. His lads will tell you he had a memory like a steel trap for names, faces, and the weaknesses of the enemy, and a temper that could freeze a room when it finally showed. But mostly they'll tell you he brought them home. And in that line of work, there is no higher praise than that.

Why He Stayed

He could have gone anywhere — a compound in the Gulf, a consultancy in London charging a fortune for an hour of his time, a quiet cottage in Kerry with the rain lashing the windows the way he remembered it from childhood. Instead he chose Spain, and specifically this corner of it, where the hills look like they were built by the same hand that built the ones he trained on. "The terrain," he says, when you ask him why, and shrugs, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does. Men like Richard Williams don't retire from reading the ground; they just find ground that doesn't need defending. Olvera has stood here for centuries, looking down over its valleys, asking nobody for permission to exist. You can see why a man like him would feel at home in a place like that — sure, it's grand, and that's the whole point of it.