Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

I came to on the floor. The blindfold had fallen off, and I watched as blood poured from my mouth into a pool on the cream lino. I felt stupid and useless. I wanted nothing more than for the handcuffs to fall off so I could get up and deal with these guys.

They carried on, giving me some good stuff around the back with the butts, twat ting my head, legs, and kidneys.

I couldn’t breathe through my nose. When I screamed, I had to draw breath through my mouth, and the air hit the exposed nerve pulp of my broken teeth. I screamed again, and went on screaming.

It was getting outrageous.

They picked me up and put me back on the seat. They didn’t bother putting the blindfold back on, but I kept my head down anyway. I didn’t want eye contact, or to risk another filling in for looking up. I was in enough pain. I was a big, incoherent mess, honking away, sniveling to myself as I slumped on the chair.

My coordination was well and truly gone. I couldn’t even keep my legs together any more. I must have looked like Dinger’s double.

There was a long silence.

Everybody was shuffling around, leaving me to ponder over my fate. How long could I go like this? Was I going to get kicked to death here or what?

There was a lot more sighing and clucking.

“What are you doing this for, Andy? For your country? Your country doesn’t want to know you. Your country doesn’t care. The only ones who will really worry will be your parents, your family. We don’t want a war. It’s Bush, Mitterrand, Thatcher, Major. They’re sitting back there doing nothing. You’re here. It’s you that will suffer, not them. They’re not worried about you.

“We’ve had war for many years. All our families have suffered. We’re not barbarians, it’s you who are bringing in war. This is just an unfortunate situation for you. Why don’t you help us? Why are you letting yourself go through all this pain? Why do we have to do this sort of thing?”

I didn’t answer, I just kept my head down. My game plan was not to go into the cover story straightaway, because then they’ve got you. I was trying to make it look as if I was prepared to give them the Big Four and that was all. Queen and country and all that. I would go through a certain amount of tactical questioning and then break into my cover story.

They were talking between themselves in low tones, in what I took to be quite educated Arabic. Somebody was scribbling notes.

The writing was a good sign. It intimated that there wasn’t just a big frenzy going on, with them getting what they could and then topping me. It made it seem there was a reason for not shooting me. Was there some sort of preservation order on us? It gave me a sense of security, a feeling that some officialdom somewhere was directing operations. Yes, said the other side of my brain, but you’re getting further and further down this chain, and the longer this goes on the less chance you have of escaping. Escaping must always be foremost in your mind. You don’t know when the opportunity is going to arise, and you’ve got to be ready. Carpe diem! You’ve got to seize that moment, but the longer you are in captivity the more difficult it becomes.

I thought about Dinger. I knew he wouldn’t have substantiated any of this stuff about Tel Aviv. He would have done as much as he could, and when he decided that he’d physically had too much and was going to be kicked to death, he’d have started to break into the search and rescue story.

It occurred to me I might feel better if I could see my environment, absorb my surroundings. I looked up and opened my eyes. The Venetian blinds were down, but one or two thin shafts of light shone through.

Everything was twilighty and in semi shadow

The room was quite large, maybe 40 feet by 20. I was sitting at one end of the rectangle. I couldn’t see a door, so it had to be behind me. The officers were at the other end, facing me. There must have been eight or nine of them, all smoking. Smoke haze hung from the ceiling, pierced here and there by the sun coming through the blinds.

Halfway down the room, on the right hand side as I looked at it, was a large desk. On it were a couple of telephones and piles of normal office paper, books, and clutter. A big leather executive-style chair was empty. Behind it was the world’s biggest picture of Saddam in his beret, all the medals on, smiling away. I guessed it was the local commander’s office.

General admin notices hung on the wall. In the center of the lino floor and continuing under the desk was a large Persian carpet. On the left, facing the desk, was a large domestic-type settee. The rest of the walls were lined with stack able plastic chairs. Mine, the guest chair, appeared to be a plastic cushioned dining chair.

More tut-tut-tuts and sighs. People were talking to themselves as if I wasn’t there and this was just a normal day at the office. I rolled my head, and blood and snot dribbled down my chin. I didn’t know how much longer I could bear the agony in my mouth.

I worked out the options. If they started to fill me in again, I’d be dead by the end of the afternoon. The time had come to start spilling the cover story. I would wait for them to initiate it, and I’d go ahead.

When I had refused to answer their questions, I wasn’t being all patriotic and brave-that’s just propaganda that you see in war films. This was real life. I couldn’t come straight out with my cover story. I had to make it look as if they’d prized it out of me. It was a matter of self-preservation, not bravado. People sometimes do heroic things because the situation demands it, but there’s no such thing as a hero. The gung ho brigade are either idiots or they don’t even understand what’s happening. What I had to do now was give them the least amount of information to keep myself alive.

“Andy, you’re just sitting there. We’re trying to be friendly, but we have to get the information. Andy, this could go on and on. Your friend’s outside, he’s helped us and he’s Okay, he’s out there on the grass, he’s still alive, he’s in the sun. You’re in here in the dark. This is no good for you and it’s no good for us. It just takes up our time.

“Just tell us what we need to know and that’s it, everything’s ended. You’ll be Okay, we’ll look after you until the end of the war. Maybe we might be able to organize it for you to go home to your family straightaway. There’s no problems, if you help us. You look bad. Are you aching? You need a doctor-we’ll help you.”

I wanted to appear utterly done in. “Okay,” I said in a hoarse whisper, “I can’t take any more. I’ll help you.”

Everybody in the room looked up.

“I am a member of a search and rescue team who were sent to lift downed pilots.”

The interrogator turned around and looked at the others. They all came forward and sat on tables and desks. Everything I said had to be translated for them.

“Andy, tell me more. Tell me all you know about the search and rescue.”

His voice was very nice and calm. He obviously thought he’d cracked it, which was fine-that was exactly what I wanted him to think.

“We’re all from different units in the British army,” I said, “and we’re all drawn together because of our medical experience. I don’t know anybody, we were just brought together. I’m medically trained, I’m not a soldier. I’m stuck in this war and I don’t want to be a part of it. I was happy working back in the UK on sick parades, and all of a sudden they’ve put me on one of these search and rescue teams. I haven’t got a clue about any of this, I’m a medic, that’s all I am.”

It seemed to go down rather well. They chatted about it amongst themselves. It obviously squared with what Dinger had told them.