Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

The trouble is, once you start there’s that chink in the armor, and you’ve got to carry on with the story. If there’s too much detail, you’ll start cocking things up for the other prisoners. You have to try to keep your story nice and simple-then it’s easy for you to remember as well. The best way to achieve that is to be the total bag of shit. You can’t remember because you’re in such a bad physical state. Your mind just can’t recollect anything; you’re just a thick, bone squaddy, one of the minions, and you haven’t got a clue, you don’t even know what kind of helicopter it was. My mind was racing to think of the story and what I was going to say next.

They knew I was a sergeant, so I threw that one in again. In their army, sergeant is a buckshee rank. It’s their officers that do everything, including the thinking.

“How many of you were there?”

“I don’t know. There was lots of noise and the helicopter came down. We were told there was danger of an explosion and to run, and they just took off and left us.” I played the confused bonehead, the scared, abandoned squaddy. “I just do first aid, I don’t want any of this. I’m not used to all this. All I do is put plasters on wounded pilots.”

“How many were on the aircraft?” he tried again.

“I’m not entirely sure. It was nighttime.”

“Andy, what’s going on? We gave you a chance. Do you take us for idiots? Over the last few days many people have been killed, and we want to know what’s happened.”

This was the first time they had mentioned casualties. I had been expecting it, but I didn’t want to hear it.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“We want to know who’s done it. Was it you?”

“It wasn’t me. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You must give us a chance. Look, just to show you how much we want to help you: You tell me your mother’s and father’s names, and we will write to them and let them know you’re all right. You write them a letter and put the address on, and we’ll post it.”

It was something straight out of training. You are taught never to sign anything. This goes back to Vietnam days where people signed pieces of paper in all innocence, and the next thing they knew there was a statement in the international press saying that they’d slain a village full of children.

I knew it was bollocks. There was no way they’d actually send a letter to Peckham. It was fantasy land, but I couldn’t just come out with Fuck you, big nose. I had to get round this somehow.

“My father died years ago,” I said. “My mother went away with an American who was working in London. She’s somewhere in America now. I haven’t got any parents; it’s one of the reasons I’m in the army. I’ve got no other immediate family.”

“Where did he work in London, this American?”

“Wimbledon.”

Another classic. They were trying to get me to open up my heart, and everything would come rolling out. I’d been put through all this before in E amp;E and capture exercises.

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t live at home then. I had big family problems.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

I wanted to base my lies on the truth. If it’s something that you know and it’s the truth, you stand a better chance of remembering it. And they might run a check and be able to confirm that what you’re saying is true and not go any further into it. I had in my mind a friend who had been in that sort of family situation. His father died when he was 13. His mother met an American, wanted nothing more to do with the son, and buggered off to the States. As far as I was concerned, it sounded quite convincing.

I took my time. My speech was slurred, I was still dribbling, I couldn’t talk properly.

“Are you in pain, Andy? Help us and everything will be fine. We’ll get you medical attention. Carry on, tell us more.”

“I don’t know any more.”

Then another classic. He must have been working his way through the manual.

“Sign this piece of paper, Andy. All we want to do is prove to your family that you’re still alive. We will make attempts to find your mother in America. We have contacts there. All we need is your signature so she knows you’re Okay. And we can actually prove to the Red Cross that you’re still alive, you’re not dead in the desert, and the animals aren’t eating you. Think of it, Andy. If we get you to sign your name and go to the Red Cross, we’re not going to kill you.” I couldn’t believe anybody would actually come out with such a comical ploy. I tried to be noncommittal. “I don’t know any addresses, I haven’t got any family life.”

You could give a fictitious address, or you could give a real address in case they checked up. But Mrs. Mills of 8 Acacia Avenue might open her door one morning and get blown away. You never know how far this sort of thing will go.

“Andy, why do you keep on obstructing us? Why are you doing this to yourself? These people, my superiors, they won’t let me help you unless you tell them what they need to know. I’m afraid I can’t help you any more, Andy. If you don’t help me, I can’t help you.”

He just walked away. I didn’t know what to expect now.

I had my head down, and I could hear them coming up. I clenched my jaw and waited for it. This time there were no rifles, just several quite severe smacks around the face. Every time they hit near the broken teeth I screamed.

I shouldn’t have done that.

They pulled my head up by the hair to get a better aim. Then they slapped several more times over the site.

The slaps became punches that knocked me off the chair, but it wasn’t very exciting compared with the last beating. Probably they thought they’d now cracked it and I just needed a bit more encouragement. It lasted less than a minute.

Back on the chair, I was breathing heavily, blood trickling down my front.

“Look, Andy, we’re trying to help you. Do you want to help us?”

“Yes, I do, but I don’t know anything, I’m helping you as much as I can.”

“Where are your mother and father?”

I went through the same story.

“But why don’t you know where your mother is in America?”

“I don’t know because I have nothing to do with her. She didn’t want me. So she went to America and I joined the army.” “When did you join the army?”

“When I was sixteen.”

“Why did you join?”

“I’ve always wanted to help people, that’s why I’m a medic. I don’t want to fight. I’ve always been against fighting.”

This business about family was a red herring. I didn’t know if it was just a matter of pride that he wanted to crack it.

“Andy, look, obviously this way is not working.”

The filling in started again.

Your body adapts and it passes out quicker. Your mind is working in two ways. One half is telling you you’re out of it, and the other half really is out of it. It’s like lying on your bed when you’re pissed-your mind is spinning and a little voice is saying: Never again. This time I was totally out of the game. It was a good kicking. I wasn’t exaggerating anything after this one. I was incoherent. I flaked out, and when I came to I was still incoherent.

What woke me up was a boy stubbing his cigarette out on my neck.

I was in blackness, blindfolded and handcuffed, lying face down on grass. I had an excruciating headache. My ears tingled and burned.

I felt sunlight on bits of my face. I sensed the brightness of it. My mind was a blur, but I worked out that at some stage I must have been dragged from the room and trussed up outside. I wanted to rest my head, but I couldn’t lie on one side because of the swelling, and I couldn’t rest on the other because of the cuts.