Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

I heard Dinger’s voice just behind me. They were stubbing cigarettes out on him as well. It was good to hear him, even though he was moaning and groaning. I couldn’t see him or touch him because I was facing the other way, but I knew he was there. I felt a bit safer.

There must have been three or four guards using us as ashtrays. They’d had a bad time with us over the last few days, and they were obviously enjoying getting their own back.

Other squad dies came around to see the sideshow and get in a poke and a kick. They gob bed on us and laughed. One put a lit cigarette behind my ear and left it there to burn down. His mates loved that one.

Even though I was blindfolded, I kept looking down, trying to look scared. I wanted to see Dinger. I needed the physical contact with him, I needed to feel near him. I wanted some form of attachment.

I was writhing face down as the cigarette burned behind my ear and managed to wiggle the blindfold down my nose. I could see daylight at last. You have a horrible sense of insecurity when you’re blindfolded because you’re so vulnerable.

If this is my last hour, I said to myself, let’s see as much as we can. It was a lovely clear sky. We were under a small fruit tree with a little bird in it. It started singing. The odd vehicle would start up about 60 feet away, there was talking, it was all rather sedate and nice. On the other side of the wall there was the hustle and bustle of the town, the hooting and revving of vehicles and general shouting. I heard the main gate open and close about 150 feet away, vehicles drive out and fade away. It felt as cozy and safe as being in a walled garden in a different century.

I thought: I’ve seen and I’ve done as much as I can. If it’s going to happen, let’s do it now. I didn’t have much thought about Jilly or Kate. I’d gone through all that in the culvert, thinking there wasn’t much I could do about it, this was not the time to worry about them. I’d done the best I could to look after them financially. I’d got the letters sorted out, and at the end of the day they knew that I loved them, and I knew that they loved me. There were no big problems; they’d be told I was dead and that would be that.

There were other things I wanted to concentrate on now. In Breaker Morant, the film about the Boer War, as the characters walked to the spot where they were going to get executed, they reached out and held hands. I didn’t know whether I wanted to physically grab hold of Dinger or whether I wanted to say something. I just wanted some sort of connection with him for my last moment.

More squad dies came round, kicking and poking. They looked down at these two pathetic messes on the ground, and they gob bed and took the piss, giggling like a bunch of kids, which some of them probably were. But none of it seemed as bad as before. Either the novelty was wearing off for them or I was just getting used to it. I just kept my head down and clenched my teeth. Both of us moaned and groaned with each kick because it hurt-but it was not so much the power of the kick as the effect it had on the aches and pains from before. They denounced Mitterrand and Bush, and when they saw my blindfold was down, they did cutthroat signs and waved their pistols and mimed bang-bang. I could have taken it if it was part of a master plan, but these wankers were just doing it for their own enjoyment.

Vehicles started up, and the drivers revved the engines. There was a lot of shouting and barking of orders from the buildings behind us, and that got me flapping. It was a horrible sinking feeling: Here we go again, I thought, why not another hour here? It’s all rather nice in the sun; we’ve had such a good period of sedation.

I hoped the noise came from officers and it didn’t just mean that the jundies were getting all sparked up again. You felt there was some purpose with the officers; you could converse with them quite well. With the squad dies it was just boots and fists.

Vehicle doors were slamming. There was a general hum of activity. Something was definitely about to happen. I braced myself, because it was going to happen whether I liked it or not.

I didn’t know what I was going to shout to Dinger. “God Save the Queen!” maybe. But then again, probably not.

Somebody untied my feet, but the blindfold and handcuffs stayed in place. Hands on either side grabbed me roughly and hauled me upright. My body had started to seize up after the long rest. Bruises throbbed. Cuts which had clotted were reopened as I was pushed and shoved. My feet wouldn’t carry me and I had to be dragged.

I was thrown onto the back of an open pickup and man handled to the front. They bent me over the cab, a jundie either side of me; I assumed I was being taken away to be shot. Was this the last time I was ever going to see or hear anything? My great game plan to say something to Dinger had gone to rat shit, and I was annoyed with myself.

They took my blindfold off, and I blinked in the harsh sunlight. There was nothing in front of us. They wouldn’t let me turn around, so I couldn’t tell if Dinger was behind. The jundies were banging on the roof; the driver and passenger had their arms out, and they were slapping the metal as well. There were happy noises everywhere.

One of the ruperts came up and said, “We are now going to show our people.”

I was still trying to adjust my eyes, totally bemused by the noise and the sun. We seemed to be part of a convoy of five or six brand-new Toyota pickups and Land Cruisers. Some still had the plastic over the seats. They were covered with desert dust, however, and they’d had to scrape it off the rear windscreen of the cab beneath me so the driver could see out.

They opened up the large double gates for the vehicles to come out of the camp, and we were greeted by the surging roar of a crowd, as if two Cup Final sides were emerging from the tunnel at Wembley. There was a solid mass of people ahead of us-women with sticks, men with guns or stones, all dressed in their dish-dashes and waving pictures of Saddam Hussein in their hands. Some were jumping up and down with joy; others were ranting rhetoric, pointing and throwing stones. The jundies tried to stop them because they were getting hit as well.

And this was just as we drove out of the gate. I thought: That’s it, we’re off to be shot without a doubt. We’ll have a quick drive around town, they’ll make a video, and then they’ll do the business.

We turned right onto the main boulevard, and the crowd surged around us. We had to stop almost immediately, as the jundies tried to push people off and the driver jammed his hand hard on the horn. We inched forward, trying to pave a way through the mob. They chanted “Down with Boosh! Down with Boosh!” and I just stood there like the president at the head of a cavalcade.

The squad dies were chuffed as hell. Everybody was firing into the air. Even kids of ten were letting rip with AKs. All I could think was: One of these rounds is going to hit me. It was such a lovely hot day as well.

I got twatted now and again by a stick or stone. The jundies either side of me were jumping up and down with excitement. I only had socks on my feet, and they landed on them with their boots. I felt weak and wanted to lean against the cab, but they pulled my head back to make sure everybody could see me.

Dinger came up on the right-hand side. He, too, was riding a Toyota pickup. As he drew level, we got some eye-to-eye and managed to swap a smile. It was the best thing that had happened all day. Dinger was looking how I felt. He was the bog monster at the best of times, but I looked at him and thought: Fucking hell, I didn’t know he could get even uglier than he was. It was the happiest time since the capture, without a doubt. The wink and the small smile, that was all I needed. I drew immense strength from that one small gesture. It was a matter of personal credibility. If he could get through this and grin about it, I thought, fuck it, so can I. I felt incredible affection for him, and I hoped that he did for me. This, as far as I knew, was my last look at a mate.