Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

“That’s all you need on top of getting captured,” Chris had joked. “To have six chutney ferrets roaring up your arse.”

We drove for about fifteen minutes in brilliant sunshine. I could tell we weren’t heading out of town because we were still turning corners at quite frequent intervals and the noise of human activity didn’t drop. People in the streets were shouting at one another; drivers were leaning on their horns.

One of the blokes in the front farted. It was outrageous, a really putrid bastard. That’s nice, I thought: on top of everything else I’ve now got to chew somebody else’s shit.

They thought it was hilarious, and the guy on the passenger side turned around and said, “Good? Good?”

“Mrnmm, yum yum,” Dinger said, full of appreciation, inhaling deeply as if he was on the se afront at Yarmouth. “Lovely, good stuff.”

Our noses were so clogged that not too much of the smell was getting through, but it was important to show them that we didn’t care about anything they did. After a while the blokes up front couldn’t hack it themselves and had to wind the window down.

It was lovely to feel the cool breeze hitting my skin. I turned my face into it until I tingled. It kept my mind off my hands. I had perfected a technique of leaning forward and keeping my back straight to take the pressure off the cuffs. The problem was that every time I moved, they thought I was doing something to try and get away, so I’d get shoved back. But what was fifteen minutes of this between friends?

The driver stopped laughing, and I sensed that we had arrived. Gates were being opened, and we drove over a different surface for another couple of hundred meters. The Land Cruiser was surrounded by angry voices. We had a reception committee.

The moment the vehicle stopped the doors were pulled open. Hands grabbed my hair and face and pulled me out on my side. It was straight out and onto the ground, no messing. It wasn’t the worst beasting we’d had-slapping, hair pulling, punches to the side, all the normal harassment stuff-but it came as a big, big shock. People were laughing and gob bing and I got my head down, clenching up, just letting them get on with it. It was their party.

After two or three minutes I was hauled to my feet, and they started dragging me away. My legs wouldn’t function, and I tripped and stumbled. They just kept dragging, very quickly, very rehearsed, like porters at an abattoir processing carcasses. There was hollering all around me, but I was trying to listen out for another group so I could keep tabs on Dinger. I couldn’t hear anything outside of my own little environment.

I kept trying to lift my feet so they wouldn’t scuff on the floor and get damaged even more. We only went about a dozen meters. While they fiddled with the door, I tried to catch my breath. We went up a couple of steps that I didn’t know were there, and I banged my toes and groaned. I went down, but they dragged me up again, shouting and slapping. We went along a corridor. The echoes were eerie and ugly. It had been hot, and now suddenly it was cold and damp and musty again. The building seemed derelict.

The cell door must have been already open. They threw me against a corner and pushed me down onto the floor. I was arranged so that I was cross-legged but with my knees right up, my shoulders back, and my hands behind my back, still handcuffed. I didn’t say or do anything; I just went with the flow. After another couple of slaps and kicks and a burst of rhetoric for good measure, they slammed the door shut. It sounded as if it was made of sheet metal bolted to a frame, but the frame must have been warped because they had to slam it really hard, and it banged and rattled with an echo that frightened me shitless.

You’re alone. You think you are alone. You can’t see what’s going on, you’re disoriented, and you’re worried. You’re fucking worried. You’re breathing heavily, and all you’re thinking is: Let’s just get it done. You can’t be sure there’s nobody in the room. Maybe they haven’t all gone; maybe somebody’s still looking at you, watching for a mistake, so you keep your head down, clench your teeth as best you can, keep your knees up, try to protect yourself against the punches and kicks that could start again at any instant.

I heard the crash of another door. Dinger getting locked away, I assumed. It gave me a bit of consolation to know that we were both still in the same boat.

There wasn’t a lot I could do except just sit there and try to calm myself down. I took deep breaths and exhaled very slowly as I analyzed the events and came to the obvious conclusion that something unpleasant was definitely going to happen. We had been moved to a place that felt organized and geared up. There was a reception party to deliver a short, sharp shock; they knew the score, they knew exactly what they were going to do and when. But was this the prison we were going to stay in now, or were we still in transit and these boys just asserting their authority? Was I going to stay blindfolded and handcuffed for the rest of my days? If so, I was going to be in a desperate state. Would I come out with my eyes impaired? And Jesus-what about my hands?

I calmed myself with the thought that once I’d tuned in to the new environment, I’d be all right. It was like going into a house that you haven’t visited before. It feels strange, but after a couple of hours you feel a bit more affinity with it, you feel more at home. I knew that as long as my blindfold came off, that was what would happen eventually. I still had my escape map and compass safely tucked away, so at least I had something over them.

It was cold: a dank, dilapidated sort of cold. The floor was damp. I was sitting in wet mud and shit. I found that my hands could touch the wall. It was plaster that had chips and chunks out of it, and where it met the floor there were gaps. The concrete floor was very rough and uneven. Pressure sores on my arse made me try to adjust my position. I tried straightening my legs out but that didn’t work, so I brought them back up and tried to lean on one side. But wherever I leaned my hands were painful; I just couldn’t get comfortable.

I heard noisy talking and the sound of people walking up and down outside. There was obviously a gap in the door or a window, and I sensed them looking in at me, checking out the new commodity, just staring with blank, gormless eyes. It flashed through my mind that if I got out, I’d never visit a zoo again in my life.

The pain from the handcuffs and the stress position had become too much. Whether or not I was being watched, I had no choice but to try and lie down to relieve the pressure. There was nothing to lose in having a go. You don’t know until you try. I shifted on to my side, and the relief was immediate-and so was the shouting. I knew they were coming for me. Every nerve in my body screamed: “Fuck! Fuck! Oh no, not again…”

I tried to pull myself up by putting my weight against the wall, but I ran out of time. The bolt flew undone, and the guards battled to get the warped door open. It shook and rattled like an up-and-over garage door as they kicked at it in a fury, and when it did finally swing open, it was still rattling like a pantomime thunderstorm. It was the most frightening noise I’d ever heard, horrendous, absolutely horrendous.

They were straight in, grabbing me by my hair, kicking and punching. Their message was very clear. They forced me back into the stress position and left the cell, slamming the door behind them. The bolt crashed home, and their footsteps echoed and faded.

This feels like a proper prison; this is a purpose-built cell. I’m under their total control. So this is where it’s all going to happen? There’s no chance of escape, and if conditions stay like this there never will be.