Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

“Tell me more, Andy. You told me Jews are circumcised at birth. Now you’re telling me that Christians are circumcised at birth as well. This is confusing. Are you lying to us?”

“No, it all depends on the parents. Some people think it’s more hygienic.”

They found this ever so funny, and I was chuffed that there was a bit of laughter going on. I wondered how I could keep them going.

“We shall talk some more very soon, Andy,” The Voice said.

I was dragged to my feet and taken back to my old cell. Once again, I was on my own and handcuffed.

I heard Dinger being put back into his cell some time later. Then there was silence, and we were both left to our own devices for a number of hours.

Later that afternoon they came for me again.

“Tell us more about the helicopter, Andy,” The Voice said as I was pushed onto the chair. “What sort of helicopter was it?”

“It was a Chinook.”

“Why a Chinook?”

“I don’t know why it was a Chinook; that’s just the helicopter we used.”

“Where did you land?”

“I have no idea where we landed. It was nighttime. We’re soldier medics, not navigators; we just sit in the back.”

“Do you know if the helicopter took off again?”

“I have no idea what happened to it.”

“If it crashed on the ground and you know where it is, we could find it for you and maybe find the rest of your friends.”

There was a brief pause, and then he said, “Look, Andy, we can find no aircraft anywhere. It must have taken off and left you, or you must be lying.”

“No, I’m not lying.”

I went through the story again. As I spoke, I was interrupted constantly by questions.

“Andy, I’ll ask you again, one more time. Do you know where you landed?”

“No, I’ve no idea where I landed. I’ve told you, I can’t tell you any more. I don’t know anything else. Why keep on asking me? I really don’t know. I want to help. All I want to do is go back to England.”

His tone was shifting now. He was getting more grave. “How much fuel does the helicopter hold?”

“I haven’t got a clue. I don’t know anything about that. I just get in the helicopters, I don’t know anything about them.”

And that was more or less true. I had never known anything technical that I didn’t need to know. With a weapon, all I want to know is how it works, what kind of ammunition it fires, and what to do when it goes wrong. I don’t want to know the muzzle velocity and stuff like that, because it is immaterial. You aim, press the trigger, it goes bang, it fires a round. The same principle applied to helicopters and other bits of kit. I am downright wary, as most professional soldiers are, of anyone who can come out with all the statistical facts. Sometimes people use these to mask their inadequacies. They might know all the bumpf, but it’s “hands on” that counts.

This line of questioning was irrelevant anyway; they could have got any of the information out of Jane’s. It was taking up time though, which couldn’t be bad-and I wasn’t getting beaten. I sat there, acting confused and humble as usual. The only problem was that they were getting more serious about it and accusing me of not helping. But I must have sounded genuine because I was. I didn’t have a clue.

“How does the ramp come down?”

“Somebody presses a button.”

“Where’s the button?”

“I don’t know…”

They gave up, and I was taken back to the cell. It was dark. My blindfold was off, but the handcuffs were still on. I had long since lost all sense or feeling in my fingers and hands. The flesh on my wrists had now swollen so much it covered the bracelets. My hands were like balloons.

I heard them toing and froing with Dinger as_ well and then they came back for me. It was the third interrogation within what felt like the space of twenty-four hours. This was the scariest, because they fetched me in pitch darkness.

The Voice started by going over some of the helicopter stuff again. Then I got questions on the big war plan.

“Schwarzkopf and his Allies-how do they plan to invade?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will they invade Iraq?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many aircraft are there?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many Syrian soldiers are preparing to invade Iraq from Syria?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it is a feasible idea that they should invade Iraq from Syria?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will Israel invade Iraq?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, how many soldiers have the British got here?”

“That I do know. I read it in the newspaper. Forty to fifty thousand, I think. It doesn’t really interest me, I’m afraid.”

“How many tanks are there ready to invade Kuwait and Iraq?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aircraft?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does Bush realize that he’s killing our women and children?”

This was weird stuff, but wonderful: at least I wasn’t getting filled in, and they weren’t bringing up the fact that they had lost a lot of men during the contacts.

Again there were lots of pauses, and: “Andy, you’re not helping me. You must know how many aircraft there are.”

I was profoundly tired. It had been more or less impossible to sleep, and I was very hungry and thirsty. I was gagging for a drink.

In daylight, with the usual scary noise, the guards kicked the door in and brought me a pitcher of water. It was horrible minging stuff that looked as if it had been dredged up from a drain, but I wasn’t particularly bothered. It was wet. And even if it made me ill, at least I was re hydrating-unless I brought it up again.

They wanted to take the pitcher back with them, so I was to drink it all in one go. They took off my blindfold for the first time since the first interrogation, undid my handcuffs, and stood over me as I sat on the floor and grasped the pitcher in both hands.

I started drinking. My broken teeth exploded with pain as the cold water hit the stumps. As I looked past their legs and out into the corridor, I saw Stan. Stan was about 6’4”, and he was being dragged by men who only came up to his armpits. The whole of his head, including his beard, was dark red and matted. On one side his scalp was split open in a big, glistening gash. His trousers were caked with blood and mud and shit. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning and groaning to himself. He was totally and utterly gone. He was hobbling and stooped, well past the “injured and confused” stage of bluffing. He made me feel like I’d just come out of a health farm. It was the first time I had seen him since we had tried to contact the jets with the TACBEs.

I remembered the night Dinger and I had heard what we thought was guards commanding somebody to get up. “Stand, bad boy! Stand!” So they had been mispronouncing his name after all.

The guards turned and saw what I was looking at.

They kicked the pitcher out of my hands and went berserk with their boots.

“No look!” they screamed. “No look!”

It was the first kicking I’d received since the very first interrogation, and I could have done without it. Whether they had screwed up by leaving the door open or it was all intentional, I had no idea.

I curled up on the damp concrete. My teeth were raging but I counted my blessings: the guards had forgotten to put my handcuffs back on.

I felt sick, but I was trying hard to keep it down. I didn’t want to dehydrate. Finally I couldn’t help myself, and retched. All the precious fluid I had gained I lost again.

I heard Dinger being moved; I didn’t hear Stan being brought back. A short while later they came for me. It was routine by now. They blindfolded and handcuffed me, and dragged me off without saying a word.