Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

They carried on for about four hours, and then it was coming to first light. Chris and Stan were worried about being caught in the open. Vince was out of the decision making; he stood swaying in the wind and rain as the others ran around looking for somewhere to hide.

Stan found a tank berm about 6 feet deep, with tank tracks leading away from it that were about knee deep. They led Vince into one of the tracks and lay down either side of him. Throughout the night Chris and Stan took it in turns to sleep. The man who was awake kept a watchful eye on Vince.

First light came and Stan had a auick look around. To his horror, he found that the tank berm was only about 600 meters from some sort of enemy position-either a hut or a box vehicle with aerials, it was hard to tell. They were stuck there now until last light.

It started to snow. Soon the snow turned to sleet, and the tank track filled with slush. They were soaking wet. The temperature dropped.

They had very little food left, just a couple of packets of biscuits between them. Everything else had gone in the berg ens

As it started to come to last light, they crawled into the berm and stood up. They’d been lying in freezing water for twelve hours. Stan had lost all feeling in his hands and feet; Chris’s joints were frozen. They moved around in circles, frog-marching Vince between them. When darkness had fallen and it was time to leave, they were so cold that the only way they could pick up their weapons was by cradling them in their arms.

Vince was soon lagging behind. He stopped in his tracks at one point and called the other two back. He complained about his hands, muttering that they had turned black. Chris looked at them and saw that he was wearing black leather gloves. “They’ll soon get better if you put them in your pockets, mate,” he said.

The next time they stopped, Vince was totally incoherent. Stan and Chris huddled around him, but it wasn’t much use. They had to keep going or they’d freeze. They were on high ground, crossing bare rock and large patches of snow. Chris was in front with the compass, but the cold was getting to him. He was doing everything in slow motion.

The three men spread out as they climbed a gradient at their different speeds. Stan stopped to let Vince overtake him; he wanted to keep an eye on him. But Vince didn’t appear. Stan turned around; Vince was nowhere to be seen. Stan called to Chris and they both went back. Visibility was down to a few feet in the blinding blizzard as they retraced their footsteps in the snow. They got to a large area of bare rock. They couldn’t find the trail the other side.

They had to make a decision. They were both going down with hypothermia. It was agony standing still; they had to get moving again. In the end they just looked at each other, then turned and headed back up the hill.

Stan and Chris walked all that night, coming off the high ground at about 0530. They came into a shallow wadi about three feet deep and cuddled together. As first light came the weather cleared; the sun came out, and for the first time in several days they felt warmth on their faces.

The sound of goats came at about 1400, and sure enough they got compromised by an old herder. This one was wearing a tattered tweed overcoat. Stan couldn’t help thinking how warm it looked and how good it would be to eat warm goat meat.

The old boy seemed quite friendly as he pointed east. Drawing pictures in the sand, he indicated food, a house, a vehicle. Chris looked at Stan. Did they kill him? It would protect their concealment, but was there anybody else about who was expecting him?

Stan was keen to investigate the vehicle. “I’ll go down, bring it back, and we’ll shoot off. We’ll be at the border by tonight,” he said.

They made their RVs, actions on, and warning arrangements, and Stan set off due east with the old boy and his goats. He left his belt kit with Chris to look less conspicuous, and wrapped his shamag around his head.

After a short while the goat herder wandered off at a tangent but again pointed east. Stan continued.

The hut was exactly where the old man had said, but there were two vehicles parked outside instead of one. Stan OP’d it for about twenty minutes. Nothing stirred. If the keys were in the vehicle, he’d just take it there and then and go. If they weren’t, he’d make a room entry on the house. He’d get to the door, kick it in, and take on whatever was there.

As he started to approach the vehicles, an Iraqi soldier came out of the house. He looked as surprised as Stan was. He made for the first vehicle and tried to pull a weapon out. Stan downed him with his 203, and the body slumped over the driver’s seat. The house was less than 60 feet away, and the door was open. Six or seven squad dies came flying out in confusion. Stan got three hits off, and then he had a stoppage. It was too late for stoppage drills. He ran to the nearest vehicle, the one with the body in. The soldier was still groaning. Stan pushed him aside. No key in the ignition. He was still fumbling for it in the man’s pockets when he felt the muzzle of a rifle jab into his ribs.

Stan turned around and stared at them. There were five jundies left.

They appeared very undisciplined, screaming and shouting at each other. They fired into the air and into the ground each side of him. He wasn’t expecting to survive. They came forward cautiously and then one of them summoned the courage to smash him with a rifle butt. The others piled in.

They put him into the other vehicle and took him to a military installation near the Euphrates. Stan entered the tactical questioning phase. He was interrogated for most of the night, handcuffed and blindfolded. The interrogators spoke very good English. Some had trained in the UK. A major who had trained at Sandhurst said, “Everyone’s very sad with you at the moment. They want to take your life.”

Stan denied everything except the Big Four. They beat him badly and only stopped when he fell unconscious. When he came to, he started to go into the cover story. He told them he had done a medical degree in Australia and gone to London. Because of his medical experience he had got roped in through the TA to become part of a search and rescue team.

“I want to cooperate in any way I can,” he said. “All I am is a doctor who dropped out.”

He was questioned on medical techniques, and they brought in a doctor to confirm his story. It went well, but the rest of his story was starting to fall apart. They searched the area in which Stan said the helicopter had crash-landed but could find no sign of wreckage. “Possibly the aircraft took off again,” he said, but they looked dubious.

Two or three days later, Stan was moved to an interrogation center. The reception party beat him with batons. He was made to kneel in front of the panel of interrogators. He was thrashed with hose pipes whipped, beaten with a pole. At one stage they pulled back his head and held a red-hot poker in front of his eyes. They didn’t carry out the threat to blind him, but they did use the poker elsewhere on his body.

We told Stan our stories and finally collapsed into sleep. I woke up in the night with my stomach tugging at me. We’d all had four or five liquid shits in the short time we’d been there. We were dehydrating drastically, but at least we could replenish the loss now.

It was pitch-dark. Lying on the floor, feeling relatively safe, I started to think about home.

There was another bombing raid in the distance. Flashes of light came through the high slit window. As ever the bomb blasts were rather nice, giving a sense of security, a feeling that we weren’t the only ones there. And best of all, they also gave us a possible means of escape if we took direct hits.

The main gate of the block was opened after first light. We heard chains rattling and keys going into locks, and then the sound of a metal, corrugated-type door the other side of our wall being opened and people talking and walking about. We heard the base of a metal bucket clanking on the floor, followed by the sound of the metal handle hitting the side.