Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

He knew he must be close to the border by now and was looking for the twin towers on high ground. He saw a town in the distance, brightly lit, and very soon afterwards encountered coils of barbed wire. Was the town in Syria, though, or was it on the Iraqi side and the wire was a false frontier?

A patrol in vehicles went past. Their existence seemed to confirm that this was the border, and he decided to go for it. He found a point where there were stakes holding the wire and started to climb. He shredded his arms and legs, but managed to get over. He sat down on the other side and made another appreciation. The town seemed to be in the wrong place. But whatever, it made sense to press on west.

Chris had just about had it by now. He was swaying around as he shuffled along, well on the way down with dehydration. There was no saliva in his mouth, and his tongue was stuck to the inside of his cheek. As he walked, his head filled with a loud crackling noise like static electricity. He saw a white flash and must have passed out. He came to on the ground. He got back up on his feet and tried to move. The same thing happened. This time, he came to with his face in a pool of blood. He’d landed face down on a rock and broken his nose. He staggered into a nearby wadi and fell asleep.

He woke at first light when he heard Stan shouting to him to come on out, everybody was just around the corner. He got to his feet and started hobbling towards the sound of S tan’s voice. He felt so happy that the patrol was going to be reunited. Coming out of the wadi, he realized at once that he was hallucinating. He knew that if he didn’t get some water down him soon, he’d be dead.

There was a small house, probably a goat herder dwelling, in the middle distance. Chris decided that even if he was still in Iraq, he’d have to go there and get some water-if necessary, by force.

A woman was preparing food by a fire. Children were playing around her, and he could see a man in the distance with a herd of goats. As Chris shuffled up to the fire, a lad in his late teens came out of the house and greeted him. The boy was friendly, shaking Chris by the hand and smiling.

“Where is this?” Chris said.

The boy didn’t understand. He looked quizzically at Chris, then started pointing behind him. “Iraq! Iraq!” he beamed.

Chris got the picture. He shook the boy’s hand again and said, “Thank fuck for that!”

He was invited inside and offered a big bowl of water. Gulping it down in one, he immediately asked for another. An old granny with tattoos on her face was feeding a child in the corner of the room. She gave him a toothless grin. Also stacked up in the same room were the whole family’s bedding rolls and straw for the animals. Chris went over and sat by the paraffin heater and soaked up the warmth. The children who had been playing outside came in and showed him pictures they had drawn on scraps of paper. The drawings were of skies full of aircraft and tanks in flames.

The woman came in with a hot loaf of nan bread she’d just baked and presented it to Chris. He was touched. The bread had obviously been intended as the family’s meal. He swallowed one mouthful and felt instantly full. His stomach must have shrunk dramatically. The lad brought him some hot sweet tea; as far as Chris was concerned, it was the best brew he’d ever had.

Chris tried to explain that he needed to find a policeman. The boy seemed to understand and said he’d take him to one. Chris took off his smock and webbing and stripped down his 203 to look less aggressive to anyone they met. He wrapped the parts inside his smock and put it in a plastic fertilizer bag that the boy gave him. They set off with waves and smiles, the boy carrying the bag, Chris limping along on his damaged feet. The children stayed with them until the hut was almost out of sight.

After they’d been walking for about an hour, a Land Cruiser pulled up alongside, and the driver offered them a lift into town. They sat in the back, and the driver and the boy exchanged a few pleasantries, but for most of the journey they drove along in silence. From time to time, Chris caught the driver staring at him in the rearview mirror.

Just as they were coming, into the town, the vehicle stopped outside a house, and the driver shouted to somebody inside. An Arab in his late thirties came out, dressed from head to toe in black. The two of them had a long discussion, at the end of which the driver told Chris’s friend to get out. He reluctantly did as he was told, and Chris noticed as he said goodbye that he looked very worried.

They drove on, and the driver, who appeared to speak more English than he had let on, started gob bing off about the war. He got quite agitated about it.

“You should not be here,” he said. “This is not our war.” Basically the drift was: “Fuck off back to Iraq, white eye.”

Chris showed him his indemnity slip, which stated in Arabic that anybody guiding the bearer to a British Embassy or to the Allied forces would receive a reward of 5,000. The Arab glanced at the piece of paper as he drove, then stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Chris explained that the paper was no good on its own; there had to be a live body to go with it. Just to let him know that he meant it, he gave the Arab a bit of an evil look.

They pulled up outside a garage. Another Arab who appeared to know the driver came out of the workshop, went around to the passenger side of the Land Cruiser, looked at Chris, then turned on his heels and ran back inside. It seemed to Chris that he was going to get slotted here, and he started to pull the weapon out of the bag. The driver grabbed his arm, and Chris responded with a bit of good news with his elbow. He jumped out of the vehicle as the Arab lolled across the seats with his head sticking out Chris’s side. Kicking the door so that it slammed on the man’s neck, Chris did a runner-or rather, a fast hobble.

He rounded a corner and spotted a man in uniform, armed with an AK47, who was on guard outside a bungalow.

“Police?” Chris shouted.

“Yes.”

“British airman!”

The man hustled him inside the building, which turned out to be the police station. Officers were lounging around the room in leather jackets and sunglasses, doing the sinister bit.

Minutes later, the driver of the Land Cruiser came in, holding his neck and cursing the British. Chris grabbed the indemnity slip from the man’s pocket and showed it to the police. They laughed at what it said. Chris began to get the feeling that he had a problem on his hands. Just as he was contemplating fighting his way out of the station, one of the policemen went over to the driver and smacked him hard across the head. Others jumped up and dragged him from the building.

“Stupid twat,” Chris grinned at them, “he’s just done himself out of five grand.” They searched Chris’s kit before taking him to the chiefs office. The senior officer didn’t speak a word of English-none of them did-but he got Chris to write down his name and details on a sheet of paper. Chris supplied his correct name but stated that he was a medic with an air rescue team.

The chief picked up his phone. He spelled out to somebody everything that Chris had written, letter by letter. Then he made another call, which Chris guessed to be internal by the number of digits dialed. One of the policemen appeared with a dish-dash and face veil and told Chris to put them on. He was hustled out to a vehicle, a policeman either side of him. Chris was left in no doubt that he was their prisoner, and he didn’t have a clue where they were taking him. For all he knew they could have been heading back to the border.

They drove for about an hour along a desert highway and eventually pulled up behind a couple of Meres that were parked at the roadside. Six heavies lounged against the black limos, all wearing sunglasses. One of them had a Makharov in his hand.