Bravo two zero

by Andy McNab

  You could give a fictitious address, or you could give a real address in case they checked up. But Mrs. Mills of 8 Acacia Avenue might open her door one morning and get blown away. You never know how far this sort of thing will go.

  "Andy, why do you keep on obstructing us? Why are you doing this to yourself? These people, my superiors, they won't let me help you unless you tell them what they need to know. I'm afraid I can't help you any more, Andy. If you don't help me, I can't help you."

  He just walked away. I didn't know what to expect now.

  I had my head down, and I could hear them coming up. I clenched my jaw and waited for it. This time there were no rifles, just several quite severe smacks around the face. Every time they hit near the broken teeth I screamed.

  I shouldn't have done that.

  They pulled my head up by the hair to get a better aim. Then they slapped several more times over the site.

  The slaps became punches that knocked me off the chair, but it wasn't very exciting compared with the last beating. Probably they thought they'd now cracked it and I just needed a bit more encouragement. It lasted less than a minute.

  Back on the chair, I was breathing heavily, blood trickling down my front.

  "Look, Andy, we're trying to help you. Do you want to help us?"

  "Yes, I do, but I don't know anything, I'm helping you as much as I can."

  "Where are your mother and father?"

  I went through the same story.

  "But why don't you know where your mother is in America?"

  "I don't know because I have nothing to do with her. She didn't want me. So she went to America and I joined the army." "When did you join the army?"

  "When I was sixteen."

  "Why did you join?"

  "I've always wanted to help people, that's why I'm a medic. I don't want to fight. I've always been against fighting."

  This business about family was a red herring. I didn't know if it was just a matter of pride that he wanted to crack it.

  "Andy, look, obviously this way is not working."

  The filling in started again.

  Your body adapts and it passes out quicker. Your mind is working in two ways. One half is telling you you're out of it, and the other half really is out of it. It's like lying on your bed when you're pissed-your mind is spinning and a little voice is saying: Never again.

  This time I was totally out of the game. It was a good kicking. I wasn't exaggerating anything after this one. I was incoherent. I flaked out, and when I came to I was still incoherent.

  What woke me up was a boy stubbing his cigarette out on my neck.

  I was in blackness, blindfolded and handcuffed, lying face down on grass. I had an excruciating headache. My ears tingled and burned.

  I felt sunlight on bits of my face. I sensed the brightness of it. My mind was a blur, but I worked out that at some stage I must have been dragged from the room and trussed up outside. I wanted to rest my head, but I couldn't lie on one side because of the swelling, and I couldn't rest on the other because of the cuts.

  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 a
nd 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.

  We trundled along on our carnival floats, driving down the main boulevard of the town. The crowd chanted and shook their fists. The noise was incredible. They didn't even know who or what we were. We could have been spacemen for all they knew, but whatever, we were the bad guys.

  Some of the squad dies were chanting with them. Others were running around trying to control the crowd. All of them were trying to avoid the stones and sticks that were meant for us. There were bursts of fire going off all over the place, the jundies with us firing in the air as well.

  "Down with Boosh." Boosh!"

  People were diving in and out of the little Arab shop fronts with their concertina railings. "Thou shalt not steal," the Koran proclaims, but everywhere you go in the Middle East the shops have these railings as security against thieving fellow Muslims. Everybody had pictures of Saddam and was pointing at his face and kissing it and shouting up to Allah.

  We would move at walking pace, then stop for a bit to move the crowd. My legs couldn't hold me up. I looked over at Dinger, and he was grinning from ear to ear. I wondered what on earth he was laughing at; I thought he'd gone demented. Then I realized: He was taking the piss out of them! I thought, Blow this, we're on our way to die here, so who gives a monkey's? I started myself. Fuck 'em! Suddenly all that mattered to me was not looking a bag of shit. You've got to make sure you look good. I got some eye-to-eye going with the crowd and smiled away. One of the guards spotted me and got the chance to look a right hard man, landing a slap and a punch. I looked at Dinger, and we grinned at them like Leslie Grantham opening a supermarket. If our hands hadn't been tied, we'd have been doing the royal wave.

  It really sparked them up, the grinning. Some took it well, most of them didn't. They were going crazy. It was the wrong thing to do and totally counterproductive, but it had to be done. The guards gave us a slap to get us all subdued again because it made them look good. But what the hell, I felt better. A large white American sedan came through on the left-hand side. Two ruperts in it looked up, pointed, and laughed. They were in a good mood about it anyway. I gave them my big presidential smile in return. They loved it, but that gave the jundies the hump and they had another go at us.

  We paid the price for all the piss-taking when we got to the other end of the town. Crowds of people were waiting for us, trying to break through the cordon, arguing with the squad dies because they wanted to have a go at us. They were jumping up and down, and it was obvious it was only a matter of time before the cordon was either broken or deliberately removed. My only worry was the thought of me getting shot and not Dinger.

  I was dragged off the vehicle. I searched desperately for Dinger. I needed him. He was my only link with reality.

  Then I saw that the same was happening to him and I thought: It's going to happen round here somewhere.

  I was not too worried about the actual dying bit. Never had been; just as long as it was as quick and clean as Mark's.

  Would Jilly ever know? Did she even know I was missing? Everything materialistic was squared away; there was nothing else I could have done for her. But it was the emotional thing: it would have been lovely to have the chance to say my farewells.

  What a way to go.

  Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!

  The stench of the town was overpowering. They were primitive, caveman smells of cooking, old embers, and stale piss, mixed with rotting garbage and diesel exhaust.

  The town was an odd mixture of the medieval and the modern. The main boulevard was freshly tarmacked; the rest was dust and sand. There were Land Cruisers straight from the showroom and jundies with shiny boots and clean, western-type uniforms, and the crowd in their stinking dish-dashes and flip-flops or plain bare feet. I was knocked to the ground at one point, and right next to my eye was a big toe splayed out like a split sausage, grimed with a lifetime of dirt. There were immaculately groomed officers and healthy-looking young soldiers, and the locals with just three teeth between them and even those were black and decayed, and Negro Arabs with scarred faces and white, scabby knees and elbows from lack of washing and moisturizing, and dusty, matted rasta hair.

  The buildings were of mud and stone, square with flat roofs. They must have been a couple of hundred years old, and on their sides were the latest posters for Pepsi Cola. Old, skinny, mangy dogs skulked in the shadows, scavenging and pissing. Rusty tin cans lay in piles everywhere.

  Running down the middle of the boulevard was a central reservation, and in the middle of it, just opposite us, was a children's playground, full of tubular steel frames and swings in old faded blues and yellows. It was the sort of thing you'd find on a normal housing estate in Britain, but it looked so out of place and weird in this kind of world. They'd been fighting a war for years, and there was poverty, shit, and grind all around us. Fuck knows what the Arabic for "Tidworth" is but this was it-an old shit-arse tip of a place.

  We were standing at the roadside awaiting death. The jundies grabbed us, but my legs had given up and I stumbled. They had to drag me towards my public. They showed us off like hunting trophies, pushing our heads up, making sure everybody got a good look.

  I wasn't smiling this time
. I was looking out for Dinger; I was scared of losing him in the crowd. I just wanted to keep by him. I could hear him yelling and shouting as much as I was, and from time to time I caught glimpses of him. It was a bad time.

  The mob ruled. I had been right cocky when we got dragged off the vehicle, but now I was plain scared. They were all warbling the Red Indian war cry. Were we going to be left to the crowd? Were they going to rip us apart? Old women came up and pulled my hair and mustache and hit me with sticks or punched. The men would start by poking, then end up punching and thumping. I fell to the ground, and all the bodies closed in. They thrust pictures of Saddam in front of my face and made me kiss him.

  I doubted whether some of these people even knew there was a war on. As for the women, repressed by centuries of culture and religion, this was probably the one and only chance they'd ever have to strike a grown man.

  As time wore on, I started to think that perhaps they were not going to shoot us after all. Surely they would have done it by now? Maybe there was some system for dealing with prisoners. Certainly the jundies were controlling the crowds as much as they could. They obviously didn't want the local population to kill us, because I noticed that they were fending off any men they saw with rifles and pistols. Perhaps the parade was just a PR exercise, a morale booster for the locals and a chance for them to vent their frustrations.

  Women were scratching and tearing at my skin. I had grease and old bits of food shoved in my face and pis spots emptied over the gashes in my head. Old newsreels of Vietnam flashed through my mind. I remembered images of pilots who looked beaten and pissed off getting dragged through towns they'd just bombed. It was exactly how I felt.