Bravo two zero

by Andy McNab

  All I wanted was contact with Dinger-preferably verbal. I could hear him shouting as he was being filled in, but I hated not being able to see him. He was my only link to the world. I didn't want to lose him.

  I couldn't move any more. I fell onto one of the squad dies and put my arms around him. The other lad came and helped him lift me. As they dragged me along the ground, the tops of my toes were scraped away. We had to stop now and again for a 60-year-old to come and punch me in the stomach. I was well and truly gone. I didn't really care about anything any more.

  I didn't know how long it lasted, but it seemed like a lifetime. There was gunfire in the distance, and of fleets came running to try and control the soldiers, who in turn were trying to control the crowd. It was so ironic to be protected by the same jundies who an hour ago had been stubbing out their cigarettes on our necks. Then they were the bastards; now they were the saviors.

  I heard Dinger retaliating. I knew we should be trying to play the useless being that's not even worth worrying about. But we were tuned in to this drama now; we had got used to it, and it was getting on our tits. The time had come to do something about it.

  I gave the old girls the evil eye, and they waded in. I went down on the floor under a flurry of slaps and scratching, and two soldiers moved in to pick me up. Still on my knees, I looked up at one of them and said, "Fuck you, you ugly bitch!" They understood what I meant; the translation was in my eyes. It was not a good move. The jundies picked me up. I shoved them off and said "Fuck you!" again. I didn't give a shit now what they did; I was demolished anyway. But they'd suffered loss of face, so they had to give me the good news to restore their credibility.

  I remembered a lecture we'd had from an American POW just before we left Hereford. He had been an aviator at the time of the Vietnam War, after transferring from the Marine Corps. His Marine training had been that the harder you are and the more aggressive you are if you're captured, the sooner your captors will leave you alone. He stood there in front of us hardened cynics at Hereford, crying his eyes out as he told us about the five years he had been a prisoner of the Viet Cong.

  "What a load of shit," he said. "The unbelievable nightmares and pain I went through because I really believed what I'd been taught."

  And I was doing exactly what he'd told us not to do. But you can't just do nothing. Pride and credibility are at stake. I was suffering a massive loss of dignity and self-respect, and I couldn't take any more.

  I knew it was totally counterproductive, I knew it wouldn't pay off, but God it felt good. For one split second I was back on top, and that was all that mattered. I was not a commodity, I was not a bag of shit, I was Andy Me Nab.

  The squad dies were giggling as we drove back to camp. They'd had a wonderful day out and were happy to leave me to my own devices on my hands and knees in a corner of the pickup, bleeding and gasping for breath as they smoked and laughed and relived the battle. I was rather pleased that it was over and done with and I hadn't been shot.

  It was more or less last light when we got back inside the gates, and they didn't bother replacing the blindfold as they dragged me towards the single-story barrack block.

  There were five beds around the edge of the room. The blokes didn't seem to have lockers or any personal kit. All they had were the beds, with blankets on top-commercial, fluffy blankets with pictures of tigers and weird and wonderful patterns. On top of the blankets was their belt kit. Everything pointed to this being a transit camp rather than a permanent barracks.

  The only light was from a paraffin heater in the center of the room. As it flickered, shadows flew around the room. It was beautifully warm-the sort of warmth that immediately makes you tired and sleepy. It was a warmth that I recognized. Even the shadows were familiar. A nice, comfortable, secure feeling washed over me. I was back at my Aunty Nell's in Catford. I loved going there as a kid. She had a big three-bed roomed semi that she ran as a B&B. Compared with my family's flat, to me it was a hotel. At night Aunty Nell would put the paraffin heater in my room to warm it through. I'd lie there in bed, nine years old and blissfully happy, watching the shadows dance on the wallpaper, looking forward to the next day's meals. Aunty Nell used milk with the cereals instead of the hot water and a dash of Carnation I was used to, and she cooked packets of Vesta curry for her B&B guests. If my uncle reported that I had been a good boy, I used to be fed one as well.

  The old boy, George, was a keen gardener. He had a massive garden with a shed at the bottom where I'd play. He was a crafty old bugger. He'd say to me: "Start digging around here, Andy lad, and you can count how many worms there are. We need to know how many worms there are so we can work out how good the mud is."

  I'd be digging away, a boy with a mission, and he'd be sitting there drinking tea in his deck chair laughing his head off. I never saw through it. I used to think it was great, counting the worms for my Uncle George.

  I was left alone with my thoughts for twenty minutes or so, one hand cuffed to a metal fixture on the wall. I tried to get comfortable, but the cuffs worked on a ratchet-if you moved the wrong way they would tighten up even more. I got into a semi lying position, the hand defying gravity at an angle of 45 degrees.

  I carried out a damage assessment. My whole body was aching, and I was worried I might have broken bones. My legs were the main concern. They were hurting badly, and I knew they couldn't carry me any more. I checked the bones one by one, starting off with my feet, looking for deformities, making sure there was movement. Everything seemed Okay.

  There was a good chance nothing was broken.

  I was breathing through crusted blood and dust and snot, and every time I blew to clear it the bleeding started again. I was badly cut. My face was swollen, my lips split, and every exposed area of skin was lacerated. Now that I actually had time to draw breath and think about it, my whole body was starting to sting. The scrapes were far more painful than the cuts. The framework, however, was still intact. The injuries were just muscular with cuts and bruises. I was weak and exhausted, but I'd still get up and run for it if the chance came.

  I had been trying to gather as much information as I could to keep myself orientated. I went over what I'd seen and exactly where I was. I was annoyed that I hadn't done a better job of it. I had been looking down too much when I should have been taking it all in. If I escaped and got past the gate, which way would I go? Would I turn left or right, or go straight? Which way was west? If I got out the back way, what then? How far inside the town was the camp? I'd need to get out of the built-up area as soon as possible. It was something I should have been checking as we drove out, but like a dickhead I'd let myself be distracted by the crowd. I was quite pissed off with myself for my lack of professionalism.

  I went through the scenarios. The process was part fact and part fantasy. Fact because I was doing what you're supposed to do-appreciations on how you're going to get out. Fantasy because I was imagining me actually getting out and turning right, imagining what I would see and what would be behind me. I wanted to escape.

  I looked around the room. Above me was a window. Only one of the sections was clear; the rest were boarded up where they had been smashed, or perhaps to stop the sun coming in. I could hear the soldiers mooching around outside, and in the middle distance there was shouting. The voices just outside the window were low and quiet, a mumble from no more than 20 or 30 feet away, and underneath the veranda, as if they'd been told to stand there and talk to make me flap.

  I hoped Dinger was getting the same treatment as me because it was all rather nice sitting there on the carpet. It felt wonderful to be on my own. I felt quite happy and content in the dark, watching the warm glow of the paraffin heater and inhaling the familiar fumes. There were no hassles, just me on my lonesome with my hand pinned to the wall. It was real prime time.

  I started to think about the patrol. Had the others been caught? Were they dead? Did Dinger know anything about them? Was I going to get the chance to speak to him?

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nbsp; I tried to keep as still as I could. My heart was pulsing slowly, and my body was stiff and aching. It was painful to move, and I wanted to find a comfy position and stay there. Some of the cuts had clotted to the fabric of my uniform; as I moved they reopened. Blood had glued my socks to my feet.

  I must have looked like a vagrant. It was a week now since I had washed and my skin was black. My hair, matted from the drama of the E&E, was now caked with dried blood and mud. It was hard to make out the camouflage on my DPM because of blood, grease, and grime. My trousers looked like a biker's jeans.

  Why had we been taken back to the camp? I didn't have a clue. This was obviously still the tactical questioning phase. I was waiting for something or someone. I took a deep breath, breathed out, and started to think about methods of escape. I suddenly remembered that I still had my escape map and compass. I could actually feel them in the draw cord of my trousers. I felt really good about that: at least I'd got something, I had the mental edge over them.

  I thought about all the good stuff I'd done with Jilly, all the stupid holidays we'd had together, all the ice creams I had squashed in her face. Things came into my mind that had made me giggle with her, all the silly immature little things. I tried to visualize what she'd be doing right now. I had a pleasant picture in my mind of a Saturday two weeks before I left for the Gulf. Kate was staying with us as usual that weekend, and she was lying on the floor with me watching Robin Hood on video. Little John was doing his dance, and I got up and did it with her. We danced and danced around the room, trying to do high kicks, until we collapsed on the carpet, dizzy and laughing.

  I thought back to the time of her very first Christmas. I hadn't seen much of her because I was away when she was born in February and didn't get back until she was six weeks old. Then I saw only the next three months of her, on and off. That Christmas I was free, and we were staying at a friend's house on the south coast. Kate wasn't sleeping very well, which I thought was great because it was the first time we'd had together alone. I got the pram out at midnight, wrapped her up well, and we went walking along the coastal path until six in the morning. She fell asleep after the first half an hour, and as I walked I just looked at her beautiful little face and clucked like a hen. When we got back, she woke up again so I put her in the car and we went for a drive. I kept checking over my shoulder to see that she was all right.

  She had fearsome big blue eyes that stared at me from inside all the wrappings of woolens and a bobble hat. It was a very special time. Soon afterwards I had to go away again, and in the next two years I only saw her for a total of twelve weeks.

  There were noises outside. My little dream world was about to be invaded. I was flapping. Were they coming to give me another beasting?

  After the calm, it was a horrible, apprehensive feeling, a fierce dread of a world about to collapse. I put my head down and clenched the stiff, sore muscles. Shit, I thought, they've had their tuppence worth, why can't they just leave me alone?

  There was a draft as the door opened. I glanced up and saw a character in the middle of the room. He was in his mid-50s and only about 5'3" tall, with a big middle-age paunch beneath his woollen dish-dash. His mustache was well trimmed, and his jet-black hair was swept back. He had manicured hands, and his teeth flashed when they caught the light.

  He was ranting and raving at me in Arabic. The two guards who had come in with him went and sat on one of the beds, smoking and chatting, but keeping a watchful eye.

  There was a pistol in the character's belt, which I didn't take much notice of to start with because every man and his dog was armed. He stood over the paraffin heater, hollering and gesticulating. With the glow of the heater beneath him his face looked like a Halloween monster with treble chins.

  He came over to me and got hold of my face. He squeezed my jaw in his hand. The smashed teeth were agony. I groaned and closed my eyes. I didn't want to know what was going on. He stayed close to me. I smelt spicy food on his breath. He prized my eyes open with his thumb and forefinger. What the fuck was he going to do?

  He had an exchange with the guards, very fast and aggressive, then slapped my face a few times. I had no idea what he was on about. Then he walked backwards away from me and pulled out a Makharov pistol. This is all rather nice, I thought, what's the story here then? He pointed it at me but he didn't cock it.

  Was this bluff kit or what?

  The hammer of the Russian-made pistol stays to the rear when you cock it-i.e." put a round into the chamber. If you pull the trigger, it will fire and reload itself again with the hammer still to the rear. If you don't want to fire, you put the safety catch to safe. The hammer will still go forward but is stopped just short of the firing pin by the sears that come out because you have moved the safety catch. This is unlike some semiautomatic pistols. They still have a safety catch, but the hammer will stay to the rear when it's applied.

  I was looking in earnest to see if the hammer was back. If it was, I knew that he wasn't bluffing, and that if he was nervous, he might have a negligent discharge and shoot me anyway. I looked at his face. His expression was very serious, and the eyes were welling up. I could see the shine of the tears. Our eyes met. He started to cry, and the pistol wobbled in his hand.

  Surely the guards wouldn't let him do it in their nice clean barrack room? But his eyes gave it away. He intended to pull the trigger, without a doubt. It didn't look official. This was off the cuff. But the bloke had got the hump, so even if it was unofficial, so what? He'd do it anyway. I might get slotted here through emotion rather than a decision made, and I found that scary. The character really looked as if he might squeeze the trigger, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

  Come on then, arse hole let's get it over and done with. The guards seemed to wake up to what was happening. They jumped to their feet, shouting angrily, and grabbed his arm. They took away the pistol.

  That single act gave me the biggest piece of information I had received since my capture: either these characters simply didn't want to get their barrack block messed up, or, more likely, they were under orders to keep us alive.

  One of the guards came over and squeezed my cheeks. "Son, son," he said. "Boom boom boom."

  One of us had killed the man's son. Fair one. In his shoes I'd be doing the same. Unfortunately it was me that he was doing it to.

  I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with one of my arms up in the air, handcuffed to the wall. He came over and started to try and fill me in. I put my head down and brought my knees up, crouching forward to protect my bollocks. I got as close to the wall as I could. Only my arm was vulnerable now. It was funny, he had been willing to kill me with the weapon, but he found it quite hard to lay hands on me. He was kicking, but it wasn't much good because he had leather sandals on. He'd throw a punch, but it had no weight behind it. He was clearly upset, but really he didn't have it in him to do anything severe. He lacked aggression and strength, and I was delighted.

  I was exaggerating, moaning and groaning as he kneed me in the back and slapped and spat. If it was my son who had been killed, and I was in the same room as the perpetrator, he'd have been honking good style by now. In a way I felt quite sorry for him, because his son was dead and he was too nice and gentle a man to do anything about it. Maybe, after all, he couldn have pulled the trigger.

  The squad dies started to get bored-and perhaps a bit worried that they might have to clean blood off the floor and walls. They calmed him down and led him away. When they returned, they sat on the beds again and smoked more cigarettes.

  "Boosh, bad, bad," one of them said.

  "Yeah, Bush, bad," I nodded and agreed.

  "Major," he said, and did an oinking noise.

  "Yep, Major's a pig," I said, and oinked.

  They thought this was great stuff.

  "You," he pointed at me and brayed loudly.

  "Me, donkey. Ee-aw!"

  They held their sides and fell over on the beds. They rolled up.

 
They came over and poked me. I didn't really know what they wanted from me, so I just did another loud bray. They loved it. I didn't give a shit if they wanted to have fun at my expense. It didn't mean a thing to me. I thought it was just as funny. I wasn't getting filled in, that was all that mattered. It was absolutely splendid.

  This went on for about a quarter of an hour. There'd be a couple of minutes' silence, then somebody would get up and poke me again, I'd give them a good ee-aw, and they'd crack up. What a bunch of tossers.

  I thought I'd try to have my handcuffs sorted out while they were in such a good mood. I was at a 45degree angle, and my hand was elevated.

  Gravity was pulling my hand onto the handcuff, and it was swelling up badly. It was agony. I wondered if they'd strap me onto something lower down, like a pipe.

  I pointed at my hand and said, "Hurts. Please. Pain. Aaah."

  They looked at me and poked, and got another donkey bray. They had another roll-up, and I tried to indicate that my hand was agony. It didn't work. They just laughed. Then they suddenly got all serious.

  They must have thought that it was time to assert some authority. So they started to carry out their own questioning, as if I was supposed to think they weren't just guards, they were big-time interrogators.

  "Who? Who?"

  It was hard to make out what they were saying.

  "What? I don't understand."

  I kept pointing at my wrist, but to no avail. They asked more questions, their Halloween faces lit from below by the heater, but I couldn't understand them.

  One of them went and fetched another guard. He could speak fair English. They'd obviously told him that I couldn't understand what they were on about.

  "What's your name?"

  "Andy."

  "Commando, Andy? Tel Aviv?"

  "British."

  "British. Gascoigne? Rush? Football?" He beamed big smiles and scored an imaginary goal with his right foot.