Bravo two zero

by Andy McNab

  They were straight in, grabbing me by my hair, kicking and punching.

  Their message was very clear. They forced me back into the stress position and left the cell, slamming the door behind them. The bolt crashed home, and their footsteps echoed and faded.

  This feels like a proper prison; this is a purpose-built cell. I'm under their total control. So this is where it's all going to happen?

  There's no chance of escape, and if conditions stay like this there never will be.

  These boys knew what they were doing all right. Their reactions were well rehearsed and orchestrated. This suddenly felt like it was going to be for ever. I was without hope. I thought it would be impossible ever to feel lower, or lonelier, or more abandoned and lost.

  My mind rambled. I wondered if Jilly had been told I was missing in action or presumed dead. I hoped she'd been told jack shit. I hoped that somebody had got over the border or that the Iraqis had spoken to the Red Cross. Some chance. Maybe I'd land up on the TV soon, which would be all rather nice. But then again would it? The next of kin would be pacing up and down enough already, just because there was a war on. Jilly had always been quite good about my work. She took the view that what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. She was able somehow to just cut it out of her mind. This time, however, it was obvious where I was, and the same went for my parents.

  My only fear of dying was if nobody knew I was dead. I couldn't bear the thought of my family's anguish at not having a body to mourn, of going through their lives not knowing for sure.

  The Iraqi Head Shed obviously didn't want us dead at this stage, because if people had been left to their own devices we'd have been topped a long time ago. And if they wanted us alive, it must be for some purpose -whether for propaganda or just because they knew they were going to lose the war and it wouldn't look good if prisoners were getting slotted.

  You have to accept the circumstances and do the best you can in them.

  There was nothing I could do to help the people back home, so I turned my mind elsewhere. Should I have gone for the border that night? It was obvious to me that I should have taken my chances. But then, with hindsight, I'd have got eight score draws on last week's coupon.

  I was injured and disoriented. I couldn't even remember what day it was. I knew I had to get a grip. Disorienting the prisoner is a good start to breaking him, and I knew it. But there was nothing I could do but put it out of my mind until I got a chance to see a clock or a guard's watch.

  Interrogators have two hurdles to get over: the straightforward one of cracking you physically, followed by the more difficult one of breaking you mentally. They don't know your psyche, your weaknesses, your inner strengths. Some people might break the first day, others will never give in-and spread along the spectrum in between lie all the rest of us. The interrogator cannot be sure that his objective has been achieved. The telltale signs are hard to detect; he'll know he can't judge by your physical condition because you're exaggerating your injuries. But he'll have been taught that the eyes don't lie. It's up to you to make sure he can't see through the window; you have to mask your alertness. You have to make people peering in believe that they're looking at empty premises, not the shop front of Harrods.

  I forced my mind to focus on more productive thoughts. I ran through the story once more, trying to remember what I'd said, hoping that Dinger had said more or less the same thing. The aim had to be to hold out for as long as we could so that a damage assessment could be made back at the FOB. The question our Head Shed would be asking was: What do members of Bravo Two Zero know? They would come to the conclusion that we knew our own tasks, but nothing of other people's, present or future, so nothing could be compromised. Anything that we did know that could affect other operations would have been changed or canceled.

  We had to keep to our story. There was no turning back.

  I was still in the stress position in the corner an hour later, or maybe it was ten minutes.

  People paced up and down, looked in, mumbled.

  As far as my body was concerned, it was the lull in the battle. It hadn't been complaining of such things while I was getting filled in, but now that nothing physical was happening to me it screamed that it was hungry and thirsty. I wasn't too worried about food. My stomach had been kicked about a bit and probably couldn't have taken it anyway.

  The priority was water. I was so, so thirsty. I was gagging.

  I heard them fiddling with the padlock and throwing back the bolt. They banged and kicked the door to get it open, and the steel juddered and jarred. They were coming for me. Thirst vanished. Fear was everything.

  They came in without a word, just straight over and grabbed me and lifted. I couldn't see them, but I could smell them. I tried to look as though I was doing my best to help them, despite the injuries I was playing on. But I found I was kidding myself more than them. It was well and truly past the stage of playing. I couldn't stand up. My legs would not obey me.

  They dragged me out of the cell and turned right, heading down the corridor. My feet trailed in their wake, the scabs on my toes scraping off on the floor. I could see a little through the bottom of the blindfold. I saw the cobblestones and a trail of blood. I saw a step coming but had to trip over it because I didn't want them to realize that I could see. I didn't want to get punished more than I was going to be anyway.

  It was warm in the sun. I felt it on my face. We went along a pathway and brushed past a small hedgerow. Up onto another step, then back into darkness. A long, black corridor, cool, musty, and damp. I heard office type noises and the sound of footsteps on lino or tiles. We turned right and entered a room. It was cold and damp, but as they carried me in we went past isolated centers of heat. It wasn't at all the nice, comfy, Aunty Nelly feeling of a room that had been flooded with heat for a long time.

  They pushed me down onto a hard chair. There was the usual strong smell of paraffin and cigarettes, and this time some acrid body odor. Whether it came from the people in the room or a previous prisoner, I couldn't tell. I tried to lean forward, but hands grabbed me and pulled me back.

  There were lots of people in there, shuffling their feet, coughing and muttering to one another, and they seemed to be arranged on either side of the room. I heard Tiny lamps. I didn't know if the room was windowless or if the curtains were drawn, but it was very dark apart from their glow.

  I clenched my muscles and waited. There was silence for a minute or so.

  I was worried. We'd got to the serious place. This was the real world; the people here would not be idiots.

  A voice spoke to me from the top of the room. It sounded like somebody's favorite grand ad a sort of old, gravelly voice, very pleasant in tone.

  "How are you, Andy?"

  "I'm not too bad."

  "You look quite injured." The English was fluent but with a marked accent. "Perhaps when we have finished our business and we have an understanding, we might be able to get you some medical attention."

  "It would be very nice if I could have some. Thank you very much. And my friend also?"

  We were in a new environment now, with a new gang. If this was going to be the good boy routine, maybe I'd get something to eat, maybe I'd get medical attention, maybe I'd be able to get medical attention for Dinger. I might even find out some information. Maybe they might be able to let me have my blindfold off or my handcuffs-maybe, maybe, maybe. Even if it was for ten minutes, it would be better than a kick in the tits. If they're promising you things, you must try and see if they'll deliver. Take what you can, while you can. Right, let's go along with this.

  "All we need to know, Andy, is what you were doing in our country."

  I went through my story again. I tried to look scared and humble.

  "I was in a helicopter as a member of a search and rescue team. I'm a medic: I wasn't there to kill people. The helicopter came down, there was some form of emergency, we were all told to run off the helicopter quickly, and then it just took off. I don't
know how many people got off the aircraft or are on the ground and still running around. You have to understand, there was total confusion. It was at night, nobody knew where the officer was; I think he might even have run back on the helicopter and deserted us. I had no idea where I was and no idea where I was going. I was just running around, scared and confused. And that's all there is."

  There was a long pause.

  "You understand, do you Andy, that you are a prisoner of war, and prisoners of war are required to do certain things?"

  "I understand that, and I am helping you as much as I can."

  "We need you to sign some things. We need to get some signatures from you so they can be sent to the Red Cross. It's part of the process of letting your family know that you're here."

  "I'm sorry, but under the Geneva Convention I'm told that I must not sign anything. I don't really understand why I have to sign anything, because we're taught that we don't have to do that sort of thing."

  "Andy," The Voice became even more grandfatherly. "We need to help each other, don't you agree, so that things will run smoothly?"

  "Yes, of course. However, I don't know anything. I've told you all I know."

  "We really must help each other; otherwise things will have to get painful. I think you understand what I mean by that, Andy?"

  "I understand what you're saying, but I really don't know what you need.

  I've told you everything that I know. I don't know anything else."

  There's a technique that high-pressure salesmen use to get you to tell them that you want to buy the product. It's called something like the Creative Pause. Victor Kiam explained it in one of his books: when he was going through his sales pitch, he would stop and pause, and if the person he was trying to sell to actually felt that they had to carry on the conversation during this gap, Kiam knew that he had a sale. The punter felt he had to do something, and that was to agree to buy.

  I kept quiet and looked confused.

  "You're really looking quite poorly, Andy. Do you require some medical assistance?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Well, Andy, you have to pay for things. What we require in return is a little assistance. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours! I believe it's an old English saying, yes?"

  He must have looked around the room for approval because the others laughed hard-a bit too hard. It was the sound of the chairman of the board making a bone joke and everybody chortling because they have to.

  Half the people in the room probably didn't even know what he was saying.

  "I will be helpful," I said. "I'm trying to be as helpful as I can.

  Would it be possible to have some water or some food, I wonder, as my friend and I haven't eaten or had anything to drink for a long time. I'm very thirsty and feeling very weak."

  "If you are helpful, we might be able to come to some sort of agreement-but you cannot expect me to do something for nothing. Do you understand that, Andy?"

  "Yes, I understand, but I really don't know what you want from me. I've told you everything I know. We're just soldiers; we were just told to get on an aircraft and go. We don't know what's going on. The army treats us like dirt."

  "I think you will find we treat people better here. I am willing to supply food, water, and medical assistance for you and your friend, Andy, but it must be a fair trade. We need to know the names of the other people, so we can inform the Red Cross that they are in Iraq."

  It went without saying that this was a load of old bollocks, but I had to appear as compliant as I could without actually giving anything away.

  I wanted to keep this interview in the hands of Mr. Nice Guy. He was being polite, cordial, gentle, soft, concerned. I wasn't looking forward to the bad guy stuff, which I knew would happen sooner or later.

  "The only name I know is my friend Dinger's," I said. He would have given his name, number, rank, and date of birth anyway as required by the Geneva Convention. I said his full name. "Apart from him, I have no idea who is here and who isn't. It was very dark, everybody was running all over the place, it was chaos. The only reason I know about Dinger is because I have seen him."

  Something told me the cover story was crumbling. It just didn't feel credible to me any more. It was starting to get holes picked in it, as any story will unless it's deep cover. It was just a matter of playing for time. I had no idea what they were thinking at this stage; it was just cat and mouse. He'd ask a question and I'd give one of my bone answers, and he'd just go on to the next one without even questioning what I had said.

  The Voice must have realized I was giving him a load of old pony, and I, in turn, realized that what I was giving him wasn't what they wanted.

  Despite that, bad things weren't happening-but happen they certainly would.

  Mentally I was fine. Your mental state can be altered by drugs. I just hoped they weren't that advanced and were still into caveman tactics.

  Physical abuse can only get the interrogator to a certain point; beyond that, it's not a viable inducer of the goods. They can assess your physical state from the beatings they've given you. What they can't gauge for sure is your mental state. For that, they need to know your level of alertness, and the only visible clue to that is your eyes. Some people would get totally wound up if an interrogator laughed at the size of their cock, or accused them of being a homosexual, or said their mother was a whore. They would spark up, and this would show that they were not as out of it as they wanted to appear. Everybody has a chink in their armor, and the interrogator's job is to find it. From that moment on, they can really go to town.

  We were trained to expect it, and we were lucky that within the Regiment everybody is taking the piss all the time. Daily life revolves around personal insults. But it would still be a battle.

  If you're physically and mentally exhausted you shouldn't have the energy even to comprehend what's being said, let alone react to it. Your bluff job won't last long if you as much as blink when he laughs at the size of your cock or asks about your wife's favorite position. The effect you're striving for is that you're exhausted, everything's really too much bother for you to understand, you've told them everything you know, and there's nothing more you want to do than go home. The advantage we were starting with was that, to them, even a senior NCO is a nobody. Their army is run by the officers for the officers. Other ranks are just ignorant cogs in the wheel. They didn't have my mind and they would never get it; it was just a case now of reminding them that I was just a cretinous bumpkin, not even worth the bother.

  I asked if it was possible for the handcuffs and blindfold to come off.

  "I can't think straight," I said. "My hands are numb and my eyes are in trouble. I've got a headache."

  "It is for your own security," The Voice replied.

  "Of course, I understand, sir. I'm very sorry for asking."

  It was for their security, not mine. They didn't want me to be able to identify them.

  "I'm trying to help," I went on, "but I'm only the sergeant. I don't know anything, I don't do anything, and I don't particularly want to do anything. If I did know any more, I'd tell you. I don't want to be here. It's the government that sent me. I was just riding in the back of a helicopter, I didn't even know we'd landed in your country."

  "I understand all that, Andy. However, you must realize that we need to clarify a few things. And for us to help you you need to help us, as we have discussed. You understand this?"

  "Yes, I understand, but I'm sorry, this is all I know."

  The game went on for about an hour. It was played very cordially, there was no mistreatment whatsoever. But the undertone was that they knew I was lying through my hind teeth. The only problems were of my own making, when I failed to keep two steps ahead of him and ended up contradicting myself.

  I did it a couple of times.

  "Andy, are you lying to us?"

  "I'm confused. You're not giving me time to think. I'm worried about getting home alive. I don't want to be in this w
ar, I'm just very, very scared."

  "I shall give you time to think, Andy, but you must think clearly, because we cannot help you unless you help us."

  He started then to talk about my family life and my education. "Have you got a degree?"

  Degree? I didn't have so much as a CSE.

  "No, I've got no qualifications. This is why I'm a soldier. In Mrs.

  Thatcher's England, unless you've got education you can't do anything.

  I'm just a working class person at the bottom of the heap. I had to join the army because there's nothing else I can do. England is very expensive, there are many taxes. If I didn't do this I'd starve."

  "Have you any brothers and sisters?"

  "No, I haven't any brothers or sisters. I was an only child."

  "We need to know your parents' address so that we can send them notification that you're still alive. They must be very worried about you now, Andy. You need to get a message to them; it would make you feel better. We can do this for you. We are willing to help you, as long as you help us. So if you would just give me your parents' address, we shall send them a letter."

  I explained that my dad had died of heart trouble, and my mother had run away and was now living somewhere in America. I hadn't seen her for years. I hadn't got any family at all.

  "You must have friends in England who would need to know where you are?"

  "I'm just a loner. I drifted into the army. There's nobody."

  I knew he didn't believe me, but it was better than a point-blank refusal. The end result was the same, but at least I didn't get a beasting in the process.

  "Andy, why do you think the Western armies are here?"

  "I'm not entirely sure. Bush says that he wants the oil of Kuwait, and Britain just goes along with it. Basically we're the servants of Bush, and I'm the servant of John Major, the new prime minister. I don't really understand this war. All I know is that I was sent out to do a medic's job. I have no interest in war; I don't want to go to war. I was just dragged in to do their dirty work for them. I know Thatcher and Major are sitting at home with their gin and tonics, and Bush is jogging around Camp David, and here I am, caught up in something I don't really understand. Please believe me -I don't want to be here, and I'm trying to help."