by Andy McNab
The armed guard sneaked me down to the cellar and took me to where a couple of scaleys were guarding the phone to keep away freeloaders.
The link worked perfectly, and I got through to Jilly straightaway.
I staggered to bed after lots of "I love you." As my head hit the pillow, I worked out that this was the first proper bed I had slept in for eight weeks, three days.
For the next couple of days we had X rays and tests, and the dentists had a provisional go at my teeth. We had posttraumatic shock sessions with Gordon Turnbull, which lasted only a few minutes each. Poor Gordon, he'd thought it was Christmas with all these traumatized blokes coming back from captivity. He was good at his job, but the mentality of the blokes made them far more interested in taking advantage of everything else that was on offer. Our blokes had organized for us to get down to the town, and the Red Cross had given us a float of money.
We wanted to buy our duty frees before it all disappeared.
The Red Cross went round asking if we had any special requests, which they would then go into the town and buy on our behalf. | "Why don't you just give us the money, and we'll | buy our own kit?" I said to a distinguished-looking I lady in her late fifties. j "You can fuck off," she smiled. "Do you think I was | born yesterday?"
However, she eventually relented. I bought jeans,.: T-shirts and videos, and a suitcase to put it all in. Everybody had a good old shopping frenzy. After an | hour we started running out of money, and Kenny f was flapping because we put a 600 pounds dent in his plastic. He knew he'd have a long wait before we paid him back.
The Belgians had a medical team there as part of their contribution to the war. They had a big going away barbecue, and Mugger got us all invited. The night passed in a blissful haze.
The following day it was confirmed that I had hepatitis. Being made to eat our own shit just might have had something to do with it. Other medical checks showed that my shoulder had been dislocated, I had ruptured muscles in my back, scar tissue on my kidneys, burns on my thighs, and loss of dexterity in both hands, but I was keen to get back to the UK.
We packed our kit on March 10 and jumped aboard a VC10. Unfortunately it wasn't going straight to Brize Norton; we'd caught the military equivalent of a number 22 bus.
We flew to Laarbruch first to drop off a lot of the R.A.F personnel. We stayed at the back with the blinds down while whoever was in charge of the air force in Germany greeted his boys off the plane. Without a doubt it was a big homecoming. After the ceremony the top brass got into his car. His next port of call, and also our next destination, was an hour or so's drive away, so we now had to wait on the pan at Laarbruch to give him time to get to Bruggen. When we landed, he was at the other end to greet the second batch of R.A.F prisoners. The whole ceremony was repeated. We sorted out some crates of Grolsch and slowly got pissed.
We flew into Brize Norton, and as the aircraft closed down its engines, we could hear the familiar sound of our own 5Agusta 109 helicopters coming in to land. They came down right alongside the aircraft. My squadron OC was on board, and Mark's sister, who lived and worked in London. After a brief reunion we boarded the helicopters and lifted off for Hereford.
The camp was deserted. Two of the squadrons were still in the Gulf, and other teams were scattered as ever on various jobs.
The adjutant came out to the helipad.
"Welcome back," he said. "Come into the office."
He popped a bottle of champagne. As he poured it, he said to Mugger,
"Right, you need to be back here for half six tomorrow, because we're taking you straight back out. You're needed in Saudi."
"Fucking hell!" said Mugger, completely crestfallen. He had been looking forward to a few nights at home with Mrs. Mugger.
To the rest of us the adjutant very generously said: "There's no big rush at the moment. Take a couple of days off."
The families officer offered me a lift home. As my house came into view, I asked him to stop.
"I'll walk from here," I said. "I need the exercise."
14
We had the luxury of two days off. On Monday Jilly and I went for a walk around the town. I was dressed in familiar old clothes that were a lot looser-fitting than the last time I'd worn them. We wanted just to bum around, doing nothing in particular, but ended up bumping into loads of blokes with suntans and swapping horror stories.
On Tuesday Katie came to stay and we spent our time watching the Robin Hood video and practicing our high kicks. On Wednesday it was back to work.
The Regiment wanted to find out what had happened and why, and whether there were any lessons to be learned for future operations. The five of us sat down with maps and aerial photography and pieced together every detail of our movements from the time we got the warning order to the moment of our release.
We visited widows and families. Stan and Chris spent time with Vince's wife and his brothers, giving them details of what had happened and trying to console them. I visited Legs's wife and found her very switched on and down to earth. Meeting her was a help to me. I could talk things through without having to do the "never mind" bit.
On March 16 we got away for a couple of days to Aberdovey, a place Jilly and I had gone to when we first met. The first time we went there she told me it was the most wonderful holiday ever. She expected the same again, but we both sensed that this time things were different. We couldn't put our finger on anything specific, but things were a bit strained. We cut short the trip and went to see Bob's mother and sister in Bognor. The loss of their son and brother had hit them hard. They hadn't even known he was in the Regiment-nor had his divorced father, who'd had to stop working in the restaurant he managed in London. He was physically sick with grief.
The debrief took about three weeks. We then had a visit from Gordon Turnbull again and a two-hour session in the officers' mess, chatting away. He and one of his colleagues got us to do a simple tick test to evaluate our levels of stress. The higher you scored above 10, the worse your emotional turmoil. We all scored 11. Gordon got 13.
We decided that the wives and girlfriends had been more -traumatized by the events than we had. They'd had a lot to go through: the pain of uncertainty, which they hadn't been allowed to share with anybody, and then the sadness of being told that we were almost certainly dead-only to see some of our faces on TV a -few days later. Gordon Turnbull held a session specially for them, explaining in particular the symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder.
Once the debrief was consolidated, it was announced that we would address the whole Regiment. We did a lot of rehearsals because we wanted it to go well. It is an unheard-of event for all available personnel to turn up to a debrief, but when we stood up, it was in front of a sea of faces. Everybody was there, from the heli crew to the search and rescue coordinator. General Sir Peter de la Billiere-DLB as we know him-was seated in the front row with an array of army high command.
We spoke for two hours. I gave the initial brief of the planning phases and then went on to the compromise, up to the split. Then each person told his story, and what lessons he had learnt. Chris was last on. He had a remarkable story to tell.
When Start went off with the old goat herder in search of a vehicle, the plan had been that if he didn't return by 1830, Chris would move out, leaving behind Stan's belt kit and some ammunition. This he duly did, heading due north on a bearing, aiming for the Euphrates. It was 36 hours since their water had run out.
Chris had only been going for a quarter of an hour when he saw vehicle lights behind him in the area of the LUP. He started to run back, thinking that Stan had managed to get a vehicle and was coming to RV with him. Then he saw a second set of lights. His heart sank.
Chris walked for the rest of that night. It was a clear sky -good ambient light for the night sight-but still very cold. At about 0430, looking through the sight, he saw the river below him. There were bits and pieces of habitation dotted amongst the irrigated land, and the sound of dogs barking. He was despe
rate for water, however, and started to move down towards the river. Without warning, he found himself up to his waist in mud. He floundered around, and it was a long time before he managed to drag himself clear. Exhausted and cautious, he crawled the rest of the way to the water's edge. He filled his bottles, drank, and then filled them again. The water was thick with mud.
By now it was nearly first light. He found a small wadi to hide in but realized only when it was too late that he was also just 1,600 feet away from a small village, and the top of the wadi was in full view. He was stuck. He tried to sleep but was so cold and wet that every time he dozed off he woke up again minutes later, shivering uncontrollably.
Inspecting his feet, he found that he'd lost all his toenails, and that the blisters along the sides of his feet had connected up into long cuts that were weeping pus. So much for the 100 pounds go faster mountain boots.
He moved out again just after last light and was soon having to box around military and civilian locations. There seemed to be hundreds of them, and the result was that between 1830 that evening and 0500 the next morning he covered only 6 miles.
For his next LUP Chris climbed down a short way from the top of a 600 feet cliff face. He lay in a fissure in the rock, watching village life on the opposite bank-kids running around, women in black kit, people washing and fishing.
He moved off again soon after last light and found himself sandwiched between the river on his right and a road on his left. Cross-graining the wadis exhausted him, and he ended up practically walking on the road. At one point he heard the sound of a vehicle and jumped into the ditch. He peered through the sight at the Scud convoy that was thundering by overhead. He made a note of the time and place and moved on.
Soon afterwards, another vehicle went past on main beam and illuminated a road sign up ahead. Chris was gutted by what it said. He was 30 miles further from the border than he'd estimated. That equated to another two nights of travel, which depressed him severely.
When it came to first light, Chris couldn't find a decent LUP and started flapping. After a lot of running around, he eventually got into a big culvert under the main road. That seemed to be fine, until he heard the ominously familiar sound of goat bells.
A herd of goats was coming up the culvert-heading, he supposed, for the fields on the other side. Chris legged it from his hiding place and managed to scramble about 6 feet up the embankment before an old goat herder emerged, followed by a donkey and the world's supply of goats-and a pair of dogs. They were bound to scent him. He had a split second in which to decide whether to shoot the old man to be on the safe side, or just do a runner. The dogs made the decision for him, running straight past without looking up. The rest of the procession followed without a flicker. Chris couldn't believe it. He had been within spitting distance of them all. He could only think that the dogs had been put off by the scent of the goats-or that of the old boy's dirty dish dash.
They would almost certainly be going back that way before last light, however, so Chris knew that he'd have to move. He started crawling along a wadi, having to get down every time a vehicle went along-which was often. The ground had changed by now, from lush, irrigated vegetation to wadi systems and small mounds covered with thorn bushes.
It was hard going. After about 5 miles he found a large depression in the ground and settled down for the rest of the day.
Chris had used up his supply of muddy river water and was dehydrating badly. He knew, however, that he had to keep away from the Euphrates, since every hut seemed to have a dog in it. He'd just have to keep going and hope that he'd find water elsewhere soon.
At last light he got up and headed due west, walking for several hours.
At one point an air-raid siren went off ahead of him, and through the night sight he could make out an emplacement that appeared to consist of several S60s, together with radio masts and sentries who were patrolling. He boxed around the position and came to a small stream flowing over white rock. Not wasting a second, he undid his water bottles and quickly filled them. Then he moved on straightaway.
He kept encountering more and more enemy activity and eventually found himself at a road junction, wedged between a VCP and an antiaircraft site. It was nearly first light so he crawled into a culvert under the road. It had been used as a dump site for garbage, and the stench was overpowering.
His feet were in a very bad way by now, but there wasn't anything he could do to treat them. He consoled himself by lying back on the rubbish and taking a big swig from one of the bottles.
His lips burned and blistered the moment the fluid touched them. He nearly shouted with pain. The emplacement must have been guarding something like a chemical plant, and the stream must have been some kind of outlet from it. Chris was in a bad way. He had nothing to rinse his burning mouth with, and his bottles were now unusable. For a short while he thought he was going to die.
As he lay in the culvert, Chris took stock. He hadn't had water for two days, and he now needed medical treatment for his mouth. Some cuts on his hands had turned septic, and his feet were so bad he could only just about put pressure on them. He knew he didn't have much time left.
He set off as soon as it was last light. It was very cloudy and dark, which meant he might be able to get past the VCP unnoticed. In fact he found some dead ground and staggered past, his feet causing him excruciating pain. He hobbled as best he could for about an hour when suddenly there was a flash in the sky. Thinking he'd triggered off a trip flare, Chris hit the ground. Then he heard explosions. Looking over his shoulder, he realized there was an air raid on the area of the chemical plant.
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.
