Bravo two zero

by Andy McNab

  "Your poor wife," I said. "Imagine sleeping with a stinking mess like you every night-it must be like kip ping next to a grizzly bear."

  Just a minute or two later, I was gripped by a fearsome urge. It must have been the onions.

  "Dinger, mate-I wanna go a pooh-pooh."

  Dinger grudgingly hauled himself into a half-lying position with his hand in the air so I could get as far away from him as possible.

  I struggled to get my trousers down, trying hard not to tighten the ratchet on the cuffs.

  "For fuck's sake get on with it," he moaned. "Let's get our heads down."

  At last I was in position, and I emptied my arse. Wet, gooey shit sprayed all over the place.

  "Oh, fucking cheers," said Dinger indignantly. "This is my house, this-would you do this in your own place?"

  I couldn't help myself. It kept on coming.

  "No consideration. I had to work hard for all this. You invite people over, you offer them dinner, and how do they repay you? They drop their arse all over your nice carpet."

  I was laughing so much I fell back into it, and there wasn't much I could do except pull my trousers back up and lie down. It wasn't the best of situations, but at least there were three compensations. I'd done it in his cell, not mine, it was warm on my legs, and it would be his turn next.

  We put half of the blanket under us for insulation and got snuggled down, sharing body heat.

  During the night we heard the guards coming and going and doors banging.

  Each time I'd dread they were coming for us, but they always passed by and kept on going.

  At one point we heard a door in the distance being kicked open and the muffled screams and shouts and moans and groans of somebody getting filled in. You strain to hear, but you only get bits and pieces. To hear somebody else in pain like that is a horrible thing. You're not particularly worried about who it is. You don't know, so you don't care. But it's so demoralizing, because you're so defenseless and you know it could be you next.

  We heard, "Naughty boy. Stand! Bad boy. Bad boy' Then the sound of something like a plate being thrown across a room and banging on to the concrete.

  Could it be "Stan" they were saying? We tried our hardest to hear more, but the noise subsided. At least we knew there was somebody else in the equation, even if we didn't know whether it was one of us. But whoever he was, he could pose a threat. Dinger and I were reasonably content that our stories squared up; another person on the scene, however, a person we couldn't get to speak to, could mean that the rug was about to be pulled from under us. I felt my happiness evaporate. The only thought I could console myself with was that Dinger and I were still together.

  Suddenly, as if it was sent deliberately to calm me, I heard the welcome noise of bombers going through the sky about a mile away. I felt an instant surge of hope. If we took hits, then we had means of escape.

  We spent the rest of the night together. Every time we heard doors banging we thought they were coming to separate us, and we said our goodbyes. Finally, some time in the morning, our cell door was kicked open. I was handcuffed and blindfolded and taken away.

  I knew I was being taken for another interrogation; I knew the route so well. Out of the door, turn right, up the corridor, turn left, over the cobblestones, up the step, along the pathway, past the bushes, into a room. I assumed it was the same room.

  They pushed me onto a chair and held me there.

  "Good morning, Andy," The Voice said. "How are you this morning?"

  "Fine, thank you very much," I said. "Thank you for the blanket. It's very cold at night."

  "Yes, it is very cold. As you can see, Andy, we do take care of you. We take care of people who help us. And you will help us, Andy, will you not?"

  "Yes, I've told you, I'll help as much as I can."

  "There are just a few matters that we need to clear up this morning, Andy. You see, we are not totally convinced that you're not Jewish. We need proof. Tell us if you are, because this will stop a lot of pain and discomfort for you. What is your religion?"

  "Church of England."

  "What is Church of England?"

  "It's Christian."

  "Who do you worship?"

  "I worship God."

  "I see. And who is Jesus?"

  I explained.

  "Who is Mary?"

  I explained.

  "Andy, do you understand that we worship the same God, you and I? I'm a Muslim, and I worship the same God as you."

  "Yes, I understand."

  "Are you religious, Andy?"

  "Yes, I am religious. I take my religion seriously."

  "Tell me how you pray in the Christian world."

  "We can pray on our knees, we can pray standing up, it all depends, it doesn't matter. It's a very personal thing."

  When I was a junior soldier at Shorncliffe there was a battalion church parade every fourth Sunday. You had to wear your best uniform and boots, and march smartly all the way from the camp to the garrison church. It was a bind, because as a boy soldier you only get one full day off a week, which was Sunday-and that was only if you weren't behind the CO on the Friday morning cross-country run: otherwise it was another run on Sunday. Even then you couldn't go home because you weren't allowed out until nine in the morning and had to be back by eight at night. So all in all I wasn't best pleased with church parade and never paid much attention to what was going on. Now I was desperately trying to remember all the bits and pieces of the services and make myself sound like the devout est Bible-thumper since Billy Graham.

  "When do you fast? When do Christians fast?"

  Did we fast? I just didn't know.

  "We don't fast."

  His tone changed. "You're lying to us, Andy. You're lying! We know that Christians fast."

  He told me about Lent. You learn something every day. I hadn't known that Catholics fasted.

  "I'm a Protestant," I Said. "It's different."

  He seemed to calm down.

  "So tell me about the festivals. What foods do you eat? What foods don't you eat?"

  I was racking my brain faying to remember what happened at times like Harvest Festival and Easter.

  "Protestants eat all foods. We actually celebrate the fact that we can eat what we can, when we can. It's a very liberal religion."

  "So you don't have to keep away from pork?"

  "No."

  "Look, Andy, just tell us if you're a Jew, that's all we need to know.

  If you're lying to us, you know you will be punished."

  Another bloke to my half right joined in, also speaking in good English.

  He told me he'd been to Sandhurst.

  "When is St. George's Day?"

  I didn't have a clue.

  "St. Swithin's?"

  Same response.

  "How do you have burials? How do you mourn? How long for?"

  I ducked and weaved for the next two hours.

  Finally The Voice said, "What would you say, Andy, if I was to tell you that we know you are Jews and can prove it?"

  "You're mistaken. I'm not a Jew."

  "Right. Tell me what you know about Judaism."

  "You've got orthodox Jews with long matted hair, and they don't eat pork. That's all. We don't mix with the Jewish community."

  "Well, tell me, have you ever had a Jewish girlfriend? Do you know any Jews in England? Tell me their names and where they live. How would you know if they were Jews?"

  "I've never had anything to do with Jewish women."

  "Why not, Andy, are you homosexual?"

  "No, I'm not homosexual, but in England we have definite racial groups, and there's not too much intermixing. The Jewish community keep themselves to themselves, and you don't really have that much contact with them because they're very insular."

  "How big is the Jewish community in England?"

  "I have no idea. We don't really mix."

  The questions went on and on, and the answers I could give became more and mo
re limited. I was getting boxed into a corner. Then I suddenly had a thought. I couldn't believe that it hadn't come to me sooner.

  "I can prove I'm not a Jew."

  "How can you prove that?"

  "Because I have a foreskin."

  "What? What is a foreskin?"

  There was lots of gob bing off in Arabic, and the sound of paper rustling. Perhaps they were checking a dictionary.

  "I can show you," I said helpfully. "If you undo my hands, I'll show you what a foreskin is."

  Still they couldn't comprehend what I was talking about.

  "How do you spell foreskin?"

  I could hear the bloke scribbling away. A soldier on each side clamped a hand on my shoulders, and somebody undid one of my handcuffs.

  "What are you going to do, Andy? You must tell us what you are going to do first."

  "Well, I'll unzip and get my penis out, and I'll show you that I have a foreskin."

  I stood up and pulled out my cock. I got hold of the foreskin and stretched it as far out as I could.

  "See, I have a foreskin! Jews are circumcised as part of their religion. They have the foreskin taken off."

  The room rocked with laughter. They were rolling up. As I did myself up, I was pushed back on to the chair. The handcuffs went back on.

  They were having a huge giggle about this foreskin business. They babbled on in Arabic, occasionally throwing in the word "foreskin."

  "Would you like some food, Andy?"

  "Yes, thank you very much, I'd love some food," I said. And as everybody was in such a good mood, I added, "And something to drink, if I could, please."

  A hand came up and put a date in my mouth.

  They all carried on laughing as if I wasn't there, and I was rather pleased with myself because things were going rather well. I didn't get anything to drink though. I sat there with the stone in my mouth, wondering what I was going to do with it. I didn't want to swallow it because it would stick in my throat and I didn't have anything to wash it down with. The Sandhurst officer must have realized my problem, because he gob bed off at the guard and the bloke put his hand under my chin and I spat the stone carefully into his hand.

  The room was still buzzing with chat about foreskins.

  I had a sudden thought. I didn't know what everybody else's condition in the patrol was, whether they had foreskins or not. It dawned on me that Bob looked dark and Mediterranean. If they had his body, they could have taken him for a Jew, and we were getting the good news as a result.

  "Of course, Christians as well as Jews get circumcised, for medical reasons," I said. "Some parents want their children circumcised at birth. So it's not just Jews that are circumcised."

  "Tell me more, Andy. You told me Jews are circumcised at birth. Now you're telling me that Christians are circumcised at birth as well. This is confusing. Are you lying to us?"

  "No, it all depends on the parents. Some people think it's more hygienic."

  They found this ever so funny, and I was chuffed that there was a bit of laughter going on. I wondered how I could keep them going.

  "We shall talk some more very soon, Andy," The Voice said.

  I was dragged to my feet and taken back to my old cell. Once again, I was on my own and handcuffed.

  I heard Dinger being put back into his cell some time later. Then there was silence, and we were both left to our own devices for a number of hours.

  Later that afternoon they came for me again.

  "Tell us more about the helicopter, Andy," The Voice said as I was pushed onto the chair. "What sort of helicopter was it?"

  "It was a Chinook."

  "Why a Chinook?"

  "I don't know why it was a Chinook; that's just the helicopter we used."

  "Where did you land?"

  "I have no idea where we landed. It was nighttime. We're soldier medics, not navigators; we just sit in the back."

  "Do you know if the helicopter took off again?"

  "I have no idea what happened to it."

  "If it crashed on the ground and you know where it is, we could find it for you and maybe find the rest of your friends."

  There was a brief pause, and then he said, "Look, Andy, we can find no aircraft anywhere. It must have taken off and left you, or you must be lying."

  "No, I'm not lying."

  I went through the story again. As I spoke, I was interrupted constantly by questions.

  "Andy, I'll ask you again, one more time. Do you know where you landed?"

  "No, I've no idea where I landed. I've told you, I can't tell you any more. I don't know anything else. Why keep on asking me? I really don't know. I want to help. All I want to do is go back to England."

  His tone was shifting now. He was getting more grave. "How much fuel does the helicopter hold?"

  "I haven't got a clue. I don't know anything about that. I just get in the helicopters, I don't know anything about them."

  And that was more or less true. I had never known anything technical that I didn't need to know. With a weapon, all I want to know is how it works, what kind of ammunition it fires, and what to do when it goes wrong. I don't want to know the muzzle velocity and stuff like that, because it is immaterial. You aim, press the trigger, it goes bang, it fires a round. The same principle applied to helicopters and other bits of kit. I am downright wary, as most professional soldiers are, of anyone who can come out with all the statistical facts. Sometimes people use these to mask their inadequacies. They might know all the bumpf, but it's "hands on" that counts.

  This line of questioning was irrelevant anyway; they could have got any of the information out of Jane's. It was taking up time though, which couldn't be bad-and I wasn't getting beaten. I sat there, acting confused and humble as usual. The only problem was that they were getting more serious about it and accusing me of not helping. But I must have sounded genuine because I was. I didn't have a clue.

  "How does the ramp come down?"

  "Somebody presses a button."

  "Where's the button?"

  "I don't know "

  They gave up, and I was taken back to the cell. It was dark. My blindfold was off, but the handcuffs were still on. I had long since lost all sense or feeling in my fingers and hands. The flesh on my wrists had now swollen so much it covered the bracelets. My hands were like balloons.

  I heard them toing and froing with Dinger as_ well and then they came back for me. It was the third interrogation within what felt like the space of twenty-four hours. This was the scariest, because they fetched me in pitch darkness.

  The Voice started by going over some of the helicopter stuff again. Then I got questions on the big war plan.

  "Schwarzkopf and his Allies-how do they plan to invade?"

  "I don't know."

  "Will they invade Iraq?"

  "I don't know."

  "How many aircraft are there?"

  "I don't know."

  "How many Syrian soldiers are preparing to invade Iraq from Syria?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do you think it is a feasible idea that they should invade Iraq from Syria?"

  "I don't know."

  "Will Israel invade Iraq?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, how many soldiers have the British got here?"

  "That I do know. I read it in the newspaper. Forty to fifty thousand, I think. It doesn't really interest me, I'm afraid."

  "How many tanks are there ready to invade Kuwait and Iraq?"

  "I don't know."

  "Aircraft?"

  "I don't know."

  "Does Bush realize that he's killing our women and children?"

  This was weird stuff, but wonderful: at least I wasn't getting filled in, and they weren't bringing up the fact that they had lost a lot of men during the contacts.

  Again there were lots of pauses, and: "Andy, you're not helping me. You must know how many aircraft there are."

  I was profoundly tired. It had been more or less impossible to sleep, and
I was very hungry and thirsty. I was gagging for a drink.

  In daylight, with the usual scary noise, the guards kicked the door in and brought me a pitcher of water. It was horrible minging stuff that looked as if it had been dredged up from a drain, but I wasn't particularly bothered. It was wet. And even if it made me ill, at least I was re hydrating-unless I brought it up again.

  They wanted to take the pitcher back with them, so I was to drink it all in one go. They took off my blindfold for the first time since the first interrogation, undid my handcuffs, and stood over me as I sat on the floor and grasped the pitcher in both hands.

  I started drinking. My broken teeth exploded with pain as the cold water hit the stumps. As I looked past their legs and out into the corridor, I saw Stan. Stan was about 6'4", and he was being dragged by men who only came up to his armpits. The whole of his head, including his beard, was dark red and matted. On one side his scalp was split open in a big, glistening gash. His trousers were caked with blood and mud and shit. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning and groaning to himself. He was totally and utterly gone. He was hobbling and stooped, well past the "injured and confused" stage of bluffing. He made me feel like I'd just come out of a health farm. It was the first time I had seen him since we had tried to contact the jets with the TACBEs.

  I remembered the night Dinger and I had heard what we thought was guards commanding somebody to get up. "Stand, bad boy! Stand!" So they had been mispronouncing his name after all.

  The guards turned and saw what I was looking at.

  They kicked the pitcher out of my hands and went berserk with their boots.

  "No look!" they screamed. "No look!"

  It was the first kicking I'd received since the very first interrogation, and I could have done without it. Whether they had screwed up by leaving the door open or it was all intentional, I had no idea.

  I curled up on the damp concrete. My teeth were raging but I counted my blessings: the guards had forgotten to put my handcuffs back on.

  I felt sick, but I was trying hard to keep it down. I didn't want to dehydrate. Finally I couldn't help myself, and retched. All the precious fluid I had gained I lost again.

  I heard Dinger being moved; I didn't hear Stan being brought back. A short while later they came for me. It was routine by now. They blindfolded and handcuffed me, and dragged me off without saying a word.