Bravo two zero (36 page)

    "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 war, 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."

    "Well, we will see you very soon, Andy," he said. "You can go now."

    The blokes behind me picked me up and dragged me away at the double. I didn't manage to get my feet going at their speed, and they dragged me all the way down the corridor, along the path, down the step, across the cobbles, and back to the cell. They put me back in the corner, in the same agonizing position.

    When the door slammed, I let all my breath out with relief. I started trying to sort myself out.

    Two minutes later, the -door banged and crashed, and a guard came in. He took off my blindfold, but I didn't look up. The last thing I wanted was another filling in. He walked out again, leaving me to see my surroundings for the first time.

    The floor was concrete-really bad, decaying concrete, full of little dips and very damp. There was a window to the right of the door, a small, slim, long opening. As I looked up at it, my eyes fixed on a large hook in the middle of the ceiling. My heart started pumping hard.

    I had visions of me hanging up there very soon.

    The walls had once been cream but now were covered with muck. The surfaces were chipped and etched with Arabic writing. There were also a couple of Nazi swastika signs, and on one wall a back view, about A4 size, of a dove flying up towards the sky. The bird had chains joining its legs together, and underneath, in English amongst the Arabic, were the words: "To my only desire, my little boy Josef, will I ever see him again?" It was a beautiful piece of artwork. I wondered who had done it and what had happened to him. Was this the last thing that anybody did around here?

    Splashed over the walls were two enormous bloodstains, two or three pints of blood per stain, dried onto the plaster. By one of them was a scrap of cardboard. I stared at it for a while, then shuffled across on my arse until I was close enough to read what was on it. It was from a box which had held sachets of fortifying drink. The packaging said how wonderful it was to drink: it gave you vitality and energy. I read more and got a shock that made my heart jump. The product came from Brentford in Middlesex. That was where Kate's mother came from. I knew the place well; I even knew where the factory was. Kate still lived there. It depressed me beyond belief to think of her. How long was I going to be here? Was this it for the war? Was this it until they'd finished with me? Would I just end up as one of the statistics of atrocity?

    My defense was to get back to business and think about possible scenarios. Did we have any more survivors? Had the Iraqis made a connection between us and the compromise at the MSR? Had they already got people who had confirmed this, and were they just playing games? No, the only fact I knew for sure was that they had me and Dinger.

    About a quarter of an hour later I heard muffled voices in the corridor.

    My heart pounded. They walked on, and I let go a big breath. I heard another door open. Probably Dinger, being taken for an interrogation.

    An hour later I heard his door being slammed and locked down. It was starting to get last light. It must have been very dark out in the corridor because the shadows weren't coming under the door any more. I listened as all the voices walked away to the door at the end of the corridor, and then that was locked as well, for the first time since we'd got there. Did that mean we were there for the night? I hoped so.

    I needed to get my head down.

    Darkness brought with it a strange sense of security because I couldn't see, mixed with dread because I was cold and had time to think. I tried sleeping on my front, with my head resting on the floor, but the best position turned out to be lying on my side with my cheek resting on the concrete. The only drawback was the pressure that was exerted on my hip bone; I had to move every few minutes to relieve it and ended up not sleeping.

    The glow of Tiny lamps shimmered under the door, and I heard footsteps and the jangle of keys. The bolt thudded. They started to kick the door. It was even scarier than in the daytime. I could hear Dinger's being done at the same time. It was all so intimidating: they had the power and the lamp, and I was just the dickhead in the corner.

    The door was kicked open. I got myself sitting up. I pulled my knees in and got my head down, ready for the inevitable kicking. They came over, picked me up, and guided me out into the corridor. My feet were agony, and I had to collapse to take the weight off them. They dragged me a few meters and stopped. They took me into another cell. I couldn't work out what was happening. Was it some sort of punishment cell? A toilet? Another interrogation room?

    They pushed me down to the floor. The handcuffs were removed, but reapplied to the left wrist. My right hand was free. The other wrist was handcuffed to something.

    One of them said, "You stay here now."

    They left the cell, locked the door, and their footsteps receded down the corridor.

    I felt with my free hand to find out what I was anchored to and came into contact with somebody else's arm.

    "Dinger?"

    "Wanker!"

    I couldn't believe it.

    We were chuffed to fuck to be reunited. For a few minutes we just sat there amazed, hugging each other and swapping greetings. Things were absolutely splendid. Then we heard footsteps in the corridor. The guards started kicking the door to come in. I looked at Dinger. His face looked as disappointed as I felt. I looked up as they came in, ready to say: Nice stitch, guys. But they'd come back with a blanket for us to share. Was it Saddam's birthday or what?