Bravo two zero (39 page)

    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.

    There was a long, long silence as I sat on my chair. I could hear feet shuffling and pens scribbling. I could smell all the same smells.

    Nothing happened for what seemed like an hour.

    "Andy," I heard. "Today we want the truth out of you It was The Voice, but in a new guise. Firm now, impatient, no nonsense.

    "We know that you've been lying. We've tried to help you. You're not helping us at all. Therefore we will get the truth out of you in other ways. Do you understand what I mean?"

    "Yes, I understand what you mean, but I don't know what you want. I've told you everything I know. I am trying to help."

    "Right. Why are you in Iraq?"

    I went through the same old story. Before I had even finished, he was up and walking around.

    "That's all I know," I said, blindly trying to locate where he was in the room.

    "You're lying to us!" he screamed in my face. "We know! We know that you're lying!"

    My face was pulled up, and The Voice started slapping me hard. Guards on either side held me up by the shoulders.

    It stopped, and he shouted at me, from so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. "How do we know that you're lying? Because we have your signals operator in hospital, that's why. He's been captured, and he's told us everything."

    It was possible. Maybe Legs was still alive, and in his physical condition he might have said anything. Or everything. But The Voice hadn't told me what Legs had said. Was it a bluff?

    "You are lying, aren't you, Andy?"

    "No, I'm not lying. I can't help you any more. I am trying to help but I just don't know anything."

    I was doing the pleading bit now, because I was flapping good style. I was trying to think of a reason why they should have told me this.

    More slaps and I went down. They picked me up and took off the handcuffs. Before I had time to wonder why, they started to strip me. I had sudden visions of them cutting my cock off.

    They ripped my shirt off and pulled down my trousers. This is it, I thought: this is where they fuck me.

    But they pushed me down on to the chair and held my head forward. I took a deep breath and waited.

    It must have been a piece of four-by-two or the end foot or so of an oar. Whoomph! The shock of it hitting me-whoomph! ivhoomph!-I screamed out like an idiot. They worked their way all over my back and head with it. I must have been unconscious before I hit the floor. '

    I came to, groaning and mumbling, and they hoisted me up and put me back on the chair.

    "You will tell us everything, Andy. We want it from you. We know what has happened. We have your signals operator. He's told us he's your signals operator."

    That had to have come from Legs. He was the signals operator. Was he in hospital?

    I denied, denied, denied.

    They punched and slapped, smashed the paddle in a frenzy on my back.

    Then they stopped for five minutes, as if they were resting, getting their strength back.

    "Why are you doing this to yourself, Andy? Just tell us what we need to know."

    They started up again.

    I got my first hit with what felt like a metallic ball on the end of a stick, like some sort of medieval mace. It thumped into my neck and arms and kidneys with terrible precision. I went down again, screaming my head off. This was way out of control. This was when I was going to die.

    As I hit the floor, the lads behind me started to give me a kicking. I screamed again and again.

    The Voice screamed back at me. "You're lying! You will tell us!"

    It went on and on, I didn't know for how long. They'd kick, get me back up, slap me around the face, whack me with the metal ball and wooden paddle. I could hear them breathing hard with the exertion of it all.

    The Voice would shout at me, and I would shout back.

    "Fucking hell," I bawled, "I don't know, I don't know anything for fuck's sake!"

    He gob bed off at the boys in Arabic, and they started up again with another kicking.

    I went down time and again.

    Pain upon pain.

    It hurt, it really hurt.

    They stopped kicking and lifted me up. I was dragged out of the room, my chest bare and my trousers still round my ankles. As soon as we got out into the courtyard, there was the reception committee. I was kicked and punched all the way down. I got one kick up the arse, and I really thought they'd split my rectum. I thought my insides were falling out.

    I went straight down, howling like a pig.

    They threw me into the cell, blindfolded, handcuffed, and naked, and left me. My breathing was very shallow. When I had recovered sufficiently to sit up, I checked myself for broken bones. I clung to the memory of the lecture by the Marine aviator. The Viet Cong had broken every major bone in his body during the course of his six years in jail. In comparison, I was having a picnic.

    "I was told the bigger and harder you were the quicker they would leave you alone. This I soon discovered was untrue. They can do whatever they want with you. The only thing they cannot break is your mental state. Only you can let that collapse. My head stayed clear, and every day it said to me: "Fuck 'em." That's what kept' me alive."

    My body was in far better condition than his had been, and my mind was definitely clear. So then-fuck 'em.

    It was dark. I had been lying there for ages. I hadn't noticed the cold at first: the pain had blocked out such trifles. Now I was starting to shiver. I thought, if this carries on for many more days, I've had it-I'm going to get well and truly done in here.

    I could hear screaming and shouting in the other rooms, but I wasn't taking much notice of it because I was too involved in my own little world, my own little universe of pain and bruises and broken teeth.

    The others would be getting the same as me, but it was a world away. It was in the distance, it did not concern me. All I did was wait for my turn again.

    From then, and for what must have been quite a few days, it just carried on. Hour after hour, day after day, beating after beating, taking my turn with the other two, lying curled up, cold and in pain, waiting for the terrifying noise of the door being kicked open, the worst sound I had ever heard.

    "Andy, this is your last chance; tell us what we need to know."

    "I don't know anything."

    I knew one thing. I knew the other two weren't giving up because otherwise my interrogations would have stopped. I kept saying to myself, It's not going to be me, I'm not going to let them down, I'm not going to be the one to put the others in the shit.

    It was a haze. Two or three interrogations per twenty-four hours. Day after day. Always the same stuff. Always a little bit harder to bear.

    Then they found new ways of hurting me. Twice they held me down on the seat, pushed my head down, while they flogged me with a whip with thick thongs. And when they had finished, the others joined in with the paddle and ball.

    After one session I was sitting on the chair, still naked, my mind a blur of anguish. The Voice talked quietly and conspiratorially in my ear.

    "Andy, we need to talk. You're in very bad condition. You're going to die very soon, but you're still not helping us. I cannot understand it.