Bravo two zero (45 page)

    Map studies took up a lot of time, but in idle moments we just sat there and waffled. I went through my life story several times, until everybody knew Peckham and my three ex-wives almost as well as I did.

    Stan would talk about his time in Rhodesia with his family. They had donkeys and used to paint their hooves in bright colors. He told us one particularly good story about the day he'd watched as a herd of elephants came and ate all the windfall apples from an orchard. The fruit was so old that it had started to ferment, and it wasn't long before the elephants had flaked out on their haunches, completely pissed. While they were sleeping it off, a group of monkeys appeared and ate the remaining apples. They Went up into the trees to rest after the feast, and it wasn't long before they also were pissed. One monkey was so gone that it fell off its branch, bringing down two other monkeys with it. They landed on the head of a pissed-up elephant, which then came to and started charging around the place.

    Another story had a much darker side. Stan's family had a houseboy who lived with his family in a small bungalow on the estate. One night, a group of rebels got hold of him and shot him because he worked for the white man. They dragged the body back to the bungalow and left it on the doorstep as a warning to the rest of the family. The warning was heeded. Soon afterwards, Stan joined the army and became part of the rapid reaction force. When independence was declared, Stan left the country in despair.

    We tried to educate Stan in the finer points of punk music. It took us three days to remember all the words of the Jam song "Down in the Tube Station at Midnight," and then we tried to teach it to him. He soon gave up. "I don't understand all this British shit," he complained.

    "Don't you guys know any Rolf Harris?"

    Poor Stan. He had a thing about storing food: even if he was hungry, he would try and save it for a rainy day. He'd spend a lot of time and ingenuity hiding it from the guards, and then we'd wake up in the morning and insist that he share it. After all, what else are friends for?

    We also passed the time doing exercise or assessing our injuries. I worried a lot about tooth decay. The guards nearly always spat in our food, and I imagined foul Iraqi bacteria attacking my broken stumps and rotting them, and then all my other teeth falling like dominoes.

    We kept tabs on the date, and I felt especially low on the 24th. I couldn't help myself thinking about how I would have spent the day if I'd been in England. Would Katie have been with us for the day, or would I have just phoned her to wish her a happy birthday?

    Towards the end of the month the major began turning up much more often, normally just before last light. He talked to us a lot about how wonderful it was to be an Iraqi since the revolution. There was a comprehensive health-care system, he explained, and everybody got a handsome pension at retirement age. Saddam also provided free education for all, up to and including university level-even if that entailed studying overseas.

    "Our children read Shakespeare at school," he said one time, showing us a copy of Hamlet. "Last night I was going home, and a bomb dropped behind me. To be or not to be-it is Allah's will, no?"

    None of us said anything, and after a while he muttered, "You know, you have been well treated here."

    It was our best clue yet that the war was nearly over. We didn't tell him what his guards were up to when his back was turned. That would only have made matters worse.

    "Just remember that what happened before is nothing to do with me' he repeated. It must have been obvious to him that the war was going against them, and he was covering his arse.

    One night we heard the gates opening and the sound of moaning and groaning. I hated hearing the gate open at night: it made me feel very insecure. It was clear from the sounds that a prisoner was being brought in and put into a cell. There was lots of mumbling, and suddenly a long, loud burst of screaming. We made contact with him the following night. His name was Joseph Small, call sign Alley Cat. He was a major, an aviator in the US Marine Corps. Poor bastard, he had been shot down on what he was able to tell us was the last day of the ground war. He had a bad parachute landing that left him hanging in a tree. He had sustained an open fracture of the leg, and all the Iraqis had done was give him an open-cast splint and let him get on with it.

    It was wonderful to hear the news. The ground war had not only started but nearly finished, and Iraq was on its arse. But the problem Joseph Small brought with him was that the more Americans there were, the more chat there was. They wouldn't listen to make sure there weren't any guards around: they would just spark up, and the fallout was bad for all of us. I was still concerned that we could find ourselves separated.

    Joseph was quite amusing because he was gagging for a cigarette and he was always asking for them, but he always asked aggressively and they just fucked him off. But Dinger, the model diplomat, every time the major turned up now he'd get a fag out of him.

    In the end we decided not to initiate any more conversations with the Americans. We let them start their own, and waited to see if there was a reaction from the guards. If there wasn't, we'd join in, always trying to get as much information as we could. Had anybody been reported to the Red Cross? we asked. Did they think that we were dead?

    Did they know we were alive?

    Joseph Small was able to say that nothing about us had been reported to the Red Cross; we'd all been posted as missing in action. Bush had just announced that if all prisoners were not released, the Allies were going all the way to Baghdad. That made us feel good in one respect: at least we were winning, and there was a good chance that we'd be released. But there was also a chance we wouldn't be freed. We knew the Iraqis had contact with the PLO. Were we going to land up best mates with Terry Waite, cuddling the same radiator?

    There was a funny side to it as well, though.

    "Who's that?" a voice boomed out.

    "Major Joseph Small, Marine Corps."

    "Russell Sanborn, Captain, Marine Corps."

    "Aviator?"

    "Yes, sir!"

    It was real good gung ho stuff, straight out of Top Gun.

    The day after Joseph Small turned up, a medic sergeant called Troy Dunlap was brought in on a stretcher with spinal injuries. He had been with a woman doctor who had broken both her arms and was also taken prisoner. The rest of the Black Hawk crew were dead after being shot down. Inevitably, the Americans made contact with him straightaway.

    "Major Small? Major Joseph Small? Shit, sir, I'm your search and rescue mission!"

    We made sure he knew our names as well, in case he got repatriated early because of his injuries.

    Around this time the bombing stopped, which confirmed Small's story. We were using the bombing as a barometer. If it started again, we would know that things had gone to rat shit. In the afternoon two bangs sounded off in quick succession. After the first the birds flew away very loudly, and there was lots of shouting. Our hopes of an early release faded with the echo of the boom.

    I tried to think positively. The Iraqis were getting their arse kicked by ground troops as well now. Small's information indicated it would be a matter of days rather than weeks until the end. And things must be going well for there to be daylight raids. But I hadn't heard any antiaircraft fire. Jeral confirmed that it had been aircraft going supersonic over the city-theirs or ours he didn't know.

    Early in the morning of March 3, the outer gate of the courtyard opened up and then the gate into the main prison. There was lots of noise of keys clanking, voices raised, and shouting. David's cell was opened. We were all straining to hear what was going on.

    We heard the words: "You're going home."

    We looked at one another, and Stan said, "Fuck, mate, this is good shit."

    Our door burst open, and a guard stood in the doorway with a clipboard in his hand. "Stan. Dinger. You are now going home. Wait here."

    No Andy. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Our worst fears had been confirmed. They were going to keep back hostages.

    I turned to Dinger and said, "If you're going home, make sure you speak to Jilly."

    Dinger and Stan shook my hand before leaving. "Don't worry," they said.

    Don't worry? I was flapping fit to take off.

    Left alone in the cell, I spent the first couple of hours feeling severely sorry for myself. I felt happy for the blokes that were going, but that didn't stop me from feeling abandoned. After so many weeks of comradeship, the sudden loneliness was almost a physical pain. I forced myself to work through the options. The war must have ended; there was no doubt about that. We knew that Small's sortie was just about the last to be flown, and that was days ago. So why had only three of us been released? Were they being released?

    In the afternoon the major came in with all his entourage. "Yes, it is true," he said. "Your two friends have gone home. They will be home with their families very soon. Maybe you will be going soon. Maybe one day, maybe two days. I don't know. But remember, what happened at the other place is nothing to do with me. What happened here is my responsibility. You've been well looked after."

    I was nodding and agreeing like a lunatic. He gave me two oranges, which I ate as soon as he had gone, peel and all. I began to feel better.

    Later that afternoon I was dragged out and put into the courtyard in the sunlight. I sat there soaking up the rays for five minutes and was joined by two guards who started talking about the pop charts. They were about two decades behind in their news, but I wasn't going to tell them that. Instead I discussed the merits of various Boney M and Abba hits, nodding and agreeing as much as I could without my head falling off. Everybody was being all rather nice, so I knew something was afoot.

    I got the sun on my bones for an hour, and it felt -wonderful. They took me back in when the sun went down, but I was feeling more and more hopeful.

    Something strange happened to Joseph Small that night. I was lying on the floor of my cell when I heard his door open and people go in. There were mumblings; then about a minute later the door closed, and the noises receded. At last light the guards left us alone. The three of us got talking, and I asked him what had happened.

    "An Iraqi soldier came into my cell," he said. "He was in combat dress and in bad shape. He had a rough beard, he had his webbing on, helmet, his boots were in shreds from rock cuts. He came in, looked at me, saluted, and left. Weird, Andy, fuckin' weird."

    We could only surmise that he had withdrawn from Kuwait and for some odd reason wanted to see a prisoner.

    We spent the next half hour trying to work out why two lots had gone but not us, but didn't get far. For the second night I didn't get any sleep. The first time it had been because I was so down in the dumps.

    Tonight it was the excitement of what the morning might bring.

    In the early hours of March 5 the gates opened, and I jumped to my feet, eager with anticipation.

    Russell's door opened.

    "Russell Sanborn? You're going home."

    Then Joseph's door.

    "Joseph Small? You're going home."

    The next one was the stretcher case.

    And the last one was me.

    "Andy McNab? McNab? Yes, you will be going home soon."

    They handcuffed us and took us out of the cells one by one. We went through the gates that led onto the courtyard, and then through those gates, and were put onto a bus. For the very first time I saw the bodies that belonged to the voices from other cells. Joseph Small was much older than I had imagined, a man in his mid-forties who looked good considering his injuries. All I had ever seen of Russell Sanborn was an eye and finger that pulled down a small flap of blanket so he could look out and see people slop out as we walked past his punishment cell. There was no light in his cell apart from this hole. He had a deep, booming voice, full of authority, and I had expected a man mountain. In fact he had a very slight frame.

    They moved down the bus and blindfolded everybody. We drove along the road for another 75 feet and stopped. We seemed to be picking up another batch of prisoners, who sounded like Saudis. I guessed we'd been staying in a mirror image jail that had two identical wings.

    We drove for about forty minutes. We stopped and I heard aero engines.

    This is great, I thought: We're just going to get on the plane and fuck off. But only the Saudis disembarked. The guards then started to call out our names.

    I went forward when called, still blindfolded, and was taken into a building. The echoes indicated it was a low structure; I imagined it was a hangar. We were arranged in a long line, handcuffed and blindfolded. There was a loud hiss of Tiny lamps, and the noise of soldiers moving around. I could hear the breathing of people either side of me. We were held there for a long time. My stomach was playing up again, and I was feeling weak. I leaned forward, and my nose brushed against a brick wall.

    A sudden flurry of commands brought me bolt upright. I heard the ominous, metallic echo of weapons being cocked.