Bravo two zero (35 page)

    I calmed myself with the thought that once I'd tuned in to the new environment, I'd be all right. It was like going into a house that you haven't visited before. It feels strange, but after a couple of hours you feel a bit more affinity with it, you feel more at home. I knew that as long as my blindfold came off, that was what would happen eventually. I still had my escape map and compass safely tucked away, so at least I had something over them.

    It was cold: a dank, dilapidated sort of cold. The floor was damp. I was sitting in wet mud and shit. I found that my hands could touch the wall. It was plaster that had chips and chunks out of it, and where it met the floor there were gaps. The concrete floor was very rough and uneven. Pressure sores on my arse made me try to adjust my position. I tried straightening my legs out but that didn't work, so I brought them back up and tried to lean on one side. But wherever I leaned my hands were painful; I just couldn't get comfortable.

    I heard noisy talking and the sound of people walking up and down outside. There was obviously a gap in the door or a window, and I sensed them looking in at me, checking out the new commodity, just staring with blank, gormless eyes. It flashed through my mind that if I got out, I'd never visit a zoo again in my life.

    The pain from the handcuffs and the stress position had become too much.

    Whether or not I was being watched, I had no choice but to try and lie down to relieve the pressure. There was nothing to lose in having a go.

    You don't know until you try. I shifted on to my side, and the relief was immediate-and so was the shouting. I knew they were coming for me.

    Every nerve in my body screamed: "Fuck! Fuck! Oh no, not again…"

    I tried to pull myself up by putting my weight against the wall, but I ran out of time. The bolt flew undone, and the guards battled to get the warped door open. It shook and rattled like an up-and-over garage door as they kicked at it in a fury, and when it did finally swing open, it was still rattling like a pantomime thunderstorm. It was the most frightening noise I'd ever heard, horrendous, absolutely horrendous.

    They were straight in, grabbing me by my hair, kicking and punching.

    Their message was very clear. They forced me back into the stress position and left the cell, slamming the door behind them. The bolt crashed home, and their footsteps echoed and faded.

    This feels like a proper prison; this is a purpose-built cell. I'm under their total control. So this is where it's all going to happen?

    There's no chance of escape, and if conditions stay like this there never will be.

    These boys knew what they were doing all right. Their reactions were well rehearsed and orchestrated. This suddenly felt like it was going to be for ever. I was without hope. I thought it would be impossible ever to feel lower, or lonelier, or more abandoned and lost.

    My mind rambled. I wondered if Jilly had been told I was missing in action or presumed dead. I hoped she'd been told jack shit. I hoped that somebody had got over the border or that the Iraqis had spoken to the Red Cross. Some chance. Maybe I'd land up on the TV soon, which would be all rather nice. But then again would it? The next of kin would be pacing up and down enough already, just because there was a war on. Jilly had always been quite good about my work. She took the view that what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. She was able somehow to just cut it out of her mind. This time, however, it was obvious where I was, and the same went for my parents.

    My only fear of dying was if nobody knew I was dead. I couldn't bear the thought of my family's anguish at not having a body to mourn, of going through their lives not knowing for sure.

    The Iraqi Head Shed obviously didn't want us dead at this stage, because if people had been left to their own devices we'd have been topped a long time ago. And if they wanted us alive, it must be for some purpose -whether for propaganda or just because they knew they were going to lose the war and it wouldn't look good if prisoners were getting slotted.

    You have to accept the circumstances and do the best you can in them.

    There was nothing I could do to help the people back home, so I turned my mind elsewhere. Should I have gone for the border that night? It was obvious to me that I should have taken my chances. But then, with hindsight, I'd have got eight score draws on last week's coupon.

    I was injured and disoriented. I couldn't even remember what day it was. I knew I had to get a grip. Disorienting the prisoner is a good start to breaking him, and I knew it. But there was nothing I could do but put it out of my mind until I got a chance to see a clock or a guard's watch.

    Interrogators have two hurdles to get over: the straightforward one of cracking you physically, followed by the more difficult one of breaking you mentally. They don't know your psyche, your weaknesses, your inner strengths. Some people might break the first day, others will never give in-and spread along the spectrum in between lie all the rest of us. The interrogator cannot be sure that his objective has been achieved. The telltale signs are hard to detect; he'll know he can't judge by your physical condition because you're exaggerating your injuries. But he'll have been taught that the eyes don't lie. It's up to you to make sure he can't see through the window; you have to mask your alertness. You have to make people peering in believe that they're looking at empty premises, not the shop front of Harrods.

    I forced my mind to focus on more productive thoughts. I ran through the story once more, trying to remember what I'd said, hoping that Dinger had said more or less the same thing. The aim had to be to hold out for as long as we could so that a damage assessment could be made back at the FOB. The question our Head Shed would be asking was: What do members of Bravo Two Zero know? They would come to the conclusion that we knew our own tasks, but nothing of other people's, present or future, so nothing could be compromised. Anything that we did know that could affect other operations would have been changed or canceled.

    We had to keep to our story. There was no turning back.

    I was still in the stress position in the corner an hour later, or maybe it was ten minutes.

    People paced up and down, looked in, mumbled.

    As far as my body was concerned, it was the lull in the battle. It hadn't been complaining of such things while I was getting filled in, but now that nothing physical was happening to me it screamed that it was hungry and thirsty. I wasn't too worried about food. My stomach had been kicked about a bit and probably couldn't have taken it anyway.

    The priority was water. I was so, so thirsty. I was gagging.

    I heard them fiddling with the padlock and throwing back the bolt. They banged and kicked the door to get it open, and the steel juddered and jarred. They were coming for me. Thirst vanished. Fear was everything.

    They came in without a word, just straight over and grabbed me and lifted. I couldn't see them, but I could smell them. I tried to look as though I was doing my best to help them, despite the injuries I was playing on. But I found I was kidding myself more than them. It was well and truly past the stage of playing. I couldn't stand up. My legs would not obey me.

    They dragged me out of the cell and turned right, heading down the corridor. My feet trailed in their wake, the scabs on my toes scraping off on the floor. I could see a little through the bottom of the blindfold. I saw the cobblestones and a trail of blood. I saw a step coming but had to trip over it because I didn't want them to realize that I could see. I didn't want to get punished more than I was going to be anyway.

    It was warm in the sun. I felt it on my face. We went along a pathway and brushed past a small hedgerow. Up onto another step, then back into darkness. A long, black corridor, cool, musty, and damp. I heard office type noises and the sound of footsteps on lino or tiles. We turned right and entered a room. It was cold and damp, but as they carried me in we went past isolated centers of heat. It wasn't at all the nice, comfy, Aunty Nelly feeling of a room that had been flooded with heat for a long time.

    They pushed me down onto a hard chair. There was the usual strong smell of paraffin and cigarettes, and this time some acrid body odor. Whether it came from the people in the room or a previous prisoner, I couldn't tell. I tried to lean forward, but hands grabbed me and pulled me back.

    There were lots of people in there, shuffling their feet, coughing and muttering to one another, and they seemed to be arranged on either side of the room. I heard Tiny lamps. I didn't know if the room was windowless or if the curtains were drawn, but it was very dark apart from their glow.

    I clenched my muscles and waited. There was silence for a minute or so.

    I was worried. We'd got to the serious place. This was the real world; the people here would not be idiots.

    A voice spoke to me from the top of the room. It sounded like somebody's favorite grand ad a sort of old, gravelly voice, very pleasant in tone.

    "How are you, Andy?"

    "I'm not too bad."

    "You look quite injured." The English was fluent but with a marked accent. "Perhaps when we have finished our business and we have an understanding, we might be able to get you some medical attention."

    "It would be very nice if I could have some. Thank you very much. And my friend also?"

    We were in a new environment now, with a new gang. If this was going to be the good boy routine, maybe I'd get something to eat, maybe I'd get medical attention, maybe I'd be able to get medical attention for Dinger. I might even find out some information. Maybe they might be able to let me have my blindfold off or my handcuffs-maybe, maybe, maybe. Even if it was for ten minutes, it would be better than a kick in the tits. If they're promising you things, you must try and see if they'll deliver. Take what you can, while you can. Right, let's go along with this.

    "All we need to know, Andy, is what you were doing in our country."

    I went through my story again. I tried to look scared and humble.

    "I was in a helicopter as a member of a search and rescue team. I'm a medic: I wasn't there to kill people. The helicopter came down, there was some form of emergency, we were all told to run off the helicopter quickly, and then it just took off. I don't know how many people got off the aircraft or are on the ground and still running around. You have to understand, there was total confusion. It was at night, nobody knew where the officer was; I think he might even have run back on the helicopter and deserted us. I had no idea where I was and no idea where I was going. I was just running around, scared and confused. And that's all there is."

    There was a long pause.

    "You understand, do you Andy, that you are a prisoner of war, and prisoners of war are required to do certain things?"

    "I understand that, and I am helping you as much as I can."

    "We need you to sign some things. We need to get some signatures from you so they can be sent to the Red Cross. It's part of the process of letting your family know that you're here."

    "I'm sorry, but under the Geneva Convention I'm told that I must not sign anything. I don't really understand why I have to sign anything, because we're taught that we don't have to do that sort of thing."

    "Andy," The Voice became even more grandfatherly. "We need to help each other, don't you agree, so that things will run smoothly?"

    "Yes, of course. However, I don't know anything. I've told you all I know."

    "We really must help each other; otherwise things will have to get painful. I think you understand what I mean by that, Andy?"

    "I understand what you're saying, but I really don't know what you need.

    I've told you everything that I know. I don't know anything else."

    There's a technique that high-pressure salesmen use to get you to tell them that you want to buy the product. It's called something like the Creative Pause. Victor Kiam explained it in one of his books: when he was going through his sales pitch, he would stop and pause, and if the person he was trying to sell to actually felt that they had to carry on the conversation during this gap, Kiam knew that he had a sale. The punter felt he had to do something, and that was to agree to buy.

    I kept quiet and looked confused.

    "You're really looking quite poorly, Andy. Do you require some medical assistance?"

    "Yes, please."

    "Well, Andy, you have to pay for things. What we require in return is a little assistance. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours! I believe it's an old English saying, yes?"

    He must have looked around the room for approval because the others laughed hard-a bit too hard. It was the sound of the chairman of the board making a bone joke and everybody chortling because they have to.

    Half the people in the room probably didn't even know what he was saying.

    "I will be helpful," I said. "I'm trying to be as helpful as I can.

    Would it be possible to have some water or some food, I wonder, as my friend and I haven't eaten or had anything to drink for a long time. I'm very thirsty and feeling very weak."