ad. Are you aching? You need
a doctor--we'll help you."
     I wanted to appear utterly done in. "Okay," I said in a hoarse whisper,
"I can't take any more. I'll help you."
     Everybody in the room looked up.
     "I am a member of a search and rescue team who were sent to lift downed
pilots."
     The interrogator  turned around and looked at the others. They all came
forward and sat on  tables and desks. Everything I said had to be translated
for them.
     "Andy, tell me more. Tell me all you know about the search and rescue."
     His voice was very nice and calm. He obviously thought he'd cracked it,
which was fine--that was exactly what I wanted him to think.
     "We're  all from different units  in  the  British army,"  I said, "and
we're  all drawn  together because of our medical  experience. I  don't know
anybody,  we were  just brought together. I'm medically trained,  I'm not  a
soldier. I'm stuck in this  war and  I don't want to be a part of it. I  was
happy  working  back in  the UK on sick parades, and all of a sudden they've
put  me on one of these search and rescue teams. I haven't got a  clue about
any of this, I'm a medic, that's all I am."
     It seemed  to  go  down rather  well.  They  chatted  about it  amongst
themselves. It obviously squared with what Dinger had told them.
     The trouble is,  once you start  there's  that chink in the armor,  and
you've got  to carry on with the  story. If there's too much detail,  you'll
start  cocking things up for  the other prisoners. You  have to  try to keep
your story nice  and simple--then it's easy for you to remember as well. The
best way to achieve  that is to be the total bag of shit. You can't remember
because  you're in such a bad physical state. Your mind just can't recollect
anything; you're just  a thick, bone squaddy,  one of  the minions,  and you
haven't  got  a clue, you don't even know what kind of helicopter it was. My
mind was racing to think of the story and what I was going to say next.
     They knew I  was a sergeant, so I  threw  that  one in  again. In their
army, sergeant  is a buckshee rank. It's their officers that do  everything,
including the thinking.
     "How many of you were there?"
     "I don't know. There was lots of noise and the helicopter came down. We
were told there was danger  of  an explosion and to run,  and they just took
off and left us."  I played  the confused  bonehead, the  scared,  abandoned
squaddy. "I just do first aid, I don't want any of this. I'm not used to all
this. All I do is put plasters on wounded pilots."
     "How many were on the aircraft?" he tried again.
     "I'm not entirely sure. It was nighttime."
     "Andy,  what's  going on?  We gave you  a  chance. Do you  take us  for
idiots?  Over the last few days many people have been killed, and we want to
know what's happened."
     This  was the  first time they  had mentioned casualties.  I  had  been
expecting it, but I didn't want to hear it.
     "I don't know what you mean."
     "We want to know who's done it. Was it you?"
     "It wasn't me. I don't know what's going on."
     "You must give us a chance. Look, just to show you how much  we want to
help you: You tell me your mother's and father's names, and we will write to
them and let them know you're all right. You write them a letter and put the
address on, and we'll post it."
     It was something straight out of training. You are taught never to sign
anything. This goes back to Vietnam days where people signed pieces of paper
in all innocence, and the  next thing they knew there was a statement in the
international press saying that they'd slain a village full of children.
     I knew it  was bollocks. There was no way they'd actually send a letter
to Peckham. It was fantasy land, but I couldn't just come out with Fuck you,
big nose. I had to get round this somehow.
     "My  father  died  years ago,"  I  said. "My  mother went  away with an
American  who  was working  in London. She's  somewhere  in  America  now. I
haven't  got any parents; it's one of the reasons I'm  in the army. I've got
no other immediate family."
     "Where did he work in London, this American?"
     "Wimbledon."
     Another classic. They were trying to get me to  open  up my heart,  and
everything would come rolling out. I'd been  put through all this before  in
E&E and capture exercises.
     "What did he do?"
     "I don't know, I didn't live at home then. I had big family problems."
     "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
     "No."
     I wanted to base my lies on  the truth. If it's something that you know
and it's the  truth,  you stand a better chance of remembering  it. And they
might run a check and be able to confirm that what you're saying is true and
not go  any further into it. I had in my mind a friend who had been  in that
sort of  family situation. His father died when he was 13. His mother met an
American, wanted  nothing more to do with the  son, and buggered off  to the
States. As far as I was concerned, it sounded quite convincing.
     I took my  time.  My  speech was  slurred,  I  was  still  dribbling, I
couldn't talk properly.
     "Are  you in pain, Andy? Help us and everything will be fine. We'll get
you medical attention. Carry on, tell us more."
     "I don't know any more."
     Then  another classic.  He must have been  working his way  through the
manual.
     "Sign this piece of paper, Andy. All  we want to  do  is prove to  your
family that you're still alive. We will make attempts to find your mother in
America. We have contacts there.  All we need is your signature so she knows
you're  Okay. And we  can actually  prove to the Red Cross that you're still
alive, you're not  dead in  the desert, and the animals  aren't  eating you.
Think of it, Andy. If we get you to sign your name and go to  the Red Cross,
we're not going to kill you." I couldn't believe anybody would actually come
out with such a  comical ploy. I tried to be noncommittal. "I don't know any
addresses, I haven't got any family life."
     You could  give a fictitious  address, or you could give a real address
in case they checked up. But Mrs. Mills of 8 Acacia  Avenue might  open  her
door one morning and get  blown away.  You never  know how far this  sort of
thing will go.
     "Andy,  why do you  keep  on  obstructing us? Why are you doing this to
yourself? These people, my superiors, they  won't let me help you unless you
tell  them what they  need to know. I'm afraid  I  can't  help you any more,
Andy. If you don't help me, I can't help you."
     He just walked away. I didn't know what to expect now.
     I had my head down, and I could hear  them coming up. I clenched my jaw
and waited for it. This time there were no rifles, just several quite severe
smacks  around  the  face.  Every  time they  hit near  the broken  teeth  I
screamed.
     I shouldn't have done that.
     They pulled  my head up by  the  hair to get  a better  aim.  Then they
slapped several more times over the site.
     The slaps became punches  that knocked me  off the chair, but it wasn't
very exciting compared  with the  last beating. Probably they thought they'd
now cracked it  and I  just needed a bit more encouragement. It lasted  less
than a minute.
     Back on  the  chair, I  was breathing heavily, blood  trickling down my
front.
     "Look, Andy, we're trying to help you. Do you want to help us?"
     "Yes, I do,  but  I don't know anything, I'm helping  you as much  as I
can."
     "Where are your mother and father?"
     I went through the same story.
     "But why don't you know where your mother is in America?"
     "I  don't know because  I have nothing to do with her.  She didn't want
me. So she  went to  America and I joined the army."  "When did you join the
army?"
     "When I was sixteen."
     "Why did you join?"
     "I've always wanted  to help people,  that's  why I'm a medic.  I don't
want to fight. I've always been against fighting."
     This business about family  was a red herring. I  didn't know if it was
just a matter of pride that he wanted to crack it.
     "Andy, look, obviously this way is not working."
     The filling in started again.
     Your body adapts and it passes out quicker. Your mind is working in two
ways. One half is telling you you're out of it, and the other half really is
out  of it. It's  like  lying on your  bed when you're pissed--your mind  is
spinning and a little voice is saying:  Never again. This time I was totally
out of the game. It was a good kicking. I wasn't exaggerating anything after
this  one. I was incoherent.  I flaked out,  and when I came  to I was still
incoherent.
     What woke me up was a boy stubbing his cigarette out on my neck.
     I  was  in  blackness, blindfolded and handcuffed, lying  face down  on
grass. I had an excruciating headache. My ears tingled and burned.
     I felt sunlight on bits  of my  face. I sensed the brightness of it. My
mind was  a  blur,  but  I worked out that  at some stage  I must have  been
dragged from the room and trussed  up outside. I wanted to rest my head, but
I couldn't lie  on one side because of  the swelling, and I couldn't rest on
the other because of the cuts.
     I  heard Dinger's voice just  behind me. They were stubbing  cigarettes
out on him as well.  It was good to hear him, even though he was moaning and
groaning. I couldn't see  him or  touch him because  I was facing  the other
way, but I knew he was there. I felt a bit safer.
     There must have been three  or four guards using us as ashtrays. They'd
had a bad  time with  us  over the last few days,  and  they  were obviously
enjoying getting their own back.
     Other squad dies came around to see the sideshow and get in  a poke and
a  kick. They gob bed on us and  laughed.  One put a lit cigarette behind my
ear and left it there to burn down. His mates loved that one.
     Even  though I  was  blindfolded, I kept  looking down, trying  to look
scared. I  wanted to see  Dinger.  I needed the physical contact with him, I
needed to feel near him. I wanted some form of attachment.
     I was  writhing  face down as the cigarette burned behind  my  ear  and
managed to  wiggle the blindfold down my nose. I could see daylight at last.
You  have  a  horrible sense  of insecurity when you're blindfolded  because
you're so vulnerable.
     If this is my last hour, I said to myself, let's see as much as we can.
It was a lovely clear  sky. We  were under  a small fruit tree with a little
bird in it. It started singing. The odd vehicle would start up about 60 feet
away,  there was  talking, it was all rather sedate and nice.  On  the other
side of the wall there was  the hustle and bustle of the  town, the  hooting
and revving of vehicles and general shouting. I heard the main gate open and
close about 150 feet away, vehicles drive out and fade away. It felt as cozy
and safe as being in a walled garden in a different century.
     I thought: I've seen and  I've done as much as  I can. If it's going to
happen, let's do it now. I didn't have much thought about Jilly or Kate. I'd
gone through all that in the culvert, thinking there wasn't  much I could do
about  it, this was not the time to worry  about them. I'd  done  the best I
could to look after them financially. I'd got the letters sorted out, and at
the  end of the day they knew that I loved them, and I  knew that they loved
me. There were no big  problems; they'd be told I was dead and that would be
that.
     There  were other things I  wanted to  concentrate  on now.  In Breaker
Morant,  the film about the Boer War, as the  characters  walked to the spot
where they were going to get executed, they reached  out  and  held hands. I
didn't know whether I wanted to physically grab hold of  Dinger or whether I
wanted to say something. I just wanted some sort  of connection with him for
my last moment.
     More  squad dies  came round, kicking  and  poking. They looked down at
these two pathetic messes on the ground, and they gob bed and took the piss,
giggling like a bunch of kids, which some of them probably were. But none of
it seemed as bad as before. Either the novelty was wearing off for them or I
was just getting used to it. I just kept my head down and clenched my teeth.
Both of us moaned and groaned with each kick because it hurt--but it was not
so much the power of  the kick as the  effect it had on the aches  and pains
from before.  They  denounced  Mitterrand  and  Bush, and  when they saw  my
blindfold was down, they did cutthroat  signs  and waved  their  pistols and
mimed bang-bang. I could have taken it if  it was part of a master plan, but
these wankers were just doing it for their own enjoyment.
     Vehicles  started up,  and the drivers revved  the engines. There was a
lot of shouting and barking of orders from the buildings behind us, and that
got me  flapping. It was  a  horrible sinking feeling: Here we  go  again, I
thought, why not another hour here? It's all rather  nice in  the sun; we've
had such a good period of sedation.
     I hoped the noise came from officers and it didn't  just mean that  the
jundies were getting all  sparked  up again. You felt there was some purpose
with  the  officers; you could converse with them quite well. With the squad
dies it was just boots and fists.
     Vehicle  doors  were slamming.  There  was a  general hum  of activity.
Something was  definitely  about  to happen. I braced myself, because it was
going to happen whether I liked it or not.
     I didn't  know  what I was  going to  shout  to Dinger. "God  Save  the
Queen!" maybe. But then again, probably not.
     Somebody  untied  my feet, but  the blindfold and handcuffs  stayed  in
place. Hands on  either side  grabbed  me  roughly and hauled me upright. My
body  had started to seize up after  the  long rest. Bruises throbbed.  Cuts
which had clotted were reopened as I was pushed and shoved. My feet wouldn't
carry me and I had to be dragged.
     I was thrown  onto the back of an  open  pickup and man handled  to the
front. They  bent me over the cab,  a jundie either side of  me; I assumed I
was being taken away to be shot. Was this the last time I  was ever going to
see or hear anything? My great game plan to say something to Dinger had gone
to rat shit, and I was annoyed with myself.
     They took my blindfold off, and I blinked in the  harsh sunlight. There
was nothing in front of us. They wouldn't  let me turn around, so I couldn't
tell if  Dinger was behind. The jundies were banging on the roof; the driver
and passenger had their arms out, and they were slapping  the metal as well.
There were happy noises everywhere.
     One  of the ruperts came up  and said,  "We are now going to  show  our
people."
     I was still trying  to adjust my eyes, totally bemused by the noise and
the  sun. We seemed  to be  part of a convoy of five or six brand-new Toyota
pickups and Land  Cruisers. Some still had the  plastic over the seats. They
were covered with desert dust, however, and they'd had to scrape it off  the
rear windscreen of the cab beneath me so the driver could see out.
     They opened  up the large double gates for the  vehicles to come out of
the  camp, and we were greeted by the surging roar of a crowd, as if two Cup
Final sides were emerging from the tunnel at Wembley. There was a solid mass
of  people ahead  of  us--women with  sticks,  men with  guns or stones, all
dressed in  their dish-dashes and waving pictures of Saddam Hussein in their
hands. Some were jumping up and down with joy; others were ranting rhetoric,
pointing and throwing  stones.  The jundies tried to stop  them because they
were getting hit as well.
     And  this was  just as we drove out of  the gate. I thought: That's it,
we're off to be shot without a doubt. We'll have a quick drive  around town,
they'll make a video, and then they'll do the business.
     We turned right  onto the main boulevard, and  the crowd surged  around
us. We had to stop almost immediately, as the  jundies tried to push  people
off  and  the driver jammed his hand  hard on  the horn.  We inched forward,
trying  to pave a way through  the mob. They chanted "Down with Boosh!  Down
with  Boosh!" and I just stood  there like the  president  at the head  of a
cavalcade.
     The squad dies were chuffed as hell. Everybody was firing into the air.
Even kids of ten were  letting rip with AKs. All I could think  was:  One of
these rounds is going to hit me. It was such a lovely hot day as well.
     I got  twatted now and again  by a stick  or  stone. The jundies either
side of me  were jumping up and down with excitement. I only had socks on my
feet, and they landed on them with  their boots. I  felt weak and wanted  to
lean against the cab, but they pulled my head back to  make  sure  everybody
could see me.
     Dinger came up on the  right-hand side.  He, too,  was riding  a Toyota
pickup. As he drew level,  we got  some eye-to-eye  and managed  to  swap  a
smile. It was the best thing that had  happened all  day. Dinger was looking
how I felt. He was the bog monster at the best of times, but I looked at him
and  thought:  Fucking hell, I didn't know he  could get even uglier than he
was. It was the happiest time since the  capture,  without a doubt. The wink
and  the small smile, that was all I  needed.  I drew immense strength  from
that one small gesture. It was a matter of personal credibility. If he could
get through this and grin  about it, I thought, fuck  it, so can  I.  I felt
incredible affection for him, and  I hoped that he did for me. This, as  far
as I knew, was my last look at a mate.
     We  trundled  along  on our  carnival  floats,  driving  down  the main
boulevard of the  town. The crowd  chanted  and shook their fists. The noise
was incredible. They  didn't  even know who or  what we were. We  could have
been spacemen for all they knew, but whatever, we were the bad guys.
     Some of the squad dies  were chanting  with them.  Others were  running
around trying  to control the crowd. All  of  them were trying to avoid  the
stones and sticks that were meant for  us.  There were bursts  of fire going
off all over the place, the jundies with us firing in the air as well.
     "Down with Boosh." Boosh!"
     People were diving in and out of the little Arab shop fronts with their
concertina  railings.  "Thou shalt not  steal,"  the  Koran  proclaims,  but
everywhere you  go  in the  Middle East  the  shops have  these railings  as
security against  thieving fellow Muslims. Everybody had pictures  of Saddam
and was pointing at his face and kissing it and shouting up to Allah.
     We would move at  walking pace, then stop for a bit to move the  crowd.
My  legs couldn't hold me  up. I looked over  at Dinger, and he was grinning
from ear to ear. I wondered what on earth he was laughing at; I thought he'd
gone  demented.  Then  I  realized:  He was  taking  the piss out of them! I
thought, Blow this, we're on our way to die here, so who gives a monkey's? I
started myself. Fuck 'em! Suddenly all that mattered to me was not looking a
bag of shit. You've  got to make  sure  you look good. I got some eye-to-eye
going  with the crowd and smiled away. One of the guards spotted me and  got
the chance to look a right hard man, landing a slap and a punch. I looked at
Dinger, and we  grinned at them like Leslie Grantham opening a  supermarket.
If our hands hadn't been tied, we'd have been doing the royal wave.
     It  really  sparked them up, the grinning.  Some  took it well, most of
them didn't. They were going crazy. It was the wrong thing to do and totally
counterproductive, but it had  to be done. The guards gave us  a slap to get
us  all subdued again because it made  them look good. But what the  hell, I
felt  better.  A large  white  American sedan  came through on the left-hand
side. Two ruperts in it looked up, pointed, and laughed. They were in a good
mood about it anyway. I gave them my big presidential smile in return.  They
loved it, but that gave the jundies the hump and they had another go at us.
     We paid the price for  all the piss-taking when we got to the other end
of the town. Crowds of people were waiting for us, trying  to break  through
the cordon, arguing with the squad dies because they wanted  to have a go at
us.  They were jumping up and down, and it was  obvious it was only a matter
of time before the cordon was either broken or deliberately removed. My only
worry was the thought of me getting shot and not Dinger.
     I was  dragged off  the vehicle. I searched desperately for  Dinger.  I
needed him. He was my only link with reality.
     Then I saw that the same was happening to him and I thought: It's going
to happen round here somewhere.
     I was not too worried about  the actual dying bit. Never had been; just
as long as it was as quick and clean as Mark's.
     Would Jilly  ever  know? Did  she  even know I was  missing? Everything
materialistic was squared away; there was nothing else I could have done for
her.  But  it was the emotional thing: it would have been lovely to have the
chance to say my farewells.
     What a way to go.
     Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!
     The  stench of the town was  overpowering. They were primitive, caveman
smells of cooking, old embers, and stale  piss,  mixed with rotting  garbage
and diesel exhaust.
     The town was an odd  mixture  of the  medieval and the modern. The main
boulevard was freshly tarmacked; the rest was dust and sand. There were Land
Cruisers straight from the showroom and jundies  with shiny boots and clean,
western-type uniforms,  and  the  crowd  in their  stinking  dish-dashes and
flip-flops or plain bare feet. I was knocked to the ground at one point, and
right next to my eye was a big toe splayed out like  a split sausage, grimed
with a  lifetime  of  dirt. There  were  immaculately  groomed officers  and
healthy-looking young soldiers, and the locals with just three teeth between
them and  even those  were  black and  decayed, and Negro Arabs with scarred
faces  and  white,  scabby  knees  and  elbows  from  lack  of  washing  and
moisturizing, and dusty, matted rasta hair.
     The buildings were of mud  and stone, square with flat roofs. They must
have been a  couple of hundred years old, and on their sides were the latest
posters  for Pepsi Cola.  Old,  skinny, mangy dogs skulked in  the  shadows,
scavenging and pissing. Rusty tin cans lay in piles everywhere.
     Running down the middle of the boulevard was a central reservation, and
in the middle of it, just  opposite us, was a children's playground, full of
tubular steel  frames and swings in old faded blues and  yellows. It was the
sort  of  thing you'd  find  on a normal housing  estate in  Britain, but it
looked so out of place and weird in this kind of world. They'd been fighting
a war  for years, and there was poverty, shit, and grind all around us. Fuck
knows what the Arabic for "Tidworth" is but  this  was it--an old  shit-arse
tip of a place.
     We were  standing at the roadside  awaiting  death. The jundies grabbed
us, but my legs had given up and  I stumbled. They had to drag me towards my
public. They  showed us  off like hunting  trophies, pushing  our heads  up,
making sure everybody got a good look.
     I wasn't smiling this time. I  was looking out for Dinger; I was scared
of  losing him in the crowd. I  just wanted to keep by him. I could hear him
yelling  and shouting  as much as  I  was,  and  from time to  time I caught
glimpses of him. It was a bad time.
     The  mob ruled. I  had been right cocky when  we  got  dragged off  the
vehicle,  but now I  was plain scared. They were all warbling the Red Indian
war cry. Were we  going to be left to  the crowd? Were they going  to rip us
apart? Old women  came  up and pulled  my hair and mustache and hit  me with
sticks or punched.  The men would start by poking, then end  up punching and
thumping. I fell to the  ground,  and all the bodies closed in. They  thrust
pictures of Saddam in front of my face and made me kiss him.
     I doubted whether some of these people even knew there was a war on. As
for  the women,  repressed by centuries of  culture and  religion, this  was
probably the one and only chance they'd ever have to strike a grown man.
     As time wore on, I started to think that perhaps they were not going to
shoot us after all. Surely they would have done it by  now? Maybe  there was
some  system  for  dealing  with   prisoners.  Certainly  the  jundies  were
controlling the crowds as much as they could. They obviously didn't want the
local  population  to kill  us, because I noticed that they were fending off
any men they saw with  rifles and pistols. Perhaps the parade was  just a PR
exercise,  a morale  booster for the locals  and  a chance  for them to vent
their frustrations.
     Women were scratching and tearing at my skin. I had grease and old bits
of food  shoved in my face and pis spots emptied over the gashes in my head.
Old newsreels  of Vietnam flashed  through my  mind. I remembered images  of
pilots who looked beaten and pissed off getting dragged through towns they'd
just bombed. It was exactly how I felt.
     All I wanted  was  contact with Dinger--preferably verbal. I could hear
him  shouting as he was being filled  in, but  I hated not being able to see
him. He was my only link to the world. I didn't want to lose him.
     I couldn't move any more.  I fell onto one of the squad dies and put my
arms around him. The other lad came  and helped him lift me. As they dragged
me along the ground,  the tops of my toes  were scraped away. We had to stop
now  and again for a  60-year-old to come and punch me in the stomach. I was
well and truly gone. I didn't really care about anything any more.
     I didn't know how long it lasted, but it seemed  like a lifetime. There
was gunfire  in the  distance, and of fleets came running to try and control
the soldiers, who in turn were trying to control the crowd. It was so ironic
to  be  protected  by the same jundies who an hour ago had been stubbing out
their cigarettes  on our necks. Then  they were  the bastards; now they were
the saviors.
     I heard  Dinger  retaliating. I  knew we should  be trying to play  the
useless being that's not even worth worrying about. But  we were tuned in to
this drama now; we had got used to it, and it was getting  on our  tits. The
time had come to do something about it.
     I  gave the old girls the  evil eye, and  they waded in. I went down on
the  floor under a flurry of slaps and scratching, and two soldiers moved in
to pick me up. Still on my knees, I looked up at one of them and said, "Fuck
you, you ugly bitch!" They understood what I  meant; the translation was  in
my eyes. It was not a good move. The jundies picked me up. I shoved them off
and said "Fuck you!" again. I didn't give  a shit now what they  did; I  was
demolished anyway. But they'd suffered loss of face, so  they had to give me
the good news to restore their credibility.
     I remembered a  lecture we'd had from  an American  POW just before  we
left Hereford. He had been an aviator  at the time of the Vietnam War, after
transferring  from the Marine Corps. His Marine  training had been  that the
harder you  are  and the more aggressive  you are  if  you're  captured, the
sooner your captors will leave  you alone. He stood  there in  front  of  us
hardened  cynics at Hereford, crying his eyes out  as  he told us about  the
five years he had been a prisoner of the Viet Cong.
     "What a load of shit," he said. "The unbelievable nightmares and pain I
went through because I really believed what I'd been taught."
     And I was doing exactly what he'd told us not to do. But you can't just
do nothing. Pride  and credibility are at stake. I  was suffering  a massive
loss of dignity and  self-respect,  and I couldn't  take any more. I knew it
was totally  counterproductive, I knew it wouldn't pay off, but God  it felt
good.  For  one  split second I  was back on  top,  and  that  was  all that
mattered. I was not a commodity, I was not a bag of shit, I was Andy Me Nab.
     The squad dies were  giggling as  we  drove back  to camp. They'd had a
wonderful day out and were  happy to leave me to  my own devices on my hands
and knees in a corner of the pickup, bleeding and gasping for breath as they
smoked and laughed and relived the battle. I was  rather pleased that it was
over and done with and I hadn't been shot.
     It was more or less last light when we got  back  inside the gates, and
they  didn't bother replacing the blindfold  as  they dragged me towards the
single-story barrack block.
     There  were five beds  around the edge of the  room. The  blokes didn't
seem to have  lockers  or any personal kit. All they had were the beds, with
blankets on  top-commercial,  fluffy  blankets with  pictures  of tigers and
weird and wonderful  patterns.  On  top of the blankets was  their belt kit.
Everything pointed to  this  being a transit  camp rather than  a  permanent
barracks.
     The only light was from a paraffin heater in the center of the room. As
it flickered, shadows flew around  the room.  It was  beautifully  warm--the
sort of warmth that immediately makes you tired and  sleepy. It was a warmth
that I  recognized.  Even the shadows  were familiar.  A  nice, comfortable,
secure feeling  washed  over me. I was back at my Aunty Nell's in Catford. I
loved going there as a kid. She had a big three-bed roomed semi that she ran
as a B&B. Compared  with my family's flat,  to  me it was a  hotel. At night
Aunty Nell would put  the paraffin heater in my room to warm it through. I'd
lie there in bed, nine years old  and blissfully happy, watching the shadows
dance on the wallpaper, looking forward  to the next day's meals. Aunty Nell
used milk with  the cereals instead of the hot water and a dash of Carnation
I was used to, and she cooked packets of Vesta curry for her B&B  guests. If
my uncle reported that I had been a good boy, I used to be fed one as well.
     The old boy, George, was a  keen gardener. He had a massive garden with
a shed at the bottom where I'd play. He was a crafty old bugger. He'd say to
me:  "Start  digging around here, Andy lad, and you can count how many worms
there are.  We  need to know how many worms there are so we can work out how
good the mud is."
     I'd be digging away, a boy with a mission, and  he'd  be  sitting there
drinking  tea in  his deck chair laughing his head off. I never  saw through
it. I used to think it was great, counting the worms for my Uncle George.
     I was left alone with my  thoughts  for twenty minutes or  so, one hand
cuffed to a  metal fixture  on the wall. I tried to get comfortable, but the
cuffs worked on a ratchet--if you moved the wrong  way they would tighten up
even more. I got into a semi lying position, the hand  defying gravity at an
angle of 45 degrees.
     I carried out a damage assessment. My whole body was aching, and  I was
worried I might have broken bones.  My legs were the main concern. They were
hurting  badly,  and  I knew they couldn't carry me any more. I checked  the
bones one by one, starting off with my feet, looking for deformities, making
sure  there  was movement. Everything seemed Okay.  There  was a good chance
nothing was broken.
     I was breathing through crusted blood and dust and snot, and every time
I blew to clear it the bleeding started again. I  was badly cut. My face was
swollen,  my  lips split,  and every exposed area of skin was lacerated. Now
that I actually had time  to  draw breath  and think about it, my whole body
was starting to sting. The scrapes were far more painful than the  cuts. The
framework, however, was still intact.  The injuries were just  muscular with
cuts and bruises. I was weak and exhausted, but I'd still get up and run for
it if the chance came.
     I had been trying  to gather as much  information  as  I could  to keep
myself orientated. I  went over what I'd seen and exactly where I was. I was
annoyed that I hadn't done a  better job of it. I had  been looking down too
much when I should have been taking it all in. If I escaped and got past the
gate, which way would  I  go?  Would  I turn left or right,  or go straight?
Which way was west? If I got out the back way, what then? How far inside the
town was  the  camp? I'd  need  to get out of the built-up  area as soon  as
possible. It was something I should have been checking as  we drove out, but
like  a dickhead I'd  let  myself be  distracted by the crowd. I  was  quite
pissed off with myself for my lack of professionalism.
     I  went through  the  scenarios.  The  process was part  fact and  part
fantasy. Fact because I was  doing what you're supposed to do--appreciations
on how you're going to get out. Fantasy  because I was imagining me actually
getting out and turning right, imagining what I would  see and what would be
behind me. I wanted to escape.
     I looked around  the  room. Above  me  was a window. Only  one  of  the
sections was clear; the rest were boarded up where they had been smashed, or
perhaps to stop the sun coming in. I could hear the soldiers mooching around
outside,  and in the middle  distance there  was shouting.  The  voices just
outside the window were  low and  quiet, a mumble from no more than 20 or 30
feet away, and underneath the veranda, as if they'd been told to stand there
and talk to make me flap.
     I hoped Dinger  was getting the same treatment as me because it was all
rather nice sitting there on the carpet. It felt wonderful to be on  my own.
I felt quite happy and  content in the dark, watching  the warm glow of  the
paraffin heater and inhaling the familiar fumes. There were no hassles, just
me on my lonesome with my hand pinned to the wall. It was real prime time.
     I started to  think  about the patrol. Had the others been caught? Were
they  dead? Did Dinger know  anything about  them?  Was I going  to get  the
chance to speak to him?
     I tried to keep as still as I could.  My heart was pulsing  slowly, and
my body was stiff and aching. It was painful to move, and I wanted to find a
comfy position and stay there. Some of the cuts had clotted to the fabric of
my uniform; as I moved they reopened. Blood had glued my socks to my feet.
     I must have looked like a vagrant. It was a week now since I had washed
and my skin  was black. My hair, matted from the drama  of the E&E, was  now
caked with dried blood and mud. It was hard to make out the camouflage on my
DPM because of blood, grease, and grime. My  trousers looked like a  biker's
jeans.
     Why had we been taken back to the camp? I didn't have a clue.  This was
obviously still the tactical questioning phase.  I was waiting for something
or someone. I  took  a deep breath, breathed out, and started to think about
methods  of escape. I suddenly remembered that I still had my escape map and
compass. I could actually feel them in the draw cord of my trousers. I  felt
really good about that: at least  I'd got something, I  had  the mental edge
over them.
     I thought about  all the good stuff I'd done with Jilly, all the stupid
holidays we'd had  together, all the  ice creams I had squashed in her face.
Things came  into my mind  that had made me  giggle  with her, all the silly
immature little things. I tried to visualize what  she'd be doing right now.
I  had a pleasant  picture in my mind of a Saturday two weeks before I  left
for the  Gulf. Kate was staying  with us as usual that weekend, and she  was
lying on the  floor with me  watching Robin Hood  on video. Little John  was
doing his  dance, and I got up  and  did it with her.  We danced and  danced
around the  room, trying to do high kicks, until we collapsed on the carpet,
dizzy and laughing.
     I thought back to  the time  of her very first Christmas. I hadn't seen
much of her because  I was away when she was born in February and didn't get
back until  she was six weeks old. Then I saw  only the next three months of
her,  on  and off.  That  Christmas I was  free, and we were  staying  at  a
friend's house on the  south coast. Kate wasn't sleeping  very well, which I
thought was great  because it was the first time we'd  had together alone. I
got the pram out at midnight, wrapped her up well, and we went walking along
the  coastal path until six in the  morning. She fell asleep after the first
half an hour, and as I walked I just looked at her beautiful little face and
clucked like a hen. When we got  back, she woke up again so I put her in the
car and we went for a drive.  I kept  checking  over my shoulder to see that
she  was all  right. She had fearsome big blue  eyes that stared  at me from
inside all  the wrappings of woolens and a bobble hat. It was a very special
time. Soon afterwards  I  had to go away again, and in the next  two years I
only saw her for a total of twelve weeks.
     There  were  noises outside. My  little  dream world  was  about  to be
invaded. I was flapping. Were they coming to give me another beasting? After
the calm, it was a horrible, apprehensive feeling, a fierce dread of a world
about to collapse. I put my head down  and clenched the stiff, sore muscles.
Shit, I thought, they've had their tuppence worth, why can't they just leave
me alone?
     There was a draft as the door opened. I glanced up  and saw a character
in  the middle  of the room. He was in his mid-50s and only about 5'3" tall,
with a big middle-age paunch beneath his woollen dish-dash. His mustache was
well trimmed, and his jet-black hair was swept back. He had manicured hands,
and his teeth flashed when they caught the  light. He was ranting and raving
at me in Arabic. The two guards who had come in with him went and sat on one
of the beds, smoking and chatting, but keeping a watchful eye.
     There was a  pistol in the character's belt,  which I  didn't take much
notice  of  to start with because every man and his  dog was armed. He stood
over the paraffin heater, hollering and  gesticulating. With the glow of the
heater  beneath  him his  face looked  like a Halloween monster with  treble
chins.
     He came over to me and got  hold  of my face. He squeezed my jaw in his
hand. The smashed teeth were agony. I groaned  and closed  my eyes. I didn't
want to know what was going on. He stayed close to me. I smelt spicy food on
his breath. He  prized my eyes open with his thumb  and forefinger. What the
fuck was he going to do?
     He had  an exchange with the  guards, very fast  and  aggressive,  then
slapped my face a few  times. I had no idea  what he  was on about.  Then he
walked  backwards away from me and pulled out a Makharov pistol. This is all
rather nice, I thought, what's the  story here then? He pointed it at me but
he didn't cock it.
     Was this bluff kit or what?
     The hammer of the Russian-made  pistol stays to the rear when  you cock
it--i.e." put a round into the  chamber.  If  you pull the trigger,  it will
fire and reload itself again with the hammer still to the rear. If you don't
want to fire, you put  the safety  catch to safe.  The hammer  will still go
forward but is stopped just short of the  firing pin by the sears that  come
out  because  you  have  moved  the   safety  catch.  This  is  unlike  some
semiautomatic pistols. They still have a safety catch,  but the  hammer will
stay to the rear when it's applied.
     I was looking in earnest to  see if  the hammer was back. If it was,  I
knew that he wasn't  bluffing, and that if  he was nervous,  he might have a
negligent  discharge  and  shoot  me anyway.  I  looked  at  his  face.  His
expression was very serious,  and the eyes were welling up. I could  see the
shine of the tears. Our eyes met. He started to cry,  and the pistol wobbled
in his hand.
     Surely the guards  wouldn't let him do it  in their  nice clean barrack
room? But his eyes gave it away. He intended to pull the trigger,  without a
doubt. It didn't look official. This was off the cuff. But the bloke had got
the hump,  so even if it was unofficial, so what? He'd do it anyway. I might
get slotted here  through  emotion rather than a  decision made, and I found
that scary. The  character really looked as if he might squeeze the trigger,
and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.
     Come on then, arse  hole  let's  get it  over and done with. The guards
seemed to wake up to what was happening. They jumped to their feet, shouting
angrily, and grabbed his arm. They took away the pistol.
     That single act gave me the biggest piece of information I had received
since  my capture: either these  characters simply didn't want  to get their
barrack block  messed up, or, more likely, they were under orders to keep us
alive.
     One of  the guards came over  and  squeezed  my cheeks.  "Son, son," he
said. "Boom boom boom."
     One of us had killed the man's son. Fair one. In his shoes I'd be doing
the same. Unfortunately it was me that he was doing it to.
     I was  sitting cross-legged on the floor  with one of my arms up in the
air, handcuffed to the wall. He came over and started to try and fill me in.
I put my head down and brought my knees up, crouching forward  to protect my
bollocks. I got  as close to the wall as I could. Only my arm was vulnerable
now. It was funny, he  had been willing to  kill  me with the weapon, but he
found it quite  hard to lay hands on me. He was kicking, but it  wasn't much
good because he had  leather sandals on. He'd  throw a punch, but it  had no
weight behind it. He was clearly  upset, but really he didn't have it in him
to  do anything  severe. He  lacked  aggression  and  strength,  and  I  was
delighted.
     I was exaggerating, moaning and groaning as he kneed me in the back and
slapped and  spat. If it  was my son  who  had been killed, and I was in the
same room as the perpetrator, he'd have been honking good style by now. In a
way I felt quite sorry for him, because his son was dead and he was too nice
and gentle a man to do anything  about it. Maybe, after all,  he couldn have
pulled the trigger.
     The  squad  dies started to get  bored--and perhaps a  bit worried that
they might have to clean blood off the floor and walls. They calmed him down
and led him away. When they returned, they sat on  the beds again and smoked
more cigarettes.
     "Boosh, bad, bad," one of them said.
     "Yeah, Bush, bad," I nodded and agreed.
     "Major," he said, and did an oinking noise.
     "Yep, Major's a pig," I said, and oinked.
     They thought this was great stuff.
     "You," he pointed at me and brayed loudly.
     "Me, donkey. Ee-aw!"
     They held their sides and fell over on the beds. They rolled up.
     They came over and poked me. I didn't really know what they wanted from
me, so I just did another loud bray.  They loved it. I didn't give a shit if
they  wanted  to have fun  at my expense. It didn't  mean a thing to  me.  I
thought it was just  as funny. I wasn't getting filled in, that was all that
mattered. It was absolutely splendid.
     This  went on for  about a  quarter of an hour. There'd  be a couple of
minutes'  silence, then  somebody  would get  up and poke me again, I'd give
them a good ee-aw, and they'd crack up. What a bunch of tossers.
     I thought I'd  try to have my handcuffs sorted out  while they were  in
such a  good mood. I  was  at a 45degree  angle, and my  hand  was elevated.
Gravity was pulling my hand onto the handcuff, and it was swelling up badly.
It was agony. I wondered if they'd strap  me onto something lower down, like
a pipe.
     I pointed at my hand and said, "Hurts. Please. Pain. Aaah."
     They looked  at me and  poked,  and got another  donkey  bray. They had
another roll-up, and I tried to  indicate that my  hand was agony. It didn't
work. They just laughed. Then they suddenly  got all serious. They must have
thought that it was time to assert some authority.  So they started to carry
out their  own questioning, as if I was supposed to think  they weren't just
guards, they were big-time interrogators.
     "Who? Who?"
     It was hard to make out what they were saying.
     "What? I don't understand."
     I  kept  pointing  at my  wrist,  but  to  no  avail.  They asked  more
questions,  their  Halloween  faces  lit  from below  by  the heater, but  I
couldn't understand them.
     One  of  them went  and fetched  another  guard. He  could  speak  fair
English. They'd obviously told him that I couldn't understand what they were
on about.
     "What's your name?"
     "Andy."
     "Commando, Andy? Tel Aviv?"
     "British."
     "British.  Gascoigne? Rush? Football?" He  beamed big smiles and scored
an imaginary goal with his right foot.
     Everybody's  face  lit  up,  mine  included--even  though football  did
nothing for me. When I  was a kid, Millwall was the  local team, but I  only
went to see  them three or four times. I stood there like a dickhead on  the
terraces  and  wondered what all the fuss was about.  I couldn't see a thing
because I was too small, and all I knew was that it  had cost loads of money
to get in. I went on a Wednesday night once and left halfway through because
it was so cold.  That was the extent of  my football knowledge, and that was
all football did for me--it reminded me of wet, cold, windy terraces. I  had
no interest in  it  whatsoever,  yet here  I was, a  prisoner of  soccer-mad
Iraqis, and it might be my lifeline.
     "Liverpool!" he said.
     "Chelsea!" I said.
     "Manchester United!"
     "Nottingham Forest!"
     They laughed  and I joined in, trying to form  some sort of bond.  This
was good,  textbook  stuff,  but I couldn't  sustain it for much  longer. My
knowledge was just about exhausted.
     "How long am I here?" I tried. "Do you know how long  I'll be here? Can
you give me any food?"
     "No problems. Bobby Moore!"
     I thought I'd try another ploy.
     "Mai?  Mai?"  I  asked  for water. I coughed dryly  and gave it the old
puppy dog look.
     A bloke went out and came back with a glass of water. I  gulped it down
and asked for more. That cheesed them off so I just thanked  them  again and
decided to keep quiet for a while.
     They were all in their late teens, growing their first wispy mustaches.
They behaved like young squad dies in any army, but  what surprised me about
them was the standard of maintenance  of their  uniforms and weapons. I  had
imagined the  rag heads to  be a bit of  an undisciplined rabble, their  kit
dirty and shabby. But their uniforms  were well laundered  and  pressed, and
their boots were highly polished. Their weapons were in excellent  order and
well maintained. The  buildings, too, were  in a  good  state of repair, and
spotlessly  tidy.  This was good;  I felt that in their  discipline lay some
sort of protection for me. They  were  unlikely to do  anything  unless they
were told to do it. It made me  feel a bit  happier that they weren't just a
bunch  of head bangers rushing  around  wanting  to kill and maim. Somebody,
somewhere,  made  them  clean their weapons;  somebody, somewhere, made them
clean their boots and their rooms.
     What was more, there were obviously ways of striking up a  relationship
with these people, a fact  which might help me  at a later date. It  was not
just black and white in their eyes, as I was expecting it to be, with me the
bad guy, them the  good guys. There was this gray  area of  shared  interest
that we had  already started to explore. So far, we had something in  common
in football.  We  were all  talking and  replying; it wasn't just me  on the
receiving end  of rhetoric,  abuse, and  tactical  questions. Relationships,
however tenuous, can almost always be formed, and in  the situation I was in
this  could  only be good. I had engineered getting the water, and  in  that
exchange  I  was doing  the  controlling.  Well,  there  was no  harm  being
optimistic.
     It went through my mind that maybe they were being  friendly because it
was all  over  now  and the  questioning was finished with.  I was trying to
think of all the optimistic things, but really you should be thinking of the
pessimistic  things, the worst-case scenarios, because then anything else is
a bonus. At the end of the day they were just young lads. Dinger and I  were
the new kids in town, the commodities they wanted to have a look at, the new
toys, the white-eyed prisoners. They'd probably looked on Dinger and me with
a bit of awe, something to tell the grandchildren about. And now they'd seen
us, spoken to us, taken the piss out of us, they were bored. They started to
look tired, probably from the warmth of the heater and the excitement of the
day. They tucked their weapons under their beds and got their heads down.
     My mind turned again to thoughts  of escape. I  couldn't get out of the
handcuffs, and even if I could what was I going to do? Was I going to garofe
them all and  run away? Things like that just  do not happen. It's a fantasy
that  comes out of films. Are you  going  to kill  number one without number
five hearing?
     My  hand  was fixed to  the wall.  I wasn't going  anywhere.  There was
nothing I could  reach from where I  was.  I would have to wait for the next
stage of transit or some other opportunity.
     I was feeling  a lot  more  at ease with my situation. I'd been caught,
I'd gone through the  initial  drama, and  now I was  sitting in a warm room
with  people who weren't kicking  the shit  out  of me. I wasn't going to be
there  for  ever,  but  apart  from  the pain  in my  wrist, it was nice and
relaxed. The people here didn't want to fill me in; they just wanted to talk
about  Gazza and Bobby Charlton. I had  the hopeful thought--and  even  as I
thought  it I knew it was fruitless--that maybe this was the way ahead: that
they were fed up with me and maybe I'd just be chucked in as one of Saddam's
human shields.
     As the  night wore  on, my arm and hand started to  hurt quite badly. I
tried to keep my mind  off  the pain by going through  the  escape scenarios
again, doing my appreciations.
     Out of the top  of the window I could catch a little bit of the  stars.
It was a beautiful, clear night. I looked back at the sleeping jundies.
     If I managed to  get away, could I get to  Dinger? Where was  he? I was
assuming that he was on the camp somewhere, but was he next door? I couldn't
hear anything. Was he  along the veranda? I came  to the conclusion that I'd
have to grab the opportunity if it came, but I couldn't leave without making
the  effort  to get hold of him.  I  knew that he'd be thinking exactly  the
same, as any member of  the patrol would. Was it worth waiting until we were
together? No, I'd  grab  any opportunity  that came along. So--what was  the
first thing I was going to do? How was I going to find out where he was? Was
I going to look through the windows for  him or was I going to shout?  Would
his guards be awake?
     You've  got  to have  a game plan and  contingency plans. Hesitation is
fatal.  I  would avoid being  overt  if possible--that's just another bit of
madness from Hollywood. In the  films they come at you one at a time  so you
can slot  them neatly like ducks at a fun fair In real life everybody  jumps
in together and they kick you to pieces. It would have to be as  covert as I
could make it: just get out, get some firepower, get  Dinger, get a vehicle.
Easy! All that in an enclosed camp with troops, and me with maybe a 30-round
magazine.
     Once  we were out  we  would just have to  move  west. On foot or  in a
vehicle? Crosscountry or through the town? The drive from the culvert to the
camp had been very short: we were still close to Syria. Our next transit was
bound to take us into more secure areas, further from the border.
     I dozed off and woke in pain. My head was hurting, my body ached. I had
to sort out the blood and snot in my nose.
     I  heard  hooting in the distance and  the sound  of vehicles. The  big
corrugated iron gates were being kicked open. It was still dark. People were
walking along the veranda  outside, guided by Ully lamps. They were talking.
I felt  a stab of apprehension. What was happening now? I took a deep breath
and tried to calm myself  down. One of the guards woke up and gave the other
two a kick. They got to their feet.
     The five  or six  blokes who came into the room were  strangers. I felt
helpless, that little kid feeling you  get when you know you're  cornered by
the rival gang. They towered above me in the shadows and flickers.
     When my hand was released from the wall  it was  well past the pins and
needles stage. It was swollen and completely numb. Two blokes held me either
side  and lifted  me up. Somebody  handed me  my boots, but my feet were too
swollen to put them on.  I carried  them the way an old granny  carries  her
handbag, clenched to my chest. I wanted to keep them; I didn't want to spend
the rest of my days without any footwear.
     As  they  frog-marched  me  outside I played on the pain,  moaning  and
groaning. I must have looked a right dickhead. The blokes  did lots of  mock
"tut-tut tuts." One pulled a face of feigned concern and said, "We're really
worried about you."
     The cold air hit me. It was  a refreshing, bracing feeling, but I would
have preferred to be back in Aunty's nice warm room. I started to shiver. It
was a beautifully  clear night.  If we managed to get away, we'd be able  to
navigate westwards very easily.
     Nobody said where we  were going. They  dragged me along, and  I had to
take  silly little  steps because my feet  weren't carrying me  properly. We
stopped by a Land Cruiser, and they shoved me into the back with my boots on
my lap.  They squeezed  the ratchets  of my handcuffs and  tied a  blindfold
painfully tight.
     I tried to lean forward to rest my head on the seat in front to relieve
the pressure on my hands, but a hand on my face  pushed me back upright. The
interior light  shone  through the blindfold. I could tell there were two in
the front. The door slammed noisily  and  made me jump. I clenched my teeth,
ready for a twat around the head.
     I was sitting on  the right.  There  was the sound  of shuffling  to my
left, then I heard: "All right, mate, all right, mate."
     Dinger was  honking as he hit his head on the way  in. This  was really
excellent news. I instantly  felt  happy, that  wonderful feeling  again  of
being in it together.
     He was positioned with his knees pressing against mine.
     "Can you help my hands?" I asked into the darkness.
     I got hit around the  back  of  the head, but it was worth  it. I'd let
Dinger know that I  was  there, and  I'd learn that there was a guard in the
back with us and that these people meant business.
     The driver  sounded  like an officer.  "You,  no talking. Talking--boom
boom!"
     Fair one.
     Every  movement  brought  a  retaliatory  prod  from  the guard,  but I
couldn't  avoid  taking  deep,  sighing  breaths because  my hands  were  so
painful.
     The  vehicle  stank of the  usual cigarettes and  cheap  cologne. I ran
through  an  appreciation. This transit probably  signified  the end  of the
tactical phase. We  were getting moved further down the chain. I had no idea
whether it was going to get better or worse. The optimistic side was saying:
Right,  I'll just go to prison now.  The professional side was saying: Let's
wait and see. You don't know what's going on.
     I tried to  concentrate  on keeping my orientation. We came out  of the
gate and turned left.  That meant we  were  heading east,  not west,  so  we
weren't going in the direction of Syria. As if we would. He was driving like
an idiot. Normally you'd consider it very  handy to have a crash, but at the
speed he was going we would all die in the wreckage.
     I once  saw a  film of Houdini  clasping his  hands behind his back and
stepping through them  to bring them round to  his front. I  wondered  if  I
would  be able to  do  it  with  the injuries. Then I thought: You dickhead,
you've never done it in your life anyway, what are you on about? But I would
have turned myself into an elastic  band if it had meant getting away. All I
needed was an opportunity.
     I felt incredibly tired because of the  heater and the  heavy cigarette
smoke, but the pain in my hands kept  me awake. As if to make sure we stayed
awake, they put on a cassette of Arabic music. It  was so loud that at first
I didn't hear the bombs falling.

        9

     They must have been thousand-pounders. We heard several explosions; the
area was getting severely hammered.  The pressure  waves hit us and the  car
rattled.  The guards cursed.  The  vehicle stopped. I heard all the  typical
noises of disaster--the  screeching  of brakes, screams of  pain  and  loss,
shouts of panic and  anger, a  distressed woman crying,  a child whimpering,
metal  scraping  on stone. The  driver  and  guards jumped out and cold  air
rushed over  us. This could  be our moment. The blokes had  gone,  the doors
were open, but I could  hear talking. I couldn't see what  was going  on. It
was unbelievably  frustrating.  I had  to  piece things  together  purely by
sound.  Was the road bombed? Was it an  obstruction?  Had he stopped to help
somebody? And more to the point, were they now going to come around and fill
us in,  purely because we  were  white eyes and they'd just been bombed? The
thoughts  raced  through  my mind, but  before  I  even had time to speak to
Dinger, the Iraqis got back in and we started moving again.
     We drove for about an hour and a half. My sense of  direction  had gone
to rat shit  as  soon  as we'd come out of the camp  and turned left, and  I
didn't have a clue where we might be. I was pissed off with myself again.
     When we finally stopped, we could have been in Timbuktu for all I knew.
     They dragged us  out of the  vehicle, and  I was put  back  into what I
sensed  was the same room as before. I had the feeling the guards were still
in bed. Somebody  pushed me to the floor and handcuffed me to what I assumed
was part of a bed. It was actually quite comfortable.  I  wasn't crunched up
in the  back of a vehicle, my knees weren't up around  my  ears, and my  arm
wasn't chained  high up in the air. I sat  cross-legged on the floor, trying
to sort myself out, trying to  tune in. I sensed that I was facing the wall.
I  tried  putting my head  right back so I  could see past  the bridge of my
nose. I couldn't see anything  except a bit of  the  glow from  the paraffin
heater.
     I  sat  there for an hour, the scenarios rushing around my head. We had
definitely been going through a built-up center of population when the bombs
fell. Was it Baghdad?  Why  take us to Baghdad? So that people could see us?
To  be  part  of  a  human  shield? Would the Allies bomb a  position  where
prisoners were? Damned right they  would. Schwarzkopf  would hardly stop the
war effort because Dinger and Andy were held in a radar  center. Who were we
going  to get  handed  over  to? Would we make a video? I wouldn't  mind.  I
wanted people to know that I was still alive.
     I could  hear  two sources of slow, regular breathing. To  test if they
were  asleep  I  leaned  forward and  rested my  head  on  the bed.  Nothing
happened. I slid over onto my right side and got my head down on the carpet.
Still  nothing. I  put pressure  on  the  blindfold against the  carpet  and
managed to slide it down a little. I was indeed back in the same room.
     I tried  to work out what had happened to the others. Were we  the only
two survivors? Would they say if people  had got across the border? I didn't
come  up with any answers, but it was good mental exercise. I might have  to
be  doing a lot of that. I was already pacing  myself for a long capture. It
would obviously be nice to  get released as soon as the war was over,  but I
couldn't really see it at this  stage. There would  most likely be a hostage
period to come after this, lasting perhaps a couple of years.
     I  thought back to the  American POW. He had endured years in solitary,
and everybody back home assumed he was dead. It was only because an exchange
took place that the truth came out. There was a US sailor that the Viet Cong
had taken for a bit of a bonehead and used for menial tasks like mopping up.
He was released because he was just an able seaman of no consequence who had
fallen  overboard--the classic gray man. In fact this character had taken it
upon  himself  to  remember  the  names,  ranks, and  numbers  of  over  200
prisoners. When he came back he  reeled them all off. Our POW  was among the
names. It was a  traumatic discovery for his family. I was trying  to relate
my experience to his, and  there was no comparison.  A year or so was bugger
all. I'd only start worrying after two.
     My hands were agony. I tried to work them out of  the cuffs, but it was
futile.  They were far too swollen. I considered waking  the  guards up  and
asking to  be released  for a  while, but they wouldn't have  the keys --and
they certainly wouldn't bother going and getting them.
     My thoughts turned to Jilly. I wondered what she was doing.
     Two hours  later the boys came  back with  their  Tiny  lamps. Just  as
before, they undid my handcuffs  and  picked me up and dragged me  back into
the cold. It was a nice feeling on the body; I  kidded myself I was about to
start a long country walk or ski a good mountain.
     Nobody  talked. I hoped and prayed that Dinger was  coming too,  but  I
couldn't  hear him.  I  was  put in the  same  position at  the back on  the
right-hand  side, behind the seats, legs up around my head. This time I took
the precaution of arching my back to make space for my sore hands, so that I
wouldn't have to make  the movement later on  and earn myself a whack on the
head.
     "No talk or shoot," the driver said.
     "Okay."
     "Yeah, okay mate," said Dinger from beside me.
     I  could tell by the tone of his voice that he was  as relieved to hear
me  as  I  was to hear him. But the relief was short-lived. Just as we  were
setting off, somebody leaned into the vehicle  and  said: "I hope that Allah
is with you."
     I  didn't  know  if  it  was said to spark  me  up,  but if it  was, it
succeeded.
     We got the same bad driver as  before and were soon being flung  around
all over the place. There  was no music  this time, just small talk  between
the blokes in the front. Occasionally  a window would go down as one of them
snot ted up  a grolly and gob bed it, or shouted  a greeting  at somebody in
the darkness.  We  stopped  on  one occasion while  the driver  had  a  long
conversation with  somebody  in the  street.  I  got  the impression he  was
showing us off. I heard giggles  from  two or three people outside the  car,
then hands  came  in  and  tugged our mustaches and  slapped  our  faces.  I
clenched up. It pissed me off more than the kickings. That had been tactical
questioning, and  I could  understand  the  reasons  behind  it.  But  these
dickheads were having fun at my expense, pure and simple.
     We  drove on in silence.  We  were  going  further and further from the
border,  but I was just about past caring. I was too worried about my hands.
They were  swollen to nearly twice their normal size, and I had no sensation
left  in  the  fingers. I could feel  nothing  beyond  the wrists, where the
handcuffs had dug in  so deeply that  I was bleeding. The  pain was becoming
unbearable. I feared that at  this rate I  was  going to lose the use of  my
hands for ever.
     I tried to think  of the positives. At  least I wasn't dead. It was now
about twelve hours since my capture, and I was still alive.
     I started to think  about the  patrol as a whole. What would the Iraqis
know about us? I had to assume that they'd link  us  with the contact at the
MSR. They would know  how  many of  us there  were, because  they would have
found eight  berg ens They would have found the LUP as well,  with the cache
of water and food.
     What would  give us away in the berg ens Because of SOPs,  I knew there
wouldn't be any  written details of codes  or  our  tasking. What about  the
equipment?  How would we get  around the  explosives,  timing  devices,  and
detonators? I'd say they were area protection devices--they would have found
the claymores,  which would add weight to  my  story. Perhaps they  wouldn't
even know what  the timing  devices were. And maybe  the jundies would  have
been so busy looting the berg ens  that  all that kit would have disappeared
anyway. I almost  giggled when I imagined them rifling through the berg  ens
in darkness and sticking  a finger straight through one of  the plastic bags
of shit.
     One  thing I  could be  sure  of was that  nothing  remained  that  was
compromising to  the task. We always refold our maps so that they aren't  on
the part we've been using, and we never put markings on them. Everything was
in our heads.
     I was feeling confident-at  this  stage  about  the  lack of  knowledge
they'd have on our  equipment. If they knew more than I expected, we'd  just
have to waffle our way through and make excuses. The only problem really was
that  we didn't exactly look  like your aver age search and rescue team. But
by this stage we didn't exactly look like anything anyway,  apart from total
and utter bags of shit.
     The vehicle stopped, and by the  sound of things  there was a reception
committee waiting. I'd started to feel secure in the car: I'd got adapted to
it, and now we were starting all over again.
     They were talking in  a low mumble, perhaps because  it  was the  early
hours of the morning. As the back doors opened there was a rush of cold air.
We  were pulled out  and  marched  across  a  courtyard at quick  pace.  The
cobblestones were agony. The cuts reopened,  and my feet were  soon slippery
with blood. I stumbled and started to fall, but they grabbed  me and kept on
going. We went up a  step, turned right along a veranda, and came to a door.
I stubbed my foot on the doorframe and cried out. There was no reaction from
them at all. They were very professional. It was all well rehearsed.
     We  went  straight  in. There was  the usual  smell of paraffin and the
hissing sound of Tiny lamps, and I almost felt at home. They  shoved me onto
the floor and arranged me so  that I  was sitting cross legged with my  head
down and my hands behind my back. I let them do whatever they wanted. It was
pointless  resisting.  I  clenched up, fully expecting something to  happen.
They ripped  my blindfold off. The cloth had scabbed to some  pressure sores
on  my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose. I  flinched  with pain and felt
warm blood dribble down my face.
     The pain was forgotten the instant I saw Dinger. I hadn't heard him get
out of the car, and I'd had the horrible feeling I was on my own again. They
yanked his blindfold off as well, and we got some eye-to-eye. Dinger gave me
a little wink. I'd been avoiding eye contact with my interrogators since I'd
been captured.
     It was fantastic to  have human  contact again.  Just a little wink was
enough.
     We were in a semidark  room  that had a medieval  feel to it. The walls
were bare stone and  glistened with damp.  It was cold and smelt  musty. The
windows were bricked up. The concrete floor was pitted and uneven.
     I  raised my  head a  little, trying  to stretch my neck, and a guard I
hadn't  noticed  behind  me  pushed me back down. I saw that his uniform was
olive drab, not the commando DPM we'd become accustomed to.
     I had managed to see that facing us was  a six-foot folding table and a
couple of  foldaway chairs. Everything looked  temporary.  The  Iraqis drink
their coffee and  sweet,  black tea  out of small, fruit juice-size glasses.
There were two or three of them on the table, half-full of drinks that  must
have been old because they weren't  steaming. Two ashtrays were  heaped with
stubs. Bits of  paper were littered around. They'd  put their weapons on the
table as well.
     There  was activity by the door,  and I lifted my  eyes. Two characters
came  in. One was  dressed in a  green flying  suit with a civilian  leather
jacket over the top  and Chelsea boots with big heels and elasticated sides.
He looked like the oldest swinger in town. I looked at the  shape of him and
had to try hard not to laugh. He was tall, but with a massive pot belly that
was straining against the  flying suit. He obviously thought he still had  a
30-inch  waist,  the dickhead.  He  had  all this Gucci  kit on, and it  was
obvious  he saw himself  as a really smart, tasty  geezer,  but  in  fact he
looked like a bag of bollocks.
     The  other  character  was  much shorter  and smaller framed.  He was a
skinny;  sunken-cheek  type, wearing a terrible suit  that he must have been
issued with and hoped one day he might grow in to.
     Guards  brought  in  our belt  kit and  weapons and dumped them on  the
table. What  did I have in my belt  kit  that would give me away?  Were they
going to bring in the berg ens as well?
     Mister Tasty handed a large brown envelope to the skinny runt. The back
was covered with rubber stamps  of nine-pointed stars, and  there was Arabic
writing  on the front. This  was  a definite han dover--either  commandos to
military  intelligence,  or  military  intelligence   to   civilian  police.
Whichever, we were going further down the chain, and it was going to be more
difficult than ever to escape.
     Nobody spoke to us. All this was going on as if we weren't in the room.
There seemed to be no reference to us, no looks or nods in our direction. We
stretched our legs out with cramp, and they  came and pushed them back up. I
looked at their  wrists when they  bent  down to see if I could find out the
time. It  was irrelevant, but  I wanted some sort of  grip  on reality.  But
nobody was wearing a  watch, which was ominously professional. And  yet they
let us witness the han dover which seemed strange.
     The  Top  Gun  geezer  in  the  flying suit left  the  room,  and  soon
afterwards I heard transport moving off.
     So this was it--we were with our new hosts.
     I started  to worry. Soldiers  don't wear suits. Who was this guy? With
soldiers you  know  where you stand, and you can understand what's going on.
Now we were getting handed over  to somebody in civvies.  I'd heard all  the
horror stories from the Iran-Iraq war. I knew all  about electrodes and meat
hooks  in the  ceiling.  These  boys  had been doing this professionally for
years; they'd got it well squared away. We were not a novelty:  we were  ten
years down the line; we  were  just another couple  of punters. I was filled
with dread. But there  was  nothing I could do about it; I had to accept the
landing. The  only hope  was that they wouldn't want to damage us too  much;
they'd want to keep us looking nice for a video. Perhaps they  would be less
physical than the last bunch--but I doubted it.
     The skinny runt's shirt was dirty and the  collar a good four sizes too
big  for him. He  wore a big kipper tie and  trousers that were turned up at
the bottoms. He looked  as if he'd borrowed his wardrobe  from Stan.  He gob
bed off some orders in a  dull monotone to the guards. They picked up Dinger
before we could get any eye-to-eye.
     They  left and I was on my own in  the semidarkness with three or  four
guards. Some were in olive drab uniforms. Iraqi NCOs wear their insignia  on
their collars, very  much  like  the Americans, and I could see that one  of
these  guys was  a warrant officer,  class 1 equivalent, with  two stars. He
spoke fairly good English.
     "You--look up," he growled.
     This was great. Now I could have a proper look around. I looked up with
an  obedient expression on my face, trying hard to appear pitiful. He was in
front of  me  with  two cronies  in  uniform  and  one who  was  dressed  in
traditional Arab dish dash, nothing on his head, and a pair of canvas pumps.
     "What is your name?"
     "My name is Andy, sir."
     "American?"
     "No, I am British."
     "You're American?"
     "No, I'm British."
     "You're lying! You're lying!"
     He hit me hard across the face. I rolled with it and went down.
     "Sit up. You're British?"
     "Yeah. I'm British."
     "You're lying. You're Israeli."
     This wasn't interrogation as such; he was just having his fun.
     "Tonight,  many  people  died  because  your  country  is  bombing  our
children. Our children  are dying in their schools. Your  country is killing
thousands of people every night, and it is time for you to die."
     I was sure he was right and I was going to be topped. But they were not
the ones who would do  it. These weren't  the teddies in  charge; these were
dickhead administrators doing a bit of freelance.
     "What do you think about that?"
     "Well, I don't want to die."
     "But you're killing  thousands of people.  You're killing them, not us.
We don't want this war."
     "I don't know anything about that; I'm just a soldier. I don't know why
we're at war. I didn't want to go to war; I was just working in England, and
they made us join the army."
     I spouted off  any old bollocks, just to show I was confused and didn't
really know what  was going on  or why  I was there. I was hoping they might
take a bit of pity and understand, but obviously not.
     "Mitterrand is a  pig. Bush  is a pig. Thatcher is a pig. She is making
the children die of starvation."
     "I don't know anything about that; I'm only a soldier."
     I got another slap around the head and went down.
     The other two came up and had their fun. One was walking  up and  down.
He'd come and  put his  face up close and shout, then pace up and  down  and
come up again and twat me around the head.
     The warrant officer said: "This man wants to kill you. I think I'll let
him  kill  you  now."  I  could tell  they were just getting  rid  of  their
frustrations. With luck they'd eventually get bored. It was no big problem.
     I saw that  our belt  kit  had gone.  It must have been taken when they
took  Dinger  away. I  was concerned. Had we been split  up for good? Was  I
never going  to see him again? It was a disheartening thought. It would have
been so nice to have seen him one last time before I died.
     They were starting to get more confident. They'd had their little slaps
and everything, and now they were recycling all the propaganda that they had
been fed--all  the wonderful  things  that were  going  to happen  when they
finally kicked the imperialist Western powers out of the Middle East.
     "The Americans  and the  Europeans are  taking all our oil. It  is  our
country. The  Europeans divided  our country. The  Middle  East is  for  the
Arabs: it is our land, it is our oil.  You bring your culture  in, you spoil
everything."
     I said I knew nothing about it: I was just a soldier, sent here against
my will.
     They started punching me in the head. One came up behind  me and kicked
me in  the back and around the sides of the trunk.  I went  down and crawled
into a ball,  my knees right up to  my chin.  I closed my eyes, clenched  my
teeth, just waiting for it, but they lifted me up and straightened me out.
     "Why are  you here, killing our children?" they asked again, and it was
sincere stuff. Obviously kids were getting killed in the bombing, and it had
got to them.  This  wasn't the "You bastards!" and good kicking  that I  was
used to; these guys really had the hump. The kicks were from the heart.
     "Why are you killing our children?"
     "I  was  sent here  to save life," I said, glossing  over the fact that
this statement did not entirely reflect our activities of the past few days.
"I'm not here to kill."
     I started to bleed  as  the  old wounds  reopened.  My nose was pouring
blood, and my mouth started to  swell up all  over again. And  yet I got the
feeling there  was  a bit  of control here. One of the boys must  have said,
"That's  enough for. now," because they  stopped. They'd obviously  had some
instruction not to go  overboard.  They  obviously wanted us to  be  able to
talk. And that could only mean that things  were  going to get  a whole  lot
worse.
     "We've been fighting wars for many years, do you know that?"
     "No,  I don't. I don't know anything about that sort of thing.  I'm all
confused."
     "Yes, my friend, we have been fighting wars for many years, and we know
how to  get  information. We know how  to get people to talk. And, Andy, you
will talk soon .. ."
     He coughed with a long, loud bronchial rumbling  of the  chest, and the
next thing I knew--whoomph, splat-- I got a big green grolly straight in the
face. I was really pissed off at that, more than I was at getting filled in.
I  couldn't  wipe it off, and  it  was all  over  my  face. I had visions of
contracting TH or some other outrageous disease. The way my luck  was going,
I'd get through all the interrogation and imprisonment shit, get back to the
UK and find out I'd got some incurable form of Iraqi syphilis.
     The  rest of  the blokes thought  this was a good one, and they started
gob bing as well, lifting my face right up so they had a bigger target.
     "Pig!" they shouted, pushing me down onto the floor and spitting more.
     The kickings you accept, because  you can't do anything  about  it. But
this--this really  got to me: the fact that  it  had  been snorted up out of
their guts or their nose and was now on my face and trickling into my mouth.
It was just so disgusting. They kept it  up for about ten  minutes, probably
the time it took to exhaust their supplies.
     They  moved me into the corner  of the  room and made me face the wall,
looking down. I  was cross legged, my hands still handcuffed behind my back.
They blindfolded me again.
     I stayed in that position for maybe forty-five minutes with not another
word said  to me. I  could  hear low voices and the sounds of people  moving
around. A Tiny lamp hissed  on the other side of the room.  It was very cold
and I started to shiver. I felt the blood on my wounds begin to clot, and it
was a  very strange sensation.  When you're bleeding it actually feels  nice
and  warm.  Then it  starts  to  go  cold and  clots,  and it's  viscous and
unpleasant, especially if your hair and beard are matted with it.
     My nose  was  blocked  with solid blood,  and I had to start  breathing
through my  mouth.  It was  total  agony as the cold  air got in amongst the
stumps of enamel and pulp that had once been my back molars. I began to hope
for an interrogation, just anything  to get lifted out  and  taken somewhere
warm.
     I didn't have too much of a  clue about  what was going on. All that  I
knew was that we'd been handed  over to a man in a Burton suit that was five
times too big for him and  he seemed to be  in charge. I said as little as I
could get away with, just waiting to see what was going to happen. I worried
about Dinger. Where had  they taken  him? And why?  The runty bloke had left
with him. Were they going  to have a go at him first? When he came back, was
I going  to  have to  look  at  Dinger battered and bleeding, and  then  get
dragged away myself?  I don't want that: I'd rather  get taken away  without
seeing Dinger come back kicked to shit.
     The  door  opened  and the  guards  came  in  again. There was a  brief
exchange with the lads in the room, and they had a good giggle about the gob
all over my face. They  picked me up and dragged me outside. We turned right
as we came out of the door, then  followed  a pathway and  turned 90 degrees
left at the end. I couldn't walk properly, and they had to prop me up  under
the armpits and  half  carry  me.  It  was  very cold.  We  went  over  more
cobblestones, and  I was in  real  trouble. The tops  of  my  toes  had been
scraped  away in the town, and I was  frantically trying to get on the balls
of my feet and sort of pigeon-toe along so I didn't scrape the lacerations.
     It was only another 20 or 30 feet to where  we were going. The heat hit
me  straight  away.  It  was beautifully  warm, and  the  room  was  full of
aromas--burning  paraffin, cigarette smoke, and  fresh  coffee. I was pushed
down to the floor and made to sit with my legs folded. Still blindfolded and
handcuffed, I put my head down to protect myself  and instinctively clenched
my teeth and muscles.
     People  were shuffling  around,  and through  chinks in the blindfold I
could see that the room was  brightly lit. It seemed a furnished, used room,
not a derelict holding  area like the one I had just  come  from. The carpet
was comfortable to sit on, and I could feel the fire  really near me. It was
all rather pleasant.
     I heard  papers being shuffled, a glass being put on a hard  surface, a
chair being moved across the floor. There were no verbal instructions to the
guards. I sat there waiting.
     After about fifteen seconds the blindfold  was pulled off. I  was still
looking  at the floor. A pleasant  voice said,  "Look  up,  Andy:  it is all
right, you can look up."
     I  brought my  head up slowly and saw  that I  was indeed  in a  plush,
well-decorated,  quite homely room,  rectangular and  no  more  than 20 feet
long.
     I  was at one end, near the door. I found myself looking directly ahead
at a very large, wooden executive type desk at the other end. This had to be
the colonel's office, without  a doubt. The man behind the desk looked quite
distinguished, the typical high-ranking officer. He was quite a large-framed
person, about 6 foorish,  with  graying  hair  and  mustache.  His  desk was
littered  with lots  of odds  and bods, an  in  and out tray, all the normal
stuff that you  would associate with an office desk,  and a glass of  what I
took to be coffee.
     He studied my face. Behind him was  the ubiquitous picture of old Uncle
Saddam,  in full  military regalia and looking good. Either side of the desk
and coming down the  room towards  me against the walls was a collection  of
lounge chairs without arms, the sort that can be put together to make a long
settee. They were crazy colors--oranges, yellows, purples. There  were three
or four of them each side with a coffee table between.
     The  colonel was in olive  drab uniform. On the left  hand side from my
view, and about halfway  up the row,  was a  major,  also  in olive drab and
immaculately  turned out--not boots  but shoes, and a crisply pressed shirt.
You can tell staff soldiers no matter what army they come from.
     The major was paying no attention to me  at all, just  flicking through
what  appeared to be papers from the  han dover making  the odd  note in the
margin with a fountain pen.  He started  talking in  beautifully  modulated,
newscaster English.
     "How are you Andy? Are you all right?"
     He  didn't  look  at  me, just carried on  with  his paperwork. He  was
mid-thirties, and he wore half-moon glasses that made him tilt his head back
so that he could read. He had the Saddam mustache and immaculately manicured
hands.
     "I think I need medical attention."
     "Just tell us again, will you, why are you in Iraq?"
     "As  I said  before, we're members  of a search  and  rescue  team. The
helicopter came down, we were all told to get off,  and it took off and left
us; we were abandoned."
     "How many  of you were there  on the  helicopter, can  you remember? No
problems if  you  can't at  the moment. Time is one commodity your sanctions
have not affected."
     "I don't know. Alarms were ringing inside the helicopter. We were  told
to get off, and then everything got very confused. I'm not too sure how many
were left on and how many were off."
     "I see. How many of you were there on the helicopter?"
     It was the schoolteacher talking down  to a kid he  knows full  well is
lying--but he wants the kid to squirm before he confesses.
     "I don't  know, because when we got  on it was dark. Sometimes  there's
only four, sometimes there's twenty. We're just told when to get on and when
to get off.  It always happens so quickly. I didn't know where we were going
or what we were doing. To be honest, I'm not really interested. I never take
that  much notice. They  treat us like shit; we're  just the soldiers who do
the work."
     "All right. So what was your mission, Andy? You must know your  mission
because it's always repeated twice in your orders."
     It's standard British army practice  to  repeat  the mission  statement
twice  in orders. It astounded me  that  he  knew. If  he understood British
military doctrine, he must have had some training in the UK.
     "I don't really know about my mission," I said.  "It's  just a case of:
go here, go there, do this, do  that.  I  know we're  supposed  to  know the
mission, but we  are not told half the time what's going  on; it's total and
utter confusion."
     My mind was racing,  good style, trying to do several things at once. I
was listening  to this  character  and  I was  trying to remember  what  I'd
already said and what I was going to say in the future. The problem  was,  I
was knackered, I was hungry, I was  thirsty.  This boy was sitting up  there
all  rather comfy and  contented, just having a bit of  a waffle. He was far
more switched on  at this stage  than  I was  because I was such  a physical
wreck.
     "Well, what were you going to do once you were on the helicopter?"
     "We're all drawn together from different regiments to form these rescue
teams.  We  haven't  been together long  because  we're  all from  different
places. We haven't formed into teams yet. Look, we're here to save life, not
to take life away. We're not that sort of people."
     "Hmmm."
     The  colonel  hadn't stopped  staring  at me  since  the blindfold  was
removed. Now he sparked up in passable English.
     "Where is your officer who commands you?"
     I was happy about this question. In the Iraqi system there's an officer
in command  even  at  the  lowest  level;  it  was  good that  they found it
incomprehensible for a long-range  patrol  to be  in the  field  without  an
officer. I'd been portraying myself as thick and confused, and maybe  they'd
been taken in.  Now they wanted  the officer: he was the  man in the know. I
decided to play on the deserted soldiery bit.
     "I don't know, it was dark. He was there  one minute and gone the next.
He must have stayed on the helicopter. He wouldn't bother coming out with us
if he knew the helicopter was taking off again. He deserted us."
     "Do you think there could have been eight of you?"
     That meant they were aware of the problem at the MSR and were trying to
make the connection--if they hadn't  already done so. In my heart I  knew it
was only a matter of time.
     "I don't know, there were people  running around everywhere.  We're not
trained for this sort of thing, we're trained  to render first aid--and  all
of  a sudden we're stuck in the middle of Iraq. There might have been eight,
I haven't got a clue. I was confused and I just ran for it."
     "Where did the helicopter land?"
     "I really don't know. They just put us down. I don't know where it was.
I wasn't map-reading on the aircraft; it's the pilots that do everything."
     Could they believe this shit? I felt I was flogging a dead horse, but I
had no choice now--I'd  gone down  that path, and I had to keep going, right
or wrong. I didn't know if they  were just  fishing or not. I'd just have to
play  the  game out. Anybody else who'd been caught would be doing the same.
No need to panic; the conversation was still all very nice.
     "Tell me  about some  of  the  equipment that you have,  Andy.  We  are
somewhat confused about it."
     I didn't know if he was trying to  get  me to talk  about the  berg ens
which had been dropped  or our  belt  kit. He  was talking as if we were the
eight-man patrol that had got  bumped,  and I was talking as if  we were the
search and rescue team.
     "It's  just standard sort of  issue--water,  ammunition,  and a bit  of
extra first aid kit and our own personal stuff."
     "No. Tell me about the explosives that you had in your packs."
     Hang about, I thought--it hasn't  been confirmed yet that I was in this
patrol.
     "I don't know what you mean."
     "Come on, Andy, let's sort this out. There is no big problem. Just  sit
there, take  your  time, and it will  all be done tonight. You were carrying
explosives, Andy. We've followed you all the way since you were first found.
We know it was you and your friends. We've been following your exploits."
     "I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean."
     "Well, you do really, don't you, Andy? Such a large quantity of plastic
explosive. Did you intend to blow something up?"
     His tone was still very pleasant and  gentle, the GP enquiring about my
general well-being. I knew it  wouldn't last. In training, you are taught to
try and take advantage of whatever  you  can whenever you  can, because  you
don't  know if it's ever going to come your way again. A golden rule is that
if you can get something to eat, take  it every time. They were trying to be
the nice  guys and help  me as much as  they could, so I felt it was time to
try and take advantage of the situation.
     "Would  it be  possible to  have anything  to  eat,  please, because  I
haven't  eaten  for  days and  days," I  said. "I've got stomach pains  from
hunger. It would be nice to have something to eat."
     "Of course you can  have something to eat,  Andy. It might be difficult
to  find,  of  course,  because  the  sanctions  mean  that we have children
starving in the streets. However, we will try  to find you something. We are
a  good and generous people. We will  look  after you.  If you help us,  who
knows what  else you can  get?  You might be  home  soon.  Think about that,
Andy-home."
     The rice  was hot and so was  the bowl of delicious stewed tomatoes and
two chap atis The water was refreshingly cool and served in a clean glass.
     At first one of the guards picked up the spoon and started to feed me.
     I said,  "Would it be  possible to undo  one  of my hands so I can feed
myself?"
     The major said No,  but the colonel Okayed it with  a wave of his hand.
One of my handcuffs was undone, and  the  release of pressure was absolutely
splendid.  The  only  problem was that I couldn't  hold  the  spoon properly
because of the numbness in my  hand. I balanced it  between my little finger
and the finger next to it and then rested it above the web of the thumb as a
sort of lever.
     The colonel pointed at -the picture of Saddam.
     "Do you know who this is?"
     I hesitated, as if trying to put a name to a face at a party, and said,
"Yes, that's Saddam Hussein. President Hussein."
     "Yes it is. What have you heard about him?"
     What was I supposed to say? "I've heard about him all right. I've heard
he's pretty good at gassing kids in Iran?"
     "I know that he's a man of power, a strong leader."
     "This is correct.  Under his leadership we shall soon be rid of all you
Westerners. We have no time for you. We don't need you."
     It wasn't rhetoric; his tone was still conversational.
     I finished  the  rice and got  stuck  into  the  tomatoes. I had  great
trouble  eating  them because my  mouth was so swollen and numb. It was like
coming back from  the dentist after an injection and thinking you'll  have a
cup of  tea, but it dribbles down your chin  because you have no  control. I
was  noisy and uncouth  as  I slobbered away, tomato juice trickling down my
chin. The tomatoes tasted lovely,  and I was just sorry that the sores in my
mouth stopped me  from chewing  them properly and extracting all the flavor.
The bread  was a problem, too. I just gulped down big hunks without chewing.
No matter:  I wanted to get  it all down  my neck as fast as I could in case
they started playing games and took it away from me halfway through.
     The colonel peeled an orange  as he  watched me. In  contrast with  the
chimpanzee's tea party down on the carpet, he  did it with studied elegance.
With the aid of a small knife he made four careful cuts  down the skin, then
peeled  off each  quarter  in  turn.  He  opened out  the  orange segment by
segment.
     The fruit had been presented to him on an ornate china plate on a tray,
with  a silver  knife  and  fork.  There  was  a  definite  class system  in
operation,  the jundies running around  with a teapot pouring tea  for these
two lads, while they just sat there.
     Now and again the colonel would pick up a piece of orange and put it in
his mouth. Down on the carpet his prisoner slobbered and slurped. Talk about
Beauty and the Beast.
     My  stomach  was feeling really good, but it wasn't just  the food that
was making me happy: while I was eating they weren't asking me questions. It
gave me time to think.
     Sure  enough, as  soon as I'd  finished I was handcuffed again,  and we
carried  on the  conversation from where we'd left off. He was still talking
as if we'd already agreed that the equipment found after the initial contact
on the MSR was ours.
     "So, Andy,  explain to me  some more about the equipment. What else did
you have? Come on, we need your help. After all, we have helped you."
     "I'm sorry, I'm getting all mixed up. I don't understand."
     "What were you doing with explosives?"
     The tone still wasn't aggressive.
     "We didn't have any  explosives. I  don't  really know  what you're  on
about."
     "Andy, you were obviously going to destroy something  because  you were
carrying PE4, which is a  high explosive that is designed to destroy things.
You appreciate why I cannot really believe the story you are telling me?"
     His mention of PE4 was another indication that he was UK-trained, but I
ignored it. "I really don't know what you're on about."
     "We have some of your men in hospital, you know."
     That one got me. I tried not  to show  any  shock or surprise; I wasn't
supposed to be connected with any villains from the MSR.
     "Who are they?" I asked. "What condition are they in?"
     My mind was racing. Who could it be? What  might they have said? Was he
just bluffing?
     "They're Okay, they're Okay."
     "Thank you very much  for looking after  them. Our army  would be doing
the same for your injured."
     If they had anybody  in  hospital, it must mean they were interested in
keeping them alive.
     "Yes," he  said casually,  "we know everything.  A few members  of your
group  are in hospital. But they are fine. We are not savages; we look after
our prisoners."
     Yes, I  know, I thought--I've  seen the footage of  the Iran-Iraq  war;
I've seen how you look after your prisoners.
     There was nothing  I could do about it,  but I had to respond the way I
thought they wanted me to. It's all a  big game, one that you start training
for as  a kid. You learn how to  lie  to your mother or teacher, and turn on
the tears whenever you want.
     "Thank you for helping them," I said, "but I don't know anything that I
can tell you."
     "Well, we agree  that you were with the group that abandoned its packs,
and that we followed you all the way along."
     "No--you're  confusing  me. I  don't  understand what  you  mean  about
abandoned packs. We don't  use packs. We were deserted; we were stuck in the
middle of your  country.  I'm just a soldier;  I go where I'm told  and I do
what I'm told to do."
     "But,  Andy, you have not explained to me what you were told to do. You
must have had a mission."
     "Look,  I'm  on the lower echelon  of the  military system. As you know
yourself, we work on a need-to know basis. We are only told  what we need to
know, and because I'm so low down on the chain I get told nothing."
     Bingo--this seemed  to strike a chord. At  the  top  of the card  which
gives the sequence for an orders group  it  says: Remember Need To  Know. He
had  obviously  had  some sort  of  teaching  from  the Brits,  probably  at
Sandhurst or  Staff College: the Iraqis had been in the Western powers' Good
Lads Club for a number of years.
     The colonel looked puzzled and asked the major something in Arabic. The
junior  officer gave a  lengthy  explanation. I  felt  good  about this. I'd
actually  come back at him with something that  they seemed to accept. Maybe
they  thought I  really did  know  jack  shit. Maybe they  could  equate  my
situation with their own. We were all soldiers. Obviously he was a major and
the  other one was a colonel,  but  they  would  still  receive  orders from
brigadiers and generals. The long shot was that they'd take a certain amount
of pity on us, or think that we were really not worth the trouble of  trying
to get any more information out of  because we were just a bunch of bonehead
squad dies who'd screwed up.
     "That is fine, Andy. We will see you later on. It is time for you to go
now."
     He sounded like a therapist winding up a session.
     "Thanks very much for the food. I am trying to help, really I am, but I
just don't know what's required of me."
     They put  the blindfold  back  on and,  rather surprisingly,  took  the
handcuffs off. I felt the blood rush back  into my hands. They lifted me and
took me  outside. The cold  hit me.  It  had been so  warm  in  the  office,
scoffing tomatoes, bread, and rice.
     I was  quite  happy that this was  another major  hurdle over with, and
that I'd got some food out  of them. Chances were they'd been going to  give
me  some anyway as part of the good-guy routine,  but  it just made  me feel
better to  have  asked for and  received it. I was fairly  confident at this
time that my story was  holding up, even though I wasn't entirely happy with
the performance I'd given. At the  end of the day, whether they  believed it
or not, as. long as they had me down as thick and ignorant, it didn't really
matter to me.  Hopefully I'd just  be pigeonholed as totally irrelevant  and
too thick to get any creditable information out of.
     I still hadn't  got my  boots,  and I couldn't walk properly  on my raw
feet. But I was mentally fit, and that was all that mattered. They can break
any bone  in your  body that they choose, but it's up to you whether  or not
they break your mind.
     I hobbled  down a long, cold, damp  corridor with lino floors, and they
sat me down  at the end. It was completely dark--not a flicker of light came
through my blindfold.  From time to time I could hear  the echo of footsteps
moving along other corridors and crossing this one. Perhaps it was an office
complex.
     After an hour or  so  there was again the sound of footsteps, but  they
were  more irregular and shuffling than usual. Shortly I heard  the sound of
labored breathing.  A guard took my blindfold off,  and I  watched  him walk
away. The  corridor was about 8 foot wide, with tiled walls  and doors every
15  feet  or so. Down to the  right there were two  other intersections with
corridors coming off, and that went down maybe 100 or 125 feet. It was dark.
There was a Tiny lamp right at the other end of the building, glowing at the
junction.
     I looked to my left and saw Dinger. He had a huge grin on his face.
     "Come here often, wanker?" he said.
     The guard came back with our boots  and went  out and joined his  mates
who were sitting a few feet away, keeping an eye on us.
     "Muslim or Christian or Jew?" one of them said.
     "Christians," I said. "English. Christians."
     "Not Jew?"
     "No. Christians. Christians."
     "Not Tel Aviv?"
     "No, not Tel Aviv. English. Great Britain."
     He nodded, and gob bed off to his mates.
     "My friend here," he said, "he's  a Christian.  Muslims and  Christians
are Okay in Iraq. We live together. No Jews. Jews are bad. You are a Jew."
     "No, I'm a Christian."
     "No, you  are a Jew. Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv no good. We don't want Jews. We
kill Jews. Why  you come  in  our country?  We  don't want war.  War is your
problem."
     He  was   just  talking,  rather  matter-of-factly,  and  seemed  quite
sensible. Iraq has a  large Christian population, especially around the port
of Basra.
     "We are not Jews, we are Christian," I said again.
     "Aircrew?"
     "Not aircrew. Rescue."
     If he'd wanted us to  be Muslims or members of  the Church of the Third
Moon on the Right, that's what  we would have been.  I was  just nodding and
agreeing  with everything, apart from the Jew bit. It was the early hours of
the morning  and  we  could  sense the guards' attitude: "We're  bollocksed,
you're bollocksed, we  have to look after you, let's just do it without  any
problems." Dinger was rubbing his feet.  "Is it all right if I help  him?" I
said. They gave a wave that said: Yeah, do what you want. Dinger and I leant
forwards to examine his  feet. "Bob?" I whispered  in his ear. "Don't know."
"Legs?" "Probably dead.  What about Mark?" "Dead. When  did you get caught?"
"Mid-morning. I heard you  being brought in in  the afternoon." "Are you all
right?" I said. I couldn't believe I'd asked such  a bone question.  What  a
dickhead statement. He eyed  me with  a look  that  said:  You knobber!  The
guards suspected that we  were communicating, and  one of them  came over to
stop  it.  Dinger  asked him  for a cigarette. The  guard spoke pretty  good
English, but Dinger said, "Cig-ar-ette?" as if he was talking to a  lunatic,
and made  the motions of smoking.  It didn't get him anywhere. We both had a
slightly better idea now of what was going on. I knew that Legs was probably
dead. I  still didn't know  about Bob. We sat there for  about  an hour, but
couldn't  communicate  any more..  My body  was  aching all over, and I  was
falling asleep. Your bod