“Andy, you’re just sitting there. We’re trying to be friendly, but we have to get the information. Andy, this could go on and on. Your friend’s outside, he’s helped us and he’s Okay, he’s out there on the grass, he’s still alive, he’s in the sun. You’re in here in the dark. This is no good for you and it’s no good for us. It just takes up our time.
“Just tell us what we need to know and that’s it, everything’s ended. You’ll be Okay, we’ll look after you until the end of the war. Maybe we might be able to organize it for you to go home to your family straightaway. There’s no problems, if you help us. You look bad. 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 amp;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.