My only fear of dying was if nobody knew I was dead. I couldn’t bear the thought of my family’s anguish at not having a body to mourn, of going through their lives not knowing for sure.
The Iraqi Head Shed obviously didn’t want us dead at this stage, because if people had been left to their own devices we’d have been topped a long time ago. And if they wanted us alive, it must be for some purpose -whether for propaganda or just because they knew they were going to lose the war and it wouldn’t look good if prisoners were getting slotted.
You have to accept the circumstances and do the best you can in them. There was nothing I could do to help the people back home, so I turned my mind elsewhere. Should I have gone for the border that night? It was obvious to me that I should have taken my chances. But then, with hindsight, I’d have got eight score draws on last week’s coupon.
I was injured and disoriented. I couldn’t even remember what day it was. I knew I had to get a grip. Disorienting the prisoner is a good start to breaking him, and I knew it. But there was nothing I could do but put it out of my mind until I got a chance to see a clock or a guard’s watch.
Interrogators have two hurdles to get over: the straightforward one of cracking you physically, followed by the more difficult one of breaking you mentally. They don’t know your psyche, your weaknesses, your inner strengths. Some people might break the first day, others will never give in-and spread along the spectrum in between lie all the rest of us. The interrogator cannot be sure that his objective has been achieved. The telltale signs are hard to detect; he’ll know he can’t judge by your physical condition because you’re exaggerating your injuries. But he’ll have been taught that the eyes don’t lie. It’s up to you to make sure he can’t see through the window; you have to mask your alertness. You have to make people peering in believe that they’re looking at empty premises, not the shop front of Harrods.
I forced my mind to focus on more productive thoughts. I ran through the story once more, trying to remember what I’d said, hoping that Dinger had said more or less the same thing. The aim had to be to hold out for as long as we could so that a damage assessment could be made back at the FOB. The question our Head Shed would be asking was: What do members of Bravo Two Zero know? They would come to the conclusion that we knew our own tasks, but nothing of other people’s, present or future, so nothing could be compromised. Anything that we did know that could affect other operations would have been changed or canceled.
We had to keep to our story. There was no turning back.
I was still in the stress position in the corner an hour later, or maybe it was ten minutes.
People paced up and down, looked in, mumbled.
As far as my body was concerned, it was the lull in the battle. It hadn’t been complaining of such things while I was getting filled in, but now that nothing physical was happening to me it screamed that it was hungry and thirsty. I wasn’t too worried about food. My stomach had been kicked about a bit and probably couldn’t have taken it anyway. The priority was water. I was so, so thirsty. I was gagging.
I heard them fiddling with the padlock and throwing back the bolt. They banged and kicked the door to get it open, and the steel juddered and jarred. They were coming for me. Thirst vanished. Fear was everything.
They came in without a word, just straight over and grabbed me and lifted. I couldn’t see them, but I could smell them. I tried to look as though I was doing my best to help them, despite the injuries I was playing on. But I found I was kidding myself more than them. It was well and truly past the stage of playing. I couldn’t stand up. My legs would not obey me.
They dragged me out of the cell and turned right, heading down the corridor. My feet trailed in their wake, the scabs on my toes scraping off on the floor. I could see a little through the bottom of the blindfold. I saw the cobblestones and a trail of blood. I saw a step coming but had to trip over it because I didn’t want them to realize that I could see. I didn’t want to get punished more than I was going to be anyway.
It was warm in the sun. I felt it on my face. We went along a pathway and brushed past a small hedgerow. Up onto another step, then back into darkness. A long, black corridor, cool, musty, and damp. I heard office type noises and the sound of footsteps on lino or tiles. We turned right and entered a room. It was cold and damp, but as they carried me in we went past isolated centers of heat. It wasn’t at all the nice, comfy, Aunty Nelly feeling of a room that had been flooded with heat for a long time.
They pushed me down onto a hard chair. There was the usual strong smell of paraffin and cigarettes, and this time some acrid body odor. Whether it came from the people in the room or a previous prisoner, I couldn’t tell. I tried to lean forward, but hands grabbed me and pulled me back.
There were lots of people in there, shuffling their feet, coughing and muttering to one another, and they seemed to be arranged on either side of the room. I heard Tiny lamps. I didn’t know if the room was windowless or if the curtains were drawn, but it was very dark apart from their glow.
I clenched my muscles and waited. There was silence for a minute or so. I was worried. We’d got to the serious place. This was the real world; the people here would not be idiots.
A voice spoke to me from the top of the room. It sounded like somebody’s favorite grand ad a sort of old, gravelly voice, very pleasant in tone.
“How are you, Andy?”
“I’m not too bad.”
“You look quite injured.” The English was fluent but with a marked accent. “Perhaps when we have finished our business and we have an understanding, we might be able to get you some medical attention.”
“It would be very nice if I could have some. Thank you very much. And my friend also?”
We were in a new environment now, with a new gang. If this was going to be the good boy routine, maybe I’d get something to eat, maybe I’d get medical attention, maybe I’d be able to get medical attention for Dinger. I might even find out some information. Maybe they might be able to let me have my blindfold off or my handcuffs-maybe, maybe, maybe. Even if it was for ten minutes, it would be better than a kick in the tits. If they’re promising you things, you must try and see if they’ll deliver. Take what you can, while you can. Right, let’s go along with this.
“All we need to know, Andy, is what you were doing in our country.”
I went through my story again. I tried to look scared and humble.
“I was in a helicopter as a member of a search and rescue team. I’m a medic: I wasn’t there to kill people. The helicopter came down, there was some form of emergency, we were all told to run off the helicopter quickly, and then it just took off. I don’t know how many people got off the aircraft or are on the ground and still running around. You have to understand, there was total confusion. It was at night, nobody knew where the officer was; I think he might even have run back on the helicopter and deserted us. I had no idea where I was and no idea where I was going. I was just running around, scared and confused. And that’s all there is.”
There was a long pause.
“You understand, do you Andy, that you are a prisoner of war, and prisoners of war are required to do certain things?”
“I understand that, and I am helping you as much as I can.”
“We need you to sign some things. We need to get some signatures from you so they can be sent to the Red Cross. It’s part of the process of letting your family know that you’re here.”