“I’m sorry, but under the Geneva Convention I’m told that I must not sign anything. I don’t really understand why I have to sign anything, because we’re taught that we don’t have to do that sort of thing.”
“Andy,” The Voice became even more grandfatherly. “We need to help each other, don’t you agree, so that things will run smoothly?”
“Yes, of course. However, I don’t know anything. I’ve told you all I know.”
“We really must help each other; otherwise things will have to get painful. I think you understand what I mean by that, Andy?”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I really don’t know what you need.
I’ve told you everything that I know. I don’t know anything else.”
There’s a technique that high-pressure salesmen use to get you to tell them that you want to buy the product. It’s called something like the Creative Pause. Victor Kiam explained it in one of his books: when he was going through his sales pitch, he would stop and pause, and if the person he was trying to sell to actually felt that they had to carry on the conversation during this gap, Kiam knew that he had a sale. The punter felt he had to do something, and that was to agree to buy.
I kept quiet and looked confused.
“You’re really looking quite poorly, Andy. Do you require some medical assistance?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, Andy, you have to pay for things. What we require in return is a little assistance. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours! I believe it’s an old English saying, yes?”
He must have looked around the room for approval because the others laughed hard-a bit too hard. It was the sound of the chairman of the board making a bone joke and everybody chortling because they have to. Half the people in the room probably didn’t even know what he was saying.
“I will be helpful,” I said. “I’m trying to be as helpful as I can. Would it be possible to have some water or some food, I wonder, as my friend and I haven’t eaten or had anything to drink for a long time. I’m very thirsty and feeling very weak.”
“If you are helpful, we might be able to come to some sort of agreement-but you cannot expect me to do something for nothing. Do you understand that, Andy?”
“Yes, I understand, but I really don’t know what you want from me. I’ve told you everything I know. We’re just soldiers; we were just told to get on an aircraft and go. We don’t know what’s going on. The army treats us like dirt.”
“I think you will find we treat people better here. I am willing to supply food, water, and medical assistance for you and your friend, Andy, but it must be a fair trade. We need to know the names of the other people, so we can inform the Red Cross that they are in Iraq.”
It went without saying that this was a load of old bollocks, but I had to appear as compliant as I could without actually giving anything away. I wanted to keep this interview in the hands of Mr. Nice Guy. He was being polite, cordial, gentle, soft, concerned. I wasn’t looking forward to the bad guy stuff, which I knew would happen sooner or later.
“The only name I know is my friend Dinger’s,” I said. He would have given his name, number, rank, and date of birth anyway as required by the Geneva Convention. I said his full name. “Apart from him, I have no idea who is here and who isn’t. It was very dark, everybody was running all over the place, it was chaos. The only reason I know about Dinger is because I have seen him.”
Something told me the cover story was crumbling. It just didn’t feel credible to me any more. It was starting to get holes picked in it, as any story will unless it’s deep cover. It was just a matter of playing for time. I had no idea what they were thinking at this stage; it was just cat and mouse. He’d ask a question and I’d give one of my bone answers, and he’d just go on to the next one without even questioning what I had said.
The Voice must have realized I was giving him a load of old pony, and I, in turn, realized that what I was giving him wasn’t what they wanted. Despite that, bad things weren’t happening-but happen they certainly would.
Mentally I was fine. Your mental state can be altered by drugs. I just hoped they weren’t that advanced and were still into caveman tactics. Physical abuse can only get the interrogator to a certain point; beyond that, it’s not a viable inducer of the goods. They can assess your physical state from the beatings they’ve given you. What they can’t gauge for sure is your mental state. For that, they need to know your level of alertness, and the only visible clue to that is your eyes. Some people would get totally wound up if an interrogator laughed at the size of their cock, or accused them of being a homosexual, or said their mother was a whore. They would spark up, and this would show that they were not as out of it as they wanted to appear. Everybody has a chink in their armor, and the interrogator’s job is to find it. From that moment on, they can really go to town.
We were trained to expect it, and we were lucky that within the Regiment everybody is taking the piss all the time. Daily life revolves around personal insults. But it would still be a battle.
If you’re physically and mentally exhausted you shouldn’t have the energy even to comprehend what’s being said, let alone react to it. Your bluff job won’t last long if you as much as blink when he laughs at the size of your cock or asks about your wife’s favorite position. The effect you’re striving for is that you’re exhausted, everything’s really too much bother for you to understand, you’ve told them everything you know, and there’s nothing more you want to do than go home. The advantage we were starting with was that, to them, even a senior NCO is a nobody. Their army is run by the officers for the officers. Other ranks are just ignorant cogs in the wheel. They didn’t have my mind and they would never get it; it was just a case now of reminding them that I was just a cretinous bumpkin, not even worth the bother.
I asked if it was possible for the handcuffs and blindfold to come off. “I can’t think straight,” I said. “My hands are numb and my eyes are in trouble. I’ve got a headache.”
“It is for your own security,” The Voice replied.
“Of course, I understand, sir. I’m very sorry for asking.”
It was for their security, not mine. They didn’t want me to be able to identify them.
“I’m trying to help,” I went on, “but I’m only the sergeant. I don’t know anything, I don’t do anything, and I don’t particularly want to do anything. If I did know any more, I’d tell you. I don’t want to be here. It’s the government that sent me. I was just riding in the back of a helicopter, I didn’t even know we’d landed in your country.”
“I understand all that, Andy. However, you must realize that we need to clarify a few things. And for us to help you you need to help us, as we have discussed. You understand this?”
“Yes, I understand, but I’m sorry, this is all I know.”
The game went on for about an hour. It was played very cordially, there was no mistreatment whatsoever. But the undertone was that they knew I was lying through my hind teeth. The only problems were of my own making, when I failed to keep two steps ahead of him and ended up contradicting myself.
I did it a couple of times.
“Andy, are you lying to us?”
“I’m confused. You’re not giving me time to think. I’m worried about getting home alive. I don’t want to be in this war, I’m just very, very scared.”
“I shall give you time to think, Andy, but you must think clearly, because we cannot help you unless you help us.”
He started then to talk about my family life and my education. “Have you got a degree?”
Degree? I didn’t have so much as a CSE.
“No, I’ve got no qualifications. This is why I’m a soldier. In Mrs.
Thatcher’s England, unless you’ve got education you can’t do anything. I’m just a working class person at the bottom of the heap. I had to join the army because there’s nothing else I can do. England is very expensive, there are many taxes. If I didn’t do this I’d starve.”