I could hear other people in the room getting moved around. From time to time they moaned and groaned; perhaps they were being put into different stress positions, or lifted for interrogations. Nobody was talking.
After about half an hour the footsteps came up to me.
Two boys grabbed hold of me, picked me up, and then walked me. I thought I was going for an interrogation, but they got me to a place where they threw one of my hands against the wall, then the other, and then started to kick my feet back so I was at an angle, resting against the wall. Very soon I started to get pins and needles in my hands, and then they went numb. I tried gently banging them against the wall; the guards came over, got hold of my hands, and threw them against the wall again and kicked my legs out even more.
The hands really started to hurt. I had to push against them to keep the tension in my body so I didn't collapse.
Fuck this, I thought. I was in pain, I was cold; soon I would be hungry. The only consolation was the thought that this was the last major step. If I passed this, I was in; if I got binned, it would be my own fault. It was just a matter of sticking in there. At the end of the day it was an exercise; they weren't going to kill me; it was just a big test.
They grabbed me, took me somewhere else, and made me sit cross-legged with my hands behind my head and my back straight. Every time I bent my back to release the stress, they'd be in, grab hold of me, move me, and put me down again.
There was no noise; nobody said a word. All I heard was the two sets of footsteps walking along, picking me up. Sometimes they'd put me back against the wall in another stress position. After a few hours I told myself that I needed to switch on here. "Just keep your head," I said to myself, "and you'll be all right." I told myself that it was more about giving us an experience than anything else. They would hardly be putting us through it just for the sake of fucking us about and giving us a good beating. It was probably as much an experience for the people who were doing the interrogating as it was for us. They needed training also. They needed to get the experience of reacting to people who had been under pressure for seven days on the run, not somebody who was just coming in from the canteen and playacting the part.
As the hours ticked by in my head, there were some I people who by the sounds of things bel'eyed it was for real. I heard two or three get into such a state that they started blattering off and wanted no more of it.
"I've had enough," somebody shouted, and it echoed around the room. I recognized the voice. It belonged to a signals captain in his forties who'd come up through the ranks and had been giving little bits of advice to all the lads on the course. He'd had his toothbrush with him all the time. "You don't need toothpaste," he said. "I always keep my teeth clean. Look at these teeth. twenty-four years in the army, out in the field all the timegood teeth. And that's because I keep my toothbrush with me."
"I don't want this no more! I don't want this no more!" He screamed and hollered, and I heard several sets of footsteps going up and dragging him away. He was spaced out; he was gone. It made me feel really good.
Number one, because he was gabby all the time, giving us the benefit of all his advice, and number two, because somebody had been taken off. It made me feel better that I was still hanging on in there.
Maybe he didn't have the same incentive as the Selection blokes.
Yet, very occasionally, I had been told, Selection blokes did fail at this late stage as well.
This 'was extremely demanding, physically and mentally. So it should be. What they were doing was training prone-to-capture troops for a real possibility. They couldn't go around beating us up, of course, or breaking our arms and giving us electric shocks, but they could take us to such a point that we didn't know whether we were going to be able to survive or not.
I was placed back in the stress position against the wall, and this time not even the first half hour was bearable. I had to keep the position; as soon as I went down, they came in and forced me up. I tried to grin and bear it.
I heard some footsteps go past me to move some other people around. Then the footsteps came back, and this time the men stopped, grabbed hold of me, and I could smell the coffee on their breath. I thought I was going to be moved to another stress area, but I was off, walking carefully in my bare feet, mincing around when we hit shingle.
We went into a building and along corridors.
We went into a room, I was put down on a chair, and I heard a voice saying, "Close your eyes."
The blindfold came off, and I looked down at the ground. The people walked out, and the door was closed.
"Open your eyes."
I looked up, opened my eyes, and there were two boys sitting there at a desk. It was a small room, white walls, an empty desk, them and me.
Both men were in their mid-forties. One of them was wearing a black polo-neck jumper. He had gray hair and was very stern-looking.
They both just looked at me, with obvious disdain.
"What's your name?"
"McNab."
"What's your full name?"
"Andrew McNab."
"What's your number?"
"Two-four-four-zero-eight-eight-eight-eight."
"Rank?"
"Sergeant."
"What's your regiment?"
"I can't answer that question."
"What's your regiment?"
"I can't answer that question."
"What do you fucking mean, you can't answer that question?" he exploded.
"We just caught you. We know what your fucking regiment is.
But we want you to tell us. You're not helping us at all, are you?
What's your number?"
I went through it again.
"What's your rank?"
"Sergeant."
"What were you doing when you were captured?"
"I can't answer that question."
"Well, if you don't fucking answer that question, you'll be in the shit.
Do you understand me?"
"I can't answer that question."
"What
. were
. you
doing
down
in
. that
. area?"
"I can't answer that question."
"Are you in the army?"
"I can't answer that question."
"Well, you must be in the army because you've got a regimental number.
What's your regimental number?"
"Two-four-four-zero-eight-eight-eight-eight."
"So you're in the fucking army then, aren't you?"
"I can't answer that question."
"Look here, sonny, if you don't fucking answer the questions, you're in a lot of trouble. Do you understand that?"
"I can't answer that question."
"Okay, this is the score. This is what you're going to do.
You're going to sign that bit of paper for the Red Cross and tell them that you're okay. Then you might be getting some food. Do you understand?"
"I can't answer that question."
They leaped up, hollering and shouting. "Stand up!
Stand to attention! Who the fuck do you think you are?"
They walked around me, saying, "Are you thick or something? Are you fucking thick? I'm asking you questions and you're not answering.
Do you understand?"
"I can't answer that question."
I knew that as long as I stuck to the big four-name, number, rank, and date of birth-and "I can't answer that question," I'd cracked it.
The one in the black polo-neck turned to his mate.
"Do you think he's thick? Yeah, he's got to be fucking thick, look at him. Why doesn't he talk to us? He's thick. Do you have a mother?"
"I can't answer that question."
"I bet you don't know your mother, do you?"
"I can't answer that question."
"I bet your mother's a fucking stinking whore, isn't she? That's why you don't know your mother, isn't it?"
"I can't answer that question."
I didn't mind any of it. In fact, compared with the stress positions, I actually rather liked it. The room was warm, and I could sit down. I wasn't in a stress position, and the blindfold was off. I just kept saying to nlyself: "Don't deviate from number, name, rank, date of birth, and you're home and dry."
They went through the good guy, bad guy routine, and I got the pieces of paper that they wanted me to sign.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I cannot do that."
"What's your number?"
"Two-four-four-zero-eight-eight-eight-eight."
The session must have lasted about an hour.
Finally they said, "Right, sit down there, and close your eyes."
I was blindfolded again and just sat there. I heard scribbling but no talking. 'Then the door opened, and I was picked up and dragged out again. As I went down the corridor, I could hear, on the left-hand side, another interrogation going on.
"What the fucking hell do you mean?" somebody was shouting.
Then I felt the air being pumped in and felt the gravel, and knew I was back in the holding area. Straight back up against the wall, hands up high, and the legs kicked back.
I could hear lots of movement. Like me, everybody was obviously starting to feel the effects of the stress positions. The boys were walking around more, moving people more because they weren't holding the positions.
I heard people falling and hitting the floor.
The cycle of interrogations and stress positions went on over a period of about twenty-four hours. The interrogators were brilliant actors.
They'd start with a nice friendly approach, then suddenly throw the switch a'nd hurl a frenzy of abuse.
I was sitting in a stress position, my legs crossed, back straight and hands behind my head, trying to find a comfortable position without moving too obviously. I had pins and needles in my head; my back and neck were strained; every time my elbows came forward to rest someone would yank them right the way back.
I was picked up and taken for another interrogation. I tried to lift my legs up to keep them from dragging on the gravel. I heard the boys straining to carry my weight and felt quite pleased to be getting my own back.
One boy held my head, grabbed hold of my hair to point me forward.
They undid the blindfold, and straightaway I closed my eyes.
A young cockney voice said, "Look forward, mate, that's all right."
He was all ginger hair and freckles, the first younger man that I'd seen. "Sorry to mess you about, mate," he said. "Let's just go all over it again, if you don't mind.
We're getting all cocked up here. Let's just get your details right.
What's your number again?"
I said.
"Name?"
I said.
"All right, that's fine. Now, is that an 'Mc or an Mac?"
That put me in a bit of a dilemma. What do I say?
"I can't answer that question."
"Ah, come on, mate. I'm trying to do my job here.
We've got to sort all this out. Is it a small N or a big N?"
"I can't answer that question."
"Oh, all right then. What's your date of birth?"
I gave it.
"Okay, don't worry about the difference in the spelling then.
We'll sort that out later. But what exactly were you doing? I'm totally confused-I've got all these notes and bits of paper all over the place from these people you've been talking to. What were you doing?"
I saw through it: the friend, the same age-group.
I couldn't help noticing that he had half a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Can we just sort this out?" he said. "What's your number again?"
I remembered a Green Jackets officer who took over A Company, who had been the ops officer for the Regiment. When he rejoined the battalion, he started doing little interrogation exercises, and something he had once said stuck in my memory: "If you get the chance of food, take it.
Once it's inside you, what can they do?"
I looked at the cheese sandwich. They could hardly punish me by putting me in a worse stress position than they had already. They might drag me out and be a bit rough with me, but so what? At least I'd have a cheese sandwich and a mug of coffee down my neck.
I couldn't see any steam coming off the coffee, so I knew it was fairly warm and I'd be able to gulp it down.
Anyway, it was in a metal mug, and they tend to cool it down quicker. So I thought: Fucking right.
I lunged forward and grabbed the food and drink.
The boy recoiled. Guards came bursting in, but they were too late to stop my feast. They blindfolded me and held me down.
The young guy, still being my mate, said, "Did you enjoy that?"
"I cannot answer that question."
I went into the next interrogation. It was the same routine, being picked up from the stress position, and by now I was really looking forward to interrogations because it was so painful against the wall or on the floor. It was the same two interrogators I had the very first time.
"You're a dickhead," they said. "We gave you the chance to help us; now you're going to pay for it. Get your clothes off."
I undressed.
"What's your number?"
"Two-four-four-zero-eight-eight-eight-eight."
"Right, now say it slowly.l I did, and I had to do it again.
Because of the training I knew to play on the injuries, looking like I was knackered, all that sort of stuff. I repeated my number for what seemed like hours, really slowly. Great, I thought; it took up more time, I was in a better atmosphere, rather than in a stress position in the holding area, and I wasn't being moved around every five minutes by the guards.