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 f.u.c.king mean, you can't answer that question?" he exploded.

"We just caught you. We know what your f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king answer that question, you'll be in the s.h.i.t.

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 f.u.c.king army then, aren't you?"

"I can't answer that question."

"Look here, sonny, if you don't f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.k do you think you are?"

They walked around me, saying, "Are you thick or something? Are you f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king stinking wh.o.r.e, 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 f.u.c.king h.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.kney 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 c.o.c.ked 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?"