The war was going to provide an excellent chance for everyone to get down to some classic, behind-the-lines SAS soldiering, the sort the SAS had been set up for nearly 50 years earlier. Usually, we work in small, covert groups, but here was a rare chance to be out in the open in large numbers. The Regiment hadn't been massed like this since World War II. The atmosphere at our base in Saudi Arabia was jovial and lively. We went into intense training for desert operations, and in January 1991 were on our way to the Gulf. My name is Andy McNab and I was a sergeant and patrol commander in 22 SAS Regiment when, in August 1990, Saddam Hussein's troops rolled into the independent state of Kuwait and the West prepared for war. How had I got myself into this hellhole? And would I have the strength and will power to survive? Or am I going to be stripped, spread-eagled and gang-raped? That thought worried me much more than getting killed. It's time for the old chop-your-balls-off routine, followed by ears, fingers and toes, all nice and slow.
I'd heard all the horror stories from the Iran–Iraq war. When I was brought to this terrible place, one of the guards whispered to me in an almost sympathetic way: 'Whoever is your God, you will very soon be needing him.' These Iraqi boys had been doing this professionally for years. I knew all about electrodes and meat hooks. Would I be hanging up there soon?īack at SAS headquarters in Hereford, I'd heard all the horror stories from the Iran–Iraq war. I looked up and my eyes fixed on a large hook in the middle of the ceiling. The once-cream walls were covered with muck and splashed with two enormous bloodstains - two or three pints of blood at least I reckoned.
They slapped and kicked me and then left, slamming the metal door behind them.
I didn't say or do anything, I just went with the flow. The guards flung me into the prison cell and forced me down on the floor, into a stress position - legs crossed, my knees right up, shoulders straight and my hands cuffed behind my back.
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