With stags (sentries) out, the rest of us prepared to sleep, but with our rifles close by so, if it came to it, we'd just have to roll over and start firing. It was a perfect lying-up place - dead ground, out of sight and with cover from enemy fire. We fanned out into patrol mode, marched for 12 miles, and reached it just before 5am, then found a cave high up in the rocks with an overhang. The first thing was to get near to the highway well before first light and find somewhere to lie up. The ground was featureless - hard bedrock with shale over the top and flat as far as the horizon. The helicopter was climbing fast with the ramp still closing. They set up protective positions while the rest of us hurled off the kit and then jumped after it. I was chuffed when my eight-man team was briefed for a special secret mission to destroy communication lines deep inside Iraq Clouds of dust flew up and half the team moved on to the tailgate, weapons at the ready, and then jumped. The grind of the blades told me that the Chinook was manoeuvring close to the ground. Just before we set off for the helicopter that would ferry us behind enemy lines, the signals chief allocated us our call sign. It was dangerous all right, but this was what we had signed up for and were paid for. The excitement was tempered, though, by the thought of how isolated we would be out there in the desert deep inside Iraq. It was one hell of a load, but the lads all agreed we were looking forward to getting on the ground.
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We meticulously prepared for the mission, arming ourselves with machine guns, rifles and grenade-launchers, plus explosives and detonators to do the job, as well as rations, water - 209 lb (just under 15 st stone) of equipment each, to be carried in Bergen packs on our backs. Our task was to find and destroy those lines along a 150 mile highway, and then take out as many Scuds as possible. The comms lines were designed to relay the orders to launch Scud missiles, Iraq's most dangerous weapon. I was chuffed when my eight-man team was briefed for a special secret mission to destroy communication lines deep inside Iraq. I felt like a bricklayer who'd spent his entire life knocking up bungalows and now had the opportunity to build a skyscraper.
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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