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.

Mcnab bravo two zero