It was wonderful to hear the news. The ground war had not only started but nearly finished, and Iraq was on its arse. But the problem Joseph Small brought with him was that the more Americans there were, the more chat there was. They wouldn’t listen to make sure there weren’t any guards around: they would just spark up, and the fallout was bad for all of us. I was still concerned that we could find ourselves separated.

Joseph was quite amusing because he was gagging for a cigarette and he was always asking for them, but he always asked aggressively and they just fucked him off. But Dinger, the model diplomat, every time the major turned up now he’d get a fag out of him.

In the end we decided not to initiate any more conversations with the Americans. We let them start their own, and waited to see if there was a reaction from the guards. If there wasn’t, we’d join in, always trying to get as much information as we could. Had anybody been reported to the Red Cross? we asked. Did they think that we were dead? Did they know we were alive?

Joseph Small was able to say that nothing about us had been reported to the Red Cross; we’d all been posted as missing in action. Bush had just announced that if all prisoners were not released, the Allies were going all the way to Baghdad. That made us feel good in one respect: at least we were winning, and there was a good chance that we’d be released. But there was also a chance we wouldn’t be freed. We knew the Iraqis had contact with the PLO. Were we going to land up best mates with Terry Waite, cuddling the same radiator?

There was a funny side to it as well, though.

“Who’s that?” a voice boomed out.

“Major Joseph Small, Marine Corps.”

“Russell Sanborn, Captain, Marine Corps.”

“Aviator?”

“Yes, sir!”

It was real good gung ho stuff, straight out of Top Gun.

The day after Joseph Small turned up, a medic sergeant called Troy Dunlap was brought in on a stretcher with spinal injuries. He had been with a woman doctor who had broken both her arms and was also taken prisoner. The rest of the Black Hawk crew were dead after being shot down. Inevitably, the Americans made contact with him straightaway.

“Major Small? Major Joseph Small? Shit, sir, I’m your search and rescue mission!”

We made sure he knew our names as well, in case he got repatriated early because of his injuries.

Around this time the bombing stopped, which confirmed Small’s story. We were using the bombing as a barometer. If it started again, we would know that things had gone to rat shit. In the afternoon two bangs sounded off in quick succession. After the first the birds flew away very loudly, and there was lots of shouting. Our hopes of an early release faded with the echo of the boom.

I tried to think positively. The Iraqis were getting their arse kicked by ground troops as well now. Small’s information indicated it would be a matter of days rather than weeks until the end. And things must be going well for there to be daylight raids. But I hadn’t heard any antiaircraft fire. Jeral confirmed that it had been aircraft going supersonic over the city-theirs or ours he didn’t know.

Early in the morning of March 3, the outer gate of the courtyard opened up and then the gate into the main prison. There was lots of noise of keys clanking, voices raised, and shouting. David’s cell was opened. We were all straining to hear what was going on.

We heard the words: “You’re going home.”

We looked at one another, and Stan said, “Fuck, mate, this is good shit.”

Our door burst open, and a guard stood in the doorway with a clipboard in his hand. “Stan. Dinger. You are now going home. Wait here.”

No Andy. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Our worst fears had been confirmed. They were going to keep back hostages.

I turned to Dinger and said, “If you’re going home, make sure you speak to Jilly.”

Dinger and Stan shook my hand before leaving. “Don’t worry,” they said.

Don’t worry? I was flapping fit to take off.

Left alone in the cell, I spent the first couple of hours feeling severely sorry for myself. I felt happy for the blokes that were going, but that didn’t stop me from feeling abandoned. After so many weeks of comradeship, the sudden loneliness was almost a physical pain. I forced myself to work through the options. The war must have ended; there was no doubt about that. We knew that Small’s sortie was just about the last to be flown, and that was days ago. So why had only three of us been released? Were they being released?

In the afternoon the major came in with all his entourage. “Yes, it is true,” he said. “Your two friends have gone home. They will be home with their families very soon. Maybe you will be going soon. Maybe one day, maybe two days. I don’t know. But remember, what happened at the other place is nothing to do with me. What happened here is my responsibility. You’ve been well looked after.”

I was nodding and agreeing like a lunatic. He gave me two oranges, which I ate as soon as he had gone, peel and all. I began to feel better.

Later that afternoon I was dragged out and put into the courtyard in the sunlight. I sat there soaking up the rays for five minutes and was joined by two guards who started talking about the pop charts. They were about two decades behind in their news, but I wasn’t going to tell them that. Instead I discussed the merits of various Boney M and Abba hits, nodding and agreeing as much as I could without my head falling off. Everybody was being all rather nice, so I knew something was afoot.

I got the sun on my bones for an hour, and it felt -wonderful. They took me back in when the sun went down, but I was feeling more and more hopeful.

Something strange happened to Joseph Small that night. I was lying on the floor of my cell when I heard his door open and people go in. There were mumblings; then about a minute later the door closed, and the noises receded. At last light the guards left us alone. The three of us got talking, and I asked him what had happened.

“An Iraqi soldier came into my cell,” he said. “He was in combat dress and in bad shape. He had a rough beard, he had his webbing on, helmet, his boots were in shreds from rock cuts. He came in, looked at me, saluted, and left. Weird, Andy, fuckin’ weird.”

We could only surmise that he had withdrawn from Kuwait and for some odd reason wanted to see a prisoner.

We spent the next half hour trying to work out why two lots had gone but not us, but didn’t get far. For the second night I didn’t get any sleep. The first time it had been because I was so down in the dumps. Tonight it was the excitement of what the morning might bring.

In the early hours of March 5 the gates opened, and I jumped to my feet, eager with anticipation.

Russell’s door opened.

“Russell Sanborn? You’re going home.”

Then Joseph’s door.

“Joseph Small? You’re going home.”

The next one was the stretcher case.

And the last one was me.

“Andy McNab? McNab? Yes, you will be going home soon.”

They handcuffed us and took us out of the cells one by one. We went through the gates that led onto the courtyard, and then through those gates, and were put onto a bus. For the very first time I saw the bodies that belonged to the voices from other cells. Joseph Small was much older than I had imagined, a man in his mid-forties who looked good considering his injuries. All I had ever seen of Russell Sanborn was an eye and finger that pulled down a small flap of blanket so he could look out and see people slop out as we walked past his punishment cell. There was no light in his cell apart from this hole. He had a deep, booming voice, full of authority, and I had expected a man mountain. In fact he had a very slight frame.

They moved down the bus and blindfolded everybody. We drove along the road for another 75 feet and stopped. We seemed to be picking up another batch of prisoners, who sounded like Saudis. I guessed we’d been staying in a mirror image jail that had two identical wings.