Quest for Pain (standard:drama, 3152 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jul 03 2002	Views/Reads: 3915/2526	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A British pilot is shot down close to the Syrian border and is captured by the Iraqis.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


The stranger pointed. “Hey, look over there, the bandstands on fire.” 

Mark straightened up and watched the flames, which seemed to dance in
rhythm to the approaching sirens. 

“I'm George, what's your name?” asked the vagrant, offering his grubby
hand...   “You don't say much do you? Come on, shake on it. We're both 
men of the road aren't we?” 

Mark looked across at the tramp and his eyes glazed, as he witnessed the
transformation in the man's hairy face. The old vagrant had a wrinkled 
old face with no visible teeth; but the feature that upset Mark, was 
the black, bushy moustache. 

He squirmed, put his hands to his face, and moaned gently. It was all
coming back to him. The horror was returning. 

Syrian border, 1991. Mark was breathing heavily when he drifted down to
the desert floor. He checked all around him for his comrades, but saw 
no presence of other parachutes. He realised that he was on his own. 

After the initial explosion, they had watched the fuel leaking from the
left wing of the Tornado, the flames licking at the fuselage. Someone 
gave the order to eject. It seemed like a good idea at the time. He 
heard the loud explosion when the Tornado crashed into the desert, a 
bright flash illuminating the wilderness, like a giant firework on 
November 5th. 

Mark touched down heavily and rolled over; thankful that he had not
broken a limb.  The reality of the situation did not encourage him. He 
now realised that his comrades must have died aboard the aircraft. 

After the bombing of Baghdad, they were heading back to base in Muharraq
in Bahrain. The high-spirited crew were looking forward to a cool 
shower and a cold drink, not expecting the horror of what was to come. 

Mark dug aggressively at the ground; the parachute his concern. He
stopped digging; and in the distance, through the heat haze, he watched 
the contorted view of the sand clouds. He discarded his parachute and 
ran for one of the dunes. The sand clouds meant vehicles, and he did 
not expect them to be British. 

He lay prone on the ground, the hot sand burning his hands. Daring not
to chance a look, he heard the foreign voices. Two minutes passed, and 
he heard the click in his left ear, followed by a strange voice. 
“English!” shouted the soldier. 

The Iraqi soldier was joined by others. There were more shouting of
orders, and he put his hands on his head. He never saw the first blow 
of the rifle butt. He heard only the crack, and felt the blood oozing 
into his eyes, as the soldiers kicked him, until he blacked out. 

Mark was taken to Al Rasid intelligence headquarters in Iraq. When he
awoke, the only sound to be heard in his damp, bleak cell was the 
dripping of a neglected rusty pipe. The beads of perspiration trickled 
down his bloody face, stinging him, as they sought out the numerous 
cuts and sores. 

He swatted at the flies, the irritating insects no doubt attracted by
the putrid stench. He looked around the squalor of his prison, a 
concrete cell that was dark and stifling. An old wooden stool, a 
flea-ridden mattress, and a hole in the ground, were the only features 
in his cell; apart from the picture of Saddam Hussein that was hanging 
on the wall. 

He heard the approaching steps and the rattling of the keys in the lock.
Three soldiers entered the room. They all looked similar, with their 
thick, black moustaches and black berets. 

“Stand up, please,” said the officer in the centre.” I'm Colonel Al
Hakim, and this is Lieutenant Al Sadir and Sergeant Med Barzani. You're 
in a prison in Baghdad, and your conduct will decide how you're to be 
treated. If you cooperate, you'll no doubt live to see your family 
again. If you choose not to cooperate? Well, let's hope it doesn't come 
to that, eh?” 

The Colonel lit a cigarette and paced the cell; the strange smelling
tobacco most unpleasant. He stopped pacing and faced Mark. “Well, let's 
start with your name shall we?” 

“Mark Cochrane. 172382, Flight Lieutenant, Mark Cochrane.” 

“Splendid, and your squadron?” 

“Flight Lieutenant, Mark Cochrane, 172382.” 

The Colonel laughed loudly and nodded to the burly Sergeant. He slapped
Mark twice across his face. 

“Now come, Lieutenant, enough of this stiff upper lip nonsense. I know
how proud you British are; I studied at Cambridge in 1980. Beautiful 
country, but so arrogant. Now, if you don't tell me what I want to 
know, it'll be most unpleasant for you, believe me. Sergeant Med 
Barzani is skilled in what he does.” 

The Colonel took a long draw on his cigarette. “Now, where are you
based?” 

“Flight Lieut...” 

“Enough!” 

The impatient man shouted something in Arabic, and two guards entered
the cell and tied Mark to his chair. The Sergeant took out his pistol 
and hit him twice over the head. 

“Wait! Lieutenant, you have one more chance. Your base?” asked the
Colonel. 

Mark bowed his head and the Colonel nodded. The Sergeant and the two
guards viciously pounded Mark with their fists. When he blacked, out 
they threw water over him. 

Colonel Al Hakim, his breath reeking of garlic, stooped down to face
Mark. “My, look at your face. Enough of this stupidity. I assume that 
you have a family... A wife and children possibly?.. Your ignorance is 
futile. We are aware of where all the air bases are. This is just 
routine. My superiors just want to clear up the facts. Whether you tell 
me what I want to know or not, it'll not affect the outcome of the war. 
It will only affect you, my friend... Now tell me what I want to know 
and you can see out the remainder of your imprisonment in peace. Clean 
sheets, water, food... It's your call, Lieutenant.” 

Mark looked up and mumbled something through his bloody mouth. His face
had swollen beyond recognition. 

The Colonel put his ear against Mark's mouth. 

“Flight Lieutenant Mar...” 

The Colonel seized his prisoner by the hair, and pulled out his pistol,
holding it against his temple. “Now fucking listen asshole; you have 
ten seconds to speak, or I swear, I'll blow your brains out... One, 
two, three, four, five.” 

Mark grinned at his captor. 

“Six, seven, eight, nine,” 

The Colonel withdrew his pistol. “Undress him.” 

He was untied and dragged from his stool. He was stripped naked and made
to sit back on the stool, his wrists tethered to his ankles. “Not very 
comfortable is it? Get used to it, my friend. You'll be in that 
position for some time... Oh, and if you fall off the stool or fall 
asleep, you'll be beaten. I'll be back in a couple of hours, just in 
case you change your mind.” 

Mark was now dehydrated, his mouth coarse and his lips sore. He could
see the boots of his guards, as they waited for him to fall from his 
stool. His back ached so badly. 

Then he heard the footsteps, and the unpleasant odour of the cigarette
told him that the Colonel had returned. 

“Well Lieutenant, how are you feeling now? Thirsty perhaps? It's so hot
today.” 

The guards cut Mark's bonds and he sat up straight, grimacing at the
pain in his back. 

The Colonel had a mug of water, which he sipped slowly. “Would you like
a drink, Lieutenant?” 

He nodded. 

“Tell me what I want to know and I'll grant your wish.” 

Mark bowed his head again. 

The Colonel kicked the stool and Mark crashed to the floor. The Sergeant
and the guards kicked and punched him, and Mark covered his genitals to 
protect himself. A pool of blood now formed on the floor, before he was 
dragged back onto his stool. 

The Colonel looked towards his prisoner's groin and smiled. He nodded,
and Mark's wrists were tied to his ankles yet again. 

This continued until morning; the questions and then the savage
beatings. He was given a little water and a handful of rice to keep him 
alive. He fought the fatigue, knowing what was to come if he fell 
asleep. He had to go through the indignity of squatting over the hole 
in the ground, whilst the guards grinned at him. 

He waited, listened in anticipation for the approaching footsteps,
confirming that his torturers were returning. Another unbearable dawn 
had broken; bringing with the rising sun, another nail in his coffin. 
Several flies had been attracted by his cut and ravaged face. 

“Good morning Lieutenant, how are we this morning?” asked the Colonel.
He said something to Lieutenant Al Sadir. The Sergeant removed his 
tunic and rolled up his sleeves. “Are you ready to talk?” 

Mark said nothing. A powerful punch knocked him to the ground, and a rag
was inserted into his bloody mouth. The guards lay him on his back, as 
the Sergeant hovered over him with a pitcher of water. He poured the 
water into the rag, and Mark panicked, trying to kick out with his 
restrained legs. He felt a hand around his testicles, squeezing them 
roughly. He gagged when the water vapour took effect, giving him a 
sensation that he was drowning. After a couple of minutes, he was 
placed back on the stool; his testicles now black. He was yet again 
tethered in his usual position. 

This continued until nightfall; his only respite being the two hours
intervals when they would leave. Three times, he fell off his stool, as 
he fought his battle with drowsiness, only to receive a sound beating. 
He was not allowed to fall unconscious. The water would be there to 
bring him round. 

The darkness brought with it a cold chill. With no electricity, the cell
was lit by candlelight. Mark had been a prisoner now for thirty-six 
hours, and he was not sure how long he could hold out. The sound of the 
returning soldiers filled him with dread. He was again untied and 
forced to sit up. His eyelids by now were so heavy, and he was mumbling 
to himself. He had lost all coordination. 

The Colonel rubbed his hands together. “Brrr, it's cold in here... Well,
Lieutenant; how much longer are you going to keep up with this charade? 
Please, it gives me no pleasure to see you this way. After all, we're 
both soldiers in a sense of the word are we not? Now, where is the 
airbase? Where is the fucking airbase?” 

The cell door opened and a long, sturdy rack was dragged into the room
by the guards. Mark was forced onto the ground, and his bare feet were 
put into the rack and locked. The Sergeant beat his feet with a long 
implement, which resembled a series of whips. Mark screamed out when 
the whip connected. This went on for about fifteen minutes, before they 
tied him up again and left him. 

The pain in his back was now unbearable, along with his aching groin and
his feet, which had been cut to ribbons. He started to weep, softly at 
first, and then loudly; sobbing and mumbling indistinctly. The guards 
mocked him, and got into a routine of stubbing out their cigarettes on 
Mark's naked body. Several times, he fell off his stool and received 
beatings. Later that evening, the guards nodded off, sinking to the 
floor, their backs against the wall. Mark only noticed this because he 
had fallen off his stool yet again, only this time the guards did not 
beat him. 

He noticed a scorpion crawling about a foot in front of him. Mark
watched through his swollen eyes and tried to make a clicking noise, 
like you would attract a dog, only his mouth was too dry. He whimpered, 
as he tried to summon the scorpion, hoping for the poisonous creature 
to end his pain. The cell door opened and the Colonel and his entourage 
entered, yelling at the sleeping guards. The Sergeant crushed the 
scorpion with his rifle, along with it, Mark's salvation. 

“You're lucky we got here in time, Lieutenant, you could've been stung,”
smiled the Colonel. 

Mark was placed back on his stool. 

“Well, have you anything to tell me?” asked the officer, lighting a
cigarette. 

Mark just whimpered. 

The Colonel approached and stubbed the cigarette out on Mark's forehead.


Mark just stared at his tormentor and grinned. 

He was knocked to the floor again and beaten. 

Another day went by and the Colonel appeared to have softened up. Mark
was given a mouthful of water and was told that he could have some 
sleep. 

“S...S...Sleep?” stuttered Mark. 

“Yes, sleep.” 

The guards helped him onto the mattress. A bed had never ever felt so
good. He lay back and sobbed when the candles were extinguished. He 
heard the cell door shut, and shivered on his newly found haven. The 
cold did not bother him so much after his beatings. He closed his eyes, 
and he was on a beach with his wife and children. He was sipping an 
ice-cold beer, as the waves lapped at their bare, cool feet. 

The cell door opened and the soldiers returned and lit the candles. Mark
cried loudly, as he was dragged back to his stool and tethered. 

The Colonel grinned. “Enough sleep for now. Five minutes is a start, is
it not? Now, where is your airbase? Yesterday you told me it was in 
Syria, is that correct?” 

Mark muttered incoherently. “Yesterday, today, tomorrow, yesterday...” 

“Enough; you've tested my patience and now I've had enough.” 

He received the water torture again, and over the next few days, the
visits got less and less. The cruise missiles were getting closer 
everyday, and Mark no longer seemed so important to his captors. Mark 
was allowed some sleep, but on waking up, he regularly taunted the 
guards and received beatings, which he now secretly craved. He had been 
tortured so much, that he welcomed the pain. He needed his fix for the 
day; longing for the beatings like a drug he could not give up. 

Eventually the guards gave up on their torture of the crazy Englishman.
He was not even locked up anymore. He was given the freedom of the 
building, so to speak, but was never allowed to go outside. He used to 
beg the guards to beat him, and received only verbal abuse for his 
trouble. 

One afternoon, the cruise missiles were close, and the bombing was
severe. Mark walked on the balls of his feet to the cell entrance, to 
find it unlocked. He struggled to the main door and gazed out. The 
sudden, bright sunlight rendered him sightless, as he paused for a 
moment. He felt the wonderful sensation of a breeze; warm but welcome, 
as it caressed his swollen face. He crossed the burning sand to the 
well; the numerous flies buzzing around him. People were scurrying 
past, and evading the missiles. 

Mark's slender frame tugged on the rope and pulled the bucket to the
summit of the well. He filled the ladle with the refreshing liquid and 
drank greedily. He giggled like a schoolchild when he poured the water 
over his scarred body. He sat against the well and cried, as he 
witnessed the carnage all around. 

Two days later, he was found wandering around aimlessly by a British
Special Task Force. He had been a prisoner of the Iraqi's for six 
weeks. 

Mark walked slowly towards the blazing bandstand, the old tramp
shuffling after him. 

“Hey, don't get too close.” 

Mark ignored the pleas of the tramp. He walked into the fire; his arms
outstretched. He looked up and laughed loudly when the flames ignited 
his rags. The laughter continued, even when he fell to his knees; the 
flames burning his feeble body.  He welcomed the ultimate pain. 

The police constable turned to the fireman. “Who was he?” 

“Oh, only some tramp.” 


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