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    Four days of fearful driving along rocky tracks, and of crossing fast flowing streams by fords or rickety bridges. Four days of  checking the GPS. All the time we scanned the sky, and at every corner and bridge we stopped to see if there was an Iranian Revolutio n ary Guard patrol up ahead. Although I calculated that the Iranians would think they had bagged the whole gang when the aircraft caught Ra'ashid on the plateau, we never really knew if there wasn't a check point or ambush round every bend.  The closer we got to the border, the sl o wer and more  nerve-wracking it became.
    Once, high up, we saw con trails. Through the glasses I could just make out the glint of jet fighters; they were probably a patrol.  Reconnaissance planes, looking for us?  We redoubled our vigilance. No-one wanted to blunder into an Iranian border patrol so close to freedom.
    Although we could avoid the villages easily enough,  wandering bloody tribesmen and villagers were another matter.   Even the tattiest village would have a telephone to Tehran or the local  fire brigade, I reckoned.   Goatherds were our biggest problem.  In the most barren cluster of rocks, miles from anywhere, you could run into a scruffy bundle of rags, tending a bunch of equally scruffy goats. We avoided them all, at whatever it cost in time.  Nusret shot one we met who saw us, just to be safe. He hadn't been more than a kid, snotty-nosed and begging for mercy. I know I’m supposed to be a cold hearted bastard, but I still didn’t like it. But it had to be done. We couldn’t risk him blabbing to his family. Even the dirtiest border village would have one phone. Being nice would have signed our death warrant. He had to go. From behind and in the back of the head, while he was still pleading with Yusif – bang!  He would never have felt a thing. Still, we all felt ashamed.   Even now, although it had to be done, it's something better never dragged up out of the deep well of dark thoughts.  To this day the sound of that shot echoing around the hills still haunts me.  We hid his body under some rocks and drove on in an ashamed, grim silence, leaving the abandoned goats bleating on the hillside.
    Apart from that, we saw nothing, except mile after mile of rocks and scrub and mountains. And every day my dysente r y got worse, and the pain in my stomach grew. The blood was running out of my arse so much by the last day that I had to shove a field dressing pad down my pants.  It was disgusting.
    About noon on the fifth day, with dieso running low, the GPS said we were about seven miles inside Turkey. We'd seen some markers in the night, but weren't sure if it was the border. I pulled out the beacon radio and switched it to auto transmit . I cou l dn't risk too long a transmission. Iranian direction finders were sure to pick it up, and in these mountains who would ever know if an Iranian helicopter strayed a few klicks over the border for a clandestine smash and grab of three of the Ayatollah’s most wanted?
    After about two minutes the set responded and Sal's twang, not forty miles away, bounced back from a satellite a hundred miles up, acknowledging my existence and telling me to switch on the SARBE. Tired, I bundled up the little collapsible satellite aerial, its spokes clawed out like a spider, and prepared to re-enter civilisation. Nusret and Yusif stared blankly at me, numbed by fatigue. We were all tired, hungry and, in my case, sick.
    Half an hour later in a cold dawn a Turkish Army helicopter clattered overhead, homing in on the beacon. It landed alongside and Sal's saturnine Italian features leered out.
    "Hi!  What kept you?  We'd kinda given you guys up for lost."  He eyed us up and down. “Tough trip, huh?  You look like shit. You should see your face pal.  Yellow's the fashion colour, huh?  Nice!   You OK?"
    "And it's a pleasure to see you too, Sal, you fat , lazy rear echelon Yankee bastard....  I hope your bloody soft armchair has