The landing craft shuddered to a stop, but the waves lapping the beach seemed too distant to Jack’s eye.

‘This isn’t the bloody beach!’ his lieutenant bellowed.

‘It is! We’ve hit land,’ the coxswain yelled back, wild-eyed and afraid.

‘You’ve hit a fucking sand bank! We can’t get off here, we’re too far out!’

‘I can’t get her any closer, sir! Lower the ramp,’ the coxswain ordered. ‘Get your men off now!’

The lieutenant cursed, slamming his hand against the vessel’s armoured wall. Jack shared his officer’s frustration, but they both knew it was pointless to argue. Their voices collided as they shouted orders to the men. As the ramp cranked down, the whole craft slewed to the side, battered by the rough sea. The young private next to Jack doubled over, his vomit splattering the deck.

Ashen-faced, tin hats low on their brows, the men spilled down the ramp, burdened by their bulky packs, their rifles clasped before them. Jack watched in horror as they disappeared under the waves.

‘Too fucking far out!’ his lieutenant raged.

A few of the soldiers burst through the surface, spluttering, their arms flailing. Others did not.

‘God help us,’ the lieutenant muttered.

They exchanged a sideways glance, then together they charged down the steel ramp as bullets zipped around them. They plunged off the end.

Jack gasped as freezing water enveloped him. He dragged in a final lungful of air as the waves closed over his head.

His leaden pack dragged him downwards. His rifle dropped from his hands as he fought against the sea that had swallowed him whole. Through the grey gloom, bullets darted past him like lightning bolts, while blood feathered the water. Bodies drifted by, limbs suspended, their bleached faces inhabited by vacant eyes. His lungs were ready to explode. Jack knew he was going to die. Stars shimmered in his vision as air bubbled from his nostrils. He could not last much longer. He closed his eyes against the horror around him.

Mickey Jones is not dead.

His eyes flew open.

Gwen.

His numb fingers battled with the straps of his pack and, as soon as he had freed himself of its deadly load, his legs struck out. Kicking wildly, he propelled himself upwards, fighting the hungry pull of the sea with gathering might. He burst through the surface, deafened to the rat-tat-tat of gunfire, the boom of shells and the harrowing screams of men, by the memory of Gwen’s voice.

As he drew air into his strained lungs, his heart powered precious life through his sodden veins. A wave crashed over him, but he forced himself through it, wheezing and thrashing, then he rolled onto his front and began to swim towards the tumult, knocking aside the bodies that drifted into his path. His feet finally hit shingle; the frothing waves shoved him up the beach.