Although the helicopter never altered its intricate pattern, gradually drawing farther away from them, something about its disposition caused him to feel, with increasing certainty, that they were being trailed from in front.

A well-trained soldier would consider no other course of action. To turn back would be to warn them; to stay in formation and talk the infantry in by radio might well be to deceive them.

After five more minutes, MacConnachie could ignore his instinct no longer. They had to act. The sense of a trap jangled all around him.

The moment they descended into ground dead to the aircraft, behind a slight rise, he called,

‘Go right.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I think we’ve been spotted.’

They ran, crouching low, along to their right, keeping behind the rise. After two hundred yards they came to a gully into which they dropped. By working their way along it through the scrub tangled in its floor, they were able to emerge behind a second feature higher than the first. Hauling themselves out, they wormed their way to the top.

‘He’s still in formation,’ said Ansell. ‘Where does that get us?’

‘Wait and see.’

But in the next fifteen minutes, the helicopter made no deviation whatever from its pre-set pattern. MacConnachie swore.

‘Christ! He’s better than I thought.’

‘He may not have seen us.’

‘That’s the trouble, we don’t know.’

Again they waited, but nothing happened. Ansell said,

‘So what do we do?’

MacConnachie scowled in frustration.

‘We stay in dead ground.’

‘We’ll lose a lot of time.’

‘We haven’t any choice. If he did spot us, he’s lost us now. Let’s keep it that way.’

‘But if he did spot us, the Goons will be coming up behind like the clappers.’

‘I know that!’ shouted MacConnachie, suddenly furious.

They were both tired, and badly in need of their midday break, but they kept going, always in the worst conditions, driven once more into the low ground that they hated, floundering on, struggling up gullies, creeping from dip to dip, for ever searching ahead for the next patch of dead ground. At times they were forced to detour by as much as four hundred yards, but never once did the helicopter make any move to come after them. At last, sweaty and maddened, MacConnachie halted.

‘He’s not that good, for Christ’s sake!’

But Ansell said nothing, watching MacConnachie struggle with years of training that told him to move on, not to stop, to get into higher ground before he rested. At length, gracelessly, MacConnachie said,

‘Five minutes. But keep watch! We won’t drink yet, we’ll see if we need it at the end of the rest.’

Ansell sat opposite him, and closed his eyes. Then he heard MacConnachie say, ‘Here, take a pull at this,’ and felt the neck of the canteen at his mouth, and then the water splashing sharply into his throat. He gulped quickly and pushed the canteen away.

‘Um. Fine. Fine.’

MacConnachie screwed the stopper back on. Ansell said,