Everything around Ben seemed to be happening in slow motion and he felt almost peaceful. War was his element, totally familiar to him in every way, and it seemed perfectly natural to him that he should meet his end this way.

But through the all-pervading, sense-numbing, blood-pumping din of battle came another sound that was decidedly unfamiliar to him. Catching a glimpse of Wolf’s startled expression, it was clear that he had heard it too.

The clatter of iron-shod hooves on rock. Lots of them. And it was coming from somewhere above him. Ben glanced up, in the same direction Wolf was now gaping with a look of incredulity. What he saw made him think he must be hallucinating.

Down the half-collapsed face of the escarpment came a spectacle Ben had never dreamed of seeing in his life, let alone at this moment. It was a cavalry charge, some forty or fifty riders all clad in colourful Afghan tribal garb, leaning back in the saddle and firing automatic weapons one-handed as they spurred their horses down the steep paths of rock and rubble carved out by the shell bombardment. At their head rode a man who was obviously their commander, astride a magnificent long-maned white stallion with his reins in his teeth and a pistol in each hand.

They came cascading down on the astonished Taliban fighters, many of whom stopped shooting and stood there dumbstruck as they were either trampled under the thundering hooves or able to scatter in panic out of the path of the charge. Two riders leaped into mid-air from their mounts as they reached the foot of the slope, landed as nimbly as acrobats on the armoured car’s open turret, and in the blink of an eye the bearded face that had been smiling before now screamed in agony as their curved daggers sliced his throat and punched into his body. They hurled his bloody corpse from the turret and he slithered to the ground where a big wheel rolled over him. Then they were diving into the open hatch, and over the sound of gunfire came more hideous screams as the knife work inside the vehicle was carried out with brutal efficiency. While the tank crew was being dispatched, the forty or fifty horses had all reached the foot of the escarpment and were quickly riding down the Taliban fighters.

It had seemed like a much longer time than the actual one or two seconds Ben had needed to get over his initial stunned shock and realise what was happening. This large unit of tribal militia had been drawn by the sound of the battle and decided to seize this opportunity to wipe out some of their most hated enemies.

Ben had long ago stopped believing in miracles. Maybe it was time to rethink that one.