Bob Meadows wasn’t so fast to react, and his slowness cost him his life. From his prone position under the van Ben saw the bullets tear into Meadows’ body, making his body jerk like St Vitus’ dance before he twirled around and collapsed dead on his face in the dirt a few feet away from the van. The bullets went on shredding poor Meadows’ corpse while heavy gunfire peppered the van. One tyre blew, then another; the vehicle settled lower on its suspension and for an instant Ben thought he was going to be crushed under it. He scrambled backwards in the dirt, dragging his carbine by its sling. Emerging from the other side he pulled himself up on one knee and used the van’s rear quarter as cover to rattle off a couple more bursts. The butt of the carbine juddered against his shoulder and spent cartridge cases spewed from the ejector, bouncing and rolling on the ground at his feet.

The volume of the battle was ear-splitting, a constant roar of noise with guns crackling, men shouting, bullets impacting and ricocheting, here and there a shriek as one of them hit a live target, so loud you couldn’t distinguish the sound of your own weapon from the many others all going off at once; total extreme concentration, no time to think, no room for hesitation or pity, kill or be killed. Ben ducked as the van’s taillight exploded inches from him and showered him with plastic shards. Then he nailed the man who’d fired at him in his sights, squeezed the trigger, felt the carbine shudder in his hands, saw the man fall; instantly swivelled his muzzle to track another running figure appearing in a gap between the houses, fired again, saw that one stumble and topple over as well.

In the heat of the moment it was difficult to know what was happening to his comrades around him. Saleem and Mazdak had been standing right next to Goffin when his head had been blown off, but they were now out of sight and Ben had to assume they’d managed to race for the shelter of the stone stable block across to the left. Meanwhile Buchanan, Dixon and Cale had made a break for the corner of the low-roofed house to their right, chased by a zigzagging flurry of bullet impacts as they sprinted for cover. Buchanan made it around the corner, followed by Dixon. Cale was just a few short strides behind them when a red spray erupted from his left thigh. He tumbled over, rolled and lay flat on his belly in the dirt in the middle of the street, still gamely firing back at the enemy.