‘Which button was it? I think that’s it…’ Benny stamped up to a piece of machinery and angled the bottom corner of her sheet at it. She swung the metal deftly and the corner hit a button dead centre.

A square opening appeared in the side of the dome. ‘Come on!’ Benny called.

‘Run!’

The two awkward fugitives scrambled out into the forest and jogged away as fast as they could manage doubled up.

‘At least we’ll be safe if they start shooting at us,’ murmured Alexander.

‘Now these’⁠ — Rocastle held up a smooth, shiny-jacketed bullet pulled from the belt that fed the Vickers gun⁠ — ‘are for enemy armies. Austrians, we might assume, Serbians or Germans. These will go right through the body and leave a clean, decent wound or kill instantly, as such noble enemies deserve.’

The boys were clustered around, listening intently as Rocastle sat on a sandbag behind the machine-gun, their imaginations racing across landscapes of cavalry charges and courageous squares of men in uniform. He held up another bullet, a square, sharp-edged one. ‘This is for tribesmen, rebels and those whose creed is unchristian, thus disallowing them from the basic brotherhood of all professional soldiers.’

‘Please, sir,’ Merryweather raised his hand, ‘did you use those in Pretoria?’

‘Well, ah…’ Rocastle stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘What can I say, Captain Merryweather? Mixture of both. Brother Boer doesn’t always behave like a serious soldier. Most of them were farmers with knives between their rotten teeth. Not our decision to make; anyhow, use of weapons is down to the C.O. Anyhow, enough stories. Shall we give it a go?’

‘Yes, sir!’ chorused the boys.

‘All right then. Phipps, you’ve seen how to pass the ammo belt. Pay attention, boys, you’ll all get a chance to fire her. Stand clear now. Don’t get near the cartridge ejection.’

The boys hurried behind the machine-gun as Rocastle trained it on a row of straw figures in the middle distance. Phipps got down on one knee and grabbed the belt of ammunition that fed into the side of the gun.

‘Is the line of fire clear?’ asked Rocastle ritually.

‘Yes, sir!’ shouted Phipps.

‘Stand by to fire.’ Rocastle slipped the safety catch off. ‘Fire!’

The noise of the bullets ripped up the air, hot cartridges spinning out of the gun.

The boys took a step back, gritting their teeth against the urge to put their hands over their ears or to cry. The targets spat straw everywhere, buffeted as they hung as if they were being tom apart by some invisible monster.

‘Sir! Christ, sir!’ Phipps shouted. ‘Stop!’

‘What did you say?’ Rocastle bellowed, referring to the blasphemy rather than the sound. Then he saw it himself, and let go of the trigger.

Behind the targets, a dishevelled figure was pushing through the hedge, its school uniform in tatters.

‘Tim,’ whispered Anand.