The business with Marrak was the most interesting thing that happened in all of those first two weeks; so when changeover time came round, Chris was eager to get out on patrol. The other multiple swaggered into the checkpoint buzzing with stories of the ferocious firefights that Chris’s lot had been hearing in the distance for the past few days. Chris was nervous but excited. Lately, his most childish daydream had been irresistible: the one in which he and his men were in mortal danger, with everyone looking to him for salvation as he bent friend and foe alike to his will through cunning and audacity. Chris had never spoken about this fantasy to anyone. Obviously he didn’t really want his men to be in that kind of danger. He was, however, pleased to think that he would at last have the chance to find out whether he actually had it in him to soldier – to confirm that he wouldn’t fall apart at the first hint of real danger, forsaking his men and thinking only of his own safety.

But the enemy seemed to have taken an impromptu holiday, and now he was facing the prospect of a return to the checkpoints with little to show for his time on the ground. He was becoming increasingly concerned that the current lull in fighting might come to define the whole tour in his area. Even here, in Mirwais Kalay – known to be a particularly vulnerable location – Chris felt he was going through the motions. As he spread his troops out to cover the different approaches to the Kalay, he sensed that the men were just as fed up as he was. Muscles were aching, attention was wandering, the heat was bearing down. It was time, Chris decided, to head back to base.

He radioed Corporal Robinson, his second-in-command. ‘Two two bravo, this is two two alpha, close in on my location for face-to-face, over.’

Robbo’s Dorset burr came crackling back at once: ‘Two two bravo, roger, on my way.’

Chris looked down the litter-strewn street. Robbo was only thirty metres away – he had clearly been heading over already. Beyond him he could see the rear men of the patrol spread out in a loose arc, some kneeling, some prone, covering the way they’d just come. Chris could tell from the rhythm of Corporal Robinson’s walk that he wasn’t happy. He liked the corporal, but a pissed-off NCO, especially one as experienced as Robbo, was an unnerving thing for a junior officer.

‘All right, Robbo?’

Robbo tapped his wrist. ‘We need to get back to the PB. I know we said we’d stop here, boss, but fucking … new blokes not carrying enough water because they can’t hack the weight.’