Gerhard shot him first. It wasn’t an immediate kill shot but it stopped the gunman in his tracks as he fell to his knees, clutching at his guts. Gerhard fired again, didn’t hit anyone and took three quick strides to Leon. He grabbed Leon’s Sten, fired it in a spray burst from left to right. Then he pulled Leon’s good arm over his shoulder and dragged him back.

Leon’s feet kept moving, helping to push them towards the door.

Gerhard fired again. But after a couple of rounds the magazine was empty.

Gerhard threw it away. His rifle was still over his shoulder. Trapped there by Leon’s body.

The two of them were only three or four feet from the door. The Mau Mau were so close Gerhard could hear their breathing, smell their bodies, almost feel the blades about to cut into his flesh.

‘Drop me!’ Leon gasped, wincing with pain.

Gerhard kept hold of him.

He was almost at the door. It was closed.

But closed or open, it didn’t matter. They were dead either way.

At the front of the house, the Mau Mau made their move. They advanced like proper soldiers: groups of one or two darting out from their cover and running to the next shelter while the others shot at the front rooms.

The ones who had gone forward first provided the fire while the others leapfrogged them to a more advanced position.

A few shots rang out from the windows on either side of the front door. But none came from upstairs. The white man who had been up there had left his post: one less danger to worry about.

Kabaya had a small, precious stock of hand grenades, captured from British soldiers. He had given three to a carefully selected trio of the frontal attackers. They were now close enough to make accurate throws.

One after another they popped up from behind their cover, threw and jumped back down again before they could be shot.

The first grenade hit the verandah that provided shelter to the front door, blowing it to smithereens. The second missed the door, hitting the wall to its right. The blast obliterated the window of the dining room where Bill Finney was stationed, parted the curtains intended to act as protective screens and studded him with a myriad needle-sharp fragments of glass and wood.

Muriel Finney screamed. She had been several feet from the blast, loading her husband’s shotgun. She was thrown to the middle of the room, mortally wounded, with the gun in her hand and the window gaping open as the Mau Mau ran towards the house.

The third grenade thrower darted forward another few yards before letting go of his projectile, which flew straight and true before coming to rest about three feet from the front door.