‘Tiny! Enemies approaching in the ditch. About forty metres from your position,’ Mallet hollered over the comms. ‘Get ready to detonate those Claymores. On my signal.’

Down in the mortar pit, Loader put down a three-round burst and crawled over to the clacker, staying low to avoid the rounds whipping overhead. Enemy bullets and grenade shrapnel splintered the mound of rocks around him. On the far side of the wall, the horde of rebels in the ditch crept towards the north-west corner of the garden.

Closing in on the mortar pit.

Mallet counted down their approach to the team.

‘Rebels are about thirty metres to the Claymores . . . Twenty metres . . . Fifteen.’

Bowman and Webb blasted away at the assault groups to the north.

In the mortar pit, Loader prepared to detonate the Claymore clacker. The enemy rounds were striking dangerously close to his firing point, chipping away at the rocks.

‘Ten metres to the Claymores,’ Mallet said. ‘Five . . . Fire!’

The ditch erupted with a pair of thunderlike booms. The rebels disappeared behind a swirl of blackish smoke, earth and debris. Hundreds of steel balls smashed into their tightly packed ranks, puncturing flesh and bone. Metal fragments and dirt ricocheted off the steep sides of the ditch, increasing the lethal field of debris cutting through the men. The agonised cries of the wounded and the dying split the morning air.

‘They won’t be trying that again for a while,’ shouted Webb.

‘Aye, but it won’t stop the rest of them,’ Mallet said.

Bowman hooked the Gimpy back round to the main assault groups and fired at the next team on the move. The rebels were still pushing forward aggressively. By this point, they had covered almost three-quarters of the ground to the stronghold. In another few minutes, he knew, they would be dangerously close to the main building.

There was still no sign of D Squadron.

He fired another burst. The GPMG glowed red hot, distorting the barrel and rendering the weapon useless.

‘Gimpy’s fucked!’ he shouted as he chucked aside the flaming machine gun. ‘Switching to my rifle.’

Time became a blur. Minutes stretched into hours as the team kept on putting rounds round. Bowman’s eye was suddenly drawn to a puff of smoke from the rebel ranks. He saw one of the fighters launching an RPG at the rooftop and shouted a warning at his comrades. The rocket whistled just over the parapet, missing the team by inches before it self-detonated somewhere in the distance, exploding uselessly over the forest.

‘Christ, that was close,’ Webb hissed.

Bowman got to the end of a clip. He fished out another from the pouch, reloaded. Then he heard Gregory’s voice in his earpiece. ‘I’m out. Repeat, I’ve got no more ammo for the Gimpy.’

‘We’re almost out, too,’ Loader said. ‘Down to our last mags. We’re taking a lot of incoming.’