After a while one of the men noticed them. He was about their own age but bigger than either of them, shoulders like a grenadier’s. He raised an arm in greeting, shouted something neither could make sense of but which made the others laugh. He swam to the bank and waded out on to the curve of river-gravel that served them as a beach. He was as naked as the sleepers in the grass. He stood there, unashamed, as the water poured off him. He welcomed them, called himself Phyrro (though later, Calley would say he had called himself Boy-o like a Welshman). He was, he said, a pilgrim, a traveller, an apostle. He invited them to take off their clothes and come into the water. “All men are brothers,” he said. “And the women”—waving his hand towards a group of females who, dressed and red-faced from the heat, were busy tramping the long grass and preparing a camp—“they are our brothers too.” He grinned endearingly, then turned away and walked his heavy arse back into the water.

For another minute Calley and Medina watched them. Then Medina sat on the grass and began tugging at a boot. “Even on campaign,” he said, “there is some resting. Some pleasure.”

Calley made a sound, a little reflex of contempt, but raised no objection. Medina dropped his clothes around him, stepped down on to the gravel. The touch of the river against his bare feet excited him. He laughed and, to the cheering of the other swimmers, threw himself into the deeper water, surfacing again in their midst, his black hair flattened against his cheeks.

Some of the women came to the bank. They were of different ages, though most seemed young. They wore walking boots and dusty-hemmed dresses. They had the practical appearance of camp followers, looked fitter than the men, wore on their faces the cheerful, unfocused smiles of the devoted. They bobbed their heads to Medina, but soon returned their gaze to the large man, to Phyrro.