There was no way of knowing in which direction they were flying. He even found it difficult to keep track of the time. Had they been in the air for half an hour? An hour? Longer? His clothes had dried out a little, although his walking boots were still soggy. He was also ravenous. He fished inside his backpack for one of his foil ration packs. The lettering on the side said ‘Sausage and Beans’ but he’d tried every variety on his CCF field trip and they all tasted the same: awful. He tore it open and squeezed the cold, sludgy food into his mouth. He didn’t care that it was disgusting. It was fuel and he needed it.

A wave of tiredness overcame him. His muscles ached, and so did his brain. His eyes felt heavy. He slept.

It was the man in black who woke him, by shaking his shoulder. Max started violently. For a second he couldn’t work out where he was. But then he saw the tailgate of the Chinook lowering. A pale grey light flooded in, hurting Max’s eyes after the relative darkness of the Chinook. He could just make out the silhouette of a figure standing at the base of the tailgate.

‘Get a move on,’ said the man in black. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

Max unclipped himself and stood up groggily. He followed the man down the tailgate and emerged in yet another wet field. It was many degrees colder, almost freezing. Rain was still falling, but here it was a thick grey sleet that temporarily settled on the ground before melting. Looking around, Max saw that they were surrounded by mountains. Around him there was a collection of single-storey buildings. They had curved roofs made of corrugated iron. Max recognised them as World War II Nissen huts. There were seven in a row. Beyond them stood a large, bleak-looking house of grey stone.

The figure Max had seen at the bottom of the tailgate was a young man. He had sandy hair and an open, honest, ruddy face with smile lines on his cheeks. His nose was wonky – it looked like it had once been broken – but somehow that only made him look friendlier. He was wearing military camouflage gear.

‘This him, Hector?’ he asked the man in black.

Hector, if that was his name, scowled at the young man, nodded, and strode off towards the Nissen huts. The young man inclined his head. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think he’d be in such a good mood.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Max said.

The young man shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I think he likes you. You’re lucky. He doesn’t like everybody.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Woody.’