‘Yeah, well, some Arab buggers were lobbing grenades at us,’ growled Porter. ‘So there wasn’t really much time for looking around for any bits of your body that might have been shot off.’

In total, the operation had taken no more then twenty minutes, and the doctors assured him he should be fine so long as he kept it clean, and took some heavy duty antibiotics for a couple of weeks. He’d been lucky, they told him. The wound had staunched quickly enough for him not to lose too much blood: any more and he’d have passed out.

No point in signing up for the Regiment if you are going to complain about getting hurt, Porter told himself as he climbed the stairs back towards the deck. It had been that tosser Collinson’s fault for sending him up to the doorway, but those were the breaks. In combat, stuff happened. You just had to live with it.

He looked out at the sea. Taking out a packet of Rothmans, he cupped his hands against the wind, and lit a cigarette. He’d promised Diana he’d give up when she got pregnant, and had managed not to smoke at all on his last leave, but he knew the nicotine would help to dull the pain that would inevitably come raging back once the anaesthetic wore off.

Lucky I don’t hold the fag with my left hand, he grinned to himself as he chucked the ash into the sea swelling up around the side of the ship. With luck, it shouldn’t hurt his career too much. There were plenty of guys in the Regiment who’d lost fingers, but if they could still hold a gun straight, it didn’t count against them. So long as it didn’t disable you, a wound could even help you get ahead: it showed you could take the punishment.

He heard the chopper first, its engine growling out over the sea, then saw its lights. It was flying low, skimming over the waves, before gaining altitude as it came in for a landing on the Dorset’s deck. Porter glanced at his watch. It was now just after ten at night. They’d set off two hours ago for the ten-minute flight. They had a maximum half-hour window to complete the mission. Porter had been on Lebanese soil for only twenty minutes. They should have been back an hour ago at least. What the hell kept them?

Turning round, he watched the Puma hover for a fraction of a second above the deck before the pilot brought it in to land and killed the engine. As the blades stopped turning, you could hear just the lapping of the ocean against the Dorset’s hull, and the humming of her propellers beneath the waves. Six sailors were already running towards the Puma, securing the machine to the deck, and flinging open the hatch.

Porter took a deep drag on the cigarette, letting the nicotine mix with the anaesthetic to soothe his nerves. He watched as the first man stepped out of the chopper. Collinson. The little prat, thought Porter. Didn’t fire a shot throughout the whole mission.