Suddenly, a burst of gunfire rained down on the barn, slashing branches from the surrounding trees and sending startled pigeons flapping in all directions. Men dived for shelter as soil, stones and bullets sprayed into the air. Stephen found cover behind a bale of hay. The attack seemed to last for hours, though in reality, it was no longer than a minute or two. When a calm settled on the barn he emerged cautiously, unsure whether to trust the silence.

Edward Taylor was lying on the ground with his jaw ripped from his skull. Where the lower part of his face should have been, there was only blood gushing down the front of his uniform. His agony didn’t last long. He lost consciousness before Stephen reached his side, his eyes rolling back in his head, his breathing rasping and gurgling. Moments later, he let out a ghastly death-sound and was gone. Will was crouched next to him, sobbing and incoherent. Stephen laid a hand on his shoulder. Will howled and buried his head in his brother’s chest.

The woods had been the perfect hide-out for a German ambush. Stephen castigated himself bitterly for his stupidity. He should never have let his guard down, he should have realised there were always Germans lurking nearby, waiting for a chance to attack. His men had been sitting ducks eating and singing in the perilous light of the moon. What was the use if he couldn’t even keep them safe on rest?

Leaving the others to care for Will as best they could, Stephen took his pistol and went into the woods. He followed the line of fire and started off in that direction, but he didn’t know which way the men had gone, or how many there were. Something had snapped in him. He wanted to kill, to batter the Kraut bastards to death with his bare hands. His rage drove him forward.

The moonlight didn’t penetrate the tangled trees, so he searched with his torch; its thin beam trailing over branches that looked like skeleton limbs, a few dead leaves still clinging to them. Once, the yellow eyes of some animal, probably a deer, shone back at him, then disappeared as it crashed back into the thicket.

The ground was a mess of tree roots and splintered, broken wood. As he groped his way forwards, he tripped and fell heavily, cutting open his palm, but scrambled to his feet and carried on without bothering to staunch the blood. He heard a sudden rustling ahead of him. Quick as a flash, he fired half a dozen shots in the direction of the sound. There was the noise of someone falling and a thin, choked cry that made his heart stop. Something was dreadfully wrong.