Arthur had crawled to the tailgate, pointed his rifle, squinting into its sights. John shuddered, retching, heart pummelling, hard, heavy thumps, but he followed the angle, saw the machine gun draped in the white window lace, watched as it lifted and aimed. And fell. Arthur’s shot caught the sniper square on. The squaddies were crouched next to him and John could hear their short, sharp breaths, smell their iron sweat. He could taste the metal in his own mouth. The truck had picked up speed, rattling and jolting them as it sped over the cobbles, around the corner, out of the village, onto the open road. And stopped. In front of them was the first truck, with the major and the scientists.

John wasn’t sure he hadn’t messed himself. His gut cramped and curdled and his underpants felt warm. That bullet was a hair’s breadth away from his own neck. He knew his hand was trembling, but the men were looking at him. Second Lieutenant. He had to take charge. These seasoned men knew the ropes better than he. But no revenge, no revenge. This was not their target, not their destination. The men were clambering off the lorry, leaving him alone with the dead body and its severed head. He had to get up, walk past.

‘Lieutenant?’

John pushed himself onto his feet, walked towards the tailboard, jumped to the ground, saluted as best he could.

‘Bloody snipers,’ the major said. ‘I gather you’ve a casualty.’

John nodded. ‘Private Nash.’ He breathed in as deep as he could and tilted his head towards the truck. ‘Poor bugger.’ He hoped he sounded braver than he felt, in command.

‘We’ll leave him for our boys to pick up,’ the major said. ‘We’ve radioed through already.’

‘You don’t want us to take the rest out then, sir?’ Arthur asked.

‘No, Sergeant,’ the major said. ‘That’s not our job.’

Arthur was drumming his fingers against the barrel of his rifle. This was not how war went. John swallowed, caught his breath. Leadership.

‘You got the sniper, Sergeant, and well done,’ he said, thinking fast, remembering the stories he’d heard in the mess of other snipers, other skirmishes. ‘For all we know there could be another thirty in the house. They could put up a fight. Or they could all surrender. Either way, there’s nothing we can do. There’s not enough of us to handle it.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ the major said. ‘Well said. Arrange for Private Nash’s body to be organised for pick-up. Your driver has the co-ordinates. We’ll push on.’

They saluted. John watched as he strode towards the first truck and swung himself into it. He heard the engine start and rev, the crash of gears, the chug of the engine as it left, leaving John in charge.

‘I’ve detailed the men, sir.’