He saw his shadow grow longer. Walk to the left, steady as you go, his grip clammy on the handle. Hold firm. Don’t let it slip. He could feel the sweat sting as it ran into his eyes, could feel it dripping down his neck, soaking his shirt. The lights faded. Don’t follow me, do not follow me. A hundred yards. Don’t think. Keep walking. A rabbit darted across his path and John jumped, jerking his arm. He stopped, held his breath, his arm trembling. He grabbed his elbow with his free hand. Waited. Nothing. A close shave. Phew. Steady, steady. Could he quicken his pace, get this over with? The road looked smooth ahead. He had been good at running. He could sprint, be there in half a minute, half the time. His breath was light, his muscles taut, the taste of iron and blood flooding his mouth. Fifty yards. Steady as you go. Forty. Could he throw it from here? Thirty yards. He’d been in the first eleven, after all, opened the bowling against Whitgift in the Surrey Schools. Take a run and bowl it? Twenty yards. Could he risk it? Ten yards. Five. Four.

He raised his arm, flicked his wrist and released the grenade. Turned and ran. Behind him he heard a splash. And nothing. Running and running, eyes blind, feet flying. Nothing.

Arthur was standing by the truck, began to clap as John drew near. They were all clapping. John grabbed the tailgate, sat down on the tailboard, held his head in his hands, his body quivering, out of control.

‘That was something, sir,’ Arthur said, handing him a lighted cigarette and a bottle. ‘We’ll have a brew-up, the lads and I,’ he said. ‘But I thought you’d need something stronger.’

John pulled the stopper, took a swig, expecting a raw, burning liquid to scald his throat, but what he swallowed was warm and smooth. He looked at the bottle. Hermitage. Grand Cognac. 1895.

‘Blimey,’ he said. His hand was shaking. He wanted to cry.

Arthur stood in front of him, silhouetted against the evening sky. ‘We’re proud of you, sir,’ he said, laying a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘I want to say, on behalf of all of us. You saved our lives. And what you did for the boy, that was charity, sir. Pure charity.’

John nodded, knuckles pressed against his mouth, the enormity of what he’d done beginning to shape itself in front of him.

‘We’ve agreed, sir,’ Arthur went on. ‘The lads and me. We’ll let them know your bravery. You’ll be mentioned in despatches. I don’t think any of us could have done that, sir.’

John looked up at his sergeant and smiled.

‘None of you would have been so stupid.’

‘And, sir,’ Arthur went on, ‘none of us saw that missing phial of morphine. They must have miscounted it, don’t you agree, sir?’