We reached the track at 6.40 and stopped to listen. Twenty minutes in hand. Suddenly, into the silence, floated a wolf chorus, coming from much farther off than the howling the night before. Turning to look behind me, I saw that the moon had appeared over the eastern horizon, enormous and pale. For maybe a minute the distant, eerie wailing rose and fell. Then it died away.

We moved downhill until we came to the junction and the path that led to the hayfield. It crossed my mind that perhaps, for maximum security, we should continue to push our way through the trees, rather than use the track. But then I thought, To hell with it. There’s nobody about. Let’s just get there.

By 6.50 we were on the edge of the field, which glowed brilliant white in the moonlight.

‘They’ll see this, all right, when they jump,’ I whispered.

Sasha nodded. I saw him swallow, and sensed that he was just as hepped up as I was.

‘I’ve told them this is the forming-up point, by the old wagon,’ I said quietly. ‘You stay here, just in case anyone’s been following us up. Keep back against that tree-trunk, in the shadow. As soon as I’ve collected everyone I’ll bring them over. OK?’

‘Da, da.’ Sasha nodded vigorously, then said, ‘Good luck!’

I punched him on the arm and moved away, skirting the edge of the field to keep in shadow. At 6.55 I stopped to wait, half-way up the long side, and stared to the south-east, way out among those millions of stars. I knew the Here would be coming on the same path we’d used, flying at 28,000 feet. I also knew that I’d never see it or even hear it. All the same, I couldn’t help searching for it in that phenomenal sky. I imagined the tailgate descending, the red warning lights, the guys lined up, three abreast, packed tightly together and laden with all their gear, toddling towards the lip at the back of the cabin floor with good old Pat Newman overseeing.

A minute to go. Maybe the plane was late. No – the SF air crews could hack it to the second. In that case, the Here must be almost overhead.

I walked out a few metres into the field and stood in the open, feeling very exposed. Twenty seconds to run . . . ten . . . five, four, three, two, one. P Hour.

Now – where were they?

I found I was holding my breath, and had to make a conscious effort to relax. Were the lads on their way? It was almost impossible to believe that twenty bodies were hurtling down towards me at terminal velocity, a thousand feet every five seconds. Twenty-four thousand feet in two minutes. Then the chutes would deploy at 4,000 feet . . .