Deep in the barley he saw nothing.

That means they can’t see me . . . Check on the others . . .

He screamed out names to make himself heard above the din and could just make out faint answering shouts. There was nothing for it, he had to get round to everyone and find out for himself. And stay low.

They can’t see you if you stay below the level of the barley.

He crawled back to where Krauja was lying; eyes wide open now, unfocused with terror. But, thankfully, unharmed.

He shook her until she focused on him and he gave her a smile to try to reassure her. “We’ll be OK . . . Just follow me!” he yelled above the noise.

The moment of terror passed and she nodded her agreement. Next they crawled back to find Bradley the giant Kiwi signaler, also unhurt, holding his SA80 above the corn and firing back on automatic, the fierce light of a Maori warrior in his eyes.

“Well done Brad . . . stay close. Aimed shots, if you can. Without getting your head knocked off . . .”

On Morland crawled around the circle. He found Webb, the ODA captain, speaking into his radio. “I’ve sent a TIC—troops in contact report. There’s aircraft up there on call, so we should have close air-support pretty soon.”

“If we can survive that long,” replied Morland.

Slowly he peered above the barley. There were tracer and muzzle flashes from their left, more sporadic now. That had to be that machine gun. More to their rear right. And then, from the perimeter watchtower, the constant fire of the heavier machine gun. It was as he had first thought: they had walked straight into a trap. What was it his instructor had drilled into him in the “Reaction to Ambush” lesson at the School of Infantry at Brecon: “Those caught in the kill zone, assault through using fire and movement.”

Bollocks to that! Whoever wrote that had never been ambushed by the Russians. Time to return fire. Even if there was no possible chance of winning a fire fight with three machine guns. Then find cover.

He yelled at the others, throat straining in an effort to make himself heard above the noise. “Form base line! Rapid fire! Peel off and skirmish to sunken lane!”

Then he tripped over something in the barley. It was the ODA sergeant, lying spread-eagled on the ground. Morland knelt beside him: no movement. He looked to have been hurled backward and onto his side by a burst of machine-gun bullets, which had taken him across the chest. Gouts of blood were still pumping out onto the earth from a series of gaping exit wounds across his back.

Webb, who was following him, joined him, felt the pulse on the sergeant’s neck and shook his head.