He found himself in another poor Spanish home, with whitewashed walls and a floor of beaten earth. There was no one here, dead or alive.

The thirty-five men of his platoon followed him through the hole and ran through the place to flush out any defenders. The house was small and empty.

In this way they were moving slowly but safely through a row of cottages towards the church.

They started work on the next hole but, before they broke through, they were halted by a major called Marquez, who came along the row of houses by the route they had made through the walls. ‘Forget all that,’ he said in Spanish-accented English. ‘We’re going to rush the church.’

Lloyd went cold. It was suicidal. He said: ‘Is that Colonel Bobrov’s idea?’

‘Yes,’ said Major Marquez non-committally. ‘Wait for the signal: three sharp blows on the whistle.’

‘Can we get more ammunition?’ Lloyd said. ‘We’re low, especially for this kind of action.’

‘No time,’ said the major, and he went away.

Lloyd was horrified. He had learned a lot in a few days of battle, and he knew that the only way to rush a well-defended position was under a hail of covering fire. Otherwise the defenders would just mow the attackers down.

The men looked mutinous, and Corporal Rivera said: ‘It is impossible.’

Lloyd was responsible for maintaining their morale. ‘No complaints, you lot,’ he said breezily. ‘You’re all volunteers. Did you think war wasn’t dangerous? If it was safe, your sisters could do it for you.’ They laughed, and the moment of danger passed, for now.

He moved to the front of the house, opened the door a crack, and peeped out. The sun glared down on a narrow street with houses and shops on both sides. The buildings and the ground were the same pale tan colour, like undercooked bread, except where shelling had gouged up red earth. Right outside the door a militiaman lay dead, a cloud of flies feasting on the hole in his chest. Looking towards the square, Lloyd saw that the street widened towards the church. The gunmen in the high twin towers had a clear view and an easy shot at anyone approaching. On the ground there was only minimal cover: some rubble, a dead horse, a wheelbarrow.

We’re all going to die, he thought.

But why else did we come here?

He turned back to his men, wondering what to say. He had to keep them thinking positively. ‘Just hug the sides of the street, close to the houses,’ he said. ‘Remember, the slower you go, the longer you’re exposed – so wait for the whistle, then run like fuck.’

Sooner than expected, he heard the three sharp chirrups of Major Marquez’s whistle.

‘Lenny, you’re last out,’ he said.

‘Who’s first?’ said Lenny.

‘I am, of course.’

Goodbye, world, Lloyd thought. At least I’ll die fighting Fascists.

He threw the door wide. ‘Let’s go!’ he yelled, and he ran out.

Surprise gave him a few seconds’ grace, and he ran freely along the street towards the church. He felt the scorch of the midday sun on his face and heard the pounding of his men’s boots behind him, and noted with a weird sentiment of gratitude that such sensations meant he was still alive. Then gunfire broke out like a hailstorm. For a few more heartbeats he ran, hearing the zip and thwack of bullets, then there was a feeling in his left arm as if he had banged it against something, and inexplicably he fell down.