Jim edged away from the tree and began to crawl towards the enemy machine gun, the bullets of which were zipping all round him. He felt the sting of the bullet as it scored a burning path across his cheek and through his earlobe. It hurt like hell, but he shook his head, ignored the warm trickle of blood he could feel running down his neck and continued to crawl closer to the machine-gunner, his thumb firmly pressed down on the pin of the primed grenade.

Bert and the Gurkhas were still keeping the Japs busy, and Jim had to flatten himself to the ground as someone from his platoon lobbed a grenade, missed the true target by a country mile and nearly blew him to smithereens.

He lay there cursing, his face buried in mud and muck as everything exploded around him. He felt clods of earth and bits of tree land on him, and when he judged it safe enough, he rolled to one side, burrowed beneath the undergrowth surrounding a tree and saw he was within feet of the enemy gunner.

He took his thumb off the grenade and lobbed it, hit the deck and covered his head with his hands as once again bits of Jap and jungle splattered down on him.

With a grunt of disgust, he knocked away the severed foot that was still wearing a boot, and aimed his carbine at a Jap he’d spotted a few feet away, and who was lining him up in his sights. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened, so he quickly rolled away and sank deeper into the undergrowth, the enemy fire following him too closely for comfort. ‘Tree two o’clock,’ he yelled above the rattle of gunfire and the boom of the Brens.

Jim wrestled with the carbine, but it was jammed solid, the barrel too hot to handle. He heard the strangled cry and thud of the Jap’s body as it hit the ground following a barrage of fire, but he was too busy fighting to free his gun to take much notice.

He cursed the gun, cursed his luck and the blasted Japs, who were still firing at him. Just how many of the bastards were there?

He glanced up and saw the Ghurkha on the Bren take a burst of enemy fire in his face and neck. The youth rolled away from his gun, his hand coming up in death to signal the other man to take over. Which he did immediately.

He continued to fight the blasted gun, and had just got it clear when something heavy fell on him and sent him sprawling. He found himself on his back staring into a very dead and chewed-up enemy face. He shoved him off, smeared the blood and gore from his own face, spat to clear his mouth and crawled away to join in the fire-fight.