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Our fire intensified, decimating the position. The boys closed in, metres away from the falling shots, then just feet. If I aimed a quarter inch to the left the fire would split Bernie’s head open like a cantaloupe. I gripped the weapon with all my strength, as if some imaginary force might draw the barrel towards him.

Ken left it to the last moment. ‘GUN GROUP, switch fire to the right – bunker, 450 metres, rapid FIRE.’

I swivelled the Gimpy on its tripod until the sight met the target. BLAP, BLAP, click.

Ken was on me. ‘Clear that stoppage!’

I cracked the top cover and racked the working parts, which jammed in protest. I pulled on the lever with all my strength. Not now, you bastard, open …

The bolt whipped back, I peeled off the belt and cleared the smouldering link obstructing the feed, slapped on a fresh belt … rack, engage …

The gun chewed through the belt like confetti; targets rose and fell. I must have gone through at least 350 rounds.

‘BARREL CHANGE,’ I shouted, putting Johnny on notice to hold the fort. I fired through the belt and sprung into action, dislodged the smoking barrel, attached the fresh one and carried on. The rifle group closed in again. Grenadiers took out the bunker as we went cyclic on the guns and blew it to smithereens.

The boys cleared through the final position and took off up a re-entrant, a small cutting that covered their movement. It was our turn to run.

Our charred fingers gathered up all the bits and bobs. Ken rushed us along, piling on the pressure. Gun over the shoulder, start running. The burning first gasps of air rushed through the backs of our throats. By the time we reached the blokes, Johnny was waddling like a pregnant duck. In between bursts of fire at an imaginary enemy, I cradled the Gimpy like a newborn baby, with arms jacked too full of lactic acid for my hands to hold it.

Geordie beasted us through fire positions all the way up the re-entrant. Everyone was ball-bagged. It felt like having bench pressed one too many and not even being able to get the bar back into the rack. Do you cry for help, or just slow down a little?

‘I’m gonna start FACKIN’ PUNCHING CUNTS. Fackin’ MOOOVE,’ Ken screeched.

A gnat’s fart could have blown me over.

‘Stop.’

I quietly puked some baked beans.

‘Well done, lads,’ Geordie said. ‘Sometimes a breakaway like that goes on for hours. You stop pushin’ and you die, it’s that simple. Have a ten-minute break, sort yer shit out, everyone ready to leave in five minutes.’

We tabbed into the night and returned to our base in the woods. ‘Stagging on’ was never a popular part of field routine and involved fighting to stay conscious during the small hours to provide security for the patrol, whilst every fibre of your being begged for sleep. Sleep deprivation, the stress of constant evaluation, cold, hunger and arduous exercise made your eyes welt.

My head barely had time to sink into my gonk bag before I was thumped in the ribs by the sentry I was replacing. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me out of bed at home when I was feeling this tired.

My face screwed up like a walnut. I double-checked there was a round in my weapon, peeled off the warm bag and re-attached my webbing. I slipped on my cold wet boots and stood like an old man. My smock was next to go on; the sweat from the day had had just enough time to freeze. I moved quietly and carefully through the jungle of para cord, camp paraphernalia and prone bodies.

I found Ninja drooped over his rifle, barely awake. I had to make sure we both remained alert until he was relieved. We scanned constantly for the ‘enemy’, but the only real fight on offer was with our eyelids.

The only way to stay awake was to have deep and meaningful conversations that would inspire enough cerebral activity to stay conscious.

‘Jelly baby,’ Ninja grunted.

‘I’m out,’ I replied.

I pushed a grubby hand into my smock pocket and carefully extracted a paper packet. I tipped half the coffee powder on to my tongue before passing the rest