We’d been sheltering from the midday sun in an abandoned courtyard on the edge of a village. We were just getting ready to leave, hoisting our rucksacks onto our backs, when we heard gunfire. You never get used to it. The crack of an AK47. The whoosh of a rocket-propelled grenade as it hurtles over your head. It stops your heart for a few seconds. “RPG!” someone shouted at the top of their voice. We all hit the ground. I heard the rocket explode just beyond the courtyard. Then I heard a shower of shrapnel hitting the ground. I looked round to check none of my friends had been hit. All the guys – there were sixteen of us – were lying on their fronts. So was Charlie. Unlike the men, he didn’t look scared. He was alongside Sam, still, but alert. There was a moment of silence. And then the enemy opened fire again. We could tell they were close. Between thirty and fifty metres. I tried to work out how many guns were firing. I couldn’t. There were too many. This was a heavy attack.
