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some minor interaction with the locals or big trouble. His pulse quickened and his heart beat loudly in his ears just the same. The shouting was getting boisterous. Martin and Aaron looked at each other and without saying a word they unbuckled their seat belts and jumped out of the Jackal.
    At least fifteen men surrounded the lead vehicle. The same number again rushed forward, swarming around Martin and the others. He didn’t see where they came from. His eyes darted from man to man, trying to assess the situation, hostile or neutral? Friend or foe? His training told him that he had a few seconds to decide whether it was a handshake or bullet that awaited him. The group wore clothes spattered with mud and food; gaping sleeves had been worn shiny through age and lack of detergent. They were dressed the same, with identical straggly beards that hung beneath tightly wrapped shemaghs. They were a variety of ages and statures, but all bore the same desperate , bloodshot eyes. It was impossible to ascertain their motive. Martin saw at least one child among the group, boy or girl he couldn’t tell, but enough of a distraction to cause his trigger finger to recoil in hesitation. Sweat trickled into his eyes; he didn’t have a free hand to remove the irritation.
    The Afghanis kept their faces covered, surging forward; some with outstretched hands, others with fists clenched. Coiled around what? Grenade or gift? Martin tried to read the intention as the crowd breached the gap between them. A statuesque American, with chiselled jaw, flat-topped, cropped hair and visibly chewing gum, pulled a pistol from the holster strapped to his thigh and raised it above his head. Martin waited to hear the warning shot. Instead, the American brought his arm swiftly down and smashed it across the nose of a man standing within striking range. ‘Back off! Back off now!’ he barked his instruction to the throng.
    Martin watched the man stagger backwards into the arms of his countrymen. Blood snaked towards his mouth from a nose that was smashed, flattened. Martin, as ever, had one eye on the underdog. Here it was the unarmed, but not so long ago it was a little girl in the playground called Poppy Day, who wanted to disappear into her shoes.
    ‘Hey, pal! Go easy!’
    The American’s colleague flashed Martin a look that told him to keep his mouth shut, this was not his patrol and he was a guest.
    He sidled closer to Martin, whispering through a mouth twisted sideways, his eyes on the crowd, ‘Listen up, rookie, when you’ve seen what he’s seen and done what he’s done then you have a right to comment, until then zip it!’
    The crowd held their rigid stance, staring wide-eyed with adrenalin pumping, rocking on heels, arms stiff, jaws locked, ready to go. It was the same posture witnessed in the wee small hours on any Saturday night, at any taxi rank, in any British city. There was a moment of stillness before the outbreak of pandemonium. Guns appeared from beneath garments, transforming the crowd of locals into soldiers with a desire to fight that shone from unflinching eyes. Martin smelt the sharp tang of sweat emanating from the group. They were unpredictable and close.
    ‘Oh shit.’
    This was the last thing he would hear Aaron say.
    The mob around both cars pitched forward, shouting louder, some screaming. It was impossible to figure out what was going on with so much noise and movement.
    Suddenly, there were gunshots; both the rapid fire of the insurgents and the single aimed shots of allied guns. The deafening crack of gunfire filled the air. Martin couldn’t gauge which weapons the shots were coming from. It would be nice to say that every combatant knew what to do; comforting for the relatives of those affected to believe the level of training and battle competence meant the soldiers knew how to keep themselves safe when it mattered. It would be nice to say, but it wouldn’t be the truth. No amount of training or textbook theory could