There was a rag doll flying through the air. The doll looked like Steve Buckle. His body formed a perfect arc, an arc of helplessness. He flew slowly, like an empty suit floating through deep, blue water. When his leg came off, its trajectory had a peculiarly graceful beauty. Then the body was hurtling towards earth and there was another body falling too. Dave had time to register that this was Jordan Nelson before he took cover from the hail of fire now directed at the exposed men in the shattered Vector.

He looked around. How many more men had he lost? But they were all there, faces bloody and dirty and shocked, looking at him, waiting for him to lead them.

'You two, get out there, sort them out.' Dave shoved Mal and Angus towards the casualties. Moments later, blue smoke was billowing around their twisted bodies. One of them was screaming in agony. Through the roar of pain, Dave could hear the rage to live. It had to be Steve.

'3 Section, cover the casualties. 2 Section and the rest of 1 Section get down that street, clear it and find the bastard with the RPG; he took a round in the leg.'

Led by Corporal Sol Kasanita, the men headed off down the alley where Dave had pinged the RPG.

The boss was telling HQ: 'I have times two tango one casualties. Repeat, times two tango one casualties.'

Dave hoped there was a Chinook ready to go at Bastion. The emergency team would have to move right now if the casualties were to make it back to the field hospital inside the golden hour. Outside that hour, their chances of survival turned from gold to dust. Just like everything else in this fucking place.

Riflemen Angus McCall and Mal Bilaal were poised over Steve's body. Where Steve's left leg should have been there was just a massive, blood-covered cauliflower. Blood flowed from it, blood covered everyone's clothes, blood soaked the fine brown dust of the street.