Neville the Less

  * * *

  On the veranda of nightmare the Quiet Man crouched, cold sweat beading across his brow. He’d heard the gunshot and the cries of men and children, seen shadows racing, been gratified by the pop and smoke of his defences. And was no longer in Home Country. No longer the Quiet Man.

  Hold! his ghosts whispered to him. Hold your position. Make them come to you.

  He knew exactly what was happening. The darkness, the explosions, the smoke, the cries of wounded people - these were the true work and world of a soldier.

  Hold! Hold! And . . . GO!

  He stepped forward, raising the pistol and flicking on the torch. The first shot ignited the petrol-soaked rags in the incinerating pit. And in the light of the explosion, they were there, coming on, charging toward him, screaming out in too-quick Dari! He began firing.