“I’m hit mate.” Cuddles says, and I look round. He’s grinning, there’s a hole in his thigh that you could fit your thumb in. I gesture to the signaller, but he’s already on it. Chalky saw the muzzle flash and we send a blizzard of 7.62 millimetre rounds through the open window. Glass, wood and masonry fly. The tinkling sound the empty shell casings make as they bounce around our feet is actually quite pretty, like little brass raindrops. Passers by cower in doorways screaming. Cuddles tourniquets himself and joins in, still grinning at me. “I got fucking hit mate.” he laughs. Three men die and Cuddles gets a medal and a week off.