The Mendips at night in summer. The area around Charterhouse - Bristol to the north, Priddy to the south - is rolling hills, criss-crossed by tracks; rough grass and small spiky bushes with the occasional stone wall. We're on the plateau, maybe 700 foot above the Somerset levels to the south west. It's a clear night sky and stars are everywhere.
The olive-green army truck lurches to a stop, tyres crunching on gravel; the driver comes round to let down the tailgate. My squad - four of us - climb out into the cold night air. We huddle together, clustered around our OS map. Where are we? In which direction are we to move out?
We've been briefed: navigate three miles to the rendezvous, avoid detection by the "enemy" patrols, make key observations on the way. Don't get lost; don't fall into any gulleys; don't get tangled up in barbed wire.
Don't get caught.
My VHF radio is strapped to my khaki belt along with a spare battery, the headset snug against my ears, the throat mic pressing into my skin. We fan out, barely more than shadows against the darker silhouette of the rolling terrain. No torches, of course. Just the occasional glimmer of moonlight on dewy grass. We walk in silence towards the first way-point. Surely we won't be intercepted this early? We're nervous, looking furtively in all directions.
Navigating by compass and the occasional whisper over a map, we creep along the edge of small depressions, looking for cover; we scramble over stone walls - tumbledown but we've been told not to damage them. The radio crackles in my ear: they want to know where we are. We squeeze together around the map, wondering, looking at landmarks, trying to match contour lines and icons to what we see. I press my throat mic and murmur our position - best guess. Orders come back: avoid this area; check out that.
We move lower, crouching as we near a ridge. Down in the shallow valley below, torch beams cut through the darkness - our enemy patrol. We freeze, prone on the cold damp ground, barely daring to breathe. A dog barks in the distance, a farm perhaps, and the torches swung away. We press on at an angle, a momentary swirl of wind covers our movement. My heart is hammering.
The hours go by as we walk through the immense darkness, the repetition is calming, we move as if in a trance. We reach the rendezvous; I call it in.
The truck will come soon, take us to the barracks for a few hours sleep then back to school in Bristol for Sunday morning pickup by our parents. It's merely the shadow of a real military patrol but our imagination does its work: how would this feel in a countryside of guns and tanks and ground-attack aircraft? And no way home?
