Sargent Gibson was covered in blood and bits of ancient wall that had been blasted down on top of him. He was exhausted, thirsty, and his whole team was now lying dead in the holes in the wall where they had sought cover. The Viet Cong had ceased fire and were walking silently forwards, pushing the bodies of the US soldiers with their sandals to see if they were still alive. They were heading towards Gibson. He sat there with a grenade in his battered hands. It was all he had left and he was going to destroy as many of the bastards as he could when he went.

A slapping noise broke the silence, the unmistakable note of a high velocity round hitting flesh. 

One of the VC collapsed in a heap, then another, and another, as if some invisible wind was knocking them down. Within seconds Gibson was alone, the VC reduced to a collection of black pajamas lying on the ground.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a large, black hand reached forward and gently pulled the grenade from Gibson’s grasp. “Good afternoon Sergeant, you look like you need a cup of tea.” The hand belonged to a tall, athletic young soldier dressed in clean, grey-colored fatigues. His other hand held an elegant .375 Purdey hunting rifle with a silencer screwed into the barrel. 

“I am Private Kitts.” He spoke in an aristocratic voice that was better suited to an afternoon grouse shoot in the Highlands of Scotland than a battlefield in South Asia. 

Private Kitts pulled a thermos from an embossed leather cylinder from his pack. He eased the lid from the top of the container and poured, handing a cup to Gibson who took it with a blank expression that turned to a smile. It was the best thing he had ever tasted in his entire life. Gibson closed his eyes in pleasure as the smokey, sweet warmth filled his mouth.

“Lapsang Souchong. Perfect after a hard battle, don’t you think?”

Sergeant Gibson was starting to wonder if his grenade had in fact gone off and if he was now in heaven. Admittedly, he was rather surprised to find that angels were large black guys with fancy British accents. Private Kitts smiled broadly, raised his eyebrows and the thermos.

“Top up?”

Then he riffled through his pack again and brought out a small leather case. He undid the strap to reveal a neat silver box with a crest on the front, which he opened and proffered to Gibson.

“Marmite sandwich?”