A little after 3am on a sultry summer night, we are standing on the edge of a wood, hardly daring to breathe. The darkness is fading, the stars have begun to dim and first light — with all the dangers that brings — will be upon us within the hour.Up to now the only sounds, besides those of our footfall through the sweet-scented undergrowth, are made by mosquitos, frogs and other nocturnal creatures, punctuated every so often by the crash of an artillery shell several fields away. Someone else’s problem: not ours, yet. We trudge on.Now, though, with sanctuary almost within reach, we are transfixed by a new and more sinister noise. The sibilant buzzing is not unlike that of a distant strimmer heard on a balmy afternoon, somewhere safer, somewhere suburban.
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