Bunter had long ceased to be astonished at the ability of men of all social positions to be oblivious to the bloody obvious. Nonetheless, the Captain’s willingness to volunteer his sergeant, having accepted that the young man in a kilt was simply a member of a Highland Regiment, and the so-called Doctor on a secret mission from M.I., reached heights of stupidity rarely encountered even within the classes that a young footman had been professionally obliged to consider his betters. The Major wouldn’t have fallen for it, but the Major was not here and – if Bunter was any judge – would not be coming back, for all that his physical injuries were trivial enough. On the other hand, the Doctor did seem to know what he was talking about, and McCrimmon had courage enough, however much his knowledge of modern warfare left to be desired. It went without saying that the police box was not only a non-standard design on the outside, but entirely different within. Bunter clung to an iron strut as it wheezed and rattled before depositing them on a section of the battlefield that he recognised as some miles south and, going by the sun, several hours earlier. The capsule was where the Doctor had said it would be, and the three of them heaved it inside and into the containment tank (the walls parted like jelly, things can go in, the Doctor said, but nothing can get out) just in time before the tentacled creature burst from the shell, beaked mouth roaring.

With a wheeze and a groan, they returned to headquarters.

‘Will ye no come with us?’ McCrimmon had asked, hastily echoed by the Doctor, and for a moment Bunter had thought about it. But though the Doctor had promised he could return with no-one the wiser, it would still seem running away with the war to fight. His mother would miss him, and Major Wimsey needed him, and besides he suspected that the Doctor might be a bit of an autocrat besides, and he’d had enough of that.

‘Until next time, then,’ said the Doctor, and the door slammed shut before he had time to turn round.