'The 1970s. Summer. Deep in the English countryside. Four of us - Gang. Waiting for war against the Russkis. But our war, when it came, wasn't with them. And it didn't take place in the streets and fields, where we thought it would, but in our homes, our kitchens, our bedrooms. And there were no marvellous explosions, medals or cheering. There was glory, though. More than enough glory for all, had all been inclined to take it. And by the time it was over, two of us would be dead . . .'