In turn number čtyři a panting Major Trajanov plants a metaphorical Trevar (the Zendoran flag) on top of Strupnic’s lofty dovecot, two friendly units come under fire, and, peering through his binoculars, Branko Somlac mutters, with distinct relish, “Something wicked this way comes!”.

Lieutenant Guskov – one of the Podrabian Army’s less diligent representatives – is woken from his slumbers by the THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of an inconsiderate drop hammer. It takes him several seconds to figure out where he is (The bottle-strewn bar of the Traveller’s Rest Hotel in one-horse Zendoran backwater, Strupnic) and several seconds more to realise that the inconsiderate drop hammer isn’t in fact an inconsiderate drop hammer.

Silver-haired, bespectacled, and dressed in sandals, shorts, and a John Lennon t-shirt, Viktor Somlac is an unlikely war hero. Trajanov wonders if he’s wasting his time as he shakes the man’s hand and downs the shot of eye-watering apricot brandy that’s handed to him by another member of the four-strong Strupnic welcoming committee moments after he crosses the threshold of the cottage. It’s only when his host directs his attention to a wall map studded with coloured pins, that the Major’s cynicism begins to fade.