I’ve spent years in war zones. And the most terrifying moment of my life just happened in Norfolk

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[/audioplayer]It happened so quickly, as these things always do. My wife Julia and I were pootling about on Wells beach with our fluffy mongrel Maisie when suddenly two fighting dogs, English bull terriers, came flying towards us like calf-high missiles. Declining the usual canine politesse of a bit of bum-sniffing, one immediately locked its jaws around Maisie’s throat, the other clamped its teeth into her right back leg. They then tossed her around like a rag doll, as my wife and I desperately tried to haul them off. Maisie was howling in terrible distress. She was seconds away from being killed.

With enormous difficulty, Julia managed to pull one of the killers away on its dangling harness. The other had no collar or leash and was getting stuck into Maisie. I had to mount it, sit on it, punch its head and try to prise open its jaws. This last manoeuvre involved putting my hands into the bull terrier’s mouth and having my fingers redesigned by its teeth.

Eventually we detached the two killer dogs. One of the owners arrived. Middle-aged. White. Shaven hair. ‘We’re calling the police,’ Julia said with that anger in her eye that always terrifies me. ‘Don’t do that,’ he said. ‘The police will have them destroyed.’ Surveying our terrified dog and my mangled, blood-spurting fingers, I confess my feelings regarding the imminent fate of this gentleman’s dogs were not as humane as they might have been.

Fearing the destruction of their dogs, the owners separated and slunk off into the dunes. We saw the man beating the living daylights out of his bull terrier, kicking and whipping it, which prompted a concerned member of the public to confront him.