It was dark, musty and as hot as Hades in that cramped space. Flattened earth provided the floor, on which was strewn ancient straw that smelled of decades of sweat, lanolin and dirt. The makeshift bed was a plank of termite-ridden wood balanced on rickety piles of crumbling stones, and someone had left the remnants of a hessian flour sack as its only mattress. The hut had been abandoned even by the snakes and spiders, for which he’d been grateful, but the flies had come from nowhere, buzzing around him, drinking his sweat and settling around his eyes and mouth. He’d been so exhausted he’d barely noticed them and, throwing his charred overcoat over the filthy straw, he’d used his kitbag as a pillow, pulled his hat over his face and was asleep almost instantly.

He’d been woken by the sound of thunder and the sharp rent of lightning and, as he stared blearily at the luminous dials on his watch, he realised it was late evening. The heat had intensified and he swept his fingers through his damp hair and grimaced at the sour smell coming from his body. It was like being back in the camp again.

Not wanting to dwell on such thoughts, he swallowed the pills his doctor had given him with the last few drops from his water-bag, packed away his coat and tied his bootlaces. His stomach clenched with hunger, but the rest of the dried beef was not enough to take the edge off it, and he realised that if he was to reach his destination, he would have to risk going to a homestead to ask for food.

The thought made him nervous, for he was getting closer now, and although his appearance had changed radically since he’d been here last, there was still the danger that he’d be recognised.

He crawled out to discover that the wind was blowing harder, swirling the dust of those dying acres into thick, rolling clouds that veiled the horizon. But at least the pain in his gut had eased, giving him the strength to carry on. Pulling his hat brim down, he tucked his chin into the collar of his army issue shirt and headed into the gathering storm, his gaze fixed to the rails which would lead him safely northward.