Jim quickly wrote down the long list of names of those who’d died on that torturous journey, marvelling that the man had such clear recall, and thankful that neither Philip nor Jock were amongst them. The names of many of the guards and commanders were familiar from past interviews, but he noted them down anyway.

O’Keefe waited until Jim had finished writing before speaking again. ‘We discovered we were there to build a monstrous railway for the Japanese which would stretch almost two hundred and sixty miles between Bangkok and Moulmein in Burma. It would traverse mountains and gorges, and almost impenetrable jungle, and the only tools we had were picks and spades.’

He took a quavering breath. ‘It has been estimated since that for every sleeper laid, a man died, and I can believe that.’ He hung his head and fell silent for a moment with his eyes closed. ‘To be sure, the greatest writer in the world couldn’t find the words to describe what we went through.’

Jim saw that the tic was throbbing harder beneath the man’s eye, and his fingers were once more seeking that scar. O’Keefe was clearly suffering from having to tell his tale, and Jim wished with all his heart that it wasn’t necessary.

O’Keefe rallied, took a deep drag of his cigarette and then crushed it into the ashtray. His tone of voice changed and now held profound but tightly controlled anger.

‘Shortly after we were put to work, cholera broke out, killing hundreds of us as well as the Asian labourers who’d been forced to work beside us. So not only were we dying of starvation, dysentery, malaria, beriberi and jungle ulcers, we were being killed off by fecking cholera, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.’

He looked up at Jim. ‘I took it very personally, Lieutenant, for my position as senior officer meant I had to exercise leadership and example to my men, and steer a straight, monotonous course, never showing my emotions, never letting up or giving in for a single moment regardless of what was going on around me – or to me. I was forced to cope with the horrors on my own and keep my dignity, for the morale of my men would have been broken if I’d shown one iota of what I was feeling.’

O’Keefe dipped his chin, his voice on the point of breaking. ‘It was the loneliest position to be in – horribly lonely – and it was only the thought of my wife, Molly, waiting for me at home that kept me going.’

He gave a deep, tremulous sigh and ran his fingers over the scar. ‘Now it’s all over I’m exhausted. Exhausted by the sweat, the toil, the blood and the deaths – too many deaths – and all of them senseless. Exhausted from having to fight with every fibre of my being to stay alive, to keep my men alive, and to bolster their morale in any way I could – which was a hapless task.’ He fell silent.