The army padre had held a service on the day the Japanese had surrendered, and although Jim had never been a religious man, he’d earnestly and sincerely thanked God that he’d survived and would be going home when so many others hadn’t been given that blessing. He’d also given thanks that the planned Operation Zipper to invade Malaya and capture Port Swettenham and Port Dickson in early September would not now take place, for none of the men had the stomach for more warfare. With the certain knowledge that their fighting days were over and they’d soon be boarding a ship for home, Jim and Jumbo had set their minds to thoroughly enjoying their leave.

The beaches of Ramree Island that had seen such fierce fighting were peaceful now, and the all-weather airbase that had cost so many lives to build and defend was running smoothly with almost daily flights bringing in fresh provisions, construction materials and tools, and on their departure, transferring the more seriously ill patients from the field hospital to the larger, better equipped ones in India. The pale golden sand stretching from the edge of the dark green jungle right to the shore of the turquoise sea made a perfect playground now the monsoon was over.

Having time on their hands and the wherewithal to make their camp more comfortable, Jim, Jumbo and the other sappers had put their skills to work on building accommodation huts, a mess hall and a large recreation room that was open to the skies but for a canopy of mosquito netting, to garner the cooler air of evening and provide a place for the men to watch the films being brought in, listen to the comedy shows on the wireless, or hold dances.

The natives, free at last from their Japanese persecutors, had put up makeshift kiosks of bamboo and canvas above the high-water mark to sell their lethal rice wine, tasty snacks wrapped in banana leaves and curries delicately flavoured with coconut and fragrant spices. Their small, slender and beautiful women had finally came out of hiding, as untouchable and remote as ever with their shy smiles and lowered eyes, but adding beautiful colour with their bright longhis and jingling bracelets.

Once the building work was completed, and his time was his own again, Jim had bought a hammock from a Burmese pedlar and strung it between two palm trees where he had a good view of everything that was going on around him. Stripped to his shorts and barefoot, he’d spent a good deal of time languishing in the hammock, a crate of beer close to hand in the shade, his sweat-stained hat shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare that occasionally speared through the palm fronds.

The heat was debilitating and he’d been too lazy to talk, even to Jumbo, who’d taken to sprawling his great length in a nearby planter’s chair beneath a vast umbrella to read a copious number of books he’d found in the hospital library. Jumbo’s red hair and fair skin were perfectly suited to the northern climate of the Isle of Skye, but the tropics had done him no favours, and although he burnt and peeled, he never went brown, unlike Jim, whose olive skin was now as dark as polished mahogany which made his eyes an even deeper blue.