There wasn’t very much he could tell her, for censorship wouldn’t allow any real detail of where he was and what he was doing, which in a way was a blessing. Peggy didn’t need to know what he was going through, for it would only make her fret even more. So he didn’t tell her that General Wingate had been killed in a plane crash some weeks before, and that the new commander, Lentaigne, had changed their orders. Neither did he mention that the battle of Imphal was raging and Jim’s brigade were on their way to operate against the Japs’ lines of communication – which meant they would be heading many miles north-west once they’d crossed the river.

So he wrote that he was fit and well, but that the heat was getting worse, which was a sure sign that the monsoon would break soon. Once that happened, they could all breathe again, as it would force the opposition who didn’t have the same amount of back-up to retreat.

He told her he was eating properly and thankful for the knitted socks she’d sent as he seemed to be going through them at a rate of knots. He apologised for the brevity of his recent letters, but his army duties didn’t allow much time for anything but to march, eat and sleep. He finished with a kiss and a prayer that the war would soon be over and they could be together again.

Reading it through, Jim saw how his sweat had stained the paper, but it was legible enough in the circumstances, so he folded the slip of paper into the army issue envelope, addressed it and handed it to the officer in charge of communications. His letter would be checked by the censor and then flown out with all the others on the next supply plane – which with luck would be tonight.

Jim lit another cigarette and gazed out over the wide, rushing river which was now a pale gleam of silver in the twilight. It bugged him to think that somewhere back in India there could be a huge sack of mail waiting to be delivered to the men in the jungles of Burma, and in it were likely to be letters from home. It was such a joy to hear from everyone and to receive their photographs and small gifts of socks, underwear and copies of the local newspaper – but there again, it was a two-edged sword, for they merely underlined the fact that he’d been away too long, the distance between them almost immeasurable.

His little Daisy and the boys were growing up without him, as were his two granddaughters – Peggy was revelling in her new-found independence at Solly Goldman’s factory, and his two daughters, Anne and Cissy, were young women treading their own paths while they waited for their men to be freed from the POW camp in Germany.