The fact was, he missed Big Bert who’d been killed in action during the battle for Hill 170, and not a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought of him. The other blokes in the Brigade were good company, but none of them – apart from Jumbo McTavish – had the large presence or personality that Bert had possessed, and his absence left a gaping void in Jim’s life.

Jim finished attaching the exhaust and thankfully rolled from beneath the truck, grabbed his ever-present carbine, and got to his feet. It was almost five-thirty and the sun would soon set, plunging them all into darkness with the swiftness they’d become too familiar with over the past three years. He stretched and yawned before heading to the tent he shared with five others to fetch his wash-kit.

He collected his washbag, took off his watch and emptied his pockets onto the truckle bed, and went back out into the rain and the gloom. With the rain drumming on his hat, he sloshed through the mud past the cookhouse and mess tent, which was already filling up with men eager to hear what the day’s news would bring. Jim reckoned that, with the time difference, they wouldn’t hear the three o’clock news from London until about eight-thirty that evening, so he had plenty of time to wash, eat, and down a few very welcome beers.

He hurried down to the river, took off his slouch hat and leaned his carbine on a nearby rock before throwing himself in, boots and all. The mud and sweat were washed away and he scrubbed himself thoroughly with a rough flannel and bar of Wright’s Coal Tar soap that Peggy had sent from home. The water was almost as warm as a tepid bath and therefore not really that refreshing, but he enjoyed feeling clean for once, and because the river was fast-flowing it was free of leeches, so he splashed about at leisure.

He eventually clambered back out, shook himself like a dog, and retrieved his hat and carbine just as the swift tropical night descended. There was no point in trying to dry off or change into clean clothes for the rain was still hammering down in the torpid heat, and his shorts and shirt were already steaming. But his feet would rot even further if he didn’t take care of them, so he went back to his tent, drained the water from his boots, wrung out his socks and dried his feet before pulling on fresh socks and his second – relatively dry – pair of boots.