Monsoon.

It is twelve years since the fall of Singapore. On the air strip, the tarmac has darkened under the torrent of the rain, black water rising, a growing lake, the heavy bellied Argonauts standing like unwieldly wading birds. An RAF jeep rises on muddy water wings, veers aside, broaching the rim of the monsoon ditch, wheel deep, and stalls.

It is Christmas Eve, 1954. Beyond the ditch, and a flooding field, in a pink bungalow, a flash bulb explodes. The men in bow ties and white shirt sleeves, lean over the women, in their green and gold dresses, peacocky shining. Creme de Menthe. Cheese and pineapple. Silver bells and lametta on the artificial, snow stippled Christmas tree. A watch chain glints. On the gramophone, Winifred Atwell,  "Let's Have a Party."

Christmas morning, and the ditch yields up its dead - a drowned dog, a stumbling drunk, and the memory of soldiers crouching in the humid sweep of the rain, feet suppurating, dengue fever and malarial bowel, cramps, hectic visions and the sound of heavy bombardment across the strait, beachheads surrendered, searchlights all shot out.

Marie Hartley.