P.O. Lamb wasted no time. After telling me to listen and not interrupt, he began his story.
"My name is Hector Lamb, and I was commissioned as a pilot officer in the Royal Air Force in April 1940.
"I was twenty-two years old and in my final year at Cambridge University when war broke out. Shortly after, I volunteered for the RAF and was accepted for pilot training. My studies could wait.
My parents, Charles and Dorothy Lamb, attended the commissioning ceremony at RAF Uxbridge, and I was immediately posted to RAF Biggin Hill.
I flew as a fighter pilot in 'the Battle of Britain' in July 1940, but, like many other young pilots, my career was brief.
I was shot down over the English Channel on the 20th of July whilst in pursuit of an enemy aircraft. My last memory of my old life is ejecting from my Spitfire with the cockpit on fire and the aircraft in a tailspin.
I have subsequently learnt that my parachute failed to open, and I was listed as missing, presumed drowned. I was awarded a posthumous medal, the 'Distinguished Flying Cross', and my parents accepted it on my behalf.
My first memory of the life I now live was waking up after what felt like a deep sleep, stretched out on a bed with my arms by my side, wearing my full uniform. For some time, I lay there trying to organise my thoughts, but my memories were muddled, as if I was still asleep and dreaming. I felt frightened at my inability to remember.
The window of my ground-floor room was open, and the white curtains fluttered in the breeze. The curtains were standard issue and badly faded. The familiarity of the sight was reassuring, and I began to relax a little.
Bursts of laughter came down the corridor outside, and I recalled that my room was only a few doors away from the Officers' Mess. My proximity to the noise of the Mess had often been a nuisance when trying to get some sleep before an early flight, but it was only a short distance to stagger after a drunken night celebrating our survival after a day of almost continuous sorties.
Everything was slowly coming into place, and I decided to venture out for a drink in the Mess.
My legs were stiff as I walked down the corridor. I must have been asleep for a long time and had not yet regained complete control of my body.
When reaching the mess, I hesitated for a moment before opening the door. My nerves were on edge, and I had to steel myself before walking into the usual barrage of noise. The pilots had already downed a few pints, and the party was in full swing.
"Why, look who it is, boys, old Lamb has finally surfaced," shouted an anonymous voice from a crowded table. The others looked around, and raising their heads in unison, roared out 'Baaa', laughing madly at their supposed wit.
I hated my nickname but managed to keep a smile on my face.
"Get them in, Ba, your round," came another drunken shout.
I turned to the barman.
"Same again for this lot, and a pint for me. Put it on my slate."
"Yes, sir."
As the barman pulled the beer, I looked around the room.
Flt. Lt. Braddock was there. He was a bit of a hero of mine, and I held up my hand to greet him. He nodded and continued his game of cards. There were others that I recognised.
Flying Officer Jeremy Jones, 'Jonesy', a good friend of mine, with an impressive bag of 'kills', gave me a wave.
"Hello, Ba. "How's it going?" said a familiar voice from behind me.
I turned and, to my astonishment, recognised a fellow pilot, Tony Shaw.
What's up, Ba? You look as if you have just seen a ghost," he said jokingly.
He could not have been more accurate.
Two days ago. I had seen Tony shot down in a ball of flames. There was no time to parachute, and his aircraft exploded into a thousand pieces as it hit the ground. He could not have possibly survived.
"Hello, Tony," I said weakly.
A man barged past me and shook Tony's hand.
"Tony, you old bugger. I have not seen you since training. I've just been posted in."
The crowd at the bar shifted, and Tony and his friend vanished into the crush.
Retreating to a quiet part of the mess, I examined the occupants in more detail, recognising three more pilots who I knew to be dead."
Hector Lamb stopped speaking and stared silently at the floor.
"It must have been hard for you to accept," I said. "What did you possibly make of it all?"
"I felt as if I was in a waking nightmare and bit hard into my lip, trying to wake myself up.
"That is when I knew for sure.
"In my distress, I had bitten too deep and almost severed my lip in two."
He raised his head and looked me in the eye.
"You see, I felt a pain-like sensation, but there was no blood. From the interior of my lip oozed a grey latex solution that congealed on the surface of the wound and set like cement.
I had been reborn as an android.