‘He wrote every single word himself,’ she said, showing Samuel the note with its crude, half-written, half-printed scrawl. ‘But the arrangement and the wording itself, particularly the “yours sincerely”,’ she added, ‘how could Ant possibly have come up with that?’

‘I believe he had some helpful suggestions from his corporal, Rupert Barrett,’ Samuel said. ‘In fact, Corporal Barrett told me he’s helping young Anthony read the book, just as you did.’

‘Oh how wonderful.’ Amelia’s smile this time was one of pure joy. ‘How absolutely wonderful.’

‘Yes, as I mentioned, the men often help each other,’ Samuel said. ‘Many of the educated write letters home for the illiterate and teach them how to sign their own names. It’s most heartening to see.’

‘I’m sure it would be, Samuel,’ she replied, still with that joyous smile. ‘I’m sure it would be most heartening to see, for I find it most heartening to hear of such a thing. Men teaching literacy skills to those less fortunate. How splendid.’

He found her pleasure unbelievably rewarding, which seemed to him rather strange.

The construction of the out-of-town Negro Servicemen’s Club had not gone unnoticed by a number of prominent locals, including Senior Sergeant Bruce Desmond and his mate Pete Vickers.

‘The old Parslow farm,’ Pete said as they sat in their customary corner of the bar at the Queen’s Hotel. ‘Ned’s taken his family and shot through to Brisbane and Val Callahan’s converting the place to a club.’ As usual, Pete had made it his business to find out all he could.

‘Really?’ Bruce was surprised. ‘I presumed the US military was footing the bill.’

‘No, no,’ Pete scoffed, ‘the military doesn’t give a stuff about its black soldiers, that’s why the poor bastards were pissed off out of town.’

‘Well, maybe it was for the best,’ Bruce said circumspectly. ‘I mean, you know, after all the trouble there’s been.’

‘Don’t believe that shit you saw in the Bulletin, mate.’

‘Why not? You wrote it.’

‘I wrote what I was told to write.’ Pete downed the remnants of his beer and leaned forward, lowering his voice in conspiratorial fashion, but speaking passionately nonetheless. ‘The military’s putting the blame on the black troops as a scapegoat, Bruce. The whole thing’s a cover-up to get their white soldiers off the hook. Christ alive, how I’d like to report that!’

Pete, as always, found immense relief in unburdening himself to his old mate, just letting it all pour out the way he knew he could. Bruce was the one person he could trust and with whom he could share the truth, or at least the truth as he saw it.

‘I’m going to do it, you know,’ he said, ‘I’ve made a decision.’

Bruce was mystified. ‘You’ve made a decision about what?’