Samuel had wisely opted to provide no further detail. It was not his job to do so, after all. These were his orders. Due to complaints the club was to be closed, simple as that. The men would no doubt work things out for themselves.

They did. Gathered in groups, first voicing their bewilderment, then repeating their questions, some among them insisting upon answers. They’d form a group, they said, and they’d demand from their commanding officers an honest explanation for the closure.

But there were those others among them who quickly came to the obvious conclusion.

‘It’s because we’re black,’ they said. ‘You remember when the Santa Clara was docked in Brisbane …?’

‘Yeah, we wasn’t allowed into the city …’

‘That’s right, we stayed on board that ship …’

‘… And all because we was black …’

‘… They don’t want black folk in this country …’ The word quickly spread. It was only then that the bitterness set in. And it set in with a vengeance.

The only person who appeared unmoved by the closure of the Negro Servicemen’s Club was Captain Charles ‘Chuck’ Maxwell, who had positively gloated when Samuel had informed him of their orders.

‘Told you no good would come from a social club for niggers,’ he’d said smugly.

To which Samuel had retorted sharply, ‘We must inform the men, Maxwell,’ he said, ‘no further comment is necessary.’

Chuck had informed the men as briefly and succinctly as Samuel had, but he hadn’t bothered to disguise his satisfaction in communicating the news.

Apart from personal malice, Chuck Maxwell had further reason to welcome the closure of the club. Here was the perfect distraction. The men would now be talking of nothing but this, the death of their young friend bound to take a back seat conversationally. Not that Chuck didn’t feel safe from the threat of last night. The ever-reliable Stowers had carried out his orders unobserved, the body had been discovered and a case of accidental death had gone unquestioned. He could now put the whole episode behind him. The boy was just another dead nigger about whom no questions would be asked.

But Chuck was wrong.

‘The guys who shared Anthony Hill’s tent brought this to me this morning,’ Rupe said, handing the mutilated book to Samuel.

It was well after the evening meal break and Rupe had been careful to seek out the captain alone in his tent. He’d deliberately chosen not to approach him at the officers’ tent for fear of bumping into Maxwell, and he’d also taken care to carry the book concealed in his kit bag. As far as Rupert Barrett was concerned, the destruction of this book was positive evidence of foul play.

Samuel felt much the same way. Simply seeing the copy of Just So Stories savagely ripped in half, and knowing how valuable it had been to Anthony Hill, Samuel knew in an instant that something was wrong.