Mick O’Brien fired a warning shot in the air, as did Biff Baker. Chuck Maxwell would have preferred to have taken aim directly at the mutineers, but for all his earlier bravura, he was aware that shooting one or two, even under these conditions, might get him into trouble. At this stage of the proceedings, they were just drunkards showing off and out for a joy ride.

He raised his pistol, about to fire his own warning shot, and that’s when he realised the Thompson machine gun in the first truck was sighted directly upon him.

Kasey had been searching for Maxwell among the officers gathered, and in spying the man and realising he had a clear shot, he’d decided this was the moment.

The action was instantaneous. The rapid fire of the machine gun cracked the night. Maxwell ducked behind the nearest man, and as young Woodsy took the bullet intended for him and fell to the ground, Maxwell raced inside the mess tent, the crack of machine gun following, 600 to 800 rounds per minute, shredding the canvas. Then he dived into the slit trench on the other side of the mess tent and the rain of bullets came to a halt.

Kasey’s heart was racing, adrenaline pumping. Had he killed the man? Surely yes. No-one inside that tent could have survived. He rejoiced in the thought. Maxwell was dead and Ant’s death avenged. To Kasey, now in a state of madness, this was war and not for one minute did he regret his actions, nor did he care what the outcome might be for him. A pity the lieutenant had to cop it, he thought, although he could see now that the young man was stirring, not dead. But so what if the guy dies, he told himself, a casualty of war, that’s what he is. And as a show of triumph, Kasey released another round of machine-gun fire into the air.

He was not the only one. Incited by the Thompson’s rat-tat-tat and the sense of battle that surrounded them, others were firing weapons indiscriminately. Not taking aim, not with the intention to kill, but revelling in their power. No longer slave labour, but soldiers with firearms, they were letting loose in every direction, displaying no concern for ricocheting bullets that might cause harm. Particularly Bernie. Bernie was exulting in the sheer might of his Chicago Piano.

And those unarmed, intoxicated by both the liquor and the heightened thrill of the moment, yelled encouragement, urging their buddies on as the trucks drove out of camp and headed for Townsville, leaving behind them utter chaos.

The Commander of the Australian 51st Regiment based at Mount Louisa was alerted immediately, and the militia unit known as the Far North Queensland Regiment was informed it was no longer on ‘standby’, that its young troops, principally national servicemen called up for the defence of the north, were now ordered into action. But against who? Not the Japanese. The heavily anticipated invasion had so far not occurred, yet their orders were ‘shoot to kill’. Kill who? The answer appeared insane. American soldiers. Troops of the US 96th Engineers, a Negro labour battalion camped out at Kelso. Kill them! Why?