Chuck didn’t think so, however. As they marched back to the officers’ mess tent, Chuck Maxwell was thoroughly satisfied with the way he’d handled the episode, which could quite easily have got out of hand. Trouble in the making that was back there, he thought. Yes siree, trouble in the making. One of Daddy’s first rules – never let your niggers get a hold of hard liquor. He congratulated himself for having well and truly ‘nipped things in the bud’ as his daddy would say.

But Chuck Maxwell had unknowingly left behind him a festering sea of trouble beyond his comprehension.

‘The man wants a mutiny,’ big Amos Cole snarled, ‘let’s give him a mutiny.’

‘Yeah, why not,’ his tent buddy Bernie agreed, ‘that’s the fucker who killed Ant. He’d kill every one of us, too, if he had half a chance.’

Many of the men were backing away, prepared to call it a night, not willing to push things further, but others were muttering rebelliously.

‘He stole our liquor …’

‘Fuck US Army Standing Orders, we paid good money for that …’

‘He’s got no right …’

Their reaction pleased Kasey no end. He didn’t need to sow the seeds of rebellion; Chuck Maxwell had successfully done it for him. In fact, it was just possible Chuck Maxwell had successfully dug his own grave. Kasey certainly hoped so.

‘Drink up, Willie,’ he said. Willie still had half a mug of rum. So did many of the others. The officers hadn’t collected the mugs. Little did the officers know too that hidden under the tarpaulin in the corner of the tent was another whole crate of hooch. The men dug out fresh bottles, tin mugs were refilled, and they continued to scoff down yet more liquor while feeding their ever-increasing desire to rebel.

Those in the NCOs’ mess tent, which was closer to the general mess tent than that of the officers, had also deduced the troops had alcohol. Stowers and his four corporals were in the know from the outset of course, but well before the white commanding officers had been informed by their lieutenants on patrol duty, the NCOs had gathered from the boisterous singing that the men must be liquor-affected. After all, the sergeants and corporals knew only too well that their black brothers had little cause to rejoice.

They’d talked among themselves, aware the booze must have come from Baz Taylor’s supply for the club, and some comments had been made about how the troops might have acquired it, but nobody really cared. For the most part, they hoped the men were having a good time, in the knowledge that it wouldn’t last long, particularly with the racket they were making.