First Sergeant Strut Stowers, top-ranking officer among all twenty-four present, was not in the least concerned he might be implicated, but he was cursing the men nonetheless. Dumb young niggers, he thought, how stupid to get so fucking drunk and so fucking loud so fucking quick; they’ll have their booze taken off them before they’ve drunk even half of it. Ah well, none of my business and not my fault. Strut wasn’t fussed. He had their money and that’s all that mattered.

‘Well, I guess that’s that, then,’ he said when they heard the shots and watched from their mess tent as the officers collected the bottles and emptied the liquor out onto the ground. ‘A good time, but a short time.’

Much as Rupe detested Stowers, he’d actually been thinking along the same lines. How downright dumb of the men to put on such a show, he thought. But then it occurred to him, perhaps that’s what they’re after, some of them anyway. Perhaps they’re making a statement.

Following the confiscation of the liquor, it soon became apparent the problem had not been resolved, that if anything it had worsened. The boisterous singing had stopped, certainly, but the men were just as loud, louder even, and now in their rowdiness aggression could be heard. There was the shattering of glass as a bottle was smashed against a tent post, and angry protests at the fact that it hadn’t even been empty, a waste of good liquor. A scuffle broke out, some of the men taking sides. ‘Fight, fight!’ they called, egging each other on, demanding entertainment.

Quite obviously, they had more booze, and were getting drunker.

It was decided in the NCOs’ tent that Sergeant Reed of Company A, together with Rupe and two other corporals, would pay a visit to the men and try to talk sense to them.

Stowers thought this an excellent idea, although he wasn’t going to go himself, considering it might be a bit risky under the circumstances. Besides, he knew he was unpopular with the troops – which given his seniority he considered only proper – and his presence might rile them further.

‘You’re the best bet, Barrett,’ he said, ‘you’re the men’s favourite.’ His voice laced with sarcasm, it wasn’t a compliment. ‘They just love your kind of big-brother soft touch. You could maybe take your guitar along.’

Rupe didn’t deign to answer, but followed Reed and the other corporals outside.

Upon their arrival at the general mess tent, Sergeant Reed, a strict but well-respected officer, tried to call the troops to order.

‘You men need to stop this here and now,’ Reed yelled in the powerful voice that had rung clear as a bell across many a parade ground.