‘The men are certainly drunk and disorderly, sir,’ he said, ‘and under normal circumstances it might be best to just let them get completely out of it, sleep it off and address the issue in the morning …’

He ignored the derisive snort from Maxwell and concentrated solely upon O’Brien, who had his full attention.

‘… But I do believe things have gone beyond drunk and disorderly,’ he went on, ‘and that we may have some sort of riot on our hands.’

‘I agree with you, Corporal,’ O’Brien said. ‘In fact, we’ve already taken precautions. HQ has been informed of the situation.’

He cast a brief glance at Maxwell, and from the reaction between the two white officers, Rupe deduced there had been some form of altercation.

‘I agree with you also,’ O’Brien continued, ‘that under normal circumstances it might have been a good idea to let the men drink themselves into a stupor and sort out the whole mess tomorrow morning. However, these are not normal circumstances, and there are too few of us to contain a riot if, God help us, things should deteriorate to that extent.’

They were virtually the same words he’d spat at Chuck Maxwell when they’d arrived back at the tent after the booze had been poured out on the ground and the troops had been left palpably fuming.

‘You do realise you’ve all but incited a riot, don’t you,’ he’d hissed out of hearing of the junior officers, but in the presence of Captain Biff Baker. ‘And you do realise that if the men choose to make trouble there are too few of us to control them.’

Maxwell’s reaction had been typically arrogant, typically dismissive. ‘Rubbish,’ he’d scoffed, ‘they know who their bosses are. They’ll bellyache for a while, sure, but they’re niggers, they’ll end up doing what they’re told.’

When he’d been proven wrong and the white officers, like the NCOs, had deduced the matter had not been settled at all, Maxwell had been all for a further confrontation. He’d been quickly howled down by his fellow officers, however, who this time hadn’t bothered to hide their disdain from the lieutenants.

‘For God’s sake, man, leave it be,’ Biff Baker had snarled, ‘these guys are soldiers, not slaves on some goddamned cotton plantation.’ Biff didn’t even know Chuck’s background and how very close he was to the truth. He did wonder though, given the man’s attitude, what idiot had placed him in command of a black labour force.

‘We’ll need to inform HQ,’ Mick O’Brien had said briskly, not even bothering to address Maxwell. ‘Radio Hank Henry,’ he’d ordered his lieutenant.