Now, upon this visit from his NCOs and upon receiving the report of their findings, O’Brien was further reassured he’d taken the right action. NCOs like Reed and Barrett, who knew their men so well, would not tend to be alarmists unless the situation called for it.

‘Things have certainly gone too far, Corporal,’ he said, ‘and I can assure you the provost marshal has been alerted. A unit of MPs will shortly be on the way to offer assistance if necessary and the major is arranging further precautions in case of other contingencies.’

Hank Henry was indeed taking no chances. He’d already warned the Commander of the Australian 51st Regiment based at Mount Louisa to stand by in the unlikely event there was any form of breakout.

‘I guess all we do now,’ O’Brien summed up, ‘is we play the waiting game. Perhaps,’ he added with a smile to Rupe, ‘we hope they all drink themselves stupid, pass out and wake up with a hangover.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rupe agreed, ‘that would be the ideal outcome.’

But as he walked out of the tent with Sergeant Reed, Rupe doubted very much this would be the outcome. As did they all. There’s going to be a whole heap of trouble, Rupe thought.

He wished Samuel Robinson was here. Captain Samuel Robinson was the one white officer who’d shown true compassion, who’d set up the Negro Servicemen’s Club, who’d recognised the needs, and the undeniable rights, of his men. Captain Robinson might have been the one white officer who could have controlled the troops, particularly those of Company C who appeared so fired up by young Kasey Davis.

But Captain Samuel Robinson was elsewhere, unwittingly becoming a part of another problem altogether.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘That’s the first time I’ve ever admitted to Martin’s death,’ Amelia said.

They were speaking more intimately now. After the niceties had been exchanged about the scones, Samuel’s compliment upon her baking, her apology for the lack of whipped cream to go with the jam, Amelia herself had changed the tone of the conversation.

‘I must admit it was something of a relief to say the words out loud,’ she said. ‘I’ve known for some time that of course he’s not alive, but “missing in action” is a hideously indefinite phrase, isn’t it?’ She was not speaking emotionally, but in a very matter-of-fact fashion, again rather surprising herself. ‘The term is neither black nor white, but an awful shade of grey, leaving one open to such torment.’

‘I agree,’ Samuel said in an equally blunt fashion, ‘far better to be told a loved one is dead, I would think, rather than missing in action.’