‘Yeah, damn good idea, Bernie,’ Kasey agreed, trying to make the comment sound casual, and he too chose a Thompson. But Kasey was not out to scare, Kasey had already determined his weapon would not be for show. Every fibre aquiver, Kasey was poised for revenge.

The men were all riled up by now, even those who’d awaited orders outside the armoury. The sight of their buddies stepping out into the night armed to the hilt excited them. They were going into town come hell or high water and just let anyone try to stop them.

The sight and the sound of the trucks arriving riled them up even further, and they let out whooping cheers of triumph as the Jimmy’s came to a halt before them in a swirl of dust.

Men clambered eagerly into the open trays and stood holding onto the overhead steel frames, which supported the canvas when the vehicles, usually due to inclement weather, were covered. But despite the approach of winter, covers were not in play on this crisp, still night of 22 May, and the image of the mutinous men, some of them armed, was clearly visible to all.

Kasey climbed into the first truck, machine gun at the ready, Willie beside him with a standard army-issue rifle. Like many of the others, Willie wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with the rifle, apart from look as if he really meant business, but that didn’t matter. They were on the rampage and going into town.

In the second truck, it was Bernie, proudly displaying his Chicago Piano, who chose to lead the mutineers, and in the third truck big Amos Cole took the helm, also with his Thompson machine gun. All in all, as others kept clambering in after them, they presented a formidable sight.

For a while now, in the officers’ mess tent where they awaited the arrival of the MPs, the captains and lieutenants had been commenting on how much quieter things seemed to have become.

In the NCOs’ mess tent, too, the sergeants and corporals had been remarking upon the comparative silence. And looking out towards the rank-and-file mess some distance away, the huge tent appeared to be half-deserted. Had the men simply decided to call it a night?

Now, the very silence upon which they’d all been commenting was suddenly broken by the sound of trucks and the voices of troops whooping in drunken triumph. What the hell was going on?

Quickly arming themselves, the officers raced from their respective tents to discover pandemonium.

Several hundred yards away, outside the armoury, were three GMC troop-transport trucks. Their engines were being revved up and they were starting to circle, the drivers with the clear intention of heading for the major dirt road that led out of the camp. Men were still clambering aboard, many of them armed, at least it appeared so.

‘Shit, they’ve got machine guns,’ Stan said to Woodsy.