Big Amos Cole ploughed his way slowly and steadily through the bush. Unlike others who had escaped the mayhem, he was not crashing along in a blind panic, desperate to get back to camp as soon as possible, sneak in undetected and pretend to have played no part in the riot. Amos knew he was far too recognisable to avoid detection. He’d been one of those carrying a Thompson machine gun, he’d been targeted, and he had the wound to prove it. He’d be rightly picked as a ringleader and was prepared to face the consequences, but why, oh why, he agonised, had Kasey fired that goddamn machine gun! Poor little Bernie had copped it, too. But Bernie would never have turned his Thompson on those white soldiers! Never! Bernie was just a loud-mouthed little fucker who always played it tough because of his size. And Bernie was his buddy. Or rather, Bernie had been his buddy.

The catastrophe of the night had severely rattled Amos and he was plagued by guilt, the responsibility of his own actions weighing heavily upon him. None of this should have happened. But it hadn’t been all Kasey’s fault. Hell no.

I was the one who urged the guys on, he told himself. I was the one who said we should go into town and get ourselves a real drink. And I was the one who went along with Bernie’s crazy idea of breaking into the armoury. Weapons. Just for show, that’s all, but how dumb was that? Dumb enough to get men killed, that’s how dumb.

He clutched a hand to his left shoulder to stem the bleeding. He hadn’t felt much pain to start with, but it was hurting something fierce now. He wasn’t too worried, he could move his arm; the bone wasn’t shattered, a flesh wound only, but it needed attention. The medical orderlies would look after him back at camp.

He noted a farmhouse some distance ahead. The lights were on. Mighty late for folks to be up, he thought. He couldn’t see his watch in the dark, but it had to be at least two in the morning, even later. Probably the gunfire that woke them.

He wondered whether he should call in at the farmhouse. They’d have bandages, most folks did; he could wash the wound, bind it, stem the bleeding.

Amos approached the farmhouse with caution, unsure what reaction he might get, hoping they wouldn’t be hostile. He’d tell them he was American … an ally … there’d been an accident, and would they mind …

There were kennels near the farmhouse, two that he could make out, and he could see the flickering of a light beside them. As he approached, several dogs started barking, obviously sensing his presence. Then …