‘We’re a strange mob, we Aussies,’ Val said thoughtfully, appreciative of the Texan’s avid attention. ‘We like to pretend everyone’s equal here, but they’re not. Our blackfellas are treated like shit, always have been. We even had slave labour just like you Yanks, and not all that long ago either. “Blackbirding”, they called it. Pacific Islanders were kidnapped and brought here to work the Queensland sugar plantations. We grew fat on the labour of Kanakas for a good fifty years.’ She held up her glass by way of demonstration. ‘That’s where this comes from, Lyndon, the land of Bundy Rum.’ And she took another swig as if to emphasise the point.

‘So you see, we’re not really all that different, are we, your mob and mine,’ she went on. ‘We’ve been pissing on black people for years, the whole lot of us. And that’s exactly what’s happened with the boys of the 96th. At least that’s my opinion, for what it’s worth. Your blokes have been treating those young men appallingly. They’re good, honest boys, here to help us fight a war, and they’ve been treated like shit.’

Good, honest boys here to help us fight a war. Lyndon wondered whether Val knew of her own government’s initial reaction to Negro soldiers. He recalled his recent meeting with Roosevelt and Eisenhower, and Ike telling him about the White Australia policy. ‘When we first raised the prospect of sending Negro troops they said they didn’t want them,’ Ike had said. And he recalled Roosevelt’s reply when he’d voiced his own amazement and enquired of the outcome. ‘We said if no black troops, then no US troops,’ Roosevelt had barked. ‘Period!’

No, Lyndon thought, Val Callahan wouldn’t know that. Few civilians would. Governments don’t share their secrets with the public they represent, and certainly not in times of war.

‘I respect your views, Val,’ he said, ‘and I’m taking on board all you say, believe me.’ He did, and he was. She was only confirming his own gut reaction, after all. Following this morning’s interviews at the stockade, he too felt a certain sympathy towards the boys of the 96th Battalion. But the sympathy vote didn’t provide answers. He needed to move on.

‘I’m keen to talk to one of your employees,’ he said, ‘a man called Baz Taylor.’

Val gave a derisive snort. ‘Employee? Well, I’m not sure if that’s quite the right term. I think Baz’d see himself more as a sort of “partner”. And it’s true I do rely on him for a lot of things that might otherwise be difficult to come by,’ she admitted in all honesty, ‘given wartime shortages, you know how it is.’ She left it at that, the implication obvious.

‘Which would include the alcohol supplied to the club you started up for the Negro troops,’ he prompted.

‘Exactly,’ she replied, ‘and a whole heap of other stuff, too. Baz can pull a rabbit out of a hat like no-one else I know. He’s a bloody magician.’