John Carter was by now so nervous that Samuel actually felt sorry for him, while also suppressing a huge desire to cheer. They were finally going to get the attention they deserved.

‘Lyndon Baines Johnson,’ Carter stammered.

‘Lyndon-Fucking-Baines-Johnson …’ Hank gave a snarl of derision. ‘Yeah, with a name like that, he’s bound to be a weedy little prick.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘My time is limited, Major. I’m officially here as an observer on a combat mission, but during the several brief days of my stay in Townsville, I have direct orders from the President of the United States to get to the bottom of this downright disgraceful mutiny within our ranks. Black troops firing on their white officers! Shameful! The president is appalled, as is General Eisenhower, as indeed am I. Such disunity among our troops in a time of war simply will not and cannot be tolerated. So let’s get down to business, shall we?’

Hank was taken aback. Lyndon Baines Johnson was anything but the ‘weedy little prick’ he’d anticipated. Resplendent in his naval dress uniform, well over six feet tall, in fact several inches taller than Hank, who at just under six feet cut an impressive figure himself, everything about Johnson was big. The air of confidence, the swagger in his walk, the voice with its Texan drawl, but above all the man’s sheer arrogance. Good God, Hank thought, he can’t be more than mid-thirties and yet he’s placing himself alongside FDR and Eisenhower, dropping their names as if he’s their equal. The gall of the guy. However, much as Hank didn’t warm to Johnson, which was hardly surprising, he had to admit he’d rather have this sort of congressman than the one he’d expected. At least he’s got balls, Hank thought.

Johnson dumped the file he held in his hand onto the major’s desktop. ‘I glanced through this here chicken-shit report of Carter’s as we drove into town,’ he said, casting a scathing glance at the unfortunate John Carter, who was standing nearby positively quaking and had been ever since he’d picked up this dynamo from the airfield. ‘But it says fuck-all. Just dates, times, facts and figures, nothing more. I want the whys and the hows and the wherefores, you get my drift?’

‘Yes, I believe I do, Commander,’ Hank said in a measured tone. Well, at least that’s one thing we have in common, he thought. Johnson’s obviously registered Carter as the ineffectual prick he is.