Seated near the wall at the end of the line of officers, John Carter couldn’t resist a mildly rebellious nod. Despite Johnson’s disdain, as far as he was concerned liquor most certainly remained the overall governing factor that had led to the mutiny.

‘Yes, sir, there was liquor all right,’ Strut confirmed, ‘the troops were certainly drunk, sir, that’s for sure.’

‘And where did they get this liquor, Sergeant?’

‘From a man called Baz Taylor, I believe, sir. The same man who supplied the liquor for the club Captain Robinson tried to set up for the troops.’

Strut cast a glance in Samuel’s direction, signalling he was only too eager to help by giving as much detail as possible and getting everything right in the process, but he didn’t receive a reaction by way of return.

‘Do you have any idea how this liquor was obtained and distributed, Sergeant?’ Johnson asked.

‘I didn’t at the time, sir, of course I had no idea. That night came as a terrible shock to us all.’ Another heartfelt shake of the head. ‘But I’ve since learned several NCOs collected money from the men and paid Taylor, who then delivered the liquor. At least this is what I’ve been told, sir.’

Unaware he was walking into a trap, Strut felt perfectly safe. The corporals had told him they’d taken the rap, that they’d been questioned and had admitted to dealing directly with Baz Taylor. They’d cop a bit of flak, sure, Strut thought, but he’d make it worth their while. And what’s more they knew that. This had been the agreement from the outset.

‘You’re lying, Sergeant.’ Johnson dropped his simple question-and-answer technique and started to ride in hard, as had been his intention. ‘The NCOs collected the money certainly, but they did not pay it to Taylor, they paid it directly to you.’

The accusation, unexpected as it was, shocked Strut from his complacency. His mind started to race. Which of those bastard corporals had ratted on him? But more importantly, how was he to play this?

‘You had a business arrangement with Baz Taylor, Sergeant,’ Johnson continued relentlessly, the background clack of the MP’s typewriter equally relentless. ‘You took money from your own men and sold them hard liquor, and I want to know why. Were you just lining your own pockets or was there a more sinister reason?’

What the hell was the man getting at, Strut wondered. He felt threatened; and threatened far beyond the act of simply aiding the supply of booze to the men. The Texan was implying something, but what the hell was it? Strut knew he was cornered, so he started to grovel.