Baz stopped lounging and stood up straight, as if obeying the boss, but his manner remained insolent. ‘Oh dear me no, poor old Stowers,’ he said, shaking his head sympathetically, ‘he won’t like it at all.’ And still shaking his head, audibly and annoyingly tut-tutting as he did, Baz sauntered off out of the bar altogether.

No, Lyndon thought, you’re damned right he won’t like it. Private Stowers won’t like it one little bit. I wonder if the men have beaten the shit out of him yet. I wouldn’t blame them. He might well be half-dead by now.

Stowers was not half-dead, and as yet he’d not been beaten, but this was only due to his own cunning. Throughout the previous afternoon and evening, and this morning, too, as he laboured beside the very men who hated him, he continued to spread the story about Maxwell. How Maxwell had brutally killed young Anthony Hill … ‘In cold blood, I swear, no provocation at all …’ How Maxwell had blackmailed him … ‘Said he’d pin the whole thing on me if I didn’t help make it appear accidental. Said who’d believe me, white officer’s word against nigger NCO? He’s one evil fucker, that Maxwell …’

Stowers was not winning the men’s sympathy. He knew it, and they knew it. But they were listening to him. And as he frantically sought his own avenue of escape, he was doing exactly that of which Johnson had accused him. He was fuelling the troops, inciting their desire for revenge, and the distraction ploy was proving successful. The men’s attention was diverted from him and turning towards Maxwell as talk circulated throughout the battalion, burning surely and steadily to bushfire proportions. It was only a matter of time.

‘Sorry about Baz,’ Val said, rejoining Lyndon, ‘he’s a pain in the arse at times.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed, ‘Baz sure is that.’

‘Valuable though.’ She looked around the bar. ‘Bit noisy in here. Want to come upstairs? I’ll get us a cup of coffee.’

Val didn’t drink coffee herself, preferring tea – ‘strictly a “cuppa” girl’, as she was wont to say – but with the Americans in town, she’d learned to ‘stomach the muck’, as she was also wont to say. Furthermore, she’d taught Jill how to brew coffee just the way the Yanks liked it, so she was rather proud to have the stuff readily on offer.

‘Why thank you, Val,’ Lyndon said appreciatively, ‘coffee would be just fine.’

She circled the bar, signalling to Betty, a forefinger pointing upstairs, and Betty gave a nod.

As they stepped into the reception area they all but bumped into Aunty Edie coming down the stairs. She’d been sorting out the washing, which Baz would then deliver to the laundry at Rose Bay.