Over the Victoria Bridge that crossed Ross Creek to South Townsville, the bedlam was even more evident. Here the military appeared to have blanketed the land. Seas of tents formed army barracks where once there had been parks, massive transport and munitions stores had sprung up everywhere, and all was interwoven with traffic; the endless, heavy-duty traffic of army trucks and machinery. Since the arrival of the Americans, the entire town seemed to have disappeared beneath the weight of war.

This very fact, however, was a comfort to many. The Americans were a price worth paying in these frightening times when invasion threatened. Their presence made people feel safe. Even the shortage of produce and general supplies – fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and eggs, dairy products and, surprisingly, rice, the majority being gobbled up by the American military – this too was a price worth paying. The lack of petrol and tyres for privately owned vehicles was also suffered, the people of Townsville accepting the fact they must travel in buses – roofed and open-sided single deckers that invariably chugged along at less than a walking pace – or weave their way through the congestion on bicycles. All of these deprivations were worth the presence of the Americans, for the Americans were here to save them.

There was one element though that was not as welcoming of the Americans as the citizens of Townsville. The Australian soldiers felt a strong antipathy towards their American counterparts. The comic taunt that was applied to GIs – ‘over-sexed, over-paid and over here’ – did not have a humorous ring to the ears of the Aussie troops, who suffered deprivations similar to those of Townsville’s civilians. Unlike the Americans, they couldn’t devour huge feeds of steak and eggs every day of the week! Nor could they readily avail themselves of transport for personal use! After a night out in town, there was no hopping aboard a military Willys jeep or GMC truck. They had to walk back to camp or, humiliatingly, beg a lift with the Yanks.

The Aussies were paid a pittance in comparison, their uniforms looked shabby next to the smart outfits of the GIs, and they had no ready supply of nylons and chocolates and cigarettes to offer as gifts. Little wonder the Yanks were winning all the girls.

The Australians were angry. The imbalance was grossly unfair. They were here to fight a war, too!

‘They’ve been at it again, Baz,’ Ned complained, ‘those bastard Aussies, I’m sick to death of ’em.’

Forty-year-old Ned Parslow was an out-and-out Aussie himself. He would never have thought he’d hear himself bellyache about his fellow Australians, particularly those who were fighting for their country, but he’d had enough.