‘They raided the chook house last night,’ he went on, ‘third time in a month. I don’t know how they do it, my Maxie’s a bloody good guard dog, but I didn’t hear a peep out of ’im. I reckon one of ’em must have a real way with dogs.’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘Probably a bloke from the land, a bloody farmer just like me. Well, I’m gonna keep watch from now on, and I tell you if I spring ’im I’ll blow ’is bloody head off!’

Baz nodded sympathetically, knowing it was a load of hot air and that Ned was just letting off steam. He’ll run out of puff soon, he thought.

They were sitting in the kitchen, Ned’s hard-working wife, Vera, having poured them a strong brew of Liptons before leaving them alone to chat while she tended to the children’s tea – the Parslows had a son and a daughter, twelve and ten years old respectively. The kids would be home from school soon, riding their bikes the five miles from town.

Ned wasn’t the only farmer who was fed up with Australian soldiers raiding properties, stealing vegetables from their crops, fruit from their orchards, and most particularly eggs from their henhouses.

‘Ratbags, they are,’ Ned grumbled, already starting to run out of puff. ‘I wouldn’t mind pissing off south, to tell you the truth.’

‘What, because of a few ratbag Aussie soldiers?’ Baz grinned. ‘Bit drastic, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Nah, nah, not just because of them,’ Ned admitted, ‘but all this stuff about invasion and that, bit scary with the kids, you know. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t take the family down south.’ He shrugged. ‘But then who’d look after the farm? Johnno wouldn’t be able to manage things without me and Vera.’ Johnno was the hired help.

‘Oh, I think you’re being a bit premature, mate,’ Baz said, ‘it’s just talk at the moment, that’s all it is.’

Baz would find it most inconvenient if Ned upped and left. The two of them had come to an excellent arrangement. The farm, a small family-run affair of three acres that didn’t yield enough to be of interest to the military, was ideal for Baz’s purposes. It was on the outskirts of town, just five miles south-west near the banks of the Ross River, an easy drive in Val’s car, and he would regularly deliver petrol in exchange for eggs, fruit and vegetables. Ned Parslow was a perfect source of supply. If the man was to leave, Baz would have to find another small-time farmer whose produce wasn’t sold directly to the Americans, and even if he found such a farmer, the property was bound to be a good deal further from town.

‘I’d stay put a while if I were you,’ he said comfortingly.