The ghastly mantra of queries about her husband’s death … The jarring noises that came in from the street … The turmoil of guilt that plagued her constantly … There were times when Amelia felt she must surely be going mad.

Several days later, the violence that had threatened the streets of Townsville finally erupted, and as was perhaps to be expected it happened in the red-light district.

Things started out in the usual way. Around eleven o’clock, as men left the brothels of Ford Street to return to their respective barracks before the midnight curfew, there arose the customary show of hostility. A number of white Americans picked on a group of black Americans, and a couple of Aussies joined in under the guise of standing up for the black soldiers, but in reality relishing the opportunity to have a go at the Yanks.

A melee ensued. Just voices raised to start with, insults exchanged, men goading each other, egging mates on. Then the more aggressive among them started throwing punches and before long it had become a real free-for-all brawl.

A further group of white American troops appeared from the Causeway Hotel, drawn by the noise. The pub was closed, but they’d been having their own private party in the back room and the illicit liquor they’d consumed saw them right in the mood to join the fray.

By now there were twenty or more men kicking and punching and headbutting each other, some locked together on the ground, wrestling in the dark and dusty street, none of them with any idea what the fight was specifically about, apart from a release of ever-present hostilities and prejudice.

But it was one of the two Australians who was first to recognise the true danger at hand; this was no longer just a brawl.

‘That bastard’s got a knife,’ he yelled to his mate. ‘Come on, Mick, we’re out of here.’

The Aussies disappeared into the night, leaving the Americans at it, and the fight progressed. Now, it seemed, in deadly earnest.

Before long and inevitably, the Military Police arrived, twelve American provosts in all, and the ruckus was quickly brought to a halt.

But as men dragged themselves from the ground, bloodied and battered, one soldier remained where he lay.

The troops obeyed orders, backing off to stand a respectful distance away, but still the man on the ground did not move.

Stepping forward, the sergeant knelt to examine him. There was no pulse. He examined the wound. The soldier, a Negro, was dead. He’d been stabbed in the heart. The sergeant stood, quickly ordering one of his privates to notify HQ, and within minutes a jeep arrived with Major Hank Henry, the US Provost Marshal for Townsville.