‘We’ve long been criticised for our segregationist policies, Robert, as you well know, so in some ways we haven’t been all that different from the Australians. We put black people in boxes; we don’t give them the same advantages as white folk; we view them as inferior —’

‘That may have been true once,’ Bobby interrupted, ‘but it’s about to become a thing of the past.’ He indicated the all-important file that sat on the presidential desk.

‘Exactly,’ Johnson agreed with enthusiasm. ‘We are on the eve of monumental change in this country, which makes our current conversation particularly pertinent in my opinion, and I’ll tell you why. In these enlightened times the White Australia policy is still alive and well.’ He raised his glass as if in triumph. ‘Like I said, those Aussies are a breed apart.’ A swig and he went on. ‘You want to know why I was sent down there in forty-two?’

Another rhetorical question, so Bobby merely nodded, although he was keen to hear the story Johnson appeared so eager to share. What exactly was this well-guarded war secret?

‘Ever been there yourself, Robert?’

‘Nope.’

Johnson swirled the dark liquor in his glass, studying it intently, remembering the first time he’d had a slug of ‘Bundy’ as the rum was fondly known in Australia. At least that’s what Val had told him. He’d only been in Townsville for those several days of his investigation, but he remembered too when Val had given him the very bottle that now sat on the desk before him.

‘Well, it’s something else I can tell you,’ he said, ‘particularly a place in Northern Queensland. A place they call Townsville.’

PART ONE

THE CIVILIANS

CHAPTER ONE

1942

Val Callahan gazed about the main bar of her pub, marvelling at the surrounding sea of khaki. It was half past four in the afternoon and she’d only just opened up – beer rationing already a force to be reckoned with, there was no point in opening earlier. Good thing she had Baz on side with his black-market contacts; she’d need to be calling on him soon.

She joined young Betty and Jill behind the bar in order to help out with the influx of drinkers streaming through the open doors that led to the busy corner of Stokes and Sturt streets.

Khaki wherever you look, she thought as she started pulling beers. Here in The Brown’s Bar, the mob queued up outside, passers-by in the street, barely a civilian to be seen, just military everywhere. Army, navy, air force, you name it, and all in khaki. Various shades and styles sure, but khaki nonetheless.

It seems to have happened overnight, Val thought. How extraordinary. We’ve become a khaki town.