Robertson knew the PM had suffered terribly for the decision, harangued by London and prodded by Washington to do as they wanted, not as he thought best. And when he’d faced down the demands from Churchill, there was the even greater stress of actually waiting for thousands of Australian troops to make it home across waters infested with U-boats and raiders and Japanese carriers. Robertson had more than once found the PM alone in this office, doubled over in pain. It was as if the responsibility of leading the country through its darkest hour was eating him from the inside out.

MacArthur leaned forward and rapped the desk with his fist.

“I’m going to move Heaven and earth to get those forces sent here as quickly as possible, Prime Minister. It would help if you could cable the president in support. After all, there are some Australian units attached to this Kolhammer’s force. They should be here in this theater, placed under my command.”

Robertson suppressed a smile at MacArthur’s choice of words. He composed a suitably neutral facade before interrupting.

“These developments you mentioned, General MacArthur, I take it you mean the report out of New Guinea?”

The American’s features clouded over momentarily. He fidgeted with the device. After a few tries he got the screen to light up and MacArthur handed the slate across to Curtin. Robertson could see there was some sort of picture displayed on the glowing face of the machine. It was a dark, midwinter’s day outside, and when lit the slate was bright enough to throw the PM’s shadow up the wall.

“That’s a photograph taken by a long-range patrol, operating in the Saruwaged Ranges of New Guinea,” explained the general. “Commander Judge was kind enough to transfer it to this machine for me before he left. We would have dismissed it as a fake a month ago. But given what’s happened, I think we have to take it seriously.”

Robertson watched the prime minister’s face as Curtin examined the picture. He frowned like a man confronted by an intricate puzzle. After a few seconds his eyes opened wider and he sat bolt upright.

“Is that a . . . ?”

But words failed him.

“Yes, Prime Minister,” said MacArthur, “it’s a warship. Sticking out of a mountain, thousands of feet above sea level.”

Curtin handed the slate to Robertson. It felt dense, but light. The casing was made of something that gave under the fingers, like rubber. The PM’s adviser was careful to avoid touching any of the buttons arrayed across the bottom of the case. Holding it gently by the sides, he saw a photograph of what looked like a destroyer or a frigate, with her stern buried in the ground. A few tents were clustered around the base of the vessel, and he could make out human figures here and there.