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direction.’
    â€˜That’s bull,’ I said. ‘They were lost in the sand­storm. Couldn’t have found the battle with guide dogs.’
    Over in the Brit camp, an officer yelled an order. Six infantrymen raised their rifles and took aim.
    A firing squad.
    That wasn’t on.
    Nobody would shoot those blokes if they’d seen what the poor blighters went through out there.
    I took off.
    Running was never my claim to fame, but I got across our campground in double time. Through the wire. Leaping over pommy tent ropes. Throwing myself towards the Brit officer.
    Flatten him first, I thought. Explain after.
    Before I could get to him, somebody flattened me.
    Otton, tackling from behind.
    As we hit the dirt, the officer yelled another order. The squad fired. The blokes at the poles went limp.
    â€˜You stupid bastard,’ I yelled at the Brit officer, struggling up and throwing myself at him. ‘They couldn’t help it.’
    The Brit officer pulled his pistol on me.
    I slapped it away. Grabbed him and shook him.
    â€˜They were lost,’ I yelled.
    â€˜Leave it,’ hissed Otton, tackling me again.
    I wasn’t leaving it. I yelled more things at the Brit officer till Otton clamped his hand over my mouth. I tried to struggle free, but Otton hung onto me till the military police arrived and smashed my face into the dirt for a bit, then dragged us both away.

    The lock-up was an old stone house in a local village.
    I lay on the floor for a while, waiting for my head to stop hurting. Then I opened my eyes.
    Otton was sitting against the wall.
    â€˜You shouldn’t be here,’ I mumbled. ‘You didn’t do anything.’
    Otton shrugged.
    â€˜Victim of circumstances,’ he said.
    There was a clatter as the cell door opened. The lock-up sergeant burst in, yelling at us to stand to attention.
    We did, slowly.
    An Australian major came in and looked us both up and down like we were something in his garden that needed spraying.
    â€˜What the blazes?’ he demanded.
    â€˜It was a misunderstanding, sir,’ said Otton.
    â€˜No,’ barked the major. ‘Assaulting an officer is not a misunderstanding. It’s an offence that carries a penalty of twelve months hard labour.’
    â€˜Those pommy blokes were innocent,’ I said. ‘That was murder.’
    â€˜Listen to me,’ growled the major. ‘You’re out of your depth, son. The Brits shoot their deserters, we don’t. So that’s a powder keg between us and them for starters. Without you mouthing off about murder.’
    â€˜I know what I saw,’ I said.
    â€˜What you saw doesn’t matter, trooper,’ said the major. ‘Here’s what you’re going to see. In the morning you’re going to see a court-martial. Which will sentence you both to twelve months in a military prison. And when you finally get home, in disgrace, you’ll spend the rest of your life seeing the faces of folks who know you’re a snivelling cowardly termite who white-anted our war effort.’
    â€˜Permission to display a relevant artefact, sir,’ said Otton.
    The major turned to him angrily.
    â€˜It had better be extremely relevant,’ he snapped.
    â€˜It is, sir,’ said Otton.
    The lock-up sergeant was sent over to the camp and came back with Daisy’s saddlebags.
    Otton took out my special bayonet. Held it out to the major. The red glow of the major’s cigarette gleamed off each of the jagged teeth.
    â€˜This belongs to Trooper Ballantyne, sir,’ said Otton. ‘Thought you should see it. On account of how you might want to reassess him, sir. On account of how a snivelling cowardly termite probably wouldn’t have a superbly-engineered killing device such as this.’
    The major was silent for a long time.
    He stubbed his cigarette out.
    â€˜I was wrong when I said twelve months hard labour,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t know we