11.40 pm, Tuesday 15th of August 1944
A soldier burst through the entrance of the military police depot tent. He had a sweat-dampened hairline and was out of breath. ‘One of my cobbers has been booted or hit by a bottle,’ he said, panicking, but also timid, because he knew he would be in trouble. Provost John Douglas Colquhoun sat up and pushed his papers aside. A single light globe illuminated his tent.
It had a temporary wooden floor and just enough space for a few pieces of repurposed furniture. Provost Colquhoun was on the graveyard shift at the depot. There had been a dance earlier in the evening so it was only a matter of time before another drunk soldier lost control and got into a fight. And there was no doubt this soldier had been drinking. ‘My name is Clyde Neumann,’ said the soldier, ‘I’m a signalman at Camp Julago’.
Provost Colquhoun looked Clyde up and down. He didn’t recognise him. But he did notice that he had fresh blood on both of his hands. Clyde told Provost Colquhoun that his friend needed to be taken to a doctor immediately but he was out cold. They needed a car but Provost
Colquhoun’s depot wasn’t important enough to have one of the strictly rationed Australian Army vehicles. Taking a deep breath to swallow his pride, Provost Colquhoun marched over to his phone and dialled the number of the nearby American military police station. As with everything, the Americans had an endless supply of vehicles.
Moments later, two American military police arrived in their jeep and Provost Colquhoun and Clyde jumped in. Clyde directed them down Flinders St, right into Stanley St, and then left into Hanran St. They passed Heatley’s Dance Hall on the corner where the dance was still wrapping up. People were stumbling out of the hall and into the street. When they approached Victoria Bridge at the end of Hanran St, Clyde told them to pull over to the right.
The beam of the jeep’s headlights lit the otherwise pitch-black creek bank. There, in the pool of light, lay the limp body of a young, uniformed
soldier. His head was cradled in the lap of another soldier who was kneeling in front of a fence that surrounded a concrete air raid shelter. The kneeling soldier looked up with relief. The team from the jeep ran towards the injured soldier and Provost Colquhoun knelt by the victim’s side. Dry blood covered his entire face. ‘He hasn’t spoken a word,’ said the kneeling soldier, whose breath smelt of alcohol…
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