Escorted by an armed orderly, Malcolm was taken down the broad central road. A few prisoners in khaki rigs were standing disconsolately at the doors of the huts. Most of them shouted a rough but well-meaning greeting to the new arrival, to which Malcolm, understanding the purport of the unheard words, replied by a wave of his hand. In vain Rifleman Carr looked for a New Zealand uniform: these were mostly Tommies and Jocks, a sprinkling of Canadians, and two West Indians; Anzacs seemed to be unrepresented in the motley throng of captives.