Percy paused to contemplate atop the hill. The mission had gone terribly wrong, and the Major was going to be most unhappy. It was supposed to be simple. In and out. Quick and clean. No-one to know. But a frenzy had overtook him…. he’d lost control. His hands were now a sticky mess, a large stain on his shirt slowly turning black and he could feel the splatter on his face congealing. He was in trouble.
Percy surveyed the scene below him. Part way down the hill was the train station, to the right, the railway tunnel in which some the of the Jap P.O.W’s had suicided. Beyond that, the village of Carcoar, a madcap collection of colonial buildings, ramshackle hutches and odd modern dwellings. To his left the main street ran along the valley floor, then rose sharply to disappear over the crest of a hill. The lower end of the street was guarded by the courthouse, the high end dominated by the local church, a religious mesa built nearly a century ago to look over the sinners of the valley. Percy wondered in which he would be judged.
With the sun setting behind him, he started down the hill. As he descended, more landmarks caught his eye. The old wooden bridge spanning the river, the palacious Stoke House with its convict built stone brick stable, the old wooden Billy Tea rooms, decaying gracefully, and next to that, his destination.
The terrace houses seemed almost out of place in the village. The brownstone building contained four units, each with picket fenced courtyards and personalised front doors. A rust stained tin roof bullnosed over the upper balconies that were just big enough for the odd potted plant or rocking chair. It was here the Major had taken up residence.
As there was still a little light, he cut through the football field, a less direct route than the track leading from the train station, but more secluded.
The sun had dropped behind the hill enough to spread some wonderfully long shadows for Percy to stealth in, and he made it across the feild without incident. He stopped to study the terrace house, second from the left to be exact. It seemed almost homely. The sitting room window was warmly lit and the last dying rays of sun caught the smoke rising from the chimney. A quick check of the street confirmed it was empty, and he strode steadily but purposely across it, not stopping till he reached the front door. He knocked and entered. The warmth was wonderful, he’d forgotten how cold he was.
“Kitchen please Percy,” a voice commanded from the next room.
“Yes sir,” Percy replied. The stain on his shirt seemed bigger now, his fingers stickier. He crossed the sitting room. Stern men in uniform glared at him from picture frames on the wall.
“Hurry lad,” the voice commanded again, “your report is overdue.”
Percy lingered at the door for a moment, then entered the Major’s inner sanctum. The old man was in his usual spot, in front of the white, wood fired St George oven. He still struck an imposing figure. A hard looking man, with broad shoulders that had lost muscle tone, but could still batter down a door. Huge hands, barrel chest and a pair of gunmetal grey eyes that could almost burn you with their glare. It was this heat Percy was now feeling.
“What’s the meaning of this,” he demanded. Percy hung his head.
“There’ll be hell to pay for this, you mark my words,” he growled again, rising from the table, “You’ve completely disregarded orders. How many times have I told you to stay away from that blackberry patch, you’re in more trouble than Speed Gordon boy!”
Percy looked up lovingly at his Grandfather, recalling his mother’s favourite saying, “You can take the man out of the military,” she’d say, “ but never the military out of the man.”
