Roger hardly stirred all night. So soundly did he sleep that when he woke he found his left arm had ‘gone to sleep’. As he blinked in the darkness he found he was shivering with cold and was half out of his sleeping bag. He snuggled down to get warm and checked his watch. It was 05:25. Time for another hour’s sleep he decided; but then found that sleep would not come. To add to his exasperation Graham lay beside him, breathing the slow, steady breaths of deep sleep.
Roger shifted position. He lay on his side and adjusted his pack to make it a more comfortable pillow. But the more he tried, the more wide awake he became. Equally annoying was a growing and persistent urge to go to the toilet. After ten more minutes Roger gave up. He crawled quietly out and pulled on his socks, tipped his boots upside down to check for scorpions or spiders, then pulled them on. He laced them tight and gingerly stood up.
To his surprise he felt stiff but not too sore. The air was quite chilly so he added his field jacket. It was still dark but a faint lightening in the sky indicated dawn was not far off. The low, dark shape of Peter and Stephen’s hutchie was just visible between two nearby trees. The fire had burned itself down to grey-black ash.
After retrieving his toilet paper from his pack Roger walked quietly up to the gravel road. He paused to listen. Not a sound; not even wind in the trees. The air was completely still and there was a light mist. He stared up and down the grey ribbon of road.
‘Which way? Right or left?’
Right, he decided. There was a bit of a thicket near the cattle grid which was well away from the camp and offered some privacy, Roger being sensitive about such things. He walked that way, his boots crunching on the sand and gravel. Once across the grid he made his way among the She-Oaks and ferns a few metres off the road to do his morning business.
While he squatted there it grew rapidly lighter. The sound of a car coming from Herberton along the Highway disturbed the stillness. Roger watched its headlights flicker through the trees. It raced past and out of sight up towards the pass. Silence settled again as the vehicle went over the crest.
Roger had finished and was buttoning his trousers when he heard the quiet crunch of footsteps coming from the direction of their camp. He looked and could just make out two figures in the misty half-light. Was it Graham and Peter? Or Stephen and Peter? In the gloom he could not tell. Still adjusting his clothing he walked out onto the gravel road and stopped in surprise, a cheerful greeting left unsaid.
Two armed men in dark uniforms were at the grid. Both men carried rifles. The front one was looking down watching his footing but the one behind saw Roger and cried out in alarm.
Roger froze in shock. His mind took in the weapons, webbing, dark green trousers and jacket and a green cloth forage cap with some sort of badge on it. He saw the first man look up, his eyes and mouth open in surprise. Then the second man cried out again.
“Soldat!” he cried as he threw up his weapon.
‘KSS!’ Roger’s mind shouted. In panic he threw himself sideways. His eyes registered a flash from the rifle. The sharp crack of the bullet was overlaid by the duller bang of the weapon going off. At the same moment there was a loud cry of fear, followed by a scream.
Roger rolled into a low ditch among some ferns as another bullet tore through the undergrowth beside him. His whole being gripped by terror he yelled, “Graham! Graham! Peter! KSS! Help!”
There was a thumping and rustling noise near the fence and another scream of pain. Roger glimpsed the first man writhing on the cattle grid. The second had dived for cover into the grass beyond the road.
To Roger’s immense relief he heard Graham yelling. “Roger! Roger! What’s going on?”
Roger saw the man in the grass jerk his head round in surprise at the sound of shouts from his rear. There was another piercing yell of agony from the first man, who was still in a struggling heap on the grid. Roger scrambled behind a log. He was on the edge of panic.
Again he yelled, his voice cracking with near hysteria. “Graham! Help! Two armed men. Be careful. They’ve got guns.” His voice went high pitched on that last bit and he flushed with shame. As he shouted he saw the second man spring to his feet and look his way. For a moment Roger dissolved in terror as the man swung the rifle round. Then the man ran to his companion and reached down to haul him to his feet. This provoked an even shriller scream of pure agony.
There were more yells from Graham and the others and Roger heard their boots thudding through the bush. The second man heaved at his companion who had now slumped unconscious. Failing to free him, the second man darted fearful glances towards Roger’s hiding place and over his shoulder, then released the injured man and fled. Roger glimpsed him bolting up the slope through the She-Oaks.
Dark figures flitted through the trees from the direction of the camp, then vanished as Graham ordered them to take cover. “Roger! What’s going on?” he called.
Roger tried to reply but his voice quavered too much and he had to pause and wipe spittle and sweat from his mouth.
“Th...Th...There are two men...with g..guns. One has run up the hill to your left. The other is here at the grid. I think he’s hurt himself.”
This was confirmed by the man emitting a loud groan and calling angrily after his companion in a foreign language.
Kosarians?
“Keep down!” Graham yelled. “What is he doing Roger? Can you see?”
Roger was shaking with fright and did not want to look but he raised his head. He saw the man’s rifle lying on the road at least a metre from his clawing hands. The man groaned again then called out. Then he swore; or it sounded like it to Roger.
There was a rush of boots and Graham appeared at the fence. He went under it in a diving roll and was on his feet and running in an instant. Passing Roger he scooped up the rifle and kept on going, to dive behind a tree on the other side of the track.
“I’ve got his rifle. Wait a minute while I work out how to use it,” he called.
Roger let out a great sigh and shuddered. He wiped cold sweat from his eyes and crouched, ready to run. His eyes searched the bush in all directions for any sign of more of the men. The man on the grid moaned again and curled up.
Graham called: “Can anyone see or hear the other man?”
“No,” Roger croaked in reply.
“Steve, you watch back towards our camp and up the slope. Roger, you watch out towards the highway and down the slope. Pete, you come and search this bugger. I will cover you,” Graham ordered.
Graham moved into a kneeling fire position among the ferns near the grid. Peter rose from the grass twenty metres away and walked forward. He approached the man very cautiously and looked all around before bending down to start searching the web equipment the man was wearing.
Peter looked up. “He’s fainted. He’s got his leg jammed in the cattle grid. I think he has broken it.”
“Get his webbing off and search his pockets, quickly,” Graham ordered. He looked around in momentary indecision, then turned to Roger. “Roger, help Peter. Empty everything out of his pockets and put it in a plastic bag or something.”
Shakily Roger got to his feet. He licked his lips and wiped sweaty palms. He felt chilled and was shivering all over. Despite his fear he found himself walking toward the man while half his mind rebelled. The reality of it was only now sinking in. ‘Search a man!’ he thought. He had been trained to do it and had done it often enough on cadet exercises but this seemed quite different.
Peter called out as Roger reached him. “I can’t find any other weapons, only a pocket knife. There is live ammo in these basic pouches though,” he said. He pulled the webbing off and tossed it to the edge of the road near Graham.
Reluctantly Roger knelt and felt the man’s shirt pockets, every nerve tensed for flight. He forced himself to unbutton the pockets and to push his fingers inside. With shaking fingers he scooped out a pencil, notebook, pen, some coins and a compass from one pocket and a wad of folded papers and a notebook, all in a plastic bag, from the other. He placed these on the ground.
Peter pointed to the man’s shirt collar. “Look at those badges,” he said. Roger looked. Two rhomboid shaped gold lozenges, each with a small silver ‘pip’ in the centre, were pinned on, one on each lapel.
From where he crouched behind a tree Stephen called, “KSS?”
Peter shook his head and picked up the green cloth peaked cap from the dust. “Don’t think so. This bloke is all dressed in green, and look; this badge on his cap. It is a gold eagle with a crown on it,” he said.
Roger stared at the badge. The eagle had its wings bent down, just like the one on the cover of the History Book. His pulse raced with interest. “Kosarian Royal Guard,” he said with certainty.
“Could be.”
Peter emptied a map pocket on the man’s trousers: map, toilet paper, an Aide Memoire book. Roger dug in the right trouser pocket and fished out a dirty handkerchief and some coins. Then he felt in the man’s right map pocket. The man moved and emitted a groan.
Roger sprang back.
Stephen chuckled. “That was good Roger. Do that again!”
“Get knotted!” Roger retorted, his heart hammering a frantic tattoo.
“His leg is broken alright. Badly by the look of it,” Peter observed. “Let’s get him out. Give us a hand Steve.”
Peter tossed the man’s wallet down to join the other belongings littering the road. Roger pulled out the plastic bag he kept his toilet paper in and began placing the items in it. Stephen joined Peter while Graham remained crouching on guard, holding some sort of black automatic rifle similar to an AK47.
As Peter and Stephen tried to lift the man by his arms he woke up. His eyes rolled around and a ghastly moan escaped from his lolling jaw. The boys nearly dropped him in fright. The man’s face looked horrible, all pale and sweaty. As they tried again the man groaned in agony and slumped into unconsciousness.
“We can’t lift him. His leg is caught,” Peter cried. “Help us Roger.”
Roger put down the plastic bag and moved to the grid. He then saw just how badly the man’s leg was broken. It was snapped below the knee and was twisted almost at right angles. He had to nerve himself to kneel and grab the injured member. With trembling hands he guided it up between the steel rails of the cattle grid while Peter and Stephen lifted.
“It’s out,” he called, feeling so nauseous he thought he was going to black out. They dragged the man clear of the grid and stretched him out on the road.
“Phew! Broken alright,” Stephen whistled.
“Just as well he was out to it,” Peter commented. He knelt and felt gently along the twisted leg. The unconscious man moaned and thrashed feebly.
Graham walked over to join them, his eyes still searching the bush in all directions.
“What are we going to do?” Roger asked.
“Let’s get out of here before that other bloke comes back,” Stephen suggested.
Peter shook his head. “This joker needs hospital treatment,” he said. “We can’t just leave him.”
“Bugger him. Leave him for his mates,” Stephen replied.
Roger’s conscience rebelled at that. “We can carry him out to the road and wave down a car,” he said. “Then we could get him to hospital in Atherton.”
Peter nodded. “Or Herberton. There’s a hospital there too I think,” he suggested.
Graham looked around. “We have to call the police too,” he added. He paused for a minute and scanned the surrounding bush. Then he spoke firmly. “Pete, you and Steve carry out First Aid. Splint the leg and make him comfortable. Roger, you sort out what we have found. I will keep guard.”
That suited Roger. He didn’t want to touch the injured man again. He was still trembling with shock but at least his heart rate had slowed.
Graham moved into a kneeling fire position at the base of a large ironbark and faced up the hill. “What happened Roger?” he asked.
“I’d just gone down there for a crap,” Roger explained. “I was finished and as I walked back onto the road these two blokes came along.”
Stephen snickered. “Just as well you’d had your crap before you met them,” he called. Roger flushed with embarrassment. It was too true to be funny. He remembered the moment of stark terror when the second man had raised his rifle and fired. Then he remembered the humiliating experience in the jungle at Mobo Creek. In response he just gave a wry grin and pretended the jibe didn’t hurt.
Graham asked, “Which way did they come from? From the highway?”
“No. From the other way, past our camp. That’s why I thought it was two of you,” Roger replied.
Graham frowned and bit his lip. He dug out his map with one hand and looked at it. It was fully light by this time. “This road goes right up to the top of the mountain.”
Roger looked up through the trees to where the mountainside vanished from view amongst trees and cloud.
Cloud!
“Cloud!” he said. “Assembly Area Cloud. I’ll bet it’s up there.”
They all looked up in alarm.
Stephen looked anxiously along the road. “So there must be more of them. Let’s get out of here,” he cried.
“A whole company, if that message was right,” Peter added soberly.
“Get a stretcher made, fast,” Graham ordered, a worried frown creasing his brow. He put his map back and removed the magazine from the rifle and cocked it. A shiny new bullet flicked out onto the road. He picked this up and then studied how the weapon worked before re-inserting the round in the breech and easing the working parts forward on it. Then he replaced the magazine. Roger met his eyes and he gave a grim smile.
“Keep sorting Roger.”
While Peter finished cutting the man’s trouser leg open Stephen returned to their camp to get twine and bandages. Roger sat and spread out the contents of the bag. He quickly sorted the personal items, then looked in the wallet. There was a Queensland Driver’s Licence with a photo of the man.
“His name is Otto Witorski,” he said. There were credit cards and several printed cards which appeared to be business cards. The notebook was in German and in crabbed handwriting which he could not read but inside the cover was printed in neat block letters:
KRA10612 LT O. M. WITORSKI
6. B. 3 KPLG
“There is what looks like a number, rank and name here. He is a Lieutenant, I think. Then it says six dot ‘B’; that is Capital BRAVO, dot three; then block letters KPLG. I wonder what it means?”
“Kosarian Palace Guard?” Graham suggested.
“What about the ‘L’?” Peter asked.
“Never mind. We can work it out later. What else is there?” Graham asked.
Roger put the notebook down and picked up the man’s map. “There is a pencil triangle at a track junction about a kilometre up this road; and a pencil circle at some ruins on top of the mountain,” he said.
“Their camp, I’ll bet,” Graham said. Roger picked up a small printed book. On the cover was a set of letters and numbers:
KPLG KB - 2 6109
He opened it. Each page had a number at the top, then rows of random ‘trigrams’, with letters of the Alphabet, words or numbers beside them.
“This is a code book. Like we use for signals training. One of those ‘once only’ tear out pads,” Roger said. He flicked through it, feeling his curiosity and excitement mount. They were back in the mystery again! He picked up several folded sheets of paper and unfolded them. As he smoothed them out he got another kick of excitement.
“These are Message Forms with a message written on them!” he said.
“Is it in code?” asked Stephen, who had returned and was helping Peter.
“It was, but it’s been decoded. Now it’s only in what looks like German.”
“In German!” Graham echoed.
“Oh bugger!” Roger said. He had wanted to read the message as he felt it must be important.
Stephen held out his hand. “Give me a look,” he said. Roger passed him the sheets.
Graham called softly. “Roger, you help Pete. Bring the message here Steve.”
Reluctantly Roger did as he was told. Peter walked into the bush a few metres and began to hack down a sapling with his sheath knife. Roger knelt beside the injured man. He averted his eyes from the ugly blue-black swelling and listened to Stephen and Graham.
Graham studied the message and nodded. “It is a signal form alright. I wonder what KKG oblique ‘R’ means?” he murmured.
“Kosarian King’s Guard?” Stephen suggested.
“It’s in German remember.”
“So? King is Konig and Guard is spelt in the French way: G-A-R-D-E,” Stephen replied.
“You could be right. Well, the security classification is ‘Secret’ and this says ‘Officer only’.”
“So he is an officer,” Roger said. He looked down and touched one of the gold lapel badges.
“The ‘Action’ is BLITZ- Flash or Lightning.”
“So it must be important,” Stephen suggested.
“I’d say so. Now; Date-Time. it was sent at 0300 this morning and this bit says ‘Handling Instructions’- Hmmm. KODEX KPLG KB-2.”
Roger looked at the cover of the code book. “That is what is on the cover of this code book,” he noted. He bent and picked it up. “KPLG KB-2 6109.”
“That makes sense. Now then, it is from the ‘White Falcon’; whoever he is; to the Kommander KPLG PL 6 KKG.”
Stephen snapped his fingers. “I know. KronzPrinz Leib Garde- the Crown Prince’s Life Guard,” he said. “Some of those model soldiers I make from alloy castings are Leib Gardes.”
“Makes sense,” Graham agreed.
Roger felt another surge of excitement. “So the Kosarian Crown Prince must be near here!”
“Why Roger?” Stephen queried.
“If the commander of his guard is here then he must be. It stands to reason,” Roger replied.
“Not necessarily. This is to Commander 6 Platoon,” Graham said.
“Are you sure?” Stephen asked.
“No. But it might be,” Roger cried. “That’s what it says inside his notebook. Here. 6 dash BRAVO dash 3.”
“6 Platoon, ‘B’ Company, 3rd Battalion,” Graham suggested.
Peter asked, “Why 3rd Battalion?”
“I read it the other night. The 1st Battalion of the Royal Guard is the King’s Guard; the 2nd Battalion the Queen’s Guard and the 3rd Battalion is the Crown Prince’s Guard,” Graham replied.
Roger felt his chest tighten with excitement. “So we might bump into Prince Peter the fourth!” he squeaked breathlessly.
“Peter the Fifth,” Peter reminded as he returned with a trimmed sapling.
“Or sixth,” Stephen added.
Peter looked serious. “If we do bump into Prince Peter they might bump us off,” he said.
Graham nodded. “By Jove yes! We will have upset their plans and we know too much to let go,” he added. That thought made Roger feel so afraid he began to tremble.
Peter gestured to the injured man. “Here Roger, hold this man while I straighten his leg,” he ordered. Roger did so. Peter gently moved the broken limb beside the other. The man uttered a groan and writhed feebly. Roger felt so nauseous he thought he was going to be sick.
Peter frowned. “Not so good. We will splint it like that. I don’t want to try straightening the broken bone in case it cuts an artery or something. He’s got some bandages in his webbing. Use those,” he said.
“Are we going to make a stretcher?” Roger asked.
Peter shrugged. “I suppose so. We can easily enough.”
Roger nodded. “Yes. But is it worth the effort, just to carry him a hundred paces. The ambulance can drive in here easily enough. It would be better if one of us hitch-hiked down to Atherton to get help.”
Peter considered this. “You are right. Who should go?”
Graham looked up from writing in his notebook. “We have to tell the police as well.”
“That’s alright. I will go,” Peter offered.
“Shouldn’t two of us go?” Roger cautioned.
Graham shook his head. “No. One is enough. You keep watch for us while we work on this,” he said.
Peter stood up. “I’ll get going then. I will just get my hat and lace my boots up,” he said. He walked quickly back to their camp.
Roger looked at his watch. It was just on 6:30. The sun was touching the tree tops. He bent to the unpleasant task of splinting the man’s legs together with the splint on the outside. Every time the man winced or moaned Roger stopped. He thought he was going to be ill. Gingerly he pushed padding between the legs. The task was completed by the time Peter returned.
“See you in an hour or so,” Peter called as he walked past towards the highway.
“Take care,” Roger called after him. He watched Peter walk out of sight and felt suddenly afraid.