December 3rd 2010 – Following the Trail

Tom was still relying on his stick to walk. He used his opposite hand to open the small metal gate and walked down the neatly manicured path, through the well-kept garden, towards the front door of the large Victorian semi-detached. He’d found the details of Charles Wilson, a local historian from the local council website. Tom had little to do until his next medical examination, and he’d decided to find out a little more about the old pouch.

The young soldier approached nervously and knocked quietly on the door. The guy was probably going to think he was a complete dick head. What did he know about history? A handful of lessons on the Second World War at school certainly didn’t make a scholar. And here he was about to ask an expert for advice!

Mr Wilson opened the door. He was a small neat man, with a slightly dishevelled, scholarly air. His eyes seemed drawn to Tom’s bad leg and the stick he was carrying. In the phone conversation when the appointment was arranged, Tom had been through the fact that he was in the Duke of Lancasters. But he hadn’t mentioned the injury. He wanted to go through the whole story of the leather pouch at one time.

“Mr Wilson? Thanks for seeing me, I hope I’m not wasting your time.”

The historian smiled.

“Please, call me Charles. Anything to help a member of our armed forces.”

Tom was ushered through to the neat front room. Charles poured two cups of tea from the pot on the table and he asked the soldier to begin.

The older man had a large yellow legal notepad on his lap. He made neat notes throughout the time Tom was describing his Afghanistan trip. But he made no comment. His eyes were lowered and focussed on his writing. As the young soldier finished, Charles finally looked up.

“And you have this article with you?”

Tom reached into his jacket pocket and produced the leather pouch. He handed it to the older man who received it almost reverentially. Mr Wilson placed it delicately on the table.

“Have you looked inside?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders.

“Yeh. Just a load of old papers. Can’t really read the writing. But whatever it’s written in, it ain’t English.”

Charles cautiously opened the pouch. Very slowly he lifted four individual pieces of parchment out and put them beside the leather wallet. He lifted one up and took a quick glance. The historian pursed his lips and folded his hands under his chin in front of him. He closed his eyes. Then leant back. He seemed to disappear, swallowed up by deep thought.

“Tom. At first glance this seems most interesting. Most interesting. Could I possibly trouble you to keep these papers for a few days?”

Tom was just glad not to have been laughed out on the spot. He agreed to come back at the weekend to see what Charles had discovered after a good read.