Shropshire author Eddie Main, from Shifnal, brings us his traditional Christmas Eve story — a soldier ventures into the Stretton Hills to keep a promise.

Peter peered through the windscreen of his car. It was a terrible night, rain was coming down in swathes across his headlights, not the most pleasant of nights to be out when you don’t know where you are. He was lost.

It was a journey that he hoped that he would never have to make, especially not on a Christmas Eve.

He was on compassionate leave from the Army, his father had died in a Shrewsbury hospice and he had arrived in the UK the day before for his funeral, flying in from Afghanistan where his battalion was stationed in Helmand Province.

After the funeral he was now, after borrowing his father’s car, undertaking his second mission, to keep a promise that he had made to his best friend, John Mason, who had been killed in Helmand Province four months ago.

They had made a pledge that one of them would deliver a letter to his parents, along with other personal effects, if one of them did not make it.

So this was it. He thought he could do it easily, call and pay his respects to John’s parents, but now it was something he was dreading.

He thought he knew Shropshire but here, out in the Stretton Hills, it was a different matter; the appalling weather made it difficult to see or even know where he was going.

He reduced his speed and squinted through the rain splattered windscreen, the car’s headlight just threw the dazzling light back to him. Then he saw a figure sheltering under a large tree by the roadside and he pulled up abruptly.

Thank Heavens, he thought; a sign of life.

He opened the passenger window and saw that it was tall man in a long black coat, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

“Excuse me,” he called, “I wonder if you can help, please. I appear to be lost, I haven’t a clue where I am”.

The man came over to the window and looked in. “Where were you going?” he asked, looking at him with a slight frown. “There’s absolutely nothing around here.”

“Would you care to get in the car out of the rain?” he asked, and then thought, It would perhaps be better for you.

The man nodded. “Yes,” he replied with a smile, opened the door and got in.

“Not a very nice night to be lost,” he to Peter with a shake of his head. “Where was it you wanted?” he asked, looking directly at him.

Peter looked back at him. In the light of the reflected car headlights he could see that he was a handsome looking man, with keen features and a small trimmed moustache. He thought his age to be about thirty-ish.

“I’m looking for the Masons’ house, The Firs, I thought it might be along here. It looks as though I must have made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.”

“Yes, you have, you should have turned right at that last clump of trees, the house is hidden by them,” the stranger answered in a soft spoken way. “Are you staying there for Christmas?”

“No, actually, I’m not. I know it’s a bit late, but I am fulfilling a promise I made to a dear friend of mine some time ago – this is the first opportunity I’ve had to do so.” Peter’s eyes glistened.

“Can I give you a lift anywhere?”, Peter added suddenly, “after all, it can’t be very pleasant hanging around in this weather.”

“No it’s all right, thank you, I was just waiting for someone,” he replied, getting out of the car. “I hope you find the house and keep your promise.”

“I’m sure I will now,” Peter smiled. “Bye and thanks again”.

The stranger reached through the car and placed his hand on Peter’s arm. “God speed, son, and well done,” he said softly, and faded away into the rainswept night.

Peter manipulated a slow three-point turn in the narrow road and finally set of in the right direction. He gave the car horn a small hit and waved. As he drove along he suddenly realised that when the man had got into the car he was bone dry. Odd, he thought. There must have been a large tree to have given him plenty of shelter.

As he drove slowly through the pouring rain, he finally spotted an almost hidden turning, along which stood a small but bold sign, ‘The Firs’. He wouldn’t have found that concealed turning without the help of that stranger, he thought to himself.

As he drove up the small driveway, a large light came on from the side of the house, illuminating the whole front, showing off the splendid pillared doorway. At the same time another light came on over the front door. The door opened and a man appeared.

Peter parked the car in front of the large doorway and got out.

“Peter, my boy, how nice to see you,” the man said, “after you rang this morning we didn’t think you would come in all of this dreadful weather.”

Peter held his hand out. “Nothing could keep me from coming to see you and Mrs Mason. How are you both?”

“Come on in and meet Helen”, Howard Mason said, shaking Peter’s hand, “She’s been looking forward to seeing you.”

They both entered the house. “Let’s go into the study where we can smoke,” Howard said in the hall, where Mrs Mason stood with a big smile on her face.

“So pleased to see you again, I think the last time I saw you with John was at The Rifles passing out parade. That was some time ago, but John always wrote about you, though,” Helen said, waving him to an armchair.

“I think I’m lucky to be here,” said Peter. “I seem to have been driving about for ages. I got terribly lost and, luckily for me, a man appeared and gave me directions.”

Howard looked sad. “Obviously we would like to know what actually happened out there, we have been told things by his commanding officer, but you were with him, weren’t you?”

“Would you like a drink, whisky or a beer, Peter?” Helen asked.

“No thanks, I’d better not, I have to drive back shortly to my brother’s in Shrewsbury, where I am staying for Christmas.”

He then proceeded to relate how John had met his death. It was a painful thing to do, and seeing the looks of horror on his parents’ faces, he dried up.

“That’s all right, Peter,” Howard said softly. “That’ll do for us.”

Peter stood up and looked around the study. The walls were full of pictures, some were of houses, landscape views and a couple of people.

One in particular caught his eye; it was of a man in uniform. He went closer to get a better view. Howard noticed his attention. “That was my father, John’s grandfather.

“He was in 5 the KSLI, the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry, which was a predecessor of your newly formed Rifles. His name was John as well. He was a Second Lieutenant and was killed at Caen in 1944 by a German sniper.”

Howard came over to Peter and put his arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Just as John was killed in Helmand Province,” he said, with tears in his eyes. Helen came over to him and put her arm through his.

“John’s grandfather, your father?, Peter’s eyes widened, he looked at Howard and Helen.

“This is the person I told you about, who gave me directions as how to find you, ‘God speed and well done’, he said to me.”