Darkest Hour (2 page)

In no more than half a circle, he could see he was not
only getting away from the enemy but creeping up on the Dornier's rear. Again,
the German rear-gunner opened fire.
Jesus
,
thought Lyell.
How much ammunition do these people have?
The two aircraft were circling together now in a vertical bank. Lyell wondered
how he would get away without the German rear-gunner hitting him, but a moment
later the firing ceased. He pushed the stick to starboard, flipped over the
Hurricane and reversed the turn, breaking free of the circle and heading out of
the Dornier's range as he did so.

Although he was certain the enemy aircraft had neither
the speed nor the agility to follow, Lyell glanced back to make sure the German
pilot was not coming after him. The Dornier was banking away from the circle
too, levelling out to return home. And as he straightened, he waggled his
wings.

'Bloody nerve!' exclaimed Lyell. Was the enemy pilot
saluting or sticking two fingers up at him? Either way, he had foxed three RAF
fighter aircraft - out-thought, out- flown and out-gunned them.

About thirty miles away, a fifteen-hundredweight
Bedford truck turned off the Ramsgate road that ran through Manston village,
almost doubling back on itself as it entered the main camp at the airfield. The
driver swore as he ground down through the gears, the truck spluttering,
jerking and rumbling forward, past two hangars on the right, then towards
several rows of one- storey wooden huts. He turned off the road, brought the
truck to a halt and, letting the engine idle, said to the sergeant beside him,
'Hold on a minute. Let me find out where they want you.' He jumped down from
the cab, and strode to what appeared to be an office building.

Sergeant Jack Tanner stepped out and went round to the
back of the truck. 'All right, boys?' he said, to the five men sitting in the
canvas-covered back, then pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the breast
pocket of his serge battle-blouse.

'It's certainly a nice day for it, Sarge,' said
Corporal Sykes. 'Not bad up here, is it? I've always had a soft spot for Kent.
Used to come as a boy.'

'Really?' said Tanner, flicking away his match.

' 'Op-pickin' in the summer. Quite enjoyed it.'

Tanner made no reply, instead turning to the open
grassland of the airfield. A number of aircraft were standing in front of the
hangars to their right, bulky twin-engined machines, their noses pointing
towards the sky. Further away to his left, he saw several smaller,
single-engine aircraft that he recognized as Hurricanes. A light breeze drifted
across the field. Above, skylarks twittered busily.

'It's all right round here,' said one of the men, a
young- looking lad called McAllister, 'but give me Yorkshire any day.'

'Nah,' said Sykes. 'It's always bloody raining up
there. Every time I go to HQ it bloody pours. Half my kit's still damp. And the
air's a lot cleaner here than it is in Leeds.' He breathed in deeply and
sighed.

'I meant the Dales, Stan,' said McAllister. 'The Dales
are grand, ain't that right, Tinker?' He nudged another of the men, a short,
fair-haired boy.

'Don't know, really,' said Bell. 'I suppose. I like
our farm well enough.'

Tanner smiled and took a drag of his cigarette. A
faint hum caught his attention and he looked back towards the coast. The sound
grew louder and he stepped away from the truck, a hand to his forehead to
shield his eyes as he looked up into the deep blue sky.

'Sarge?' said Sykes.

'Aircraft,' he said. 'Sounds like one in trouble.'

Immediately Sykes leaped down from the truck and onto
the road beside Tanner. Together they scanned the skies.

'There,' said Tanner. Hepworth and McAllister were out
of the truck now too. Two Hurricanes were approaching the north end of the
airfield, one above and gliding effortlessly towards the grass strip, the other
belching dark smoke, a grey trail following. The engine of the stricken
aircraft groaned and thrummed irregularly, the airframe slewing and dipping,
the port wing sagging.

The men watched in silence as the crippled plane
cleared some buildings on the far side of the 'drome, dropped what seemed like
fifty feet, recovered briefly, gave a last belch of smoke and crashed into the
ground. The port wing hit the soft earth first, the undercarriage collapsing
and the plane ploughing in an arc through the grass. Its propeller snapped and
the fuselage buckled.

'Come on - get out, you stupid sod,' muttered Sykes.
For a moment there was silence. Then the pilot heaved himself out of the
cockpit, jumped onto the wing and sprinted away from the scene for all he was
worth. He had not gone thirty yards when there was an explosion and the broken
Hurricane was enveloped by a ball of angry orange flame and billowing black
smoke. Tanner and the others flinched at the sound, saw the pilot fling himself
flat on the ground then watched the fire-wagon, bells ringing, speed out from
the watch-tower and hurry to the scene.

'Look, 'e's getting up again,' said Sykes, who had
taken it upon himself to be the commentator.

'Good lad,' said Tanner, as the other Hurricane
touched down safely behind them.

The truck driver returned. 'One's still not back. The
CO an' all. Station commander's not at all happy.' He clicked his teeth and
indicated to them to get back aboard. 'You're just down here,' he added, as
Tanner clambered into the cab beside him, 'the other side of the
parade-ground.'

He took them to the last of a row of long wooden huts.
'Here,' he said, pulling up. 'Make yourselves at home. The CSM'll be along
shortly.'

Tanner undid the tailgate, waited for his men to jump
down, then grabbed his kitbag and rifle. Like all British rifles, it was a
Short Magazine Lee-Enfield, a No. 1 Mark III model, and although the newer No.
4 version was now coming into use, Tanner had no intention of surrendering this
personal weapon. The son of a gamekeeper from south Wiltshire, he had learned
to shoot almost as soon as he could walk and with it had come the
well-drummed-in lesson of looking after a gun, whether it was an air rifle,
twelve bore, or Lee-Enfield rifle. But, more than that, Tanner had made an
important modification to his.

He had done it almost as soon as he had returned to
Regimental Headquarters in Leeds back in February after nearly eight years'
overseas service. Having been issued with new kit, he had gone straight to the
Royal Armoury where he had had a gunsmith mill and fit two mounts and pads for
an Aldis telescopic sight. They were discreet enough and few people had noticed
- no one in authority, at any rate, not that he imagined they would say much
about it even if they did. The scope had been his father's during the last war
and Tanner had carried it with him throughout his army career. Although he had
never attempted to become an army sniper, he had certainly sniped, and on
several occasions the Aldis had proved a godsend. Slinging the rifle and his kitbag
onto his shoulder, he followed the others into the hut.

Jack Tanner was twenty-four, although his weatherworn
and slightly battered face made him appear a bit older. He was tall - more than
six foot - with dark hair, pale, almost grey eyes and a nose that was slightly
askew. He had spent almost his entire army career in India and the Middle East
with the 2nd Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, even though he was a
born and bred Wiltshireman. This last Christmas he had finally returned to England.
Home leave, it had been called, not that he had had a home to return to any
more. He had not seen the village where he had been brought up for over eight
years.
A lifetime ago.
He wished he could
return but that was not possible and so he had spent the time in Yorkshire
instead, helping a gamekeepeer on an estate in the Dales; it had reminded him
how much he missed that life. Four weeks later he had presented himself at
Regimental Headquarters in Leeds and been told, to his dismay, that he would not
be going back to Palestine. Instead he had been posted to bolster the fledgling
Territorial 5th Battalion as they prepared for war. In Norway, the Territorials
had been decimated; Tanner and his five men, along with a few others, were all
that remained of the 5th Battalion. A fair number were dead, but most were now
either in German hospitals or on their way to a prison camp.

Tanner had hoped he might be allowed back to the 2nd
Battalion now, but the regimental adjutant had had other ideas. The 1st
Battalion was with the BEF in France; new recruits were being hurried through
training and sent south to guard the coast. Men of his experience had an
important part to play - all the veterans of Norway did. The 2nd Battalion
would have to do without him for a while longer. Forty-eight hours' leave. That
was all he and his men had had. The others had gone home, to their families in
Leeds and Bradford, or in Bell's case to his family farm near Pateley Bridge,
while Tanner and Sykes had got drunk for one day and recovered the next.

The hut was more than half empty. Just ten narrow
Macdonald iron beds and palliasses were laid out along one wall, but otherwise
it was bare. Tape had been crisscrossed over each window. Tanner slung his
kitbag beside the bed nearest the door, then lay down and took out another
cigarette.

'What are we supposed to do now, Sarge?' asked
Hepworth.

'Put our feet up until someone tells us where we're to
go,' Tanner replied. He lit his cigarette, then closed his eyes. He was
conscious of another Hurricane landing - the engine sound was so distinctive.
Bloody airfield and coastal guard duty
, he thought.
Jesus.
He told himself to be thankful for it. They had
escaped from Norway by the skin of their teeth so a soft job would do him and
the others good. In any case, the war wasn't going to end any time soon, that
much was clear. Their chance would come. Yet part of him yearned to rejoin his
old mates in Palestine. For him, England was an alien place; he had spent too
long overseas, in the heat, dust and monsoon rains of India, and the arid
desert of the Middle East. Before that he had only ever known one small part of
England, and that was the village of Alvesdon and the valley of his childhood.
He still missed it, even after all these years. Often, when he closed his eyes,
he would remember the chalk ridges, the woods on the farm, the clear trout
stream, the houses of thatch, cob and flint. But both his parents were gone,
and dark events from his past ensured there could be no going back.

He sighed. Long ago, he had resigned himself to exile,
but it still saddened him. That long train journey south from Leeds: too much
time to think, to remember. Tanner chided himself silently.
No point in getting bloody maudlin.
What he needed was a
distraction. Activity. It was, he realized, barely a week since they had
returned from Norway yet already he felt as though he had been kicking his
heels for too long.

Soon after, he dozed off, the others' chatter a
soporific background noise that lulled him to sleep. He was awake again,
however, the moment his subconscious brain heard a new voice in the hut - a
distinctive one: a deep, yet soft Yorkshire accent that was strangely familiar.

'Morning, gents,' Tanner heard, followed by a squeak
of springs and the clatter of boots on the wooden floor as the men stood
quickly to attention. Tanner swung his legs off the bed.

'All right, lads,' said the newcomer. 'As you were.'

Tanner's eyes widened in shock. A big, stocky man of
nearly his own height stood in the doorway. 'The bright sun behind cast his
face in shadow, but Tanner would have known him anywhere.
Blackstone. Jesus.
He groaned inwardly. That was all he
needed.

Blackstone stared at him, then winked and turned back
to the others. 'Welcome to Manston, lads,' he said, 'and to T Company of the
First Battalion.' He had a lean face, with deep lines running across his brow
and between his nose and mouth. He was in his mid-thirties, with thick sandy
hair that showed beneath his field cap.

'I'm Company Sergeant-Major Blackstone,' he said.
'Captain Barclay is the officer commanding of this training company, but as
far as you lot are concerned, I'm the one who runs the show. So if I were you
I'd try to keep in my good books. It's better that way, isn't it, Sergeant?
Then everything can be nice and harmonious.' He grinned at Tanner. 'Now,' he
continued, 'I'm going to take Sergeant Tanner here away with me for a bit.
Later on you'll meet your platoon commander and be shown about the place. For
the moment, though, stay here and get your kit together. All right?' He smiled
at them again, pointed the way to Tanner and said, 'See you later, boys.'

Outside, he said, 'Well, well, my old friend Jack
Tanner. Fancy us ending up here like this.'

'Fancy,' muttered Tanner. 'You recovered, then.'

'Oh yes, Jack. You can't keep a good man like me down
for long.' He chuckled. 'I'm taking you to see the OC.' He took out a packet of
Woodbines and offered one to Tanner. 'Smoke?'

'No thanks, sir.'

'Don't tell me you've given up the beadies, Jack.'

'I just don't want one at the moment.'

'You mean you don't want one of mine.' Blackstone
sighed. 'Jack, can't you tell I'm trying to be friendly? Come on - let's have
no hard feelings. It was a long time ago now. Let bygones be bygones, eh?'