Darkest Hour (3 page)

Tanner still said nothing. Blackstone stopped and
offered him his packet of cigarettes again. 'Come on, Jack. Have a smoke. Water
under the bridge, eh?'

They were now at the parade-ground. A platoon of men
was being drilled on the far side, the sergeant barking orders. Tanner looked
at Blackstone, then at the packet of cigarettes being held out towards him.
Briefly he considered taking one.

'Look here, Jack,' said Blackstone, 'we're at war now.
We can't be at each other's throats.'

'Agreed,' said Tanner, 'but that doesn't mean I have
to like you.'

The smile fell from Blackstone's face.

'A few pleasantries and the offer of a smoke,' Tanner
continued, 'and you think I'll roll over. But I was never that easily bought,
Sergeant-Major. Trust and respect have to be earned. You prove to me that
you're different from the bastard I knew in India, then I'll gladly take your
bloody cigarette and shake your hand.'

Blackstone stared at him, his jaw set. 'Listen to
you!' he said. 'Who the hell do you think you are? I offer you an olive branch and
you have the nerve to spit in my face.'

'Don't give me that crap. What the hell did you
expect? You listen to me. Whether we like it not, we're both here, and for the
sake of the company I'll work with you, but don't expect me to like you and
don't expect me to trust you. Not until you've proved to me that you've
changed. Now, I thought you were taking me to see the OC so let's bloody get on
with it.'

Blackstone laughed mirthlessly. 'Oh dear,' he said.
'You always were an obstinate beggar. I can promise you this much, though,
Jack. It's really not worth getting on the wrong side of me. It wasn't back
then, and it certainly isn't now.'

'Just as I thought,' snarled Tanner. 'You haven't
changed.'

'You're making a big mistake, Jack,' said Blackstone,
slowly. 'Believe me - a very big mistake.'

By the time he reached Manston Squadron Leader Lyell
was already in a bad mood, but his spirits fell further when he saw the wagons
dousing the flames of Robson's Hurricane - or, rather, what was left of it: the
fuselage was nothing more than a crumpled black skeleton. Then, clambering out
of the cockpit, he saw Cartwright, his rigger, examining what was evidently
damage along his own fuselage.

'Don't worry, sir,' said Cartwright. 'Only a couple of
bullet holes.'

'I didn't notice any difference,' Lyell muttered.

'No - looks like they went clean through. Soon patch
that up.'

'What about Robson?'

'Believe he's all right, sir. His kite didn't blow
until he was well clear.'

'That's something, then.' He began to head back, but
Smith, his fitter, called after him.

'Did you get it, sir? The Dornier?'

Lyell stopped. 'Put it this way, Smith, I doubt very
much that it will have made France.' As he walked on across the grass, he
decided to continue with the lie, but it did little to improve his mood or
assuage the humiliation and anger he felt at having been foxed by a lone
German reconnaissance plane. Christ, how many times had they practised their
aerial attacks? Almost every day since the war began! Each attack procedure had
been assiduously drilled into every pilot, yet the first time they had tried
the Number One Attack - which was also the most straightforward - it had failed
hopelessly. He had been thrown by the Dornier's return fire, but what had
really shocked him was the ineffectiveness of the .303 Browning bullets. Was it
the range, or their velocity? He wasn't sure. And his ammunition had run dry so
quickly. Fifteen seconds had always seemed a reasonable amount during gunnery
practice, but in the heat of combat, it had gone by in a trice. Had their
training been wrong or were the German aircrew simply better?

As he neared the dispersal hut he saw Dennison, the
intelligence officer, hovering by the doorway, itching to ask him about the
sortie. Lyell felt a further flash of irritation.

'So what happened, Skip?' Dennison asked as Lyell
dropped his flying helmet into a deck-chair in front of the wooden hut.

'Did you get the bastard?' asked Granby, the commander
of B Flight.

'I caught up with him, all right,' Lyell told them.
The other pilots were also listening now. 'He was a wily sod, though, making
the most of the cloud. Still, I managed to get in a couple of bursts and I'm
pretty sure I knocked out his port engine. Must have got the rear-gunner too
because he shut up shop pretty quickly. Anyway, she was losing height and
trailing a fair amount of smoke when she disappeared into a large bank of
cloud.'

'Probably in the Channel by now, then,' said Granby.

'I'd have thought so.' Lyell glanced up at the almost
perfectly clear sky above them. 'Bloody weather. Why couldn't it have been like
this all the way to France?' He looked at Dennison. 'Don't worry,' he said to
the IO, 'I know we can't claim it.' He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled and
said, 'I hear Robbo's all right.'

'Bloody lucky,' said Granby. 'Another few seconds and,
well, I hate to think.'

Reynolds, the adjutant, now approached Dispersal.
'Station commander wants to see you, sir,' he told Lyell.

Lyell sighed. 'I'm sure he does.' He ran his hands
through his hair. 'I think we should have a few drinks tonight.' He addressed
this comment to Granby, but it was meant for all of the pilots. 'We should
celebrate Robbo's narrow escape, commiserate over the loss of a Hurricane and
raise a glass to our first almost-kill.'

'Hear, hear,' said Granby.

'And I don't
mean in the mess. Let's go out.' He turned to the adjutant. 'Come on, then,' he
said. 'Better face the music.'

Tanner had followed Blackstone to a brick office
building at the far side of the parade-ground. In silence they walked up a
couple of steps and through the main door, then along a short corridor.
Blackstone stopped at a thin wooden door, knocked lightly and walked in.

'Ah, there you are, CSM,' said the dark-haired captain
from behind his desk. 'And this must be Sergeant Tanner.'

'Yes, sir,' said Blackstone.

Tanner stood to attention and saluted, while
Blackstone ambled over to a battered armchair in the corner of the room and sat
down, taking out another cigarette as he did so. Tanner watched with barely concealed
incredulity.
Jesus.
He was surprised that the
captain should tolerate such behaviour.

'At ease,' said the captain. He was, Tanner guessed,
about thirty, with fresh, ruddy cheeks, immaculately groomed hair and a trim
moustache. Beside Tanner, sitting stiffly on a wooden chair in front of the
desk, was a young subaltern. The room smelled of wood and stale tobacco. It was
simply furnished and only lightly decorated: a coat of whitewash, a map of
southern England hanging behind the desk, a metal filing cabinet and a
hat-stand, on which hung a respirator bag, tin hat and service cap.

'I understand you know the CSM,' said Barclay, taking
his pipe from his mouth.

'Yes, sir.'

'In India together?'

'Yes, sir. With the Second Battalion.'

'Good, good.' He nodded. 'Well, let me introduce you
to Lieutenant Peploe. You and your men will be joining his platoon.'

The subaltern next to him now stood up and shook
Tanner's hand. 'How do you do, Sergeant?'

'Well, sir, thank you.'

Peploe smiled. 'Glad to have you on board.' It was
said sincerely. The lieutenant had a rounded yet good- looking face, blue eyes
and a wide, easy smile. His hair was thick strawberry blond, slightly too long
and somewhat unruly, as though it refused to be tamed by any amount of
brushing. His handshake was firm and he looked Tanner squarely in the eye; it
was something the sergeant liked to see in an officer. He hoped they would get
on well enough.

Barclay tapped his fingers together and shifted in his
seat. 'I see you've been decorated, Sergeant.' He noticed the blue, white and
red ribbon of the Military Medal sewn above Tanner's left breast pocket.

'A few years ago now, sir.'

'Do you mind me asking what it was for?'

'Nothing much, really, sir. A bit of a scrap with some
Wazirs, that's all.'

Blackstone laughed from his armchair. 'Such modesty,
Jack. Honestly, sir, Tanner's single-handed defence of Pimple Hill is the stuff
of legend - at least,' he grinned, 'the way he tells it. Isn't that right,
Jack? I've heard the story a few times now and it gets better with every
telling - especially with a bit of the old sauce inside.'

You bastard
, thought Tanner.

Blackstone laughed, and shot Tanner another wink, as
though it was nothing more than friendly ribaldry between two old comrades.

Barclay raised an eyebrow. 'Well, I'm sure you
deserved it, Sergeant.'

Tanner shifted his feet, aware that he was betraying
his discomfort. What could he say? He knew Blackstone was baiting him, daring
him to rise. He had never spoken of that September day, four and a half years
before, in the hills around Muzi Kor - not once - but Barclay wouldn't believe
that now. He cleared his throat. 'I was proud enough to be awarded it, sir, but
there are many brave deeds carried out in battle and most go unobserved. And
there were certainly other men braver than me that day.'

'Yes, well, I'm sure you're right. In any case. . .'
Barclay let the words hang and fumbled for his tobacco pouch. 'So,' he said at
last, 'were you briefed in Leeds, Sergeant?'

'The regimental adjutant told me that this is still
really a training company, sir. That most of the men have been hurried through
formal training and have been sent here to do coastal and airfield guard duty.'

'That's about the sum of it. Since Norway, everyone's
expecting Jerry to make a move against us in the Low Countries. With the Second
Battalion in Palestine and the poor old Fifth in the bag, the First Battalion's
a bit stretched. The idea is that our recruits can do a bit of soldiering of
sorts and carry out more training while they're about it. But, of course, we
need experienced men like the CSM here and yourself.'

'And the men Sergeant Tanner has brought with him,
sir,' added Peploe.

'Absolutely.' Barclay lit his pipe, a cloud of
blue-grey smoke swirling into the still air of the office. 'I hear you had
quite a time of it out in Norway, Sergeant.'

'Yes, sir.' Tanner knew the captain wanted to hear
more, but he was not going to indulge him. Not in front of Blackstone.

'Sounds like you were lucky to get out.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I don't know how you do it, Jack,' interrupted the
CSM. 'Most of the Fifth Battalion get themselves put in the bag, but you manage
to get yourself safely back to Blighty.' He sniggered. 'I tell you, sir,
Tanner's one of those lucky soldiers. Always gets himself out of a tight fix.'

Tanner glared at Blackstone. Then, too late, he saw
that Peploe had seen.

'We need men like that,' said the lieutenant. 'If what
the CSM says is true, Sergeant, I'm very glad to have you in my platoon.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Tanner.

Barclay put another match to his pipe. 'Yes, I'm sure
we can all learn something from you, Sergeant. Anyway,' he leaned back in his
chair, 'what else do you need to know? We're a small company. Three platoons,
most not quite at full strength although Mr Peploe's will be, now that you're
here. We rotate duties between training, guarding the airfield and a stretch of
the coast at Kingsgate - do you know it? Between Broadstairs and Margate. Big
castle there. It's a hotel and, incidentally, out of bounds to servicemen. Not
very taxing stuff, I'm afraid, but important work all the same.'

'So, do you think we'll be going to France, sir?'

'Yes - I meant to say. That's the point of us being
down here. In effect we're the reserve for the First Battalion. A hop across the
Channel and we'll be right alongside them. Now,' he said, placing his hands
flat on the desk. 'Is there anything else?' He turned to Blackstone, who was
absent-mindedly picking at his fingernails. 'CSM?'

Blackstone looked up. 'Shall I brief the sergeant on
duty rotas, or will you do that, Mr Peploe?'

'I can do that, thank you, Sergeant-Major,' said
Peploe. 'I want to meet Tanner's men in any case.'

'Very good, sir.'

Barclay clapped his hands to signal the end of the
interview, then suddenly said, 'Oh, yes - I almost forgot, but there is
something else you should know. I'm afraid we've had some thieves here at the
airfield.'

'Sir?'

'Two nights ago a dozen barrels of fuel were stolen.

Understandably, the station commander's livid about
it. He rather wants us to get to the bottom of it.'

'It's those Poles, sir,' said Blackstone.

'I really don't know how you can be so certain,' said
Peploe.