Darkest Hour (4 page)

'You'll see, sir,' said Blackstone. 'I'd put good
money on it.'

'Poles, sir?' Tanner asked Peploe.

'Yes. Former soldiers and pilots, mostly. They've come
over since the fall of their country, poor devils. They're being housed here
for the moment.'

Barclay raised an eyebrow at Peploe, then said, 'We've
got several dumps here, you see, Sergeant. Lorries deliver the fuel in barrels
- presumably from a refinery somewhere - a couple of times a week. They're
taken to the fuel stores and then the bowsers siphon the petrol from there. One
of these dumps was broken into and the barrels swiped. Of course, the fuel's
got dye in it but that hardly stops people using it. After all, once you've put
it in your car or what-have-you, who's to know? It's all high- octane stuff but
apparently that's of little concern on the black market.'

'Why do you think the Poles are responsible, sir?'
Tanner asked Blackstone.

'I saw several of them skulking around the store in
question the other day. And a number of them are employed around the airfield
and camp, some as drivers. You couldn't nick all those barrels without a number
of men being involved, and I can't see any of the military personnel doing it.
We've a war to fight and win, not help lose by pinching fuel needed for the
aircraft here. No, it's those Poles, all right. Certain of it.'

'Anyway, the point is, Tanner,' added Barclay, 'we
need to be vigilant. You see anything suspicious, you tell one of us right
away.'

'Yes, sir.'

Barclay dismissed Tanner and Peploe, but not
Blackstone. To Tanner's surprise, the CSM took out another cigarette and
settled back in the armchair next to the OC's desk.
Blackstone.
Tanner sighed. Christ, but that man had made his life difficult during the
Nowshera Brigade days, yet when the CSM had been wounded he'd thought it would
be the last he'd ever see of him. Of all the luck! And he was just the same -
five minutes in front of Captain Barclay had proved that. Tanner clenched his
fists. He had an urge to hit something very hard.

Neither Tanner nor Peploe spoke until they were outside
the building and standing in the parade-ground. The sun still shone brightly
and Tanner squinted. A sudden roar of aero-engines from behind the office block
made both men turn. Through a gap between the buildings, Tanner saw a Blenheim
take to the air, followed by two more, then another three a few moments later.
The two men moved to where they could see the bombers better and watched as
they climbed into the sky and away towards the coast.

'Beasts of aircraft, aren't they?' said Peploe.
'Six-oh-oh Squadron. I've learned there're three squadrons here - the
Blenheims, the Defiants of 264 Squadron and the Hurricanes of 632. I've often
wondered what the world must look like from up there. Pretty bloody amazing, I
should think.' He smiled. 'Have you ever fancied flying, Sergeant?'

'Like you, sir, I wouldn't mind being able to look
down on the world, but I think the Army suits me better. I prefer to have my
feet firmly on the ground rather than relying on a machine up in the sky.'

'I suppose there's something in that - although I
wouldn't have minded flying fighters. At least then it's just you and your
plane. No men to worry about. Actually, the OC of 632 Squadron is Captain
Barclay's brother-in-law, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell. Apparently it's a
total coincidence that they should both end up here, but it seems very cosy to
me.'

'It's a pretty small world in the military, sir, even
during wartime.'

'Yes, I suppose so. Like you and the CSM being thrown
together again.'

'Exactly, sir.'

Tanner turned to head back across the parade-ground
but Peploe scratched his head and said, 'Look, would you like a quick tour of
the place first? A sort of orientation? No one ever bothered to give me one
when I first got here, but I wished they had.'

Tanner readily agreed. He was curious about the fuel
theft and had intended to look at the Polish quarters and the fuel stores
anyway. Peploe had seemed to doubt Blackstone's conviction about the Poles'
culpability and certainly it struck Tanner as somewhat odd. After all, how
would these men, presumably only recently arrived in England, know where to
sell petrol on the black market? Or were they hiding it for later?

First, Peploe wanted to show him the airfield itself.
There were, he explained, effectively two airfields, the Northern Grass and the
main field, which were bisected by the road leading to Manston village. As he
led Tanner to the far side, where the watch office stood, he said, 'I hope you
don't mind me saying this, but I couldn't help noticing that you looked rather
taken aback by the way the sergeant-major lounged in that armchair.'

'I suppose I was a bit, sir.'

'He's certainly very chummy with the OC. I don't have
a yardstick by which to judge these things - as you've probably guessed, I'm
new to the Army - but I can see it's perhaps not the normal way of things.'

'I suppose that's between him and the OC, sir.'

Peploe looked thoughtful. 'I also got the impression
you don't much like CSM Blackstone.'

Tanner grinned ruefully. 'I'm afraid he wasn't my
favourite person out in India.'

'He's very popular here. The lads seem to think the
world of him. So does the OC. To be honest, Blackstone is absolutely his
right-hand man. I suppose it's because he's such an old hand - but he's a
strong character too. Rather clever, in his way.'

'Oh, he's that, all right,' said Tanner.

Peploe laughed. 'So speaks a man who knows. Well, in
any case, I'm certain experience must be the best kind of training. It's why
I'm delighted you've joined the platoon.'

'You're right about experience, sir,' replied Tanner.
'You can be the best soldier in training but until you've been under fire you
haven't been tested.'

'I'm sure you have much to teach me, Sergeant Tanner.
I was at university before the war, and come from a farming family with no
military background whatsoever, so being a soldier is still very much a
novelty to me.'

'Your father wasn't in the last war, then, sir?'

'No - he stayed on the farm. So did my uncle.'

'Well, there's not much to it, really. I'll bet you
know how to use a rifle, sir.'

'I know how to
use
one, Sergeant. To a farmer's son, shooting is part of the growing-up process. I
wouldn't say I'm an especially good shot, although it's certainly not for want
of practice. And what about you?' he asked, pointing to the embroidered badge
on the forearm of Tanner's battle-blouse - two crossed rifles crested by a
crown and ringed with leaves. 'Forgive my ignorance, but I'm guessing that's a
marksman's badge of some kind.'

Tanner smiled. 'The Army likes badges, sir.'

'But it is a marksman's badge?'

'Skill in Shooting, sir. But it doesn't mean much.'

'Where did you learn to shoot? With the Army?'

'Like you, sir, I grew up with it.'

'A farmer too?'

'Not as such. My father was a gamekeeper.'

Peploe nodded -
that explains it -
then said, 'But not in Yorkshire, I take it. Somewhere down south, guessing
from your accent.'

'South Wiltshire, sir, A while ago now. I joined up as
a boy.'

Peploe adjusted his cap. 'Forgive me, Sergeant, all
these questions. I'm a nosy sod, aren't I?'

They had almost reached the far side of the airfield.
A number of Defiants were lined up in front of the watch office, their
ground-crew tinkering with them. In one, a man was testing the hydraulics of
the gun turret, swivelling through three hundred and sixty degrees, the
electronics whirring.

'I'm sorry to bring up CSM Blackstone again,' said
Peploe, as they paused by the watch office, 'but I hope whatever argument you
have with him won't be a problem for the platoon - or the company, for that
matter.'

A warning, albeit gently made, but still Tanner felt
his heart sink.
Damn, damn.
Blackstone had
already caused him to get off on the wrong foot with this new posting. 'It
won't be, sir. It's true I don't like the man, but I won't let that get in the
way of anything.'

Peploe nodded. 'Good.' He smiled at Tanner again. 'You
know, Sergeant, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.'

Good.
Tanner relaxed a little. He felt rather the same.
Just so long as Blackstone doesn't get in the way.
But,
by God, he was going to have to watch his step.

Inside the hut it was warm and still, the sun pouring
through the windows and capturing a million tiny dust particles disturbed by
the arrival of the men. Aware that to step outside was to court unwanted
attention, the five had taken off their battle-blouses, rolled up their shirtsleeves
and settled down to a game of poker around one of the unused beds.

More than an hour after they had begun, two - Bell and
Kershaw - had fallen by the wayside, although they were still there as
spectators.

Sykes glanced at his watch. Tanner was taking his
time, he thought. He put his cards face down on his knee and rolled himself a
cigarette, while keeping half an eye on the other two players. Hepworth was
fingering his cards, knowing he was beaten but evidently hoping that by
shuffling them repeatedly, the winning combination would miraculously reveal
itself. McAllister, on the other hand, clearly believed he had the hand of his
life.

Sykes smiled to himself. 'You know, Mac,' he said,
'you could be quite a good player, but you're so bleedin' easy to read. The
point of poker is not to give anything away.'

McAllister jigged his knee up and down. 'I don't care.
No one can beat my hand.' He chortled. 'Come on, Hep. Get a move on. You're
dead and buried, mate, so why prolong the agony?'

'It's your bloody crowing,' said Hepworth. 'It's
driving me mad.'

There was now seven shillings and fourpence on the
empty bed that was doubling as a card table - a tidy sum and more than any of
them, even Corporal Sykes, was paid for a day's soldiering. Sykes wondered what
hand McAllister had - a straight flush, perhaps? Had to be something like that.
He licked the cigarette paper, ran a finger down the seam, then put it to his
mouth.

Eventually Hepworth sighed and laid his cards face up
on the bed. Three of a kind. 'Go on, then, Mac, let's see what you've got.'

McAllister grinned, then slapped down his cards.
Seven, eight, nine, ten and jack of clubs. As Sykes had suspected, a straight
flush.

'Very good, Mac, very good,' said Sykes. He held his
cigarette between his thumb and index finger and stroked his chin.

'Swallow your pride, Stan,' said McAllister. 'Just
accept that this time a miracle's happened and you've lost.' He looked round at
the others. 'He knows he's beat. Ha - look at all that lovely lolly! That'll
keep me in fags and booze for weeks.'

Sykes remained impassive. He was not a tall man, with
a wiry frame, a narrow face and always immaculately brilliantined hair. But he
had long, slender fingers and a sleight of hand that could fool most people,
and certainly the young Yorkshire lads in his section.

'All right, Mac,' Sykes began, and McAllister leaned
forward to scoop up the coins in front of him. 'Here's my hand.' He fanned his
cards on the bed, a smirk stretching across his face as he did so.

Hepworth laughed. 'It's a royal flush! Ha! Unlucky,
Mac!'

'What?' exclaimed Mac. 'How the hell did you manage
that?'

Sykes grinned. 'Like I said, Mac, you're too bleedin'
obvious.' He picked up a coin and flicked it to McAllister. 'Here,' he said,
'have half a crown. Runner- up's prize.'

A moment later, Tanner returned with Lieutenant
Peploe.

'Don't get up,' said Peploe, from the doorway. 'As you
are.' He eyed them all and, seeing McAllister putting away the cards, smiled.
'Who won?'

'Corporal Sykes, sir,' said Hepworth. 'McAllister here
thought he'd nailed us all, but it weren't to be.'

Sykes shrugged.

'You want to watch the corporal, sir,' said Tanner,
standing beside the lieutenant. 'He can do very clever things with those hands
of his.'

'What are you suggesting, Sarge?' said Sykes, feigning
indignation.

Peploe cleared his throat. 'An introduction,' he said.
'I'm Second Lieutenant John Peploe and I'm your new platoon commander. I know
you had quite a time of it in Norway and I'm sorry you've not had more leave.
However, your experience is much needed here - we're primarily still a training
company - and I'm extremely glad to have you in my platoon. There's every
chance we'll soon be joining the First Battalion in France, but in the meantime
we need to help the recruits so that if and when we do get to join the BEF we
might be of some use.' He glanced around the men. 'You'll meet the rest of the
platoon on the parade-ground at four o'clock - or, rather, I should say,
sixteen hundred hours - and then we'll be heading off to Kingsgate for some
coastal guard duty. Right - now I need to know who you are.' He stepped from
the doorway into the hut and approached each man in turn, shaking hands and
reiterating how glad he was to have them serving under him. Then he spoke
briefly with Tanner, straightened his cap, and left them to it once more.