Darkest Hour (7 page)

When the truck had departed Tanner took two of the new
men and went back to the coast, between Kingsgate and White Ness. The air was
crisp, the scent of cow- parsley and grass heavy on the morning air. Birdsong
filled his ears, busy and shrill from the trees and hedgerows. He and his men
walked along the track in silence; he knew they wanted to talk to him about the
night's events but he had given a curt growl in response to one question and
since then they had not dared ask another.

Damn, damn.
He wondered what would happen when he got back to
Manston, although the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him the
answer. As far as he was concerned, he had obeyed orders, but he had not yet
been with the company for twenty-four hours and knew little about the men and
officers he had joined. Whatever respect he might have earned in Norway counted
for little here - he would have to win it all over again. There was a strict
hierarchy in the armed forces and class played a large part in that; in his
experience, officers tended to stick together. Blackstone was an exception to
the rule. NCOs who were perceived to be getting above their station were
normally cut down swiftly to size. He just hoped Peploe would stick up for him.

And then there was the matter of the Poles' death. He
was convinced Torwinski had spoken the truth, which meant that someone had
committed murder. Admittedly, there were a lot of RAF personnel at Manston and
even anti-aircraft gunners as well, yet Torwinski had been sure the men who had
dragged him out of bed were soldiers - he had been quite specific about it. If
he was right, that meant the chances were they were from within Training
Company, which was not good - not good at all. Men who stole and committed
murder had no respect for command or discipline. They could undermine an entire
company. That was a bad enough prospect while they were idling in Kent, but
would spell disaster if they were sent to France and found themselves in
action.
Blackstone,
cursed Tanner, not for the
first time that day. He had to be involved.
Had
to be. Nothing could happen without Blackstone knowing about it, without his
approval. That was his way: complete control through a combination of charm and
ruthlessness.

He needed to think. As he gazed out over the sea, the
Channel seemed calm, deep and benign, twinkling as the first rays of sunlight
spread across the water. Beyond, he could see the French coast, a hazy line on
the horizon. He took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. It was hard to
imagine a more peaceful scene.

Just three hours after he had collapsed fully clothed
into his bed, Squadron Leader Lyell had been woken. At first, his head did not
hurt because he was still slightly drunk. Having quickly immersed himself under
a cold shower, he dressed again and headed down to Dispersal on Northern Grass,
with Granby and several of the other pilots in tow. No one spoke much as they
stumbled across the grass.

Dennison was waiting for them at their dispersal tent.

'Anything up?' muttered Lyell, his eyes like slits.

'A flight patrol over the Channel,' Dennison told him.

Lyell yawned. As he heard the clang of an erk's
spanner, his head began to throb. 'Right,' he said. 'I'll take A Flight up.'

It was a bit of a struggle hoisting himself onto the
wing, then into the cockpit, but as he collapsed onto the bucket seat, he put
his oxygen mask over his mouth, switched on the supply and breathed deeply.
Almost immediately his headache vanished and his mind cleared, as he had known
it would. By the time he was over the English coast and heading out to sea, he
felt himself once more.

'This is Nimbus Leader,' he called, over the R/T.
'Keep close to me. We're going to climb to angels fourteen, then level out.
Keep your eyes peeled. Over.'

He led them on a bearing of fifty degrees to avoid
flying directly into the rising sun. It was a beautiful dawn, the sun climbing
over France to the east, the Channel below a dark, glistening blue. He could
see ships hugging the British coastline, fishing trawlers and merchantmen,
white wakes behind them.

It had been a good night, he reflected - at least
until that maniac sergeant had shot at them. Christ, he could have killed
someone. And although Lyell had not had a chance to examine his car yet, he
hated to think what the damage was. A new bumper and possibly even a wing, he
guessed.
Bloody hell.
What had the man been
thinking of? And how dare he stop them like that? Who did he think he was?

Off duty, Lyell was used to doing pretty much whatever
he liked with his squadron; it was the fighter pilot's prerogative - an
unwritten code. Yes, strictly speaking, Kingsgate Castle was out of bounds, but
no one had ever worried about that before.
Bloody
foot-soldiers.
And what was that sergeant's name?
Tanner.
Yes, he remembered that. Lyell thought about it
for a moment, France stretching away off his starboard wing. He couldn't
complain to the station commander because Wing Commander Jordan would only
rollock him for visiting the castle. That was another unwritten rule: go there,
but don't get caught. On the other hand, Lyell was damned if the upstart
sergeant was going to get away with it. He decided that on their return to
Manston he would pay Hector a visit and get him to tear Tanner off a strip or
two. Lyell chuckled to himself. Old Hector would see to it that he got his car
bill paid and his honour salvaged. All right, so they'd gone through a
roadblock, but those Army boys couldn't go around taking pot-shots at pilots.
It wasn't on. The man needed to be taught a lesson.

Much to his relief, when Tanner returned to the checkpoint
just before eight that morning, Lieutenant Peploe did not admonish him for
shooting the tyre of the squadron leader's car. 'Nothing more than they
deserved, Sergeant. Bunch of arrogant bastards,' he told him, then added,
'Let's hope it wasn't the OC's brother-in-law.'

Tanner had forgotten the connection and winced.
Peploe, however, was far more concerned about the earlier incident. Torwinski
had been taken to hospital in Ramsgate, but the lieutenant was uncertain about
what he should say to the OC. 'I've got to tell him, Tanner, but we could do
with some hard evidence.'

'I've got proof that there was a fourth person in that
truck, sir,' said Tanner, and explained his discovery of the flattened grass by
the road.

Peploe insisted on seeing it for himself.

A short while later, as they stood by the verge, he
whistled. 'Bloody hell. You're quite right, Sergeant,' he said. 'I can't think
of another explanation. Rather clinches it, doesn't it?'

Tanner wondered whether he should say anything about
his suspicions, then decided against it. The lieutenant knew what he thought of
Blackstone and any finger-pointing would be unconvincing. Even so, it had
occurred to him that once Barclay knew about Torwinski, Blackstone would
inevitably be in the picture too. If he was right about the CSM's culpability,
Torwinski's life would be in danger once more. It was a conundrum to which at
present Tanner had no answer.

Peploe walked back to the checkpoint, shaking his
head. 'Incredible, isn't it? I never thought the first deaths I witnessed would
be deliberately caused by men on our own side. It's not why I joined up,
Sergeant.'

'No, sir.'

Peploe sighed. 'Well, I'm not going to let this lie.
Those men deserve justice. Christ, the condescending way everyone talks about
the Poles, as though they're somehow to blame for the war in the first place.
They're easy scapegoats, Tanner, but it's wrong - wholly wrong.'

Tanner agreed, but gut instinct told him that others
would not be quite so keen to learn the truth as Mr Peploe.
Bloody hell.
It had been a long and depressing night.

The platoon had been relieved at eight a.m. and, to
Tanner's surprise, they had driven back to Manston without any apparent orders
for him to report to either the station commander or Captain Barclay. After
breakfast, he had gone with the others back to the hut and had lain on his bed.
He was tired, and despite a troubled mind, he had gone straight to sleep. It
was a trick he had learned during his career in the Army: to sleep anywhere,
any time, whenever the opportunity arose.

He had learned to wake up in an instant too. A hand on
his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to see Blackstone standing over him.
'Wakey, wakey, Jack.'

Tanner gazed at the solid face, the slightly flattened
nose and dark eyes. He saw the crooked teeth that grinned down at him and
noticed now that one was almost entirely black. He looked at his watch - just
after nine. Christ, he'd only been asleep ten minutes. 'What do you want?'

Blackstone continued to smirk, then tutted. 'What have
you been playing at, Jack? Shooting at the OC's brother-in-law! I wouldn't want
to be in your shoes right now.'

'Have you woken me just to tell me that or is there
anything else?'

'Don't shoot the messenger, Jack,' said Blackstone,
feigning indignation. 'I've been asked by Captain Barclay to fetch you.'

Tanner stood up and, without a word, stepped out of
the hut into the bright morning sunshine. He strode towards the parade-ground
quickly, so that Blackstone had to hurry to keep up with him.

'So, Jack,' said Blackstone, catching up, 'that must
have been quite a shot of yours to hit the tyre like that.

I'm not sure I'd be able to aim so carefully in the
dark. I mean, just imagine if the shot had gone a bit wild. What if you'd hit
one of those fighter boys? Could have killed him.'

'The only men dying last night were the Poles in that
truck. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?'

There wasn't even a flicker on Blackstone's face.
'Yes, a sorry business, but didn't I tell you? I knew those Poles were behind
the fuel trouble.'

They reached Barclay's office. 'Ready, Jack?' said
Blackstone. 'I'm looking forward to this.'

Tanner stepped inside and saluted. Quite a crowd had
assembled in Barclay's office and the room seemed smaller. The OC was behind
his desk but on wooden chairs at either side sat three other officers, two RAF
and one from the company. Blackstone had once again made himself at home on the
armchair in the corner. Tanner eyed the men - he recognized the squadron leader
and flight lieutenant from the previous night - and his heart sank.
Christ
, he thought,
it's a bloody
court-martial.
And no Peploe. No wonder Blackstone had been
gloating.

Barclay coughed in a manner that suggested the proceedings
were to begin, then tersely introduced the other men in the room: Squadron
Leader Lyell and Flight Lieutenant Granby from 632 Squadron; and Captain
Wrightson, the T Company second-in-command.

'Now, Tanner,' said Barclay, his brow furrowed, 'what
the devil do you think you were doing last night? You could have killed those
pilots.'

'They crossed a checkpoint, sir. It was quite obvious
we were there, even in the dark and with reduced headlights. I walked out into
the middle of the road as they approached and held up my hand, signalling for
them to stop. They ignored this, swerved and drove on so I shot out one of
their tyres.'

'It was bloody dangerous,' said Lyell. 'There's no way
you could have known you were going to hit the tyre. That bullet could have
gone anywhere.'

'With respect, sir, I'm not a bad shot.' He lifted his
arm to show his Skill in Shooting badge. 'I aimed at the left rear tyre and hit
it.'

'Still a huge risk, Tanner,' said Barclay. 'They could
easily have been badly injured or even killed when the car crashed.'

'I doubt it, sir. The car wasn't travelling fast and,
in any case, as I discovered afterwards, they were so drunk they could barely
stand, let alone drive.'

'That's absolute rubbish,' said Granby. 'We'd had a
few beers, that's all.'

'One of you threw up,' said Tanner, 'and you, sir,
took a swing at me and fell over.'

'I did no such thing.'

'Ludicrous exaggeration,' added Lyell.

'I remember it distinctly, sir. So, I'm sure, will the
men who were with me at the time.'

'Are you saying I'm lying, Sergeant?'

Before Tanner could reply, Captain Wrightson intervened.
'Perhaps, sir, the drink affected your memory?' He chuckled.

'He's talking rot,' said Lyell. 'We'd had a few beers,
and it was dark. I saw the checkpoint too late to stop, swerved to avoid the
sergeant here and then he shot at us. Luckily no one was hurt but it could have
been far more serious. As it is, my car's in a bad way and will cost a fortune
to put right.'

Barclay sighed. 'Wasn't it damnably obvious,

Tanner, that the car was
full of pilots who'd had a few?'

'No, sir. I was told that Kingsgate was out of bounds
to servicemen. I wasn't expecting any pilots to come from that direction and,
as I said, they didn't stop. I was following standard procedure.'