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?'
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.'
Chapter 2
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 w
as 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.<
br />
'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.'
Darkest Hour sjt-2 Page 2
