'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.
'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.
Sykes came over to Tanner, who had made a beeline for his pack. 'He seems all right. So did the CSM for that matter.'
'Mr Peploe's fine,' agreed Tanner. 'It's early days but I'd say he was a good bloke.'
Sykes thought a moment, conscious that the sergeant had made no mention of CSM Blackstone. He hadn't known Tanner long - a few weeks only - but he believed a friendship had been forged in Norway, founded on mutual trust and respect, and developed during a difficult trek through the snow and the mountains. The enemy had dogged their every move yet they had made it to safety, rejoining the rest of the British forces as the final evacuation was taking place. In many ways they were very different, both physically and in character, but although neither had ever spoken of it, Sykes had recognized early that they shared one thing in common. Both were outsiders among these Yorkshiremen, and there was a tacit understanding of this between them: while most of the Yorkshire Rangers were drawn from the northern cities of Leeds and Bradford, Tanner was a countryman from the south-west and Sykes a working-class boy from
Deptford in south London. And these differences revealed themselves every time they spoke - Tanner with his soft south-western burr, Sykes with a Cockney lilt.
'And the CSM?' he asked.
Tanner said nothing.
'Sarge?' Sykes persisted.
Tanner stopped fiddling with his pack and turned to him. 'Let's just say there's some history between us.'
'Before the war?'
'Yes - in India. He may seem a right charmer, but take a piece of advice. Watch how you tread with him around, Stan.'
'All right, Sarge. I'll bear that in mind.' For a moment, he thought about asking what that history was exactly, then dismissed the idea. He already knew Tanner well enough to sense he would get no more out of him now. Eventually, though, he would get to the bottom of it. He promised himself that.
It was around one a.m. on the morning of Friday, 10 May, when Stanislaw Torwinski woke to find a hand pressed hard across his mouth, a hand that smelled of old tobacco and oil. No sooner had he opened his eyes to the almost pitch dark of the hut than two more hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him out
of his bed. He tried to speak, but the hand across his mouth merely pressed harder.
There were only three of them in the hut, the overflow from more than a hundred of their compatriots who were housed in identical huts alongside. More Poles were on their way to join them, they had been told, but in the two weeks since they had first arrived at Manston, it had remained just the three of them.
Torwinski was conscious of Ormicki and Kasprowicz struggling too. As his eyes adjusted, he was aware of a faint hint of light from the open door, then a voice said, 'Get dressed,' and a torch was briefly turned on, shining at the clothes laid out on the empty bed next to his own. The hand released his mouth.
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