Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  When he reached the others, he was still deep in thought. He pulled out a cigarette, then heard the sound of screeching tyres from the direction of the hotel, followed by shouts and the gunning of a car engine. 'For God's sake, what now?' he said. He heard more shouts, then saw a car's dim headlights approaching.

  'Bloody hell, this one's not going to stop either!' yelled McAllister.

  'Yes, it bloody well is,' said Tanner, striding into the centre of the road and shining his torch directly at the vehicle.

  It made no attempt to slow down or stop. Tanner took his rifle from his shoulder, pulled back the bolt and fired a warning shot into the air, but still the saloon came towards him.

  'Watch out, Sarge!' said Hepworth. The driver swerved, but Tanner was forced to leap out of harm's way. He heard laughter as the car drove on and cursed to himself. Then, having regained his composure, he drew the rifle to his shoulder, aimed at the rear wheel, pulled back the bolt again and squeezed the trigger.

  The shot cracked loudly in the still early-morning air. There was another report as the left rear tyre burst. The car lurched from side to side, ran off the road and eventually came to a halt in the hedge a hundred yards ahead.

  'Blimey, Sarge, what have you done?' said Hepworth.

  Tanner slung his rifle back on his shoulder. 'Hopefully taught them to respect checkpoints, Hep.' With McAllister and Hepworth, Tanner jogged down the road to the car. The men who had been inside were already staggering about beside it. One was being sick into the hedge.

  An officer, clutching his forehead with his handkerchief, strode awkwardly towards them. 'What the bloody hell d'you think you're playing at?' He swayed; he could barely stand.

  'We'll get the truck and take you home, sir,' said Tanner, noticing squadron leader's rings on his jacket cuffs.

  'No, you'll bloody well tell me what the hell you were doing.' He had taken a step forward so Tanner could smell the alcohol on his breath and felt spittle spray his cheek. Wiping his face, he said, 'Mac, go and get the truck.'

  'Sarge,' said McAllister, and hurried off.

  'Is this the bastard who shot at us?' said another man, staggering towards Tanner.

  'We'll be getting you home in a minute, sir,' said Tanner.

  The man, a flight lieutenant, stood beside the squadron leader, and pushed Tanner in the chest. He took a step backwards, his anger rising.

  'Who the bloody hell do you soldiers think you are?' said the flight lieutenant. He shoved Tanner again, then made to punch him, but Tanner saw it coming and stepped deftly to one side. The pilot lost balance and fell over onto the road. He heard Hepworth laugh.

  'So you think it's funny, do you?' slurred the squadron leader. 'Let me tell you this, sonny, you won't be laughing tomorrow when your CO hears about it. You won't be laughing at all.' He stabbed a finger at Hepworth. 'And as for you, Sergeant,' he said, turning to Tanner, 'you're going to regret your men firing on us like that.' He tugged at the stripes on Tanner's sleeve. 'Think you might not be wearing those for much longer.'

  Tanner knew there was no point in arguing with the man. He was drunk, and so were the six other pilots who had been crammed into the saloon. The squadron leader had a trickle of blood running down the side of his head, and another man was clutching at his arm, but otherwise no one appeared to be badly hurt. They had not been travelling particularly fast and the car's momentum had largely dissipated by the time it had stopped. Tanner thought about knocking them all to the ground, then simply piling them into the back of the truck, but no matter how drunk they were, he decided it was not worth the risk, should they remember it in the cold light of day. In Norway, he had knocked down a French officer and had regretted it ever since.

  Instead, he merely stood his ground. 'The truck will be here in a minute, sir. Then you can get back to the airfield.'

  One of the men tried to start the car, but the starter motor whined helplessly. In frustration, he got out again, kicked the wheel and yelled with pain. The squadron leader staggered, grabbed hold of Tanner for support, then stood upright. 'What's your name, Sergeant?'

  'Tanner, sir.'

  'Tanner. Tanner.' He looked around at the others, nearly losing his balance again. 'Chaps, this sharpshooter's called Tanner. Sergeant Tanner. Remember that, will you? Want to be sure we don't forget so we can make life really unpleasant for him as payback for ruining our little night out.'

  Tanner clenched his fists, but at that moment the truck drove up and, with a squeak of brakes, halted beside him. McAllister and Sykes stepped out.

  'Stan,' said Tanner, 'you and Mac can get these men back to the airfield. I'll stay here with the others.'

  'Don't take this the wrong way, Sarge,' said Sykes, in a low voice, 'but was that a good idea?'

  'You heard Mr Peploe, Corporal,' Tanner snapped. 'Let no one through. These jokers didn't stop.' He sighed. 'Just get them out of here, Stan.'

  He glanced at his watch - nearly four a.m. - then walked slowly back to the checkpoint. Another four hours before they were due to be relieved. Behind him, the first streak of light spread across the horizon, announcing the dawn of a new day.

  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.<
br />
  '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 ris
k, Tanner,' said Barclay. 'They could easily have been badly injured or even killed when the car crashed.'