Darkest Hour

'All right.' He turned to Bell. 'Tinker, go down and find Mr Peploe. Tell him to make sure everyone gives whatever they've got the moment the jelly bombs blow. You've got less than a minute, so iggery.'

'Yes, Sarge,' said Bell, disappearing down the stairs.

'Stan,' continued Tanner, 'get back to the Bren and be ready to fire. Mac!' he called. 'Be ready to open up when I say. Boys,' he added, turning to Chambers and Kershaw, 'get whatever grenades you can and go downstairs. When I tell you to throw, hurl 'em across the canal.'

Tanner aimed his rifle at the furthest of the jelly bombs, then fired. As the first exploded, he swept his rifle past several others, and fired again. Another blast erupted, detonating the charges in the vehicles at either side. Tanner moved along the line to the first jelly bomb and fired again, hitting the gelignite, which exploded immediately. In the space of five seconds, the vehicles along an eighty-yard front were a cascading tumble of flame and oily black smoke.

'Fire those Brens now!' shouted Tanner, to McAllister and Sykes. He picked up his German MP35, squatted by the window and fired off four of his remaining magazines. 'Now grenades!'

A devastating wave of explosives and bullets poured across the canal. Tanner fired at any figure he could see through the rapidly descending dusk. The Brens continued, with short, sharp bursts of fire. By the road, vehicles burned and men screamed. A blazing man staggered towards the canal but was shot before he reached the water. Tanner continued to fire. His shoulder ached, and a blister was swelling on his trigger finger. His throat was as dry as sand, his nostrils burning from the acid stench of cordite.

Sykes's Bren stopped, then McAllister's. Tanner delved into his pouch - just two clips left.

'I'm done, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'That's it. No more.'

All along the line, the firing lessened as though every soldier had released their last rounds at precisely the same time. Overhead, a flurry of artillery shells screamed, but apart from the still burning vehicles and the occasional mortar shell, the front was strangely quiet. Tanner strained his eyes, staring across the canal to the fields and tracks beyond. The poplars and willows stood dark now against the last glimmer of light. 'Where are they?' he said. 'Where are the bastards?' And then against the glow of the burning trucks, he saw several figures moving - in the direction they had come. The enemy was falling back.

Tanner let himself slide to the floor. It was 2145. Fifteen more minutes and they could leave this bloody place. He closed his eyes, then felt for his water-bottle. There were only a few drops in it, which he swallowed, savouring the soothing fluid as it trickled down his throat.

'Sarge!' said a voice, and there was Chambers. 'We're going! We're falling back to the beaches!'

At a little after five thirty a.m. on Sunday, 2 June, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell was leading B Flight on their first patrol of the day over Dunkirk. Since the weather had improved, the bulk of the evacuation had taken place during the night and for the past two days fighter patrols had been concentrated at dawn and dusk when Allied shipping was either approaching or leaving Dunkirk. Even at first light, it was easy enough to see the port almost from the moment their Hurricanes rose into the sky - or, rather, the huge plume of smoke that stood permanently above it. This morning, however, a haze hung over the Channel, shielding the vast expanse of northern France and Belgium that could normally be seen stretching away from them as they approached the French coast.

Still, the smoke was a useful visual marker. Over the Channel, Lyell had led his six aircraft up to eighteen thousand feet, heading north-east to avoid the worst of the glare from the rising sun, then turned inland before heading back west with the sun behind them.

'This is Mongoose Leader,' he said, speaking over the R/T, 'make sure you all keep your eyes peeled.'

He had been back for more than a week. From Arras, he had been given a ride to Lille-Seclin and from there passage in a Blenheim to England. Then he'd got a lift to London and caught a train to Manston. His return had been marked by a sensational night in the pub, in which his pilots had made it touchingly clear that they were very pleased to see him come back from the dead. After two more days - spent hanging around the airfield with a bandage round his head - the MO had given him the all- clear to fly. A brand-new Hurricane had arrived, which he had immediately claimed as his own, and with 'LO-Z' painted on the fuselage, he had been back in the air leading the squadron once more.

He had returned a better pilot and squadron leader. Being shot down had taught him valuable lessons, and during that long journey to Arras he had had time to think. It had dawned on him that while there were some very talented pilots among the Luftwaffe, those in the RAF could be every bit as good. It was just that some of the tactics and formations that had been drummed into them were not necessarily the best way to fight a war in the air. Prescribed formation attacks didn't work because the targets always moved; nor did flying wingtip to wingtip make sense because the pilots were spending so much time concentrating on keeping formation that they couldn't see when the enemy was bearing down on them. And to hit an enemy aircraft, you had to get in close - as close as you dared. Last, and this he had learned from Sergeant Tanner, surprise was the best form of attack. With the sun behind them and plenty of height, it was possible to knock anything out of the sky.

On his first sortie back in charge, Lyell had ordered his vics to spread out more, and above cloud level he had made a point of leading his squadron high enough to position themselves with the sun behind them. When they had spotted a formation of enemy bombers approaching Dunkirk from the east, they had swooped down on them, in no particular attack formation but with Lyell leading, and had opened fire. Within seconds they had shot down two Heinkels and one probable.

Since then, the squadron had claimed a further seventeen enemy aircraft and Lyell had four confirmed kills to his name. Just one more and he'd be an ace. An ace! It was ludicrous, really. What did it matter who shot down what, so long as they were knocked out of the sky? But he did care: personal pride made him want it but, more than that, he felt it was important that, as commanding officer, he should be seen to show the way.

He wondered how many men were left in France. It had been a miracle that such an extraordinary number appeared to have been lifted and he liked to think that the RAF had played no small part in that success. There had been reports of fights in Ramsgate between returning soldiers and Manston airmen on account of the RAF's poor showing, but that was nonsense. Anyone doubting it had only to climb above the smoke and cloud where they would have seen a very different story. When Lyell had been shot down, he had been keenly aware of how outnumbered they had been. The men on the ground had grumbled that the Luftwaffe had ruled the skies, and during those few days with the Yorkshire Rangers, Lyell had understood why they had felt that way; if he was honest, he had barely seen an Allied plane himself. Over Dunkirk, however, it had been different. Not only 632 Squadron, but many other RAF fighter squadrons had fought well. It was as though they had all been forced to learn quickly and were now reaping the benefits.

Now they flew back towards the coast, the rising sun bursting high above the haze below. Above, the deep blue canopy was clear and promising. Lyell turned his head: behind, ahead, below, behind, ahead, below.

A glint caught his eye, below, off his port wing, and then he saw them clearly: three formations of four twin-