Darkest Hour

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