Darkest Hour

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.

'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.