Darkest Hour

'I don't - someone needs to watch your back.'

'Yes, Sarge, and no offence but you're quite a bit bigger than me and with two there's more to see than one. Let me sneak over there on my own, unlock the door and have a squint inside. If there's anything worth seein' and the coast's still clear, you come on over.'

Tanner thought about it. 'All right, Stan. Just be quick, all right?'

'A couple of minutes.' Sykes scampered lightly across the short distance to the stores and disappeared into the shadows.

Tanner strained his eyes but couldn't see him, then glanced to either side. Nothing. It was quiet. The sliver of moon was behind him, casting long shadows. Good. At least the door to the stores would be in shadow too.

Then something made him start. A kind of rustle, from the left-hand side of the hut. Tanner pressed himself to the end wall, and turned his head in the direction from where the sound had come. His heart thumped, but as the seconds passed and he heard no more, he began to relax. A rat or something, he told himself, even the breeze.

There it was again. Tanner strained his ears until a sixth sense made him turn. A dark shape and then, too late, he saw the silhouette of a rifle butt—

Chapter 5

Sykes reached the door of the stores, paused and looked round. A couple of hundred yards away he could just distinguish the outline of the Bofors but he was sure he had been neither seen nor heard, especially from that distance. It was dark in the shadow of the building, but once he had found the first padlock he no longer needed his eyes. Picking a lock was about listening and feeling, not seeing. He selected a reamer but it was too big so he tried the smallest. That's more like it. Gently probing with the narrow metal pin, he felt for the mechanism. He crouched down, ear next to the padlock, turned the reamer and heard the locking mechanism spring open. With his hand already round the padlock, he slid it from the bolt. One down.

The second was even easier. It had, he reckoned, taken him about twenty seconds to undo both. Not bad, he told himself, especially considering he hadn't picked a lock in years. He drew back the bolt and prepared to open the door, praying its hinges wouldn't squeak.

Slowly Sykes pulled it ajar and slipped inside. He pushed it to and got out his torch. He made sure the blackout was across the lens, then switched it on and opened the filter until he had a sliver of light.

The store was filled with rows of wooden shelving from floor to ceiling and smelled of dust, canvas, oil - and, yes, petrol. Immediately ahead he saw boxes of .303 ammunition, No. 36 grenades and Bren magazines stacked together. Slowly he walked past two more rows of shelving, turned down the third, and immediately smelled fuel. But there was nothing - no barrels, no four- gallon tins. For a moment, he paused, then squatted down and noticed circles in the dust, one of which had stained the floor. Circles caused by fuel barrels.

Sod it, he thought. It was evidence of sorts, but not enough. Then he went back, turned down the last row and his heart quickened. Halfway down, a stash of boxes blocked the passageway between the shelves. Sykes went up to them. They were light cardboard, filled with clothing and overalls, easily movable. He lifted down the top box, then others until he could see beyond. He shone his torch. There, double- stacked at the back of the storeroom, were a dozen barrels of aviation fuel.

He was about to head back to find Tanner when he heard a noise from the other side of the wall now facing him. Turning off his torch, he pressed himself against the shelving. A moment later, the door creaked open and he heard a man gasp. Then something heavy was dropped on the floor.

'There's got to be someone in here,' said a low voice.

Sykes froze. He heard muffled whispers, then a torch was turned on, throwing shadows. Sykes dared not move.

Footsteps, careful, measured. Two steps, pause, two steps, pause, each time getting closer.

Now Sykes wished the sergeant was with him. He had no weapon on him, save his clasp knife. The sergeant had just seconds to rescue him. Come on, Sarge. Where the bloody hell are you?

Two more steps, then the man shone his torch straight into Sykes's eyes, momentarily blinding him.

Blinking, Sykes tried to see who it was but couldn't tell. All he saw was a dark figure behind the torch beam. He held up a hand to block the light, but as he did so, the man swung his fist into the side of his head. The force of the blow knocked Sykes backwards into the stack of clothing boxes, then onto the floor.

With his eyes closed, he lay as still as he could, despite the pain. The man took two more steps towards him and kicked him. Then, satisfied that Sykes was out cold, he turned and went back. More muffled voices, then the sound of tearing cloth and a fresh smell of fuel. Jesus, no, thought Sykes. A match being struck, a brief pause, then the whoosh of petrol igniting. He heard the door close and the keys turn in the padlocks.

The stores were darker now, but a faint orange glow came from near the door. He fumbled for his torch, switched it on and got to his feet groggily, staggered and half fell, then recovered and hurried back to the entrance. Flames were already licking up the first row of wooden shelving and at its foot lay a body - Tanner's.

For a split second, Sykes was paralysed by indecision. Then he stepped round the flames, shoved Tanner to one side and began frantically to pull ammunition boxes off the shelves. Already several were blackening, but he knew that the moment they caught he was dead. When he had given himself breathing space, he dragged Tanner to the next row and, to his relief, heard the sergeant groan.

'Sarge!' he said, slapping his face. 'Sarge! Wake up!' He slapped Tanner again and this time the sergeant opened his eyes.

'Stan?' he mumbled.

'Get up, Sarge! Quick!' He leaned round to check the flames. They were spreading fast. Soon they would reach other ammunition boxes and the stacks of grenades. Time was running out rapidly. He sped back to where the flames were now licking towards the roof and along the shelving. The storeroom was filling with smoke and he coughed, his chest tightening, his throat beginning to sear. He quickly tied his handkerchief around his face, held his