Darkest Hour

it?'

'Right, Sarge.'

The fire-wagons were already at the scene, as were Lieutenant Peploe and most of the platoon.

'There you are, Tanner,' said Peploe, on seeing Tanner and Sykes walking briskly towards him. 'Where have you been?' The light from the flames betrayed the tension in his face.

'Sorry, sir. Came as soon as we heard the explosion. How did it start?'

'Not sure. The ack-ack boys say they didn't see or hear a thing until it was too late. Apparently, one of them noticed flames and the next minute the place blew.'

'Well, all that ammo and so on,' said Tanner.

'Probably someone dropped a cigarette or a match or something, sir,' said Sykes.

'Probably,' agreed Peploe. 'An odd coincidence, though, two blazes in two nights. And have you heard the other news?'

'We're off to France, sir?' said Tanner.

'No - we've got a new prime minister, Churchill. It seems Chamberlain resigned yesterday, the day before the Germans decide to launch their attack. They announced it this afternoon.' He pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Winston Churchill - who'd have thought it?'

'Proves coincidences do happen, sir,' said Sykes.

'I suppose so.' He looked back at the fire. 'Incredible, really, that no one was hurt. God knows what the OC will say. We needed those stores for France.' He felt inside his battle-blouse and pulled out his silver hip-flask, unscrewed the top and took a swig. 'Chaps?' he said, offering it to Tanner and Sykes.

Tanner coughed. He could still feel the smoke in his throat. 'Thank you, sir. This time I will.' The whisky burned the back of his throat deliciously. Briefly he closed his eyes. That's good. 'Shall I get the men back to their posts, sir?' he said, as he passed the flask to Sykes. 'The fire-wagons and Snowdrops seem to have everything under control.'

Peploe nodded. 'I'm going to stay here in case the OC or the station commander shows up, but you get going, Sergeant.'

With the men sent back to their posts, Tanner paused. He had a raging thirst and unclipped his water-bottle from his belt. He drank freely, savouring the cool fluid as it soothed his throat. His head hurt like hell - a throbbing, stabbing pain that prevented him thinking clearly. Gingerly he put his hand to it again, felt the Vaseline and blood in his matted hair and tilted his helmet to hide the wound. The worst of it was that there was nothing he could do. Peploe might believe him, and Sykes, but no one else. Blackstone would see to that - and it would be easy. Tanner knew he was already a marked man. Jesus.

A car approached and drew up alongside the far end of the workshop. Tanner watched Wing Commander Jordan and Captain Barclay get out and stride towards the still- burning storeroom. Then Peploe hurried towards them, silhouetted against the flames. He was glad it was the lieutenant rather than himself facing the anger of the station commander and the OC.

Footsteps from the direction of the parade-ground made him turn. Tanner strained his eyes, but it was not until the figure was only a few yards from him that he realized it was Blackstone.

'CSM,' said Tanner.

'Jack?'

Tanner switched on his torch so that he could see the CSM's face but, to his astonishment, his expression betrayed no surprise.

'Shouldn't you be with the rest of the platoon?' Blackstone asked.

'I'm on my way,' said Tanner.

Blackstone looked past him towards the fire. 'Well, get on, then.'

It occurred to Tanner that it would be easy to kill Blackstone there and then. The distraction of the fire, the night darkness, an arm round his neck, then a yank of his head. All over in a trice. Yet he knew he would do no such thing - not even if he had been certain that the CSM had tried to burn him alive half an hour before. Tanner had killed several men but had never resorted to murder, no matter how well deserved.

Yet for the first time, doubt gnawed at the back of his mind. Perhaps he had been wrong about Blackstone; perhaps he was not behind the fuel theft and the deaths of the Poles, after all.

Without another word, Tanner stepped past him and went on his way.

The following morning, just before eight o'clock, T Company's movement order arrived from the War Office. It had not taken the hundred and four men long to get ready. Canvas kitbags had been packed the day before, after the movement warning had been issued, although Tanner had decided not to bother bringing his with him. His old uniform was scorched and soiled and he reckoned he would hardly need his thick wool greatcoat in France in summer. In any case, he had always found ways of getting extra clothing in the past whenever he had needed it, and saw no reason why it should be any different in France and Belgium. What kit he reckoned he would need - respirator, spare shirt, spare underwear, shaving kit, mess tin, towel, jerkin, gas cape, housewife and his few personal belongings - fitted easily into the pack, haversack and pouches of his field-service marching-order webbing, which each man had been ordered to wear. He had discarded other bits of kit that he had either never used or reckoned would be of limited value on the Continent, such as his brushes, canvas shoes and overalls.

At ten, the company were paraded and ready to begin the three-mile march to Ramsgate harbour. An hour later, they were being ticked off a list by the embarkation supervising officer and walking up the gangplank of the cargo ship. Tanner watched the men as they boarded the Raglan Castle, a four- thousand-ton vessel already laden with trucks, guns and munitions. Some chattered animatedly, excited at the prospect of heading over the Channel to war. Others were solemn, alone with their thoughts, their faces betraying apprehension and fear.

Tanner waited for all the men in the platoon to board before he went up the gangplank. As he stepped on deck, Ellis grinned. 'So this is it, then, Sarge. We're finally off. I can't believe we'll be in France in just a few