Darkest Hour

dropped what seemed like fifty feet, recovered briefly, gave a last belch of smoke and crashed into the ground. The port wing hit the soft earth first, the undercarriage collapsing and the plane ploughing in an arc through the grass. Its propeller snapped and the fuselage buckled.

'Come on - get out, you stupid sod,' muttered Sykes. For a moment there was silence. Then the pilot heaved himself out of the cockpit, jumped onto the wing and sprinted away from the scene for all he was worth. He had not gone thirty yards when there was an explosion and the broken Hurricane was enveloped by a ball of angry orange flame and billowing black smoke. Tanner and the others flinched at the sound, saw the pilot fling himself flat on the ground then watched the fire-wagon, bells ringing, speed out from the watch-tower and hurry to the scene.

'Look, 'e's getting up again,' said Sykes, who had taken it upon himself to be the commentator.

'Good lad,' said Tanner, as the other Hurricane touched down safely behind them.

The truck driver returned. 'One's still not back. The CO an' all. Station commander's not at all happy.' He clicked his teeth and indicated to them to get back aboard. 'You're just down here,' he added, as Tanner clambered into the cab beside him, 'the other side of the parade-ground.'

He took them to the last of a row of long wooden huts. 'Here,' he said, pulling up. 'Make yourselves at home. The CSM'll be along shortly.'

Tanner undid the tailgate, waited for his men to jump down, then grabbed his kitbag and rifle. Like all British rifles, it was a Short Magazine Lee-Enfield, a No. 1 Mark III model, and although the newer No. 4 version was now coming into use, Tanner had no intention of surrendering this personal weapon. The son of a gamekeeper from south Wiltshire, he had learned to shoot almost as soon as he could walk and with it had come the well-drummed-in lesson of looking after a gun, whether it was an air rifle, twelve bore, or Lee-Enfield rifle. But, more than that, Tanner had made an important modification to his.

He had done it almost as soon as he had returned to Regimental Headquarters in Leeds back in February after nearly eight years' overseas service. Having been issued with new kit, he had gone straight to the Royal Armoury where he had had a gunsmith mill and fit two mounts and pads for an Aldis telescopic sight. They were discreet enough and few people had noticed - no one in authority, at any rate, not that he imagined they would say much about it even if they did. The scope had been his father's during the last war and Tanner had carried it with him throughout his army career. Although he had never attempted to become an army sniper, he had certainly sniped, and on several occasions the Aldis had proved a godsend. Slinging the rifle and his kitbag onto his shoulder, he followed the others into the hut.

Jack Tanner was twenty-four, although his weatherworn and slightly battered face made him appear a bit older. He was tall - more than six foot - with dark hair, pale, almost grey eyes and a nose that was slightly askew. He had spent almost his entire army career in India and the Middle East with the 2nd Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, even though he was a born and bred Wiltshireman. This last Christmas he had finally returned to England. Home leave, it had been called, not that he had had a home to return to any more. He had not seen the village where he had been brought up for over eight years. A lifetime ago. He wished he could return but that was not possible and so he had spent the time in Yorkshire instead, helping a gamekeepeer on an estate in the Dales; it had reminded him how much he missed that life. Four weeks later he had presented himself at Regimental Headquarters in Leeds and been told, to his dismay, that he would not be going back to Palestine. Instead he had been posted to bolster the fledgling Territorial 5th Battalion as they prepared for war. In Norway, the Territorials had been decimated; Tanner and his five men, along with a few others, were all that remained of the 5th Battalion. A fair number were dead, but most were now either in German hospitals or on their way to a prison camp.

Tanner had hoped he might be allowed back to the 2nd Battalion now, but the regimental adjutant had had other ideas. The 1st Battalion was with the BEF in France; new recruits were being hurried through training and sent south to guard the coast. Men of his experience had an important part to play - all the veterans of Norway did. The 2nd Battalion would have to do without him for a while longer. Forty-eight hours' leave. That was all he and his men had had. The others had gone home, to their families in Leeds and Bradford, or in Bell's case to his family farm near Pateley Bridge, while Tanner and Sykes had got drunk for one day and recovered the next.

The hut was more than half empty. Just ten narrow Macdonald iron beds and palliasses were laid out along one wall, but otherwise it was bare. Tape had been crisscrossed over each window. Tanner slung his kitbag beside the bed nearest the door, then lay down and took out another cigarette.

'What are we supposed to do now, Sarge?' asked Hepworth.

'Put our feet up until someone tells us where we're to go,' Tanner replied. He lit his cigarette, then closed his eyes. He was conscious of another Hurricane landing - the engine sound was so distinctive. Bloody airfield and coastal guard duty, he thought. Jesus. He told himself to be thankful for it. They had escaped from Norway by the skin of their teeth so a soft job would do him and the others good. In any case, the war wasn't going to end any time soon, that much was clear. Their chance would come. Yet part of him yearned to rejoin his old mates in Palestine. For him, England was an alien place; he had spent too long overseas, in the heat, dust and monsoon rains of India, and the arid desert of the Middle East. Before that he had only ever known one small part of England, and that was the village of Alvesdon and the valley of his childhood. He still missed it, even after all these years. Often, when he closed his eyes, he would remember the chalk ridges, the woods on the farm, the clear trout stream, the houses of thatch, cob and flint. But both his parents were gone, and dark events from his past ensured there could be no going back.

He sighed. Long ago, he had resigned himself to exile, but it still saddened him. That long train journey south from Leeds: too much time to think, to remember. Tanner chided himself silently. No point in getting bloody maudlin. What he needed was a distraction. Activity. It was, he realized, barely a week since they had returned from Norway yet already he felt as though he had been kicking his heels for too long.

Soon after, he dozed off, the others' chatter a soporific background noise that lulled him to sleep. He was awake again, however, the moment his subconscious brain heard a new voice in the hut - a distinctive one: a deep, yet soft Yorkshire accent that was strangely familiar.

'Morning, gents,' Tanner heard, followed by a squeak of springs and the clatter of boots on the wooden floor as the men stood quickly to attention. Tanner swung his legs off the bed.

'All right, lads,' said the newcomer. 'As you were.'

Tanner's eyes widened in shock. A big, stocky man of nearly his own height stood in the doorway. 'The bright sun behind cast his face in shadow, but Tanner would have known him anywhere. Blackstone. Jesus. He groaned inwardly. That was all he needed.

Blackstone stared at him, then winked and turned back to the others. 'Welcome to Manston, lads,' he said, 'and to T Company of the First Battalion.' He had a lean face, with deep lines running across his brow and between his nose and mouth. He was in his mid-thirties, with thick sandy hair that showed beneath his field cap.

'I'm Company Sergeant-Major Blackstone,' he said. 'Captain Barclay is the officer commanding of this training