Darkest Hour

As they walked back, Peploe said, 'I'm sorry, Tanner. That's a bloody outrage.'

'Thank you for standing by me, sir. I appreciate it.'

'It's wrong, Tanner. Quite wrong. The man's a first- rate arse.' He tugged at his mop of thick hair. 'Shouldn't be saying things like that to you, I know, but it's true.'

Tanner could think of stronger words, but kept them to himself. Instead he said, 'We've got a platoon of good lads, sir.'

'That's true enough.' He looked at Tanner. 'Do you mind me asking what happened last night between you and the CSM?'

Tanner told him. Peploe listened. Then he said, 'Well, Sergeant, I'm sorry, and between you and me, I think you were probably right. I know I like the odd glass, but I'm sure the men would have got themselves drunk. If it's any consolation at all, though, I meant what I said back there. I'm glad you're still with us. I fancy we've got a testing time ahead.'

Tanner agreed. He had said nothing to the lieutenant but the scenes of retreat were horribly familiar to him. True, there were more vehicles than there had ever been in Norway, but the expressions on the faces of the men were those he had seen a few weeks before: fed up, resigned, exhausted. Men whose confidence in their commanders had been shaken.

A roar of aero-engines made him look up. Above, a dozen German bombers, no more than eight thousand feet high, were droning over, seemingly unchallenged. And that was another thing, thought Tanner. Once more the Luftwaffe appeared to rule the sky. He'd seen barely a French or British plane since they had arrived in France. He had never thought too much about air power, but he reckoned he had seen enough to know one thing: that whoever ruled the sky would probably win the battle on the ground. Sighing heavily, he pushed back his helmet and wiped his brow. The lieutenant was surely right. Things did not look good.

Although fanner had seen few Allied aircraft, they had been operating in the skies above since the Germans had made their move a week before. In fact, together the RAF and French Army of the Air had many more aircraft than the Luftwaffe. However, most of these were either back in England or scattered over France, so that at the front, the Germans did have superior numbers, and especially in the northern sector operating over Flanders. Not only that, all too many French and British aircraft that had been available had already been shot down and even more destroyed on the ground; which was why at first light that morning, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell had learned that 632 Squadron would, from now on, be one of six Hurricane squadrons that would fly daily to an airfield in France and there operate alongside what remained of the RAF's Air Component.

Lyell had led the squadron over to Vitry-en-Artois in northern France where 607 Squadron were already operating. Pandemonium had greeted them. Shortly before their arrival, the Luftwaffe had paid a call so that as the squadron circled over the battered airfield, plumes of thick smoke were still rising into the sky. The grass runway was pockmarked with bomb craters, full of soil and pulverized chalk. As Lyell turned in to land he could see the remains of a Hurricane still burning furiously, its blackening wings spread out against the ground, its fuselage nothing more than a fragile skeleton. He had hoped he had sounded confident and authoritative - nonchalant, even - when he warned the others to mind out for craters, but his heart had been pounding and his breathing had quickened. Christ, he had thought. It was not what he had imagined at all.

No sooner had they refuelled than they had been sent back into the air, ordered to patrol a line 'Louvain- Namur'. Armed only with a rough map, he had led the squadron of two flights north-east over Belgium, uncertain whether or not they were in the right place.

Nonetheless, having climbed to fourteen thousand feet he had spotted what he thought must be Mons and Charleroi, two grey stains among the green patchwork of Flanders, and had then turned due east. It was just as he was leading the squadron towards what he hoped was Namur that Sergeant Durnley had spotted a formation of two dozen Stukas emerging from a large bank of white cloud. The enemy formation was heading west, away from them, and several thousand feet below. It had been almost too good to be true and Lyell had immediately led the squadron round and into line astern, then ordered a Number One Attack.

The enemy dive-bombers spotted them too late, and although arcs of tracer fire curled up to meet Lyell as he led the attack, the aim had been wide and the bullets stuttered past harmlessly. The Stukas broke formation hurriedly, but they still provided rich pickings. Lyell was surprised by how slow and cumbersome they seemed. On his first pass he was certain he hit one and then, glancing behind to see the squadron still attacking in turn, spotted a lone Stuka banking hard to port so followed suit. His first burst of fire overshot, but on his second, now right behind it and closing faster than he had at first realized, the bullets struck home. Then, to his astonishment, the enemy machine exploded, disintegrating beside him as he sped past. Bits of aluminium clanged against his canopy, making him duck his head involuntarily.

And another surprise: in a trice the immaculate attack formations they had practised over and over again had broken up into a swirling melee of aircraft and individual battles. Gone, too, was radio discipline as his pilots whooped and cursed, shouted and chattered, deafening screeches reverberating through Lyell's headset. Aircraft tumbled from the sky, with trails of smoke following them but, to his surprise, it appeared to clear of aircraft as quickly as it had filled. As Lyell banked again and tried to bring himself back into the fight, he found the sky almost deserted. He tried to call his squadron back together but it was no use: several of his pilots were now miles away. Deciding that the patrol would have to be forgotten, he ordered the squadron to make their way back to Vitry instead.

He was one of the first to land. A sensation of intense exhilaration settled over him. That he had been responsible for the deaths of at least two people did not bother him, he was glad to discover, yet as he tried to light a cigarette on the way to Dispersal, he discovered his hands were shaking and his knees weak.

The others returned in dribs and drabs. Two had flown halfway to the German border, it seemed. Derek Durnley, who had spotted the formation in the first place, had not returned at all, last seen heading east; Robson had got completely lost and had eventually rung through from Lille-Seclin, some twenty miles away from Vitry. Most claimed to have shot down at least one Stuka, and although 607's intelligence officer eventually accepted claims of just six confirmed kills, this did little to dampen the pilots' buoyant spirits.

They had been due to fly back to Manston at noon, but with Durnley missing, Robson still grounded at Lille- Seclin and half of their Hurricanes still to be refuelled, rearmed and patched up, Lyell waited a while longer at the airfield. Robbo was finally back by half past two, but just as they were about to get going, a request reached Dispersal for another flight to provide top cover for a bombing mission on German positions east of Brussels. When Lyell was asked if 632 Squadron could help, he agreed immediately.

Half an hour later, at nearly half past three that afternoon, he was conscious that the exhilaration had gone, replaced by a wave of fatigue and irritation. Rendezvous with the bombers - a flight of Blenheims - over Brussels at 1520 hours. Well, he could see what he assumed must be Brussels, but there was no sign of any Blenheims or, indeed, any bombers at all.