company, but as far as you lot are concerned, I'm the one who runs the show. So if I were you I'd try to keep in my good books. It's better that way, isn't it, Sergeant? Then everything can be nice and harmonious.' He grinned at Tanner. 'Now,' he continued, 'I'm going to take Sergeant Tanner here away with me for a bit. Later on you'll meet your platoon commander and be shown about the place. For the moment, though, stay here and get your kit together. All right?' He smiled at them again, pointed the way to Tanner and said, 'See you later, boys.'
Outside, he said, 'Well, well, my old friend Jack Tanner. Fancy us ending up here like this.'
'Fancy,' muttered Tanner. 'You recovered, then.'
'Oh yes, Jack. You can't keep a good man like me down for long.' He chuckled. 'I'm taking you to see the OC.' He took out a packet of Woodbines and offered one to Tanner. 'Smoke?'
'No thanks, sir.'
'Don't tell me you've given up the beadies, Jack.'
'I just don't want one at the moment.'
'You mean you don't want one of mine.' Blackstone sighed. 'Jack, can't you tell I'm trying to be friendly? Come on - let's have no hard feelings. It was a long time ago now. Let bygones be bygones, eh?'
Tanner still said nothing. Blackstone stopped and offered him his packet of cigarettes again. 'Come on, Jack. Have a smoke. Water under the bridge, eh?'
They were now at the parade-ground. A platoon of men was being drilled on the far side, the sergeant barking orders. Tanner looked at Blackstone, then at the packet of cigarettes being held out towards him. Briefly he considered taking one.
'Look here, Jack,' said Blackstone, 'we're at war now. We can't be at each other's throats.'
'Agreed,' said Tanner, 'but that doesn't mean I have to like you.'
The smile fell from Blackstone's face.
'A few pleasantries and the offer of a smoke,' Tanner continued, 'and you think I'll roll over. But I was never that easily bought, Sergeant-Major. Trust and respect have to be earned. You prove to me that you're different from the bastard I knew in India, then I'll gladly take your bloody cigarette and shake your hand.'
Blackstone stared at him, his jaw set. 'Listen to you!' he said. 'Who the hell do you think you are? I offer you an olive branch and you have the nerve to spit in my face.'
'Don't give me that crap. What the hell did you expect? You listen to me. Whether we like it not, we're both here, and for the sake of the company I'll work with you, but don't expect me to like you and don't expect me to trust you. Not until you've proved to me that you've changed. Now, I thought you were taking me to see the OC so let's bloody get on with it.'
Blackstone laughed mirthlessly. 'Oh dear,' he said. 'You always were an obstinate beggar. I can promise you this much, though, Jack. It's really not worth getting on the wrong side of me. It wasn't back then, and it certainly isn't now.'
'Just as I thought,' snarled Tanner. 'You haven't changed.'
'You're making a big mistake, Jack,' said Blackstone, slowly. 'Believe me - a very big mistake.'
Chapter 2
By the time he reached Manston Squadron Leader Lyell was already in a bad mood, but his spirits fell further when he saw the wagons dousing the flames of Robson's Hurricane - or, rather, what was left of it: the fuselage was nothing more than a crumpled black skeleton. Then, clambering out of the cockpit, he saw Cartwright, his rigger, examining what was evidently damage along his own fuselage.
'Don't worry, sir,' said Cartwright. 'Only a couple of bullet holes.'
'I didn't notice any difference,' Lyell muttered.
'No - looks like they went clean through. Soon patch that up.'
'What about Robson?'
'Believe he's all right, sir. His kite didn't blow until he was well clear.'
'That's something, then.' He began to head back, but Smith, his fitter, called after him.
'Did you get it, sir? The Dornier?'
Lyell stopped. 'Put it this way, Smith, I doubt very much that it will have made France.' As he walked on across the grass, he decided to continue with the lie, but it did little to improve his mood or assuage the humiliation and anger he felt at having been foxed by a lone German reconnaissance plane. Christ, how many times had they practised their aerial attacks? Almost every day since the war began! Each attack procedure had been assiduously drilled into every pilot, yet the first time they had tried the Number One Attack - which was also the most straightforward - it had failed hopelessly. He had been thrown by the Dornier's return fire, but what had really shocked him was the ineffectiveness of the .303 Browning bullets. Was it the range, or their velocity? He wasn't sure. And his ammunition had run dry so quickly. Fifteen seconds had always seemed a reasonable amount during gunnery practice, but in the heat of combat, it had gone by in a trice. Had their training been wrong or were the German aircrew simply better?
As he neared the dispersal hut he saw Dennison, the intelligence officer, hovering by the doorway, itching to ask him about the sortie. Lyell felt a further flash of irritation.
'So what happened, Skip?' Dennison asked as Lyell dropped his flying helmet into a deck-chair in front of the wooden hut.
'Did you get the bastard?' asked Granby, the commander of B Flight.
'I caught up with him, all right,' Lyell told them. The other pilots were also listening now. 'He was a wily sod,
