though, making the most of the cloud. Still, I managed to get in a couple of bursts and I'm pretty sure I knocked out his port engine. Must have got the rear-gunner too because he shut up shop pretty quickly. Anyway, she was losing height and trailing a fair amount of smoke when she disappeared into a large bank of cloud.'
'Probably in the Channel by now, then,' said Granby.
'I'd have thought so.' Lyell glanced up at the almost perfectly clear sky above them. 'Bloody weather. Why couldn't it have been like this all the way to France?' He looked at Dennison. 'Don't worry,' he said to the IO, 'I know we can't claim it.' He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled and said, 'I hear Robbo's all right.'
'Bloody lucky,' said Granby. 'Another few seconds and, well, I hate to think.'
Reynolds, the adjutant, now approached Dispersal. 'Station commander wants to see you, sir,' he told Lyell.
Lyell sighed. 'I'm sure he does.' He ran his hands through his hair. 'I think we should have a few drinks tonight.' He addressed this comment to Granby, but it was meant for all of the pilots. 'We should celebrate Robbo's narrow escape, commiserate over the loss of a Hurricane and raise a glass to our first almost-kill.'
'Hear, hear,' said Granby.
'And I don't mean in the mess. Let's go out.' He turned to the adjutant. 'Come on, then,' he said. 'Better face the music.'
Tanner had followed Blackstone to a brick office building at the far side of the parade-ground. In silence they walked up a couple of steps and through the main door, then along a short corridor. Blackstone stopped at a thin wooden door, knocked lightly and walked in.
'Ah, there you are, CSM,' said the dark-haired captain from behind his desk. 'And this must be Sergeant Tanner.'
'Yes, sir,' said Blackstone.
Tanner stood to attention and saluted, while Blackstone ambled over to a battered armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, taking out another cigarette as he did so. Tanner watched with barely concealed incredulity.
'At ease,' said the captain. He was, Tanner guessed, about thirty, with fresh, ruddy cheeks, immaculately groomed hair and a trim moustache. Beside Tanner, sitting stiffly on a wooden chair in front of the desk, was a young subaltern. The room smelled of wood and stale tobacco. It was simply furnished and only lightly decorated: a coat of whitewash, a map of southern England hanging behind the desk, a metal filing cabinet and a hat-stand, on which hung a respirator bag, tin hat and service cap.
'I understand you know the CSM,' said Barclay, taking his pipe from his mouth.
'Yes, sir.'
'In India together?'
'Yes, sir. With the Second Battalion.'
'Good, good.' He nodded. 'Well, let me introduce you to Lieutenant Peploe. You and your men will be joining his platoon.'
The subaltern next to him now stood up and shook Tanner's hand. 'How do you do, Sergeant?'
'Well, sir, thank you.'
Peploe smiled. 'Glad to have you on board.' It was said sincerely. The lieutenant had a rounded yet good- looking face, blue eyes and a wide, easy smile. His hair was thick strawberry blond, slightly too long and somewhat unruly, as though it refused to be tamed by any amount of brushing. His handshake was firm and he looked Tanner squarely in the eye; it was something the sergeant liked to see in an officer. He hoped they would get on well enough.
Barclay tapped his fingers together and shifted in his seat. 'I see you've been decorated, Sergeant.' He noticed the blue, white and red ribbon of the Military Medal sewn above Tanner's left breast pocket.
'A few years ago now, sir.'
'Do you mind me asking what it was for?'
'Nothing much, really, sir. A bit of a scrap with some Wazirs, that's all.'
Blackstone laughed from his armchair. 'Such modesty, Jack. Honestly, sir, Tanner's single-handed defence of Pimple Hill is the stuff of legend - at least,' he grinned, 'the way he tells it. Isn't that right, Jack? I've heard the story a few times now and it gets better with every telling - especially with a bit of the old sauce inside.'
Blackstone laughed, and shot Tanner another wink, as though it was nothing more than friendly ribaldry between two old comrades.
Barclay raised an eyebrow. 'Well, I'm sure you deserved it, Sergeant.'
Tanner shifted his feet, aware that he was betraying his discomfort. What could he say? He knew Blackstone was baiting him, daring him to rise. He had never spoken of that September day, four and a half years before, in the hills around Muzi Kor - not once - but Barclay wouldn't believe that now. He cleared his throat. 'I was proud enough to be awarded it, sir, but there are many brave deeds carried out in battle and most go unobserved. And there were certainly other men braver than me that day.'
'Yes, well, I'm sure you're right. In any case. . .' Barclay let the words hang and fumbled for his tobacco pouch. 'So,' he said at last, 'were you briefed in Leeds, Sergeant?'
'The regimental adjutant told me that this is still really a training company, sir. That most of the men have been hurried through formal training and have been sent here to do coastal and airfield guard duty.'
'That's about the sum of it. Since Norway, everyone's expecting Jerry to make a move against us in the Low Countries. With the Second Battalion in Palestine and the poor old Fifth in the bag, the First Battalion's a bit stretched. The idea is that our recruits can do a bit of soldiering of sorts and carry out more training while they're
