Darkest Hour

south-west and Sykes a working-class boy from

Deptford in south London. And these differences revealed themselves every time they spoke - Tanner with his soft south-western burr, Sykes with a Cockney lilt.

'And the CSM?' he asked.

Tanner said nothing.

'Sarge?' Sykes persisted.

Tanner stopped fiddling with his pack and turned to him. 'Let's just say there's some history between us.'

'Before the war?'

'Yes - in India. He may seem a right charmer, but take a piece of advice. Watch how you tread with him around, Stan.'

'All right, Sarge. I'll bear that in mind.' For a moment, he thought about asking what that history was exactly, then dismissed the idea. He already knew Tanner well enough to sense he would get no more out of him now. Eventually, though, he would get to the bottom of it. He promised himself that.

It was around one a.m. on the morning of Friday, 10 May, when Stanislaw Torwinski woke to find a hand pressed hard across his mouth, a hand that smelled of old tobacco and oil. No sooner had he opened his eyes to the almost pitch dark of the hut than two more hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him out of his bed. He tried to speak, but the hand across his mouth merely pressed harder.

There were only three of them in the hut, the overflow from more than a hundred of their compatriots who were housed in identical huts alongside. More Poles were on their way to join them, they had been told, but in the two weeks since they had first arrived at Manston, it had remained just the three of them.

Torwinski was conscious of Ormicki and Kasprowicz struggling too. As his eyes adjusted, he was aware of a faint hint of light from the open door, then a voice said, 'Get dressed,' and a torch was briefly turned on, shining at the clothes laid out on the empty bed next to his own. The hand released his mouth.

'Tell the other two, but otherwise don't say a word, understand?' The unmistakable muzzle of a pistol was thrust into his side.

Torwinski nodded again, then spoke in Polish. 'What do you want with us?' he said, conscious of the tremor in his voice. A fist pounded into his face and he gasped.

'I told you not to speak,' said the same voice again. 'Now get dressed.'

Torwinski did as he was ordered. Quivering fingers fumbled at buttons. His head felt light, his brain disoriented. There were several men, but how many exactly, he could not be certain.

'Hurry!' hissed the voice, then the torch was flashed on again.

Torwinski squinted in the sudden light then glanced briefly at the other two - Kasprowicz grimacing angrily, Ormicki with terror on his face. As Torwinski bent to tie his laces, he was shoved forward. Stumbling, he was grabbed by the collar and pushed roughly towards the door and out into the night. 'Where are you taking us?' he said. 'What do you want with us?'

Hearing his comrade speak, Ormicki began to ask Torwinski questions and also received a blow to the head.

'I told you,' said the man, in a low, steady voice, 'to bloody well keep quiet. Now shut up - I don't want to hear another sound.'

'Why don't we gag them?' said another.

'You can keep your bloody trap shut an' all,' said the first man. 'Now come on, let's get going.'

Slowly, Torwinski's eyes adjusted to the night light. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and millions of stars cast an ethereal glow so that he could see the dark shapes of the huts, the trees near by and the track that led towards the Northern Grass. His heart was hammering as they stumbled on in silence. There were four men, one ahead, the other three behind. All wore their helmets low over their eyes so that it was impossible to tell who they were or what they looked like other than that they appeared to be and sounded like British soldiers.

Torwinski prayed they might see someone else - a late-working mechanic or a guard, perhaps. He was certain that whatever these men wanted with them it was not authorized. How could it be? What had they possibly done wrong? He could think of nothing. But not a soul stirred. As they neared the Northern Grass, a row of Hurricanes loomed in front of them, but then they were pushed to the left, along the airfield road until they reached a series of stores and a parked lorry, which, from the cylindrical shape of its load, Torwinski recognized as a fuel bowser.

'Get in,' growled the first man, opening the cab door. Torwinski climbed up, the other two following. The same question kept repeating in his mind. What can they want with us? His stomach churned and sweat ran down his back, chilling him. Inside the cab it was darker again, and one of the soldiers opened the other door. Torwinski turned to look, and as he did so the butt of a rifle was driven into the side of his head. His vision and other senses left him. By the time he had slumped forward against the dashboard, Ormicki and Kasprowicz had been knocked cold too.

Standing on the cliffs at White Ness just a few hundred yards north of Kingsgate Castle, Sergeant Tanner had been staring out to sea when he heard a lorry, followed by muffled yells from the men guarding the roadblock.

'What the hell?' he murmured and, calling Hepworth and Bennett, one of the new men, he ran towards the main road that led to Kingsgate. He could hear the lorry thundering onwards, then saw the slit of beam from the blackout headlights as it approached the bend in the road before the castle.

'What the bloody 'ell's going on, Sarge?' said Hepworth, breathlessly.

'Some damn fool's driven right through our sodding checkpoint,' Tanner replied. Standing in the long grass at the side of the road, he unslung his rifle and levelled it towards the bend.

'What are you going to do, Sarge?' asked Bennett.

'Shoot the bastard's tyre.'