Darkest Hour (11 page)

They were lying on the floor away from the flames but
already the smoke was choking.

'The torch, Stan - shine the bloody torch!'
Keep calm,
Tanner told himself as he struggled to feed
the igniter.
Don't rush.
He was conscious of
Sykes's frantic glances at the growing flames.

'They've reached the ammo boxes, Sarge. Are you nearly
done?'

Tanner took the base plug, tried to screw it on,
missed the thread, cursed, then got it right at the second attempt.

'Sarge, any second now those bullets are going to go!'

'Shut up, Stan,' said Tanner, snatching the base-plug
tightener from the lid of the box. 'You're not helping.' He tightened the
grenade, then scrambled to the end of the last row, pulled the pin and ran
back, hurling himself to the ground.

There was a sudden surge of flames and the sound of
bullets as strips of .303 rounds ignited and pinged furiously around the
storeroom. A second later the grenade went off.

'Go!' shouted Tanner. 'Go!'

A draught from the far end of the storeroom told them
the explosion had been successful. Sure enough, there was a jagged hole just
big enough for them to squeeze through. 'Quick, Stan, out you go!' urged
Tanner, and then it was his turn. The clear, fresh air hit him like a wall.
'Run!' he said. 'Iggery! Let's get the hell out of here!'

There were now cries and shouts from the other side of
the storeroom. Tanner saw Sykes run ahead, past the first of the huts. First,
though, he had something to retrieve. Pausing where he had stood not ten
minutes before, he dropped to his knees and felt around the grass.
Good
, he thought, as he found the familiar wooden butt of
his rifle. Then, just to make sure, he put his hand around the breech and his
fingers touched the scope mounts he had had especially fixed to it. Clasping
it, he ran on, until a loud whisper from Sykes called him into the shadows of
the second hut along.

'I can't believe I'm alive,' gasped Sykes. At that
moment there was a deafening explosion and the storeroom was engulfed in a
mass of livid orange flame. Both men flung themselves flat on the ground,
already damp with dew, as debris pattered around them.

'Come on, Stan,' said Tanner, hoarsely. 'We don't want
to hang around here. Let's get to the hut, clean up and join the others.' He
stood up and dusted himself down. 'You all right?'

'I think so, Sarge. What about you?'

'My head's felt better.' He put his hand to it and
peered at his fingers. 'Damn.'

'Blood?'

'I'll have to think of some excuse. I tell you, Stan,
we can't let those bastards frame us for this. We'll have to be bloody careful.
Blackstone was always a right bastard in India but I wouldn't have said
cold-blooded murder was his way.'

'You're sure it was him, then?'

'Aren't you?'

'I don't know. I couldn't see. Whoever it was always
kept the torch shining on my face. Then he whacked me one and I pretended to be
out cold so I didn't dare open my eyes. He never spoke. I heard another bloke,
but it wasn't the CSM. What about you, Sarge?'

'I fell for the oldest trick in the book. I was
distracted by a noise from one side of the hut and hit in the head from the
other. And, no, I didn't see who it was, but I still know Blackstone's behind
this. He's got to be.'

'Anyway, at the moment they think we're croakers,
don't they? That gives us a bit of time.'

'So it does, Stan. Let's make the most of it.' He
stumbled forward, then stopped. 'Thanks - back there.'

'Self-preservation, Sarge.' He grinned. 'I didn't
think I'd get out without your help.'

'That's all right, then.'

The wash-house was empty - a stroke of luck. They
cleaned the smoke from their hands and faces and Tanner swabbed the gash to his
head. He needed stitches, he knew, but that would have to wait.

Cleaned up, they hurried back to their hut. Tanner
dabbed his head again then covered it with petroleum jelly from a tin in his
pack to stem the blood. Then quickly changing into their spare battle-dress,
the two of them headed out into the night once more. It was now just twenty-two
minutes past ten. They had been absent from the platoon for less than half an
hour but, with the inferno raging at the company stores, both men were keenly
aware that they had to get back to their men without delay.

They wove their way behind a row of buildings to the
south of the parade-ground, reached the road in front of the office block, then
headed back towards the burning stores to the west of the Northern Grass.

'OK, listen, Stan,' said Tanner. 'We've come from the
direction of the watch office, all right? We've been keeping an eye on things
at the far side of the airfield, and we hurried over as soon as we heard the
explosion. Got it?'

'Right, Sarge.'

The fire-wagons were already at the scene, as were
Lieutenant Peploe and most of the platoon.

'There you are, Tanner,' said Peploe, on seeing Tanner
and Sykes walking briskly towards him. 'Where have you been?' The light from
the flames betrayed the tension in his face.

'Sorry, sir. Came as soon as we heard the explosion.
How did it start?'

'Not sure. The ack-ack boys say they didn't see or
hear a thing until it was too late. Apparently, one of them noticed flames and
the next minute the place blew.'

'Well, all that ammo and so on,' said Tanner.

'Probably someone dropped a cigarette or a match or
something, sir,' said Sykes.

'Probably,' agreed Peploe. 'An odd coincidence,
though, two blazes in two nights. And have you heard the other news?'

'We're off to France, sir?' said Tanner.

'No - we've got a new prime minister, Churchill. It
seems Chamberlain resigned yesterday, the day before the Germans decide to
launch their attack. They announced it this afternoon.' He pinched the bridge
of his nose. 'Winston Churchill - who'd have thought it?'

'Proves coincidences do happen, sir,' said Sykes.

'I suppose so.' He looked back at the fire.
'Incredible, really, that no one was hurt. God knows what the OC will say. We
needed those stores for France.' He felt inside his battle-blouse and pulled
out his silver hip-flask, unscrewed the top and took a swig. 'Chaps?' he said,
offering it to Tanner and Sykes.

Tanner coughed. He could still feel the smoke in his
throat. 'Thank you, sir. This time I will.' The whisky burned the back of his
throat deliciously. Briefly he closed his eyes.
That's good.
'Shall I get the men back to their posts, sir?' he said, as he passed the flask
to Sykes. 'The fire-wagons and Snowdrops seem to have everything under
control.'

Peploe nodded. 'I'm going to stay here in case the OC
or the station commander shows up, but you get going, Sergeant.'

With the men sent back to their posts, Tanner paused.
He had a raging thirst and unclipped his water-bottle from his belt. He drank
freely, savouring the cool fluid as it soothed his throat. His head hurt like
hell - a throbbing, stabbing pain that prevented him thinking clearly. Gingerly
he put his hand to it again, felt the Vaseline and blood in his matted hair and
tilted his helmet to hide the wound. The worst of it was that there was nothing
he could do. Peploe might believe him, and Sykes, but no one else. Blackstone
would see to that - and it would be easy. Tanner knew he was already a marked
man.
Jesus.

A car approached and drew up alongside the far end of
the workshop. Tanner watched Wing Commander Jordan and Captain Barclay get out
and stride towards the still- burning storeroom. Then Peploe hurried towards
them, silhouetted against the flames. He was glad it was the lieutenant rather
than himself facing the anger of the station commander and the OC.

Footsteps from the direction of the parade-ground made
him turn. Tanner strained his eyes, but it was not until the figure was only a
few yards from him that he realized it was Blackstone.

'CSM,' said Tanner.

'Jack?'

Tanner switched on his torch so that he could see the
CSM's face but, to his astonishment, his expression betrayed no surprise.

'Shouldn't you be with the rest of the platoon?'
Blackstone asked.

'I'm on my way,' said Tanner.

Blackstone looked past him towards the fire. 'Well,
get on, then.'

It occurred to Tanner that it would be easy to kill Blackstone
there and then. The distraction of the fire, the night darkness, an arm round
his neck, then a yank of his head. All over in a trice. Yet he knew he would do
no such thing - not even if he had been certain that the CSM had tried to burn
him alive half an hour before. Tanner had killed several men but had never
resorted to murder, no matter how well deserved.

Yet for the first time, doubt gnawed at the back of
his mind. Perhaps he had been wrong about Blackstone; perhaps he was not behind
the fuel theft and the deaths of the Poles, after all.

Without another word, Tanner stepped past him and went
on his way.

The following morning, just before eight o'clock, T
Company's movement order arrived from the War Office. It had not taken the
hundred and four men long to get ready. Canvas kitbags had been packed the day
before, after the movement warning had been issued, although Tanner had decided
not to bother bringing his with him. His old uniform was scorched and soiled
and he reckoned he would hardly need his thick wool greatcoat in France in
summer. In any case, he had always found ways of getting extra clothing in the
past whenever he had needed it, and saw no reason why it should be any
different in France and Belgium. What kit he reckoned he would need -
respirator, spare shirt, spare underwear, shaving kit, mess tin, towel, jerkin,
gas cape, housewife and his few personal belongings - fitted easily into the
pack, haversack and pouches of his field-service marching-order webbing, which
each man had been ordered to wear. He had discarded other bits of kit that he
had either never used or reckoned would be of limited value on the Continent,
such as his brushes, canvas shoes and overalls.

At ten, the company were paraded and ready to begin
the three-mile march to Ramsgate harbour. An hour later, they were being ticked
off a list by the embarkation supervising officer and walking up the gangplank
of the cargo ship. Tanner watched the men as they boarded the
Raglan Castle
, a four-thousand-ton vessel already laden
with trucks, guns and munitions. Some chattered animatedly, excited at the
prospect of heading over the Channel to war. Others were solemn, alone with
their thoughts, their faces betraying apprehension and fear.

Tanner waited for all the men in the platoon to board
before he went up the gangplank. As he stepped on deck, Ellis grinned. 'So this
is it, then, Sarge. We're finally off. I can't believe we'll be in France in
just a few hours.'

'Maybe a bit longer than that,' said Tanner.

Ellis looked at him quizzically. 'I thought it was
only twenty miles or so across. That can't take very long.'

'Nor does it. But we haven't set off yet, have we?
Trust me, Billy, there's always a lot of hanging around at port. We won't be
going anywhere for hours.'

His prediction proved correct. Tanner made the most of
the delay by catching up on his sleep, as did Sykes and some of the other more
experienced men. He was glad of the chance. Not only was he tired, his head
still throbbed. He had seen the MO that morning. The doctor had seemed to
accept his story about having been hit as someone opened the door of a truck
and merely warned him to wear his tin helmet more often. The wound had needed
four stitches, all of which were neatly hidden by his thick dark hair.

When he awoke a couple of hours later, his headache
had all but gone, but the ship was still tied firmly to the quayside. When they
had not left by three thirty, frustration mounted, even in Tanner. The delay,
it seemed, was caused by a missing convoy of Guy Ant fifteen-hundredweight
general-service trucks. It was four o'clock when at last they arrived, and half
an hour later the ship let go its moorings and inched out of Ramsgate harbour.

Tanner had few superstitions, but he liked to be out
on deck when a ship left port and now he stood, the gulls circling, to watch
the cliffs and the neat little streets shrink before him. A light, soothing
breeze brushed his face.

England always looked so unmistakably English, he
thought - the sheer, white cliffs, the rows of terraced houses, the patchwork
of high-hedged fields. The quiet order.

'Looks pretty, don't it, Sarge?' said Sykes, appearing
at his side. Then without waiting for a reply, he said, 'How's the head?'

'Not too bad. The stitches itch a bit.' He touched the
hard scab and the loose end of the thread. 'You seen the CQS yet today?'

'He came down with the trucks. So no.'

Tanner thought for a moment. 'Tell me again, Stan, you
did hear voices in the store last night, didn't you?'