Darkest Hour (5 page)

Sykes came over to Tanner, who had made a beeline for
his pack. 'He seems all right. So did the CSM for that matter.'

'Mr Peploe's fine,' agreed Tanner. 'It's early days but
I'd say he was a good bloke.'

Sykes thought a moment, conscious that the sergeant
had made no mention of CSM Blackstone. He hadn't known Tanner long - a few
weeks only - but he believed a friendship had been forged in Norway, founded on
mutual trust and respect, and developed during a difficult trek through the
snow and the mountains. The enemy had dogged their every move yet they had made
it to safety, rejoining the rest of the British forces as the final evacuation
was taking place. In many ways they were very different, both physically and in
character, but although neither had ever spoken of it, Sykes had recognized
early that they shared one thing in common. Both were outsiders among these
Yorkshiremen, and there was a tacit understanding of this between them: while
most of the Yorkshire Rangers were drawn from the northern cities of Leeds and
Bradford, Tanner was a countryman from the 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.'

'Do you think it's a Jerry?' Bennett was young, only
eighteen.

Before Tanner could reply, the lorry ploughed straight
on at the bend, smashing through a fence and a hedge and crashing to a
standstill as it hit a tree.

Immediately Tanner was sprinting down the road, Hepworth
and Bennett following. As he leaped through the hole in the fence and hedge, he
heard groaning from the cab, then saw a figure stumble out, stagger across the
young green shoots of corn and collapse.

Hurrying to the prostrate figure, Tanner knelt beside
him and put his ear to the man's mouth.

'Ormicki and Kasprowicz,' the man mumbled.

'What?'

'In the lorry,' slurred the man. 'They are in the
lorry.'

Christ
, thought Tanner. Hepworth and Bennett were beside him
now and shouts were coming from the road. He stood up and was about to hurry
over to the ticking lorry when there was an explosion and the vehicle was
engulfed in flames.

'No!' groaned the man. 'No!' Tanner dived back to the
ground. The flames now lit the sky, and as the sergeant raised his head he saw
the shape of two men engulfed in the inferno.

'Let's get out of here,' he said and, with Hepworth's
help, hoisted the man to his feet. 'Here, Hep, grab my rifle, will you?' he
said. He lifted the man onto his shoulder and carried him across the field to
the road. There, they met Lieutenant Peploe and Corporal Sykes.

'A petrol bowser, sir,' said Tanner, as he laid the
man carefully on the verge. 'Two dead by the look of it.'

'Bloody hell!' said Peploe. 'What a stupid waste. Our
fuel thieves?'

Tanner shrugged. 'Maybe. Here, Hep, shine your torch
on him, will you?' He looked down at the man, and saw a livid gash across his
forehead. Blood was running freely down the side of his face. Quickly, Tanner
delved into his pocket for a field dressing, tore it open and took out the
first bandage. He pressed it against the wound, then wrapped the second around
the man's head. 'Where are you hurt?' he asked.

'I'm all right,' murmured the man, making an effort to
sit up.

'Steady there,' said Tanner. 'Just stay where you are
for the moment.' He peered up at Peploe, standing

beside him. 'At the very least this cut needs
attention, sir. We should get him to the MO.'

'I'll run down to the hotel,' said Peploe, 'and use
their phone to get an ambulance and a fire-wagon. Hepworth, go back to the
checkpoint and get the truck. I'll meet you back here.'

'That fire will burn itself out before a fire-wagon
can get here, sir.'

'You're probably right, but I still need to report
this straight away.'

Tanner nodded. 'Shall I organize another roadblock
here, sir? We don't want anyone going near the site, do we?'

'Good idea, Sergeant.'

When the lieutenant had gone, Tanner turned to Sykes
and said, 'So why the hell wasn't he stopped at the checkpoint?'

'He just went straight through, Sarge. Nearly knocked
Mr Peploe over.'

Tanner sighed, then turned back to the man lying on
the ground. 'Can you hear me?'

The man groaned.

'What's your name?'

'Torwinski,' murmured the man. 'I am from Poland.'

'And the other two?'

'Yes - also Poles.'

'That fuel lark you was tellin' me about,' Sykes said,
turning to Tanner. 'Perhaps the CSM was right.'

'No,' gasped the man. 'We were taken.' He groaned
again and grimaced in pain.

'Easy, mate,' said Sykes. 'Easy.'

'What do you mean?' asked Tanner.

'We were all asleep. Some men came in, woke us up and
ordered us to get dressed. They led us out to the truck. Then they hit us. The
next thing I know the truck has been driven into the tree and I wake up. I knew
I had to get out. Then the explosion.' He put his hand to his eyes. 'I don't
know why this happened. I don't know what they wanted with us.'

'Did you see these men?'

'It was dark. Whenever they shone their torches they
did so in our faces so we could not see them. But they were soldiers. British
soldiers.'

Tanner stood up, walked a few steps away from the
prostrate Torwinski, then pushed back his helmet and wiped his brow. 'Bloody
hell, Stan. This is not good. Not good at all.'

'What I'd like to know, Sarge, is what the hell a fuel
bowser was doing on this road anyway. If you want to hide nicked fuel, why
drive towards the coast where there's bound to be roadblocks?'

'God knows. Looks like someone's trying to stitch
these lads up, though.'

Sykes stepped away onto the road. 'You believe his
yarn, then?'

'Don't you?'

'I dunno, Sarge.'

'He's a bloody good liar if he isn't telling the
truth.'

'Christ, Sarge, you know what that means?'

'Yes, Stan. Those Poles were murdered.'

Tanner stood over Torwinski as he waited for
Lieutenant Peploe to return. Even from seventy yards away the flames of the
bowser cast a low orange glow. He pulled out a cigarette and offered one to the
Pole but he had his hands over his eyes. Tanner passed the packet to Sykes and
struck a match. Blood was already seeping through the bandages on Torwinski's
head, Tanner noticed, but the fellow seemed more tormented by grief than by his
physical injuries. There appeared to be no broken bones, though; he'd been
lucky.

For a short while, Tanner and Sykes stood in silence.
It occurred to Tanner that it had been a mistake to suggest that Torwinski
should see the medical officer. The man needed to be taken somewhere out of
harm's way - a place where his would-be murderers couldn't make a further
attempt on his life. Lieutenant Peploe would be back soon, but he had only
known the officer half a day and was uncertain how much he should say about his
suspicions.

A thought struck him. He told Sykes to wait with
Torwinski, then clambered back through the fence and hurried towards the still
burning bowser. He could see the charred corpses in the cab and stepped past
the tree so that he could see more clearly their precise position. The flames
were dying down but as Tanner walked around the bowser he felt the heat on his
cheeks and ears. He studied the blackened bodies; it was as he had suspected.
He headed back to the road.