Darkest Hour (60 page)

He had returned a better pilot and squadron leader.
Being shot down had taught him valuable lessons, and during that long journey
to Arras he had had time to think. It had dawned on him that while there were
some very talented pilots among the
Luftwaffe,
those in the RAF could be every bit as good. It was just that some of the
tactics and formations that had been drummed into them were not necessarily the
best way to fight a war in the air. Prescribed formation attacks didn't work
because the targets always moved; nor did flying wingtip to wingtip make sense
because the pilots were spending so much time concentrating on keeping
formation that they couldn't see when the enemy was bearing down on them. And to
hit an enemy aircraft, you had to get in close - as close as you dared. Last,
and this he had learned from Sergeant Tanner, surprise was the best form of
attack. With the sun behind them and plenty of height, it was possible to knock
anything out of the sky.

On his first sortie back in charge, Lyell had ordered
his vics to spread out more, and above cloud level he had made a point of
leading his squadron high enough to position themselves with the sun behind
them. When they had spotted a formation of enemy bombers approaching Dunkirk
from the east, they had swooped down on them, in no particular attack formation
but with Lyell leading, and had opened fire. Within seconds they had shot down
two Heinkels and one probable.

Since then, the squadron had claimed a further
seventeen enemy aircraft and Lyell had four confirmed kills to his name. Just
one more and he'd be an ace. An ace! It was ludicrous, really. What did it
matter who shot down what, so long as they were knocked out of the sky? But he
did care: personal pride made him want it but, more than that, he felt it was
important that, as commanding officer, he should be seen to show the way.

He wondered how many men were left in France. It had
been a miracle that such an extraordinary number appeared to have been lifted
and he liked to think that the RAF had played no small part in that success.
There had been reports of fights in Ramsgate between returning soldiers and
Manston airmen on account of the RAF's poor showing, but that was nonsense.
Anyone doubting it had only to climb above the smoke and cloud where they would
have seen a very different story. When Lyell had been shot down, he had been
keenly aware of how outnumbered they had been. The men on the ground had
grumbled that the
Luftwaffe
had ruled the skies,
and during those few days with the Yorkshire Rangers, Lyell had understood why
they had felt that way; if he was honest, he had barely seen an Allied plane
himself. Over Dunkirk, however, it had been different. Not only 632 Squadron,
but many other RAF fighter squadrons had fought well. It was as though they had
all been forced to learn quickly and were now reaping the benefits.

Now they flew back towards the coast, the rising sun
bursting high above the haze below. Above, the deep blue canopy was clear and
promising. Lyell turned his head: behind, ahead, below, behind, ahead, below.

A glint caught his eye, below, off his port wing, and
then he saw them clearly: three formations of four twin- engine bombers, a
squadron of a dozen Junkers 88s, probably flying around ten thousand feet,
heading unmistakably towards the column of smoke rising high above Dunkirk.

'This is Mongoose Leader,' he said. 'A dozen bandits,
ten o'clock, angels ten.'

He gunned his throttle and turned so that he could
follow them dead ahead.

'Spread out, boys,' he added. 'Don't want to make too
big a target. Keep your eyes peeled behind you, but I'm going to take us down
to make the most of the sun.'

He watched the altimeter fall as the enemy bombers
grew larger. On the Junkers flew, apparently oblivious of the six fighters
stalking them. They were now half a mile away and just two thousand feet below.
Lyell pressed on, glancing at the rest of the flight, their two vics now nicely
spread.

Seven hundred yards, six hundred, five hundred, and
then just five hundred feet below them. Behind, the sun glinted off the Perspex
of his Hurricane's canopy. Lyell flicked off the safety catch on the stick,
then said, 'Tally ho, tally ho,' and pushing the control column forward, dived
below the lead formation and, at less than two hundred yards, opened fire. The
Hurricane's frame juddered as the eight Brownings spat bullets, and long lines
of tracer hurtled towards the leading Junkers, streaking across the fuselage,
over one wing and hitting the port- side engine, which burst into flame.
Immediately, the rest of the formation broke up but not before the other five
Hurricanes had torn into them. Lyell flew underneath his Junkers and banked to
the left, aping the stricken bomber, which had tried to climb but was now
diving towards the haze.

Glancing around to check that the skies were clear, he
flipped over the aircraft and followed his Junkers. It was not good practice,
he knew, but he wanted to make sure: if it disappeared from view still flying,
however badly, the best he could hope for was a probable - and that wouldn't
make him an ace. Only a confirmed kill would do. A wave of exhilaration swept
over him. And then he was through the haze, flying over the beaches of Dunkirk.
Directly in front of him was the crippled Junkers. 'Got you!' he muttered, with
satisfaction.

At twenty-five minutes to six in the morning, the Isle
of Man ferry
Manxman
was slipping away from the
east pier at Dunkirk, crammed with a hundred and seventy-seven, including most
of the surviving members of the 1st

Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers. Footsore
and exhausted, they had reached the port just before midnight and had
discovered the pier heaving with men. Four destroyers and a steamer had arrived
and lifted a large number of the remaining men but at three a.m., as the
Rangers had neared the front of the queue, they had been told by a naval
officer there would be no more ships until the following evening.

As dawn broke, 'Tanner had seen the scale of the devastation
once more. Abandoned vehicles littered the port area beside the mole and all
along the beaches as far as the eye could see. Half-sunk ships stood out of the
sea. An oily stench filled the air as the dark-green water lapped lazily at the
pier's struts. But compared with two days before, the small number of men still
wandering the beaches was nothing short of a miracle. The crowds had almost all
gone, most presumably taken back to England. Tanner saw two short lines of men
waiting at Malo-les-Bains but otherwise the port and the beaches seemed eerily
empty. Had all those men really gone home? It seemed too incredible to be true.

'They had returned to the end of the pier, and the men
had collapsed onto the ground, smoking or sleeping almost instantly, while
those still left to lead them decided what they should do until nightfall. Then
salvation had arrived. A small ferry had come into view, and as it eventually
drew alongside the pier, the Rangers realized they had been rewarded for
waiting at the foot of the mole. Trudging forward along the wooden walkway,
they had numbly boarded the little ship.

Tanner and the rest of D Company had made their way to
the back. Two more men had been killed in the last attack by the enemy and a
further three wounded.

No one knew what had happened to Hepworth and the
others who had gone with the carriers, but Peploe insisted that the remaining
wounded would be taken to England; with makeshift stretchers, the men had
enabled him to keep his word. Nineteen men, Verity included, were all that
remained of D Company. Only sixteen still stood.

'Well,' said Sykes, as the ship slipped its moorings,
'we made it.'

'We've still got to get across the Channel, Stan,'
said Tanner, exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke. At that moment they heard the
clatter of machine-guns above the haze. 'Bloody hell,' said Tanner. 'That's
what comes of counting your sodding chickens.'

Suddenly a Junkers broke through the cloud. It was
only a few hundred feet above them and astonishingly large, the black crosses
and streaks of oil on the underside of the wings vivid. The port engine was on
fire and the second was spluttering as though on its last gasp. A moment later
a Hurricane burst into view and opened fire at less than a hundred yards'
range. Immediately there was a loud crack, a burst of smoke and the second
engine caught fire. The bomber whined and, amid gasps from the watching men,
plunged into the sea. From beneath the waves they heard the mournful creak of
tearing metal. The men cheered.

'Look!' shouted Sykes. 'Look - LO-Z!'

'Damn me!' muttered Tanner. 'Lyell.'

The Hurricane roared past them, banked, then turned
back, just a hundred feet above the surface of the sea. As it flew over the
ship, it rolled, not once but twice, then climbed and disappeared back into the
haze.

It was six days later, on the evening of Saturday, 8
June, that Lieutenant Peploe, Sergeant Tanner and Corporal Sykes climbed into
Squadron Leader Lyell's newly repaired car.

'All set?' said Lyell.

'Yes, thank you, sir,' said Tanner.

They drove out through the main gates and, on the
cliffs above Ramsgate, were waved through a roadblock.

'Not quite so keen as you were, Sergeant,' said Lyell,
as they motored on towards Kingsgate Castle. 'And, what's more, no one gives us
a hard time about coming here either.' He grinned into the mirror.

Lyell parked outside the hotel entrance and led them
into the bar. The rest of the squadron were already waiting, clapping and
whistling as they entered. Tanner noticed four shots and four pints already
lined up on the bar.

'Drambuie and beer,' said Lyell. 'Drambuie first, then
the beer. Come on, let's be having you.'

'Bloody flying wallahs,' muttered Tanner, bringing the
shot to his lips.

'Humour them, Tanner,' said Peploe. 'Just go with the
flow.'

Tanner had downed both his drinks when suddenly he
noticed a familiar face smiling in front of him.

'Torwinski?' he said.

'I've been accepted into the RAF Volunteer Reserve,'
he said. 'Do you like the uniform?'

Tanner laughed. 'Very smart. You're not with this lot
already, are you?'

'Not yet. Squadron Leader Lyell has tried to pull
strings but I have to do flying training first. I don't mind so much - I'll
soon show them what I can do in an aeroplane.'

'It's bloody ridiculous,' said Lyell. 'This fellow
flew against the Germans last September and they still don't think he's
qualified to fly. It's a joke. We took him up in the Maggie and he showed us up
horribly. I'd have him like a shot, but there's no reasoning with the top
brass. More fool them.'

'I hadn't realized you were a pilot,' said Peploe.
'You never said.'

'Myself and the other two in our hut.' He looked down.
'We all wanted to fly again against the Nazis. Thanks to you, at least I will
have that chance. I appreciate what you did before you left for France and on
your return.'

'It's a promise I made to myself,' said Peploe. 'I'm
only glad I was able to honour it. And at least we know the truth now. I'm
sorry.'

'And the bastards got what they deserved,' said
Tanner. 'I always knew Blackstone was a nasty piece of work, but Slater was
leading him on. He was behind the fuel scam and I wouldn't mind betting it was
his idea to frame you three.'

'I just hope I can honour my friends' memory by
shooting down many German aircraft.' Torwinski raised his glass.

'It's certainly going to be up to you pilots now,'
said Peploe.

'And I don't envy you,' added Tanner.

'Really? You don't fancy flying, Sergeant?' asked
Lyell.

'No, sir, I don't. I like having my feet firmly on the
ground.'

Lyell laughed. 'I think we can safely say that about
you, Tanner.'

Tanner smiled ruefully. He wondered what would happen
in the weeks and months to come. The
BEF
had been beaten, and although he'd heard that more
than a quarter of a million British troops had been lifted from Dunkirk, most
of their kit had been left behind. That stuff didn't grow on trees - it
couldn't be replaced overnight. And a lot of good men had been left behind too.
Just twenty-two from D Company had made it back - including Hepworth. Tanner
had been glad to know Hep was all right. Would the Germans really try to invade
Britain? Christ only knew. No doubt there would be other battles to fight, but
for the time being, he decided, he would make the most of the pause and the
leave he had been given. Bloody hell, he deserved it.

On the whole, the British Expeditionary Force performed
rather well in France in 1940, even though it was forced to evacuate at
Dunkirk. Most of the troops were bewildered by the rapid series of withdrawals
that took place in order to keep in line with the French and Belgians as they
fell back, but as the German net closed around them, the British fought with
considerable gallantry and determination despite the enemy's superior numbers
and fire-power. As the Germans would discover later in the war, fighting on the
ground when the enemy commands the skies is not much fun.