Darkest Hour

Chapter 24

'This is no good, sir,' said Tanner to Lieutenant Peploe as bullets hammered into the mound of earth immediately in front of them. 'I need some height.'

They were in the trench beside the farmhouse and although the barn to the rear was now completely destroyed, Tanner reckoned the main house still offered some decent firing positions. 'Sir,' he continued, 'if it's all right with you, I think it's time to risk going back into the farmhouse. I'll do some sniping from the first-floor windows.'

'What about getting some Brens up there too?' said Peploe.

'Good idea, sir. We've still got some ammo left.'

'Right - use Sykes's section. Get a couple of men up there with the boxes of ammunition and two more on the Brens. I'll stay here with Cooper and Ross's sections.'

As the enemy infantry advanced closer to the canal, the artillery lifted their fire deeper into the perimeter, so that now it was just small-arms and mortars that were directed at the defenders. Even so, as Tanner ran along the trench to the back of the farmhouse, he could hear bullets snapping into the brickwork. Bursting through the back door, he ran to the staircase as another bullet pinged through a broken ground-floor window and ricocheted off the hall wall next to him. Upstairs, the roof and most of the first-floor ceiling had collapsed, but the walls were thick and looked firm. Entering a now open- roofed bedroom, he ran to the window, cleared the worst of the broken glass out of his way with his boot, crouched and drew his rifle to his shoulder, resting the barrel on the window ledge.

Platoons of men were advancing across the ground in front of him, using as cover the young corn in the fields, the lines of poplars and willows and the raised banks at either side of the approach roads. He saw a machine-gun team hurry forward alongside the road on the left that led towards the canal, then drop to the ground beside a poplar and set themselves up to cover their comrades' advance. Immediately, he drew a bead, aiming at the head of the man now feeding a belt into the breech. Even without his scope he could see the figures distinctly, although their features were not clear. The light was still bright, he was looking slightly down at the two men, and the ground between them was level - all factors that could lead to underestimating distance. Taking that into account, he guessed they were around three hundred and twenty yards away. Quickly adjusting the range drum on the scope to three hundred yards, he peered through the lens, fractionally raised the point of aim, let his finger squeeze until it reached the first point of pressure on the trigger. Holding his breath, he gripped the rifle tightly and pressed hard against the second pressure point. A crack, a jolt, and the first man rolled over. Pulling back the bolt, he aimed at the second. The enemy soldier was now twisting his head round in panic - a sniper or a lucky shot? - so Tanner aimed at his body, rather than his head. Aim, breathe out, steady, squeeze the trigger. As the Enfield cracked out shrilly in the narrow room, the second man slumped forward, as dead as his comrade.

He drew back the bolt again, aimed and fired, and again and again, using his scope to spot officers and NCOs. Although he was not entirely certain what the German uniforms and insignia denoted, officers were easy enough to spot, with their leather holsters and baggy twill breeches - he wondered why armies insisted on making their officers so damned obvious. German NCOs wore chevrons on the upper sleeves similar to their own, although on a triangular black patch. He reckoned he'd felled at least seven men with his first magazine, including an officer, one NCO and the machine-gun team.

As he had been firing, the others had joined him, McAllister and Sykes setting down Brens at the windows along the front of the house. Kershaw and Bell were bringing in boxes of ammunition and unloading Bren magazines. Already, the open rooms were heavy with cordite, which irritated the back of their throats.

'Thank God the roof's blown off, Sarge,' said Kershaw. 'Gives us a bit of fresh air.'

'Call that fresh?' said Tanner, pressing two more five- round clips into his magazine. The two Brens were chattering now.

'Watch it, Stan,' warned Tanner. 'Short, sharp bursts, all right? We need to keep those weapons working - can't afford to overheat them.'

'We could do with another bucket of water, Sarge,' said Sykes.

'Do you want me to find one?' asked Bell.

'Yes - but keep your bloody head down back there.'

Now the enemy had located them, so machine-gun and rifle bullets were whacking into the walls. Tanner peered around the edge of his window, then jerked back as a bullet hissed past his shoulder and struck the wall behind him. Then, inching around the window-frame again, he saw more men crouch-running down the track on their left that led to the canal.

'Stan, get a burst over here,' he shouted. 'Those bastards nearing the road, ten o'clock.' He fired, then noticed another stream of Germans scurrying towards the cottage on the far side of the canal, no more than a hundred and thirty yards away. He adjusted his scope. All along the canal to the ruined bridge the Rangers were firing, Brens and rifles cracking out, bullets from both sides whining across the narrow stretch of water. Most, he guessed, were passing high - he could even see a line of German tracer arcing well over the trenches. He had been right to try to gain height; the only danger now, he reckoned, came from a stray bullet or mortars, which had yet to be directed towards them.

He fired again towards the men approaching the cottage, then saw several make a gap in the hedge into the garden, then more hurrying through. 'Go on,' he muttered, then called, 'Stan, they're in the cottage garden.'

Sykes stopped firing and pulled the magazine from the top of the weapon. He crawled across the floor to Tanner. 'I've got to see this.'

A moment later a huge explosion ripped apart the sky and the cottage disappeared behind a livid ball of flame. For a brief moment, the firing along their section of the line stopped as soldiers on both sides, caught off-guard by the detonation, paused to take cover from the debris. Quickly, Tanner brought his rifle to his shoulder and picked off another handful of startled enemy soldiers.

'I reckon that was one of my better ones.' Sykes grinned. 'Nice little bang, that.'

The Germans' assault faltered, as men took cover in the fields and behind buildings further back from the road, towards L'Avenir. It gave the defenders a brief chance of a breather. The Brens cooled, more magazines were loaded, and Tanner sent Ellis and Kershaw downstairs to find some food and drink. They returned a short while later with several tins of bully beef, condensed milk, a tin of jam and some biscuits. Tanner opened one of the cans of milk, drank some, then crushed a handful of biscuits into the remainder and added a large dollop of jam. Stirring it all together, he began to spoon it hungrily into his mouth. 'I needed this,' he said.

Peploe appeared, clutching several bottles of wine. 'You should all have a swig,' he said, then went over to Tanner. 'You all right?'

'Yes, thank you, sir,' said fanner. He sat down against the wall, his helmet on his knee.

'I've some good news. Captain Moresby's been up to see us from Battalion. We're withdrawing tonight.'

Tanner sat up. 'Tonight? When?'

'At ten o'clock.'

'Twenty-two hundred,' repeated Tanner. 'A little under three hours.'

'Yes, and then straight to Dunkirk. Apparently in the east we've already pulled back to the border.'

'Bloody hell - I'd not thought about the rest of the line.'

'It's hard to when there's so much going on in front of us,' said Peploe. Three mortar shells in quick succession burst on the far side of the farm. No one flinched.

'Jerry'll have at least another attack in him, don't you think?' said Tanner, after a gulp of wine. 'How is it down on the canal?'

'We're holding up. Ross has lost three men, though. Direct hit from a mortar. Dempster's been hit in the shoulder.'

'And Verity?'

Peploe shook his head. 'Poor fellow. We've moved him to the back of the house - he's properly bomb-happy.'

'It can happen to anyone, I suppose,' said Fanner. 'So, we're down to the last twenty men.'

'And ammunition's a bit low.' He turned to Sykes. 'That was good work in the cottage, Corporal.'

'Thank you, sir. And we've got a few jelly bombs prepared in the vehicles too.'

'Jelly bombs?'

'Gelignite, sir,' said Sykes. 'The sergeant here takes a pot-shot with a tracer round and boom - up they go.'

Peploe smiled.

Tanner looked at his watch. 'Nineteen twenty,' he said. 'Well, every minute that passes . . .'

'It's going to be tight, though, isn't it?' said Peploe.

'Yes, sir. It is.'

The enemy renewed their attack shortly after eight o'clock. More mortars had been brought up and the enemy's approach was in part masked by a barrage of shells aimed towards the canal. Miraculously, they all missed the crumbling remains of the farmhouse, and because many landed in the canal or the waterlogged fields behind, their effect was significantly reduced. Nonetheless, more enemy troops than ever were now working their way forward, some attempting to bring anti-tank guns with them, but the Boys, on the first floor now, and some sniping from Tanner knocked them out. Suddenly, a platoon-scale attack burst out on the canal road to their left - the men had clearly managed to creep along the adjoining track - but Sykes had spotted them and got most of them with his Bren. It was the weapon's last gasp: the firing pin had completely worn away.

'We need another,' said Tanner. 'Billy,' he turned to Ellis, 'find the lieutenant and get another Bren up here.'

Ellis turned to go, but as he did so a bullet caught him in the shoulder. 'I'm hit!' he cried, and fell to the floor.

'Christ, Billy,' said Tanner, beside him. 'Stan - and you, Kay,' he said to Kershaw, 'get him out of here and fetch a Bren.' He ripped out two packets of field dressings. The bullet had gone clean through Ellis's shoulder, but although he was bleeding profusely and his face was ghostly white, he was breathing regularly. 'You'll be all right, Billy,' said Tanner, pulling open the young man's battle-blouse and pressing the dressings to his wound. 'It's missed your lung. Brave lad. Someone give me another field dressing.' Sykes handed him a pack and he wrapped it round Ellis's shoulder and under his armpit, then tied it in a tight knot.

'Sorry, Sarge,' mumbled Ellis, and passed out.

Tanner left him and returned to the window. More men were crawling through the corn, so all he could see were the tops of their helmets and the green stalks moving. Another Spandau was firing at the house now, lines of tracer arcing slowly, then seemingly accelerating as they smacked into the walls. The burst stopped, and Tanner poked his head around the edge of the window. More lines of tracer pumped towards the house, but this time he had the machine-gun marked. It was by a willow next to the track to the left. A hundred and eighty yards, he reckoned.

'Mac!' he called.

'Sarge?'

'I need you to fire a burst at eleven o'clock, a hundred and eighty yards away. There's a Spandau by a willow tree,' he said, as he adjusted his scope and pulled back the bolt.

'Got it, Sarge.'

'On three - one, two, now!'

Swinging around to the window, his rifle butt already into his shoulder, he found his target, aimed, fired, and saw the man behind the weapon slump forward. A second shot, and another machine-gun crew had been silenced.

Sykes and Kershaw returned - with another Bren - but by now ammunition was running critically low. Tanner glanced at his watch and was astonished to see that it was nearly nine. Where had the time gone? Mortars continued to crash towards their positions. He wondered what was going on elsewhere - whether the Coldstreams were holding their part of the line - or those either side of them, for that matter. The light was fading, although the sky above was still clear, and away to their right, the last tip of the sun, deep orange, cast its rays across the flooded fields and canal. Tanner cursed the lack of cloud: it would have been almost dark now, had there been the low grey skies of a few days before.

He fired another magazine from his rifle, then turned to see a lone box of twelve Bren magazines. He delved into his pouches and discovered he had just twenty rounds, plus ten tracer rounds. 'Is that all we've got left?' he called.

'Yes, Sarge,' said Kershaw.

'Well, get downstairs iggery and find some bloody more.'

He continued firing but when Kershaw got back, ten minutes later, he was empty-handed. 'That's it, Sarge,' he said. 'Mr Peploe says there's no more spare boxes left.'

'Bollocks,' muttered Tanner. Outside, the light was fading fast, but the enemy continued to press forward.

'Sarge!' called Sykes. 'Look. Two o'clock. They're reaching the vehicles.'

Tanner strained his eyes into the gloom. German troops were hurrying to the edge of the road now. Some were hit by fire from the canal, but many more were reaching the cover of the abandoned British vehicles.

Sykes left his Bren and rolled over towards 'Tanner. 'Go on, then, Sarge, now's the time.'

'Hold on a moment longer,' said Tanner. At the side of the window he brought his rifle to his shoulder and peered through the scope until he spotted the first pack of gelignite resting on the near-side wheel arch of an abandoned Morris Commercial truck. He swept along the row of vehicles, making sure he could see each of the prepared jelly bombs. Emptying his magazine, he replaced it with two clips of tracer he'd prepared earlier and pressed them down into the breech.

'There's more reaching them, Sarge,' hissed Sykes.

'All right.' He turned to Bell. 'Tinker, go down and find Mr Peploe. Tell him to make sure everyone gives whatever they've got the moment the jelly bombs blow. You've got less than a minute, so iggery.'

'Yes, Sarge,' said Bell, disappearing down the stairs.

'Stan,' continued Tanner, 'get back to the Bren and be ready to fire. Mac!' he called. 'Be ready to open up when I say. Boys,' he added, turning to Chambers and Kershaw, 'get whatever grenades you can and go downstairs. When I tell you to throw, hurl 'em across the canal.'

Tanner aimed his rifle at the furthest of the jelly bombs, then fired. As the first exploded, he swept his rifle past several others, and fired again. Another blast erupted, detonating the charges in the vehicles at either side. Tanner moved along the line to the first jelly bomb and fired again, hitting the gelignite, which exploded immediately. In the space of five seconds, the vehicles along an eighty-yard front were a cascading tumble of flame and oily black smoke.

'Fire those Brens now!' shouted Tanner, to McAllister and Sykes. He picked up his German MP35, squatted by the window and fired off four of his remaining magazines. 'Now grenades!'

A devastating wave of explosives and bullets poured across the canal. Tanner fired at any figure he could see through the rapidly descending dusk. The Brens continued, with short, sharp bursts of fire. By the road, vehicles burned and men screamed. A blazing man staggered towards the canal but was shot before he reached the water. Tanner continued to fire. His shoulder ached, and a blister was swelling on his trigger finger. His throat was as dry as sand, his nostrils burning from the acid stench of cordite.

Sykes's Bren stopped, then McAllister's. Tanner delved into his pouch - just two clips left.

'I'm done, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'That's it. No more.'

All along the line, the firing lessened as though every soldier had released their last rounds at precisely the same time. Overhead, a flurry of artillery shells screamed, but apart from the still burning vehicles and the occasional mortar shell, the front was strangely quiet. Tanner strained his eyes, staring across the canal to the fields and tracks beyond. The poplars and willows stood dark now against the last glimmer of light. 'Where are they?' he said. 'Where are the bastards?' And then against the glow of the burning trucks, he saw several figures moving - in the direction they had come. The enemy was falling back.

Tanner let himself slide to the floor. It was 2145. Fifteen more minutes and they could leave this bloody place. He closed his eyes, then felt for his water-bottle. There were only a few drops in it, which he swallowed, savouring the soothing fluid as it trickled down his throat.

'Sarge!' said a voice, and there was Chambers. 'We're going! We're falling back to the beaches!'

At a little after five thirty a.m. on Sunday, 2 June, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell was leading B Flight on their first patrol of the day over Dunkirk. Since the weather had improved, the bulk of the evacuation had taken place during the night and for the past two days fighter patrols had been concentrated at dawn and dusk when Allied shipping was either approaching or leaving Dunkirk. Even at first light, it was easy enough to see the port almost from the moment their Hurricanes rose into the sky - or, rather, the huge plume of smoke that stood permanently above it. This morning, however, a haze hung over the Channel, shielding the vast expanse of northern France and Belgium that could normally be seen stretching away from them as they approached the French coast.

Still, the smoke was a useful visual marker. Over the Channel, Lyell had led his six aircraft up to eighteen thousand feet, heading north-east to avoid the worst of the glare from the rising sun, then turned inland before heading back west with the sun behind them.

'This is Mongoose Leader,' he said, speaking over the R/T, 'make sure you all keep your eyes peeled.'

He had been back for more than a week. From Arras, he had been given a ride to Lille-Seclin and from there passage in a Blenheim to England. Then he'd got a lift to London and caught a train to Manston. His return had been marked by a sensational night in the pub, in which his pilots had made it touchingly clear that they were very pleased to see him come back from the dead. After two more days - spent hanging around the airfield with a bandage round his head - the MO had given him the all- clear to fly. A brand-new Hurricane had arrived, which he had immediately claimed as his own, and with 'LO-Z' painted on the fuselage, he had been back in the air leading the squadron once more.

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.