Darkest Hour

Chapter 2

By the time he reached Manston Squadron Leader Lyell was already in a bad mood, but his spirits fell further when he saw the wagons dousing the flames of Robson's Hurricane - or, rather, what was left of it: the fuselage was nothing more than a crumpled black skeleton. Then, clambering out of the cockpit, he saw Cartwright, his rigger, examining what was evidently damage along his own fuselage.

'Don't worry, sir,' said Cartwright. 'Only a couple of bullet holes.'

'I didn't notice any difference,' Lyell muttered.

'No - looks like they went clean through. Soon patch that up.'

'What about Robson?'

'Believe he's all right, sir. His kite didn't blow until he was well clear.'

'That's something, then.' He began to head back, but Smith, his fitter, called after him.

'Did you get it, sir? The Dornier?'

Lyell stopped. 'Put it this way, Smith, I doubt very much that it will have made France.' As he walked on across the grass, he decided to continue with the lie, but it did little to improve his mood or assuage the humiliation and anger he felt at having been foxed by a lone German reconnaissance plane. Christ, how many times had they practised their aerial attacks? Almost every day since the war began! Each attack procedure had been assiduously drilled into every pilot, yet the first time they had tried the Number One Attack - which was also the most straightforward - it had failed hopelessly. He had been thrown by the Dornier's return fire, but what had really shocked him was the ineffectiveness of the .303 Browning bullets. Was it the range, or their velocity? He wasn't sure. And his ammunition had run dry so quickly. Fifteen seconds had always seemed a reasonable amount during gunnery practice, but in the heat of combat, it had gone by in a trice. Had their training been wrong or were the German aircrew simply better?

As he neared the dispersal hut he saw Dennison, the intelligence officer, hovering by the doorway, itching to ask him about the sortie. Lyell felt a further flash of irritation.

'So what happened, Skip?' Dennison asked as Lyell dropped his flying helmet into a deck-chair in front of the wooden hut.

'Did you get the bastard?' asked Granby, the commander of B Flight.

'I caught up with him, all right,' Lyell told them. The other pilots were also listening now. 'He was a wily sod, though, making the most of the cloud. Still, I managed to get in a couple of bursts and I'm pretty sure I knocked out his port engine. Must have got the rear-gunner too because he shut up shop pretty quickly. Anyway, she was losing height and trailing a fair amount of smoke when she disappeared into a large bank of cloud.'

'Probably in the Channel by now, then,' said Granby.

'I'd have thought so.' Lyell glanced up at the almost perfectly clear sky above them. 'Bloody weather. Why couldn't it have been like this all the way to France?' He looked at Dennison. 'Don't worry,' he said to the IO, 'I know we can't claim it.' He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled and said, 'I hear Robbo's all right.'

'Bloody lucky,' said Granby. 'Another few seconds and, well, I hate to think.'

Reynolds, the adjutant, now approached Dispersal. 'Station commander wants to see you, sir,' he told Lyell.

Lyell sighed. 'I'm sure he does.' He ran his hands through his hair. 'I think we should have a few drinks tonight.' He addressed this comment to Granby, but it was meant for all of the pilots. 'We should celebrate Robbo's narrow escape, commiserate over the loss of a Hurricane and raise a glass to our first almost-kill.'

'Hear, hear,' said Granby.

'And I don't mean in the mess. Let's go out.' He turned to the adjutant. 'Come on, then,' he said. 'Better face the music.'

Tanner had followed Blackstone to a brick office building at the far side of the parade-ground. In silence they walked up a couple of steps and through the main door, then along a short corridor. Blackstone stopped at a thin wooden door, knocked lightly and walked in.

'Ah, there you are, CSM,' said the dark-haired captain from behind his desk. 'And this must be Sergeant Tanner.'

'Yes, sir,' said Blackstone.

Tanner stood to attention and saluted, while Blackstone ambled over to a battered armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, taking out another cigarette as he did so. Tanner watched with barely concealed incredulity. Jesus. He was surprised that the captain should tolerate such behaviour.

'At ease,' said the captain. He was, Tanner guessed, about thirty, with fresh, ruddy cheeks, immaculately groomed hair and a trim moustache. Beside Tanner, sitting stiffly on a wooden chair in front of the desk, was a young subaltern. The room smelled of wood and stale tobacco. It was simply furnished and only lightly decorated: a coat of whitewash, a map of southern England hanging behind the desk, a metal filing cabinet and a hat-stand, on which hung a respirator bag, tin hat and service cap.

'I understand you know the CSM,' said Barclay, taking his pipe from his mouth.

'Yes, sir.'

'In India together?'

'Yes, sir. With the Second Battalion.'

'Good, good.' He nodded. 'Well, let me introduce you to Lieutenant Peploe. You and your men will be joining his platoon.'

The subaltern next to him now stood up and shook Tanner's hand. 'How do you do, Sergeant?'

'Well, sir, thank you.'

Peploe smiled. 'Glad to have you on board.' It was said sincerely. The lieutenant had a rounded yet good- looking face, blue eyes and a wide, easy smile. His hair was thick strawberry blond, slightly too long and somewhat unruly, as though it refused to be tamed by any amount of brushing. His handshake was firm and he looked Tanner squarely in the eye; it was something the sergeant liked to see in an officer. He hoped they would get on well enough.

Barclay tapped his fingers together and shifted in his seat. 'I see you've been decorated, Sergeant.' He noticed the blue, white and red ribbon of the Military Medal sewn above Tanner's left breast pocket.

'A few years ago now, sir.'

'Do you mind me asking what it was for?'

'Nothing much, really, sir. A bit of a scrap with some Wazirs, that's all.'

Blackstone laughed from his armchair. 'Such modesty, Jack. Honestly, sir, Tanner's single-handed defence of Pimple Hill is the stuff of legend - at least,' he grinned, 'the way he tells it. Isn't that right, Jack? I've heard the story a few times now and it gets better with every telling - especially with a bit of the old sauce inside.'

You bastard, thought Tanner.

Blackstone laughed, and shot Tanner another wink, as though it was nothing more than friendly ribaldry between two old comrades.

Barclay raised an eyebrow. 'Well, I'm sure you deserved it, Sergeant.'

Tanner shifted his feet, aware that he was betraying his discomfort. What could he say? He knew Blackstone was baiting him, daring him to rise. He had never spoken of that September day, four and a half years before, in the hills around Muzi Kor - not once - but Barclay wouldn't believe that now. He cleared his throat. 'I was proud enough to be awarded it, sir, but there are many brave deeds carried out in battle and most go unobserved. And there were certainly other men braver than me that day.'

'Yes, well, I'm sure you're right. In any case. . .' Barclay let the words hang and fumbled for his tobacco pouch. 'So,' he said at last, 'were you briefed in Leeds, Sergeant?'

'The regimental adjutant told me that this is still really a training company, sir. That most of the men have been hurried through formal training and have been sent here to do coastal and airfield guard duty.'

'That's about the sum of it. Since Norway, everyone's expecting Jerry to make a move against us in the Low Countries. With the Second Battalion in Palestine and the poor old Fifth in the bag, the First Battalion's a bit stretched. The idea is that our recruits can do a bit of soldiering of sorts and carry out more training while they're about it. But, of course, we need experienced men like the CSM here and yourself.'

'And the men Sergeant Tanner has brought with him, sir,' added Peploe.

'Absolutely.' Barclay lit his pipe, a cloud of blue-grey smoke swirling into the still air of the office. 'I hear you had quite a time of it out in Norway, Sergeant.'

'Yes, sir.' Tanner knew the captain wanted to hear more, but he was not going to indulge him. Not in front of Blackstone.

'Sounds like you were lucky to get out.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I don't know how you do it, Jack,' interrupted the CSM. 'Most of the Fifth Battalion get themselves put in the bag, but you manage to get yourself safely back to Blighty.' He sniggered. 'I tell you, sir, Tanner's one of those lucky soldiers. Always gets himself out of a tight fix.'

Tanner glared at Blackstone. Then, too late, he saw that Peploe had seen.

'We need men like that,' said the lieutenant. 'If what the CSM says is true, Sergeant, I'm very glad to have you in my platoon.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Tanner.

Barclay put another match to his pipe. 'Yes, I'm sure we can all learn something from you, Sergeant. Anyway,' he leaned back in his chair, 'what else do you need to know? We're a small company. Three platoons, most not quite at full strength although Mr Peploe's will be, now that you're here. We rotate duties between training, guarding the airfield and a stretch of the coast at Kingsgate - do you know it? Between Broadstairs and Margate. Big castle there. It's a hotel and, incidentally, out of bounds to servicemen. Not very taxing stuff, I'm afraid, but important work all the same.'

'So, do you think we'll be going to France, sir?'

'Yes - I meant to say. That's the point of us being down here. In effect we're the reserve for the First Battalion. A hop across the Channel and we'll be right alongside them. Now,' he said, placing his hands flat on the desk. 'Is there anything else?' He turned to Blackstone, who was absent-mindedly picking at his fingernails. 'CSM?'

Blackstone looked up. 'Shall I brief the sergeant on duty rotas, or will you do that, Mr Peploe?'

'I can do that, thank you, Sergeant-Major,' said Peploe. 'I want to meet Tanner's men in any case.'

'Very good, sir.'

Barclay clapped his hands to signal the end of the interview, then suddenly said, 'Oh, yes - I almost forgot, but there is something else you should know. I'm afraid we've had some thieves here at the airfield.'

'Sir?'

'Two nights ago a dozen barrels of fuel were stolen.

Understandably, the station commander's livid about it. He rather wants us to get to the bottom of it.'

'It's those Poles, sir,' said Blackstone.

'I really don't know how you can be so certain,' said Peploe.

'You'll see, sir,' said Blackstone. 'I'd put good money on it.'

'Poles, sir?' Tanner asked Peploe.

'Yes. Former soldiers and pilots, mostly. They've come over since the fall of their country, poor devils. They're being housed here for the moment.'

Barclay raised an eyebrow at Peploe, then said, 'We've got several dumps here, you see, Sergeant. Lorries deliver the fuel in barrels - presumably from a refinery somewhere - a couple of times a week. They're taken to the fuel stores and then the bowsers siphon the petrol from there. One of these dumps was broken into and the barrels swiped. Of course, the fuel's got dye in it but that hardly stops people using it. After all, once you've put it in your car or what-have-you, who's to know? It's all high- octane stuff but apparently that's of little concern on the black market.'

'Why do you think the Poles are responsible, sir?' Tanner asked Blackstone.

'I saw several of them skulking around the store in question the other day. And a number of them are employed around the airfield and camp, some as drivers. You couldn't nick all those barrels without a number of men being involved, and I can't see any of the military personnel doing it. We've a war to fight and win, not help lose by pinching fuel needed for the aircraft here. No, it's those Poles, all right. Certain of it.'

'Anyway, the point is, Tanner,' added Barclay, 'we need to be vigilant. You see anything suspicious, you tell one of us right away.'

'Yes, sir.'

Barclay dismissed Tanner and Peploe, but not Blackstone. To Tanner's surprise, the CSM took out another cigarette and settled back in the armchair next to the OC's desk. Blackstone. Tanner sighed. Christ, but that man had made his life difficult during the Nowshera Brigade days, yet when the CSM had been wounded he'd thought it would be the last he'd ever see of him. Of all the luck! And he was just the same - five minutes in front of Captain Barclay had proved that. Tanner clenched his fists. He had an urge to hit something very hard.

Neither Tanner nor Peploe spoke until they were outside the building and standing in the parade-ground. The sun still shone brightly and Tanner squinted. A sudden roar of aero-engines from behind the office block made both men turn. Through a gap between the buildings, Tanner saw a Blenheim take to the air, followed by two more, then another three a few moments later. The two men moved to where they could see the bombers better and watched as they climbed into the sky and away towards the coast.

'Beasts of aircraft, aren't they?' said Peploe. 'Six-oh-oh Squadron. I've learned there're three squadrons here - the Blenheims, the Defiants of 264 Squadron and the Hurricanes of 632. I've often wondered what the world must look like from up there. Pretty bloody amazing, I should think.' He smiled. 'Have you ever fancied flying, Sergeant?'

'Like you, sir, I wouldn't mind being able to look down on the world, but I think the Army suits me better. I prefer to have my feet firmly on the ground rather than relying on a machine up in the sky.'

'I suppose there's something in that - although I wouldn't have minded flying fighters. At least then it's just you and your plane. No men to worry about. Actually, the OC of 632 Squadron is Captain Barclay's brother-in-law, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell. Apparently it's a total coincidence that they should both end up here, but it seems very cosy to me.'

'It's a pretty small world in the military, sir, even during wartime.'

'Yes, I suppose so. Like you and the CSM being thrown together again.'

'Exactly, sir.'

Tanner turned to head back across the parade-ground but Peploe scratched his head and said, 'Look, would you like a quick tour of the place first? A sort of orientation? No one ever bothered to give me one when I first got here, but I wished they had.'

Tanner readily agreed. He was curious about the fuel theft and had intended to look at the Polish quarters and the fuel stores anyway. Peploe had seemed to doubt Blackstone's conviction about the Poles' culpability and certainly it struck Tanner as somewhat odd. After all, how would these men, presumably only recently arrived in England, know where to sell petrol on the black market? Or were they hiding it for later?

First, Peploe wanted to show him the airfield itself. There were, he explained, effectively two airfields, the Northern Grass and the main field, which were bisected by the road leading to Manston village. As he led Tanner to the far side, where the watch office stood, he said, 'I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I couldn't help noticing that you looked rather taken aback by the way the sergeant-major lounged in that armchair.'

'I suppose I was a bit, sir.'

'He's certainly very chummy with the OC. I don't have a yardstick by which to judge these things - as you've probably guessed, I'm new to the Army - but I can see it's perhaps not the normal way of things.'

'I suppose that's between him and the OC, sir.'

Peploe looked thoughtful. 'I also got the impression you don't much like CSM Blackstone.'

Tanner grinned ruefully. 'I'm afraid he wasn't my favourite person out in India.'

'He's very popular here. The lads seem to think the world of him. So does the OC. To be honest, Blackstone is absolutely his right-hand man. I suppose it's because he's such an old hand - but he's a strong character too. Rather clever, in his way.'

'Oh, he's that, all right,' said Tanner.

Peploe laughed. 'So speaks a man who knows. Well, in any case, I'm certain experience must be the best kind of training. It's why I'm delighted you've joined the platoon.'

'You're right about experience, sir,' replied Tanner. 'You can be the best soldier in training but until you've been under fire you haven't been tested.'

'I'm sure you have much to teach me, Sergeant Tanner. I was at university before the war, and come from a farming family with no military background whatsoever, so being a soldier is still very much a novelty to me.'

'Your father wasn't in the last war, then, sir?'

'No - he stayed on the farm. So did my uncle.'

'Well, there's not much to it, really. I'll bet you know how to use a rifle, sir.'

'I know how to use one, Sergeant. To a farmer's son, shooting is part of the growing-up process. I wouldn't say I'm an especially good shot, although it's certainly not for want of practice. And what about you?' he asked, pointing to the embroidered badge on the forearm of Tanner's battle-blouse - two crossed rifles crested by a crown and ringed with leaves. 'Forgive my ignorance, but I'm guessing that's a marksman's badge of some kind.'

Tanner smiled. 'The Army likes badges, sir.'

'But it is a marksman's badge?'

'Skill in Shooting, sir. But it doesn't mean much.'

'Where did you learn to shoot? With the Army?'

'Like you, sir, I grew up with it.'

'A farmer too?'

'Not as such. My father was a gamekeeper.'

Peploe nodded - that explains it - then said, 'But not in Yorkshire, I take it. Somewhere down south, guessing from your accent.'

'South Wiltshire, sir, A while ago now. I joined up as a boy.'

Peploe adjusted his cap. 'Forgive me, Sergeant, all these questions. I'm a nosy sod, aren't I?'

They had almost reached the far side of the airfield. A number of Defiants were lined up in front of the watch office, their ground-crew tinkering with them. In one, a man was testing the hydraulics of the gun turret, swivelling through three hundred and sixty degrees, the electronics whirring.

'I'm sorry to bring up CSM Blackstone again,' said Peploe, as they paused by the watch office, 'but I hope whatever argument you have with him won't be a problem for the platoon - or the company, for that matter.'

A warning, albeit gently made, but still Tanner felt his heart sink. Damn, damn. Blackstone had already caused him to get off on the wrong foot with this new posting. 'It won't be, sir. It's true I don't like the man, but I won't let that get in the way of anything.'

Peploe nodded. 'Good.' He smiled at Tanner again. 'You know, Sergeant, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.'

Good. Tanner relaxed a little. He felt rather the same. Just so long as Blackstone doesn't get in the way. But, by God, he was going to have to watch his step.

Inside the hut it was warm and still, the sun pouring through the windows and capturing a million tiny dust particles disturbed by the arrival of the men. Aware that to step outside was to court unwanted attention, the five had taken off their battle-blouses, rolled up their shirtsleeves and settled down to a game of poker around one of the unused beds.

More than an hour after they had begun, two - Bell and Kershaw - had fallen by the wayside, although they were still there as spectators.

Sykes glanced at his watch. Tanner was taking his time, he thought. He put his cards face down on his knee and rolled himself a cigarette, while keeping half an eye on the other two players. Hepworth was fingering his cards, knowing he was beaten but evidently hoping that by shuffling them repeatedly, the winning combination would miraculously reveal itself. McAllister, on the other hand, clearly believed he had the hand of his life.

Sykes smiled to himself. 'You know, Mac,' he said, 'you could be quite a good player, but you're so bleedin' easy to read. The point of poker is not to give anything away.'

McAllister jigged his knee up and down. 'I don't care. No one can beat my hand.' He chortled. 'Come on, Hep. Get a move on. You're dead and buried, mate, so why prolong the agony?'

'It's your bloody crowing,' said Hepworth. 'It's driving me mad.'

There was now seven shillings and fourpence on the empty bed that was doubling as a card table - a tidy sum and more than any of them, even Corporal Sykes, was paid for a day's soldiering. Sykes wondered what hand McAllister had - a straight flush, perhaps? Had to be something like that. He licked the cigarette paper, ran a finger down the seam, then put it to his mouth.

Eventually Hepworth sighed and laid his cards face up on the bed. Three of a kind. 'Go on, then, Mac, let's see what you've got.'

McAllister grinned, then slapped down his cards. Seven, eight, nine, ten and jack of clubs. As Sykes had suspected, a straight flush.

'Very good, Mac, very good,' said Sykes. He held his cigarette between his thumb and index finger and stroked his chin.

'Swallow your pride, Stan,' said McAllister. 'Just accept that this time a miracle's happened and you've lost.' He looked round at the others. 'He knows he's beat. Ha - look at all that lovely lolly! That'll keep me in fags and booze for weeks.'

Sykes remained impassive. He was not a tall man, with a wiry frame, a narrow face and always immaculately brilliantined hair. But he had long, slender fingers and a sleight of hand that could fool most people, and certainly the young Yorkshire lads in his section.

'All right, Mac,' Sykes began, and McAllister leaned forward to scoop up the coins in front of him. 'Here's my hand.' He fanned his cards on the bed, a smirk stretching across his face as he did so.

Hepworth laughed. 'It's a royal flush! Ha! Unlucky, Mac!'

'What?' exclaimed Mac. 'How the hell did you manage that?'

Sykes grinned. 'Like I said, Mac, you're too bleedin' obvious.' He picked up a coin and flicked it to McAllister. 'Here,' he said, 'have half a crown. Runner- up's prize.'

A moment later, Tanner returned with Lieutenant Peploe.

'Don't get up,' said Peploe, from the doorway. 'As you are.' He eyed them all and, seeing McAllister putting away the cards, smiled. 'Who won?'

'Corporal Sykes, sir,' said Hepworth. 'McAllister here thought he'd nailed us all, but it weren't to be.'

Sykes shrugged.

'You want to watch the corporal, sir,' said Tanner, standing beside the lieutenant. 'He can do very clever things with those hands of his.'

'What are you suggesting, Sarge?' said Sykes, feigning indignation.

Peploe cleared his throat. 'An introduction,' he said. 'I'm Second Lieutenant John Peploe and I'm your new platoon commander. I know you had quite a time of it in Norway and I'm sorry you've not had more leave. However, your experience is much needed here - we're primarily still a training company - and I'm extremely glad to have you in my platoon. There's every chance we'll soon be joining the First Battalion in France, but in the meantime we need to help the recruits so that if and when we do get to join the BEF we might be of some use.' He glanced around the men. 'You'll meet the rest of the platoon on the parade-ground at four o'clock - or, rather, I should say, sixteen hundred hours - and then we'll be heading off to Kingsgate for some coastal guard duty. Right - now I need to know who you are.' He stepped from the doorway into the hut and approached each man in turn, shaking hands and reiterating how glad he was to have them serving under him. Then he spoke briefly with Tanner, straightened his cap, and left them to it once more.

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.'