Darkest Hour

Chapter 3

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.

'Listen, Stan,' said Tanner, as he rejoined Sykes, 'we don't both need to wait with him, and that second roadblock needs setting up. Sort it out, will you?'

'Right away,' Sykes replied. 'But, Sarge, we need to get him somewhere safe.' He hurried off to fetch some men.

A few moments later, Tanner heard running footsteps and Peploe appeared. Rather breathlessly he said, 'The MO and fire-wagons are on their way, and so are the RAFP. Jesus, I’m exhausted. What about that second roadblock?'

'Corporal Sykes is organizing the men now, sir.'

Peploe looked down at Torwinski. 'How is he?'

'He should be in hospital, sir.'

'Really? I thought he'd just cut his head.' He squatted beside Torwinski. 'Are you hurt anywhere else?'

'No,' mumbled Torwinski. 'I don't think so. I just want to get the bastards who did this.' He pushed himself up.

'Steady, mate,' said Tanner.

'What are you talking about?' Peploe asked Torwinski. 'Get who?'

'Sir,' Tanner interrupted, 'can I have a word?'

Peploe stood up. 'What the bloody hell's going on, Tanner?'

'Sir, this man says he and the other two in the truck were forcibly taken from their hut, marched to the bowser and knocked unconscious. He says he doesn't know how they got here.'

'Sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn't it?'

'Maybe, sir. But if these men did steal the bowser, what are they doing here by the coast? According to my map, this road leads to Kingsgate only. It's hardly the place to shift stolen fuel, is it? And how would they know where to sell it anyway? They've only been here a couple of weeks.' He took a pace away, then added, 'What bothers me, sir, is that if he's telling the truth, the Poles've been framed to look like the thieves.'

Peploe rubbed his hands over his face. 'And if so, Sergeant, this man's life is presumably still in danger. Christ, what a mess.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But in hospital he might be safer?'

Tanner nodded.

Peploe sighed. 'And what do you think?'

'Something makes me believe him, sir.'

'Who else could have done this?'

'Any of the troops here.'

'How, for God's sake?'

'Must have jumped out of the cab. I had a look at the wreckage, sir. Neither of the two dead men was driving.'

Peploe scratched the back of his head, then pulled a slim hip-flask from his battle-blouse, unscrewed the top and offered it to Tanner. 'Slug of Scotch, Sergeant?'

'Not for me, thank you, sir.'

'Well, don't mind me, Sergeant. I find it helps me to think straight.' He took a couple of sips, then put the flask back. 'All right, Tanner. I'm going to stay with this man. You get one of the others to bring the truck down and I'll make sure he gets to hospital in Ramsgate. But for the time being don't breathe another word about this to anyone. The last thing we want is rumour and wild speculation flying around - and we should be careful not to endanger this man's life further. Understood? I'll speak to Captain Barclay about it later.'

'Yes, sir. What about the Snowdrops, sir?'

'Snowdrops?' Lieutenant Peploe looked confused.

'The RAF Police, sir. What should we say to them? There might be other police as well.'

'Damn - I hadn't thought of that. You must, of course, tell the police, but no one else. And in the meantime let's make sure both these roadblocks are properly manned. We don't want any more tearaway lorries ploughing through them.'

As Tanner had predicted, by the time the fire-wagon had arrived, the flames around the bowser had all but died out. The RAFP arrived, took a few statements, including one from Fanner, placed a cordon around the scene and left one of their men on guard. Torwinski had already been taken to hospital by Lieutenant Peploe so no one else was any the wiser - for now, at any rate.

With a second roadblock set up under the command of Sykes, Tanner walked back to the first where McAllister, Bell and a number of the new men were positioned across the road.

There were, of course, rumours and wild speculation aplenty among the men about what had happened. Peploe could do nothing about that, although no one doubted that the Polish men in the bowser had been the fuel thieves. Instead, debate raged over what they had been doing there and how they had come to crash. Tanner said nothing, listening to their theories without comment and shrugging in response to their questions. He would have found it amusing had it not been for his growing unease.

It was tempting to think that Blackstone was behind it somehow. Tanner had known him to have been involved in various scams in India - not that he had ever been able to prove it or that Blackstone had ever been caught. Yet the more rational part of his brain reminded him now that this could have been the work of any number of people and, in any case, no matter how much he disliked the man, that did not make Blackstone a murderer.

Not for the first time since it happened, Private Ellis was recounting the moment the truck had sped towards him and thundered through the roadblock. 'I still can't believe it,' he said. 'I shouted out for them to halt but the sodding thing was still coming at me, wasn't it? So I jumped out of the way and I swear he missed me by inches. I didn't join up to be run over by one of our own.'

'But they're not our own, are they, Billy?' said Private Coles. 'They're Poles. It's cos of them we're in this bloody war in the first place.'

Tanner wandered a short way from the roadblock, in the direction of Manston village. 'When did you first notice the bowser?' he called to Ellis.

'What do you mean, Sarge?' Ellis was taller than most of the others, a lanky youngster with a thin, heavily freckled face.

'Did you see or hear it first?'

'I dunno, Sarge. It came round that sharp bend up ahead, then drove straight at me.'

'And did you see anything odd? Someone jumping out, for instance?'

'No, Sarge - but it was dark. You could only see the slits in the headlights.' He tugged at his bottom lip, thinking. 'Come to think of it, I did hear something. Like a door slamming. Or, at least, I think I did.' He ran a finger round his collar. 'But it happened so fast, like.'

Tanner walked on down the road, taking out his torch. It gave off only a little light when the blue lens was in place but it was enough for him to see the verge. After a couple of hundred yards, he began to think his theory had been wrong and perhaps the Poles had been to blame, after all. The vegetation was apparently undisturbed, silvery cobwebs stretching across the abundant cow-parsley. But just before the corner he saw what he had been looking for: an area where the plants had been flattened and broken stems hung limply, clearly showing where something heavy had rolled across - something like a man's body. And on the road there were faint footprints where dew-sodden boots had trodden. So there was a fourth man, thought Tanner. How easy it must have been: the corner was almost at right angles; the bowser would have had to slow down almost to a stop to turn. Then, before it had built up speed again, the driver had simply jumped out. Ahead, to the roadblock and beyond, the road was dead straight so the lorry had thundered towards Ellis. Whoever had jumped from the cab would have had all the time in the world to make good his escape and, with the bowser full of fuel, the inevitable crash, when it came, would cause an explosion that should have killed the three men still in the cab. Jesus, thought Tanner, as he went back to the checkpoint. The Pole had been telling the truth.

When he reached the others, he was still deep in thought. He pulled out a cigarette, then heard the sound of screeching tyres from the direction of the hotel, followed by shouts and the gunning of a car engine. 'For God's sake, what now?' he said. He heard more shouts, then saw a car's dim headlights approaching.

'Bloody hell, this one's not going to stop either!' yelled McAllister.

'Yes, it bloody well is,' said Tanner, striding into the centre of the road and shining his torch directly at the vehicle.

It made no attempt to slow down or stop. Tanner took his rifle from his shoulder, pulled back the bolt and fired a warning shot into the air, but still the saloon came towards him.

'Watch out, Sarge!' said Hepworth. The driver swerved, but Tanner was forced to leap out of harm's way. He heard laughter as the car drove on and cursed to himself. Then, having regained his composure, he drew the rifle to his shoulder, aimed at the rear wheel, pulled back the bolt again and squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked loudly in the still early-morning air. There was another report as the left rear tyre burst. The car lurched from side to side, ran off the road and eventually came to a halt in the hedge a hundred yards ahead.

'Blimey, Sarge, what have you done?' said Hepworth.

Tanner slung his rifle back on his shoulder. 'Hopefully taught them to respect checkpoints, Hep.' With McAllister and Hepworth, Tanner jogged down the road to the car. The men who had been inside were already staggering about beside it. One was being sick into the hedge.

An officer, clutching his forehead with his handkerchief, strode awkwardly towards them. 'What the bloody hell d'you think you're playing at?' He swayed; he could barely stand.

'We'll get the truck and take you home, sir,' said Tanner, noticing squadron leader's rings on his jacket cuffs.

'No, you'll bloody well tell me what the hell you were doing.' He had taken a step forward so Tanner could smell the alcohol on his breath and felt spittle spray his cheek. Wiping his face, he said, 'Mac, go and get the truck.'

'Sarge,' said McAllister, and hurried off.

'Is this the bastard who shot at us?' said another man, staggering towards Tanner.

'We'll be getting you home in a minute, sir,' said Tanner.

The man, a flight lieutenant, stood beside the squadron leader, and pushed Tanner in the chest. He took a step backwards, his anger rising.

'Who the bloody hell do you soldiers think you are?' said the flight lieutenant. He shoved Tanner again, then made to punch him, but Tanner saw it coming and stepped deftly to one side. The pilot lost balance and fell over onto the road. He heard Hepworth laugh.

'So you think it's funny, do you?' slurred the squadron leader. 'Let me tell you this, sonny, you won't be laughing tomorrow when your CO hears about it. You won't be laughing at all.' He stabbed a finger at Hepworth. 'And as for you, Sergeant,' he said, turning to Tanner, 'you're going to regret your men firing on us like that.' He tugged at the stripes on Tanner's sleeve. 'Think you might not be wearing those for much longer.'

Tanner knew there was no point in arguing with the man. He was drunk, and so were the six other pilots who had been crammed into the saloon. The squadron leader had a trickle of blood running down the side of his head, and another man was clutching at his arm, but otherwise no one appeared to be badly hurt. They had not been travelling particularly fast and the car's momentum had largely dissipated by the time it had stopped. Tanner thought about knocking them all to the ground, then simply piling them into the back of the truck, but no matter how drunk they were, he decided it was not worth the risk, should they remember it in the cold light of day. In Norway, he had knocked down a French officer and had regretted it ever since.

Instead, he merely stood his ground. 'The truck will be here in a minute, sir. Then you can get back to the airfield.'

One of the men tried to start the car, but the starter motor whined helplessly. In frustration, he got out again, kicked the wheel and yelled with pain. The squadron leader staggered, grabbed hold of Tanner for support, then stood upright. 'What's your name, Sergeant?'

'Tanner, sir.'

'Tanner. Tanner.' He looked around at the others, nearly losing his balance again. 'Chaps, this sharpshooter's called Tanner. Sergeant Tanner. Remember that, will you? Want to be sure we don't forget so we can make life really unpleasant for him as payback for ruining our little night out.'

Tanner clenched his fists, but at that moment the truck drove up and, with a squeak of brakes, halted beside him. McAllister and Sykes stepped out.

'Stan,' said Tanner, 'you and Mac can get these men back to the airfield. I'll stay here with the others.'

'Don't take this the wrong way, Sarge,' said Sykes, in a low voice, 'but was that a good idea?'

'You heard Mr Peploe, Corporal,' Tanner snapped. 'Let no one through. These jokers didn't stop.' He sighed. 'Just get them out of here, Stan.'

He glanced at his watch - nearly four a.m. - then walked slowly back to the checkpoint. Another four hours before they were due to be relieved. Behind him, the first streak of light spread across the horizon, announcing the dawn of a new day.

When the truck had departed Tanner took two of the new men and went back to the coast, between Kingsgate and White Ness. The air was crisp, the scent of cow- parsley and grass heavy on the morning air. Birdsong filled his ears, busy and shrill from the trees and hedgerows. He and his men walked along the track in silence; he knew they wanted to talk to him about the night's events but he had given a curt growl in response to one question and since then they had not dared ask another.

Damn, damn. He wondered what would happen when he got back to Manston, although the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him the answer. As far as he was concerned, he had obeyed orders, but he had not yet been with the company for twenty-four hours and knew little about the men and officers he had joined. Whatever respect he might have earned in Norway counted for little here - he would have to win it all over again. There was a strict hierarchy in the armed forces and class played a large part in that; in his experience, officers tended to stick together. Blackstone was an exception to the rule. NCOs who were perceived to be getting above their station were normally cut down swiftly to size. He just hoped Peploe would stick up for him.

And then there was the matter of the Poles' death. He was convinced Torwinski had spoken the truth, which meant that someone had committed murder. Admittedly, there were a lot of RAF personnel at Manston and even anti-aircraft gunners as well, yet Torwinski had been sure the men who had dragged him out of bed were soldiers - he had been quite specific about it. If he was right, that meant the chances were they were from within Training Company, which was not good - not good at all. Men who stole and committed murder had no respect for command or discipline. They could undermine an entire company. That was a bad enough prospect while they were idling in Kent, but would spell disaster if they were sent to France and found themselves in action. Blackstone, cursed Tanner, not for the first time that day. He had to be involved. Had to be. Nothing could happen without Blackstone knowing about it, without his approval. That was his way: complete control through a combination of charm and ruthlessness.

He needed to think. As he gazed out over the sea, the Channel seemed calm, deep and benign, twinkling as the first rays of sunlight spread across the water. Beyond, he could see the French coast, a hazy line on the horizon. He took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. It was hard to imagine a more peaceful scene.

Just three hours after he had collapsed fully clothed into his bed, Squadron Leader Lyell had been woken. At first, his head did not hurt because he was still slightly drunk. Having quickly immersed himself under a cold shower, he dressed again and headed down to Dispersal on Northern Grass, with Granby and several of the other pilots in tow. No one spoke much as they stumbled across the grass.

Dennison was waiting for them at their dispersal tent.

'Anything up?' muttered Lyell, his eyes like slits.

'A flight patrol over the Channel,' Dennison told him.

Lyell yawned. As he heard the clang of an erk's spanner, his head began to throb. 'Right,' he said. 'I'll take A Flight up.'

It was a bit of a struggle hoisting himself onto the wing, then into the cockpit, but as he collapsed onto the bucket seat, he put his oxygen mask over his mouth, switched on the supply and breathed deeply. Almost immediately his headache vanished and his mind cleared, as he had known it would. By the time he was over the English coast and heading out to sea, he felt himself once more.

'This is Nimbus Leader,' he called, over the R/T. 'Keep close to me. We're going to climb to angels fourteen, then level out. Keep your eyes peeled. Over.'

He led them on a bearing of fifty degrees to avoid flying directly into the rising sun. It was a beautiful dawn, the sun climbing over France to the east, the Channel below a dark, glistening blue. He could see ships hugging the British coastline, fishing trawlers and merchantmen, white wakes behind them.

It had been a good night, he reflected - at least until that maniac sergeant had shot at them. Christ, he could have killed someone. And although Lyell had not had a chance to examine his car yet, he hated to think what the damage was. A new bumper and possibly even a wing, he guessed. Bloody hell. What had the man been thinking of? And how dare he stop them like that? Who did he think he was?

Off duty, Lyell was used to doing pretty much whatever he liked with his squadron; it was the fighter pilot's prerogative - an unwritten code. Yes, strictly speaking, Kingsgate Castle was out of bounds, but no one had ever worried about that before. Bloody foot-soldiers. And what was that sergeant's name? Tanner. Yes, he remembered that. Lyell thought about it for a moment, France stretching away off his starboard wing. He couldn't complain to the station commander because Wing Commander Jordan would only rollock him for visiting the castle. That was another unwritten rule: go there, but don't get caught. On the other hand, Lyell was damned if the upstart sergeant was going to get away with it. He decided that on their return to Manston he would pay Hector a visit and get him to tear Tanner off a strip or two. Lyell chuckled to himself. Old Hector would see to it that he got his car bill paid and his honour salvaged. All right, so they'd gone through a roadblock, but those Army boys couldn't go around taking pot-shots at pilots. It wasn't on. The man needed to be taught a lesson.

Much to his relief, when Tanner returned to the checkpoint just before eight that morning, Lieutenant Peploe did not admonish him for shooting the tyre of the squadron leader's car. 'Nothing more than they deserved, Sergeant. Bunch of arrogant bastards,' he told him, then added, 'Let's hope it wasn't the OC's brother-in-law.'

Tanner had forgotten the connection and winced. Peploe, however, was far more concerned about the earlier incident. Torwinski had been taken to hospital in Ramsgate, but the lieutenant was uncertain about what he should say to the OC. 'I've got to tell him, Tanner, but we could do with some hard evidence.'

'I've got proof that there was a fourth person in that truck, sir,' said Tanner, and explained his discovery of the flattened grass by the road.

Peploe insisted on seeing it for himself.

A short while later, as they stood by the verge, he whistled. 'Bloody hell. You're quite right, Sergeant,' he said. 'I can't think of another explanation. Rather clinches it, doesn't it?'

Tanner wondered whether he should say anything about his suspicions, then decided against it. The lieutenant knew what he thought of Blackstone and any finger-pointing would be unconvincing. Even so, it had occurred to him that once Barclay knew about Torwinski, Blackstone would inevitably be in the picture too. If he was right about the CSM's culpability, Torwinski's life would be in danger once more. It was a conundrum to which at present Tanner had no answer.

Peploe walked back to the checkpoint, shaking his head. 'Incredible, isn't it? I never thought the first deaths I witnessed would be deliberately caused by men on our own side. It's not why I joined up, Sergeant.'

'No, sir.'

Peploe sighed. 'Well, I'm not going to let this lie. Those men deserve justice. Christ, the condescending way everyone talks about the Poles, as though they're somehow to blame for the war in the first place. They're easy scapegoats, Tanner, but it's wrong - wholly wrong.'

Tanner agreed, but gut instinct told him that others would not be quite so keen to learn the truth as Mr Peploe. Bloody hell. It had been a long and depressing night.

The platoon had been relieved at eight a.m. and, to Tanner's surprise, they had driven back to Manston without any apparent orders for him to report to either the station commander or Captain Barclay. After breakfast, he had gone with the others back to the hut and had lain on his bed. He was tired, and despite a troubled mind, he had gone straight to sleep. It was a trick he had learned during his career in the Army: to sleep anywhere, any time, whenever the opportunity arose.

He had learned to wake up in an instant too. A hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to see Blackstone standing over him. 'Wakey, wakey, Jack.'

Tanner gazed at the solid face, the slightly flattened nose and dark eyes. He saw the crooked teeth that grinned down at him and noticed now that one was almost entirely black. He looked at his watch - just after nine. Christ, he'd only been asleep ten minutes. 'What do you want?'

Blackstone continued to smirk, then tutted. 'What have you been playing at, Jack? Shooting at the OC's brother-in-law! I wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now.'

'Have you woken me just to tell me that or is there anything else?'

'Don't shoot the messenger, Jack,' said Blackstone, feigning indignation. 'I've been asked by Captain Barclay to fetch you.'

Tanner stood up and, without a word, stepped out of the hut into the bright morning sunshine. He strode towards the parade-ground quickly, so that Blackstone had to hurry to keep up with him.

'So, Jack,' said Blackstone, catching up, 'that must have been quite a shot of yours to hit the tyre like that.

I'm not sure I'd be able to aim so carefully in the dark. I mean, just imagine if the shot had gone a bit wild. What if you'd hit one of those fighter boys? Could have killed him.'

'The only men dying last night were the Poles in that truck. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?'

There wasn't even a flicker on Blackstone's face. 'Yes, a sorry business, but didn't I tell you? I knew those Poles were behind the fuel trouble.'

They reached Barclay's office. 'Ready, Jack?' said Blackstone. 'I'm looking forward to this.'

Tanner stepped inside and saluted. Quite a crowd had assembled in Barclay's office and the room seemed smaller. The OC was behind his desk but on wooden chairs at either side sat three other officers, two RAF and one from the company. Blackstone had once again made himself at home on the armchair in the corner. Tanner eyed the men - he recognized the squadron leader and flight lieutenant from the previous night - and his heart sank. Christ, he thought, it's a bloody court-martial. And no Peploe. No wonder Blackstone had been gloating.

Barclay coughed in a manner that suggested the proceedings were to begin, then tersely introduced the other men in the room: Squadron Leader Lyell and Flight Lieutenant Granby from 632 Squadron; and Captain Wrightson, the T Company second-in-command.

'Now, Tanner,' said Barclay, his brow furrowed, 'what the devil do you think you were doing last night? You could have killed those pilots.'

'They crossed a checkpoint, sir. It was quite obvious we were there, even in the dark and with reduced headlights. I walked out into the middle of the road as they approached and held up my hand, signalling for them to stop. They ignored this, swerved and drove on so I shot out one of their tyres.'

'It was bloody dangerous,' said Lyell. 'There's no way you could have known you were going to hit the tyre. That bullet could have gone anywhere.'

'With respect, sir, I'm not a bad shot.' He lifted his arm to show his Skill in Shooting badge. 'I aimed at the left rear tyre and hit it.'

'Still a huge risk, Tanner,' said Barclay. 'They could easily have been badly injured or even killed when the car crashed.'

'I doubt it, sir. The car wasn't travelling fast and, in any case, as I discovered afterwards, they were so drunk they could barely stand, let alone drive.'

'That's absolute rubbish,' said Granby. 'We'd had a few beers, that's all.'

'One of you threw up,' said Tanner, 'and you, sir, took a swing at me and fell over.'

'I did no such thing.'

'Ludicrous exaggeration,' added Lyell.

'I remember it distinctly, sir. So, I'm sure, will the men who were with me at the time.'

'Are you saying I'm lying, Sergeant?'

Before Tanner could reply, Captain Wrightson intervened. 'Perhaps, sir, the drink affected your memory?' He chuckled.

'He's talking rot,' said Lyell. 'We'd had a few beers, and it was dark. I saw the checkpoint too late to stop, swerved to avoid the sergeant here and then he shot at us. Luckily no one was hurt but it could have been far more serious. As it is, my car's in a bad way and will cost a fortune to put right.'

Barclay sighed. 'Wasn't it damnably obvious,

Tanner, that the car was full of pilots who'd had a few?'

'No, sir. I was told that Kingsgate was out of bounds to servicemen. I wasn't expecting any pilots to come from that direction and, as I said, they didn't stop. I was following standard procedure.'

'Damned heavy-handed, though, Tanner.'

'They could have been Germans, sir.'

Barclay snorted. 'Swerving around in their car?'

'We were ordered to stop any vehicles that passed, sir. A lorry had already driven through the checkpoint and men had got themselves killed. I didn't want that to happen again.'

'I think what Sergeant Tanner is trying to say, sir,' interrupted Blackstone, 'is that he was thinking of the pilots' safety. I know it's not really an NCO's place to make such decisions, but I'm sure he felt that by shooting at them he would save them from further mishap.'

Tanner glanced at Blackstone and saw the sly smile on his face. Damn him! Tanner had believed the questioning had been going well until that point, but once again Blackstone had made him look a puffed-up fool.

Wrightson smiled again. 'So you were doing 'em a favour, eh, Tanner?'

'They still had a couple of miles to go to get back to Manston, sir. That's quite a long way to drive when you're drunk. But I stopped them because they were approaching from a direction that was out of bounds and because they failed to halt at the checkpoint.'

There was a knock at the door.

'Come!' called Barclay, and Lieutenant Peploe entered.

'Ah, Peploe,' said Barclay.

'Sir. I thought you said I would be present when you spoke with Sergeant Tanner.'

Barclay waved a hand. 'An oversight, Peploe. Anyway, you're here now.'

'Your sergeant has been telling us that it was primarily concern for our welfare that made him shoot at us,' said Lyell.

Tanner felt himself redden, his anger mounting. 'With respect, sir, that's not what I said.'

'Sergeant, you've said your piece,' snapped Barclay. 'You may have been within your rights but you clearly acted impulsively and without due consideration, putting the lives of several pilots at risk and severely damaging Squadron Leader Lyell's car in the process.'

'Sir,' interrupted Peploe, 'I gave Sergeant Tanner specific orders not to let anyone else through the checkpoint under any circumstances. If anyone is to blame for this it's me.'

Barclay sighed. 'I appreciate your loyalty to your platoon sergeant, Peploe, but I really think it's for Tanner here to defend himself.'

'An NCO in front of four officers, sir?'

Barclay shifted in his seat. 'We're just trying to get to the facts, Peploe. Any one of the pilots could have been seriously hurt, if not killed. And then there's Squadron Leader Lyell's car.'

'Then why don't we take this matter to the station commander, sir?'

Lyell glared at him.

'No need to do that just yet, Peploe,' said Barclay, glancing anxiously at his brother-in-law.

Tanner smiled to himself. Good on you, Mr Peploe.

'The fact is, sir,' continued Peploe, 'that, with due respect to Squadron Leader Lyell, a far more serious incident took place last night. Two men were killed and it was nothing less than murder.'

At this, Blackstone looked up and Tanner caught his eye. So I was right, thought Tanner. He does know. It was now his turn to smile.

'What do you mean, murder?' demanded Barclay.

'The third man survived,' said Peploe.

'Why didn't you tell me this earlier?'

'I was about to, sir, but you might recall that the telephone rang and you ordered me to leave.'

'Have you spoken to the Snowdrops?'

'No, sir. I took Torwinski straight to hospital and they hadn't arrived by that time. I haven't seen any civilian police and nor have they asked to see me. I assumed I should speak to you or the station commander first.'

Tanner watched Blackstone intently for any reaction to this news. Was there alarm in his expression? He couldn't be sure.

'And this survivor claimed what, precisely?' asked Barclay.

Peploe told him.

'Good God, man!' The captain laughed. 'You believe that?'

'Yes, sir, I do,' said Peploe. 'It was also clear that a fourth had jumped from the cab a short distance before the checkpoint. From the driver's side, I should add. You could see where he'd landed on the verge.'

'It sounds most unlikely to me, Lieutenant,' said Squadron Leader Lyell.

'Why, sir? It doesn't seem so to me at all. It's a lot more probable than some recently arrived Poles trying to peddle black-market fuel in a country that's new to them and where they hardly speak the language.'

'Where is this fellow now?' asked Barclay.

'In Ramsgate Hospital,' Peploe told him.

Tanner had been keeping his eye on Blackstone, and at this revelation the CSM caught his gaze and, this time, held it. The threat was unmistakable.

'It seems to me, sir,' said Wrightson to Barclay, 'that we should at least talk to this man. How badly injured is he, Lieutenant?'

'He should make a full recovery, sir.'

At that moment, the telephone rang. With a look of pained exasperation, Barclay picked up the receiver. 'Yes?' he snapped.

Tanner watched the OC's expression change. The bluster and impatience drained from his face, replaced by stunned shock.

'Right,' he said. 'Right, sir. I understand, sir . . . Yes, sir.' Slowly he put the receiver down. 'It's happened,' he said. 'The Germans have invaded Belgium. And we're on standby to join the rest of the battalion. Twelve hours' notice. It seems we'll soon be going off to war.'