Darkest Hour

Chapter 4

If he was completely honest with himself, Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had probably had too much to drink the previous night. He prided himself on never losing control, but the news that the division was at long last on standby to move to the front had been worth celebrating. When the boss had suggested they might like to dine out of the mess, he and the other officers in the Aufklarung Abteilung, the division's reconnaissance battalion, had piled into their cars and driven into Stuttgart.

There they had met up with some other officers from the 2nd Regiment Brandenburg and it had turned out to be a particularly enjoyable night: a good dinner, a few toasts, Rudolf Saalbach singing 'Casanova-lied' - the adopted battalion song - which never ceased to make him laugh, and then a few hours with an attractive girl called Maria. He knew that several of his comrades had later headed off to the city's fleshpots, but that was not his way. Timpke had always believed that paying for it was an abomination. After all, the seduction was half the fun. He was, he knew, a handsome young man. He was tall and broad, with fair hair, a narrow nose and a smile he had learned to use to good effect, and he had long ago realized that getting women to do what he wanted came rather easily to him.

His whole life had been rather like that. He was blessed with a good brain and a strong physique, and had made the most of both: school, sports, university - he had shone at them all. And when he had joined Brigadefuhrer Eicke's Totenkopfverbande, he had, naturally, been singled out quickly as officer material and packed off to SS-Junkerschule. It had pleased him to discover that most of his fellow cadets were less clever and educated than he: it ensured that he continued to stand out above the rest. Now, three years later and aged twenty-five, he was commander of the division's reconnaissance unit, the men who would lead the vanguard of any advance and, as such, about to be given the honour of leading the elite of the elite - as Eicke always liked to remind them they were - into battle.

That morning he had woken early. The early-summer sun had streamed through the closed window of his room, making him hot and restless. His mouth had felt dry and his head ached. He had drunk a litre of water, put on his black running shorts and white vest, with the SS runic symbol emblazoned on the front, then headed out of the garrison barracks, down Stuttgarterstrasse and into the baroque palace gardens of Ludwigsburg and the woods beyond. By the time he was running back through the palace gardens, his head had cleared and he felt alert and invigorated. He had drunk wine and schnapps at dinner, but he reflected that it was probably the sekt - I that essential tool of seduction - that had made the difference. Maria had taken longer than some to succumb and had insisted he match her glass for glass. Still, it had been worth it. He had taken her in his open-top Adler Triumph to a hotel he had used several times before and, in bed, had found her most compliant. Eventually, leaving her asleep, he had crept out and driven back to the garrison. By half past two he had been in his room.

As he showered and changed into his uniform, he wondered again when they would be moving. If he had one fault, it was impatience. Throughout his life, he had striven for the next goal only to find that once he had achieved it, the rewards were something of an anticlimax. He had been first drawn to the Totenkopf by Eicke's insistence on its elite status, but he had quickly tired of guarding the Reich's enemies. With the boss, he shared a desire for Totenkopf Division to become the finest military unit in all of Germany. With the outbreak of war, the reconnaissance battalion had been sent to Poland, a prospect that had excited Timpke. Once there, however, they had been left to carry out mopping-up operations, rounding up suspicious elements and Jews. Capturing and shooting these people had quickly ceased to give him any kind of thrill and Timpke had realized that this role, in support of the Wehrmacht, was unworthy of them.

Eicke had preached patience. Their time would come, he had assured them, but as far as Timpke was concerned, it couldn't come soon enough. Everyone knew that the war was far from over, that at some point the stalemate in the west would crack, and when it did, Timpke was determined to be a part of it. Over the winter, more and more equipment had been acquired.

Eicke had sent Timpke and a number of other officers on several missions all over Germany to obtain guns, vehicles and ammunition. In Poland, Timpke had seen with his own eyes that the Wehrmacht infantry were poorly provided with vehicles and transport, and by spring had known that their Waffen-SS division was better equipped than any regular infantry unit. But still no move to the front had been ordered. It was, Timpke knew, a matter of perception. He had witnessed this first hand during a row with some Wehrmacht officers in Stuttgart, who had jeered at them for being concentration-camp guards rather than regular soldiers. Saalbach, and the others they were with, had wanted a fight, but Timpke had urged restraint. Instead he had secretly invited the Wehrmacht officers to a marksmanship contest at Ludwigsburg.

It had worked out exactly as Timpke had hoped. The Wehrmacht officers had been amazed by the massed vehicles and machinery the Totenkopf could boast, and in the shooting contest, Timpke and his fellows had won comfortably. Somehow, word had got back to Eicke. More importantly, word had also got back to Generaloberst von Weichs, commander of Second Army. In April von Weichs had paid a visit and had watched the division on exercise. Rumour had it that he had been duly impressed. Certainly, more guns had arrived soon after, and all leave had been cancelled. Something was brewing; Timpke had been feverish with anticipation. But the days had passed and no further word came. Every day Timpke trained his men, waiting, waiting, waiting for news that they would be deployed to the front.

Yesterday those orders had finally arrived. The relief had been overwhelming. Immediately trucks had been despatched to pick up sixty tonnes of rations and further ammunition from Kassel. Timpke had sent Oberscharfuhrer Schramm from his own company. It had been an overnight round trip, but Schramm, his men and the rest of the convoy would be back that morning and then they would be ready. At a moment's notice, the division could be on the move, heading west to the front at long last.

After conferring with his company commanders, Timpke took himself off to the range, hoping that by firing a few rounds he would keep himself distracted. He took great pride in his marksmanship. Practice, he knew, was essential, that and an intimate knowledge and understanding of each and every weapon, whether it be a machine-gun, rifle or semi-automatic pistol.

On the rifle range he was joined by Hauptsturmfuhrer Knochlein, a company commander from the 2nd Regiment and one of those who had been with them in Stuttgart the previous evening.

'Beeck told me I'd find you here. How's your head, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer?' Knochlein asked.

'Fine, thank you, Fritz.' He aimed carefully at the paper target a hundred metres away, breathed out gently, made certain his head and hands were rock steady, then squeezed the trigger. He felt the rifle kick into his shoulder, his ears rang with the crack, and he turned to Knochlein with deliberate jauntiness. 'And what about you? Don't tell me, it was light by the time you crawled back.'

Knochlein looked sheepish. 'It wasn't quite,' he smiled, 'but not far off. Still, we had a good night, didn't we?' He grinned. 'I'm improving by the minute.'

He was older than Timpke by five or six years, with a square, unrefined face that Timpke had always felt betrayed his upbringing in the rougher suburbs of Munich. Timpke liked him well enough and considered him a friend, even though he knew Knochlein looked up to him in a way that was, frankly, a bit embarrassing. As with so many of Knochlein's age who had lived through the hard years of the 1920s, Timpke had detected resentment at his core. Poverty had forced him to abandon his schooling, and although he was no fool - and certainly had a streak of ruthless cunning - Timpke knew he was insecure about his lack of education. It was why the SS was so perfect for Knochlein and others like him: an organization that gave its members a sense of purpose and unity, rewarding performance rather than social standing.

Timpke was peering through his binoculars at the target, and smiled to himself. Not bad.

'It's incredible news, isn't it?' said Knochlein.

'What news?' said Timpke, immediately lowering them.

'Haven't you heard? We've attacked France and the Low Countries.'

'Without us! Damn them. What happened?'

'It's not entirely clear. The Luftwaffe have been busy, though.'

Timpke's heart quickened. So it had started! He glanced at his watch. 'Those supplies should be here soon.' He slung his rifle over his shoulder. 'How can you be so relaxed, Fritz? Let's get going. We might be ordered off at any moment.'

The trucks began arriving back at the Kaserne just before eleven that morning, filled with fresh supplies. Timpke sensed anticipation in the men, who were chattering and laughing loudly, a new spring in their step. Vehicles were soon lining up, engines rumbling, ready for the he move. The courtyard of the barracks was crammed with trucks, troop-carriers, half-tracks, armoured cars and staff cars. Behind the Kaserne yet more vehicles waited, as well as the division's anti-aircraft guns, anti-tank guns and field guns, including a dozen 150mm heavy howitzers. Timpke and Knochlein walked among them, marvelling with pride that the division would be heading to France with more than two thousand vehicles under its banner. A motorized infantry division about to move.

Timpke laughed and gripped Knochlein's shoulder. 'We'll show those Army bastards, and we'll show those French and Tommy soldiers too.' Briefly he took off his cap, and admired the silver skull-and-crossbones insignia - the death's head - emblazoned upon it, then fitted it back on his well-groomed head. He smiled. 'We'll let them see what the Totenkopf is capable of.'

The news of the German offensive had made an immediate impact at Manston, too. In Captain Barclay's office, Tanner had been dismissed, albeit with a warning.

'All right, Tanner,' said Barclay, 'you can get back to your platoon. This matter will have to wait for the moment. There are more pressing things to attend to now.'

'And what about my car?' asked Lyell.

'For God's sake, Charlie,' Barclay snapped, 'how should I know? Get it to a garage and see what they say. Damn it, we've got a war to fight now.'

Lyell shoved back his chair angrily and made to leave with Granby. Tanner opened the door for them, but as Lyell passed him, he stopped and jabbed him in the chest with a finger. 'I'll be sending you the bill, Sergeant. You might have been saved for now, but I shan't forget about this.'

Not for the first time Tanner had to bite his tongue. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to wipe the arrogant snarl from the man's face and knock him out cold. He wouldn't forget the incident either, but he had long ago learned that patience was indeed a virtue. One day, he assured himself, his chance would come, and then he would teach the man a lesson.

He started to leave but Peploe stopped him. 'A moment, Sergeant,' he said, then turned back to Barclay. 'What about the murders, sir?'

Barclay sighed wearily. 'If they were murders, Peploe. What about them?'

'As the duty officer when the incident occurred, I wondered whether I should now contact the police.'

'No, Peploe. Leave it with me. I'll make sure it's looked into. No doubt they'll want to speak to you, but this should go through the proper channels.'

Peploe nodded, then he and Tanner walked out of the building. Outside, the deep blue of the sky was broken by rolls of plump white cumulus. Tanner squinted in the glare. 'I'm not sure this can wait until Captain Barclay contacts the police, sir,' he told Peploe. 'I'm not saying he won't speak to them, but he's got other things on his mind.'

'You could be right.'

'I just don't think time's on our side, sir. I suppose we could always move him instead.'

Peploe eyed Tanner carefully. 'Is there something you're not telling me, Sergeant?'

Tanner sighed. 'I'm sure the CSM knows something about this, sir. And I'm not just saying that because I don't like the man. It's precisely the kind of stunt he used to pull in India.'

'Murder?'

'No - no, not murder. At least, I couldn't really say. Maybe he wasn't involved in that. Really, sir, I meant the fuel theft. Nothing happens in this company without him knowing about it, and who would dare to pull off something like this under his nose? I watched him, sir, in there. And I'm certain he knows something.'

Peploe took off his cap and ran a hand wearily through his hair.

'There's one way we'll know for sure,' continued Tanner, 'and that's if anyone turns up at the hospital asking for Torwinski. If they do, they've got to have been told by someone in that room a moment ago. Those RAF boys couldn't have been involved as they were getting drunk at the time, so that leaves you, me, Captain Wrightson, the OC and Blackstone. I think we can exclude ourselves, sir.'

Some Blenheims took off, their engines a roar. The two men watched three emerge into the sky on the far side of the office block, then head out towards the Channel.

'I don't know. Christ, I don't know what to think - but I'm not sure I'm convinced the CSM has anything to do with it,' said Peploe, 'but if he has, you're right. We need to protect Torwinski.' The lieutenant consulted his watch. 'We're not on duty again until three o'clock, and it's not ten yet. All right, Tanner. I'll go to the hospital now and see Torwinski. Maybe I can say something to the doctors there - perhaps they can ring the police.'

'I think that's best, sir.'

Peploe nodded. 'Good. I'll get off, then. I can drive down in my own car.'

'And, sir? Thank you for what you said in there.'

'I'm sorry I wasn't there at the beginning. I'm furious about it, to be honest,' he said. 'Stupid sods. Sorry, Tanner, shouldn't really be talking like this, but I'm afraid it's all because of Squadron Leader Lyell and his being the OC's brother-in-law and everything. Lyell knows perfectly well that he's in the wrong and that the station commander would give him short shrift. So he tries to get his revenge by nobbling Captain Barclay and reeling you in for a grilling - a grilling, I should add, to which he knew you couldn't answer freely because of your rank. It's nothing less than bullying - the sort of carry-on one used to have to put up with at school. I've always hated that kind of closing ranks, and I'm damned if I'm going to toe some line just to keep in favour with my fellow officers. I was brought up to do what I believe is right, Tanner.' He smiled sheepishly. 'Listen to me, ranting like some parson. Anyway, go and get some rest.'

Tanner set off for the hut. He felt exhausted and his body suddenly craved sleep. But despite that, the death of the Poles, and its significance, continued to circle in his mind. He was convinced more than ever that Blackstone had to have been involved. The man was like a cancer spreading through the company, corrupting and poisoning, turning good men to bad. Jesus. It didn't pay to go to war with men like him. Tanner passed another platoon going through their drill, the sergeant screaming his orders, boots heavy on the tarmac as the men tramped up and down, wheeled to the left, then halted almost as one. The sergeant admonished them for slovenliness. A miserable, useless lot, they were.

Tanner smiled to himself, momentarily distracted, only for darker thoughts to return. He wondered whether the lieutenant would reach Torwinski in time. Perhaps Barclay had already contacted the police. Perhaps. Tanner couldn't help believing that Torwinski was still in grave danger, yet catching any would-be murderer was, he knew, probably the only chance they would have of finding evidence that would nail anyone for this crime. The flattened verge would probably have recovered already. Neither Captain Barclay nor any of the other officers had shown much appetite for Peploe's claims. And would the police be any more interested? After all, who cared about a few Poles? If whoever had done this had any sense, they'd keep clear of Torwinski and leave him be.

Lying on his bed, Tanner smelled wafts of tobacco smoke, felt a cool breeze drift across his face and realized, to his annoyance, that he was awake. Opening his eyes, he saw Corporal Sykes standing in the doorway, his slicked-back hair shining in the sun, his field cap tucked into the epaulette of his battle-blouse. Between finger and thumb, he brought the cigarette to his mouth, then noticed Tanner was watching him.

'Oh, Sarge, you're awake.'

'No thanks to you, Corporal.' Tanner sat up.

'Sorry, Sarge. I was wondering whether or not I should wake you. Only I've something to tell you.'

'What? It'd better be good, that's all I can say.' He glanced round at the others, all still fast asleep. McAllister was snoring gently.

Sykes motioned him outside. Tanner buttoned his battle-blouse, grabbed his field cap, then stood up and stepped out of the hut. A glance at his watch - a quarter to one - and a fumble in his breast pocket for his cigarettes.

'What is it, then, Stan?' he asked, putting a cigarette between his lips.

'I woke up about midday and knew I wouldn't get back to sleep again so I got up and wandered around a bit. There's quite a lot of activity going on 'ere all of a sudden. Some ack-ack guns 'ave turned up and there's lorries going back and forth. I spoke to one bloke, and apparently a couple of batteries are moving in.'

'You haven't heard, then?'

'Heard what?'

'We're going to be out of here soon. Jerry's launched his attack. We're on twelve hours' notice to shift it over to Belgium and join the rest of the battalion.'

'Bloody 'ell! Well, that explains it.' He wiped a hand across his mouth. 'Frankly, Sarge, I’m glad. Don't like this place. Sooner we're out of here the better, far as I'm concerned.'

'I agree. Just wish we could leave a few people behind, that's all. Anyway, you didn't wake me up to tell me a few guns've arrived. At least you'd better not have done.'

'No, no - course not. No, what I was going to say was that I've seen the company quartermaster sergeant over by the stores. And guess what?'

'What?'

"E's got a big limp.'

'Has he now?' Tanner allowed himself a faint smile. 'Could have had it a while, though.'

'That's just it, Sarge. He hasn't. At least, he didn't have it yesterday cos I saw him and he was walking fine.'

'Interesting, Stan. Very interesting.'

'So, anyway, I was about to talk to him when the CSM comes over and starts talking to me instead. Friendly as anything, he was, asking me all about myself and handing out smokes. And all the while he was steering me away from CQS Slater and those stores. Eventually he said, "Well, you go and get some more rest while you've got the chance," and gave me a wink and a pat on the back. Said it very nice but I knew it was an order, so I came back and had another smoke, wondering whether I should say anything to you.'

'That's just like Blackstone. He's the biggest two- faced bastard I've ever known. Says one thing, means another.'

'Yes, but what I wasn't sure about was whether he was steering me away from Slater or the stores.'

'Or both.' Tanner scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. 'I don't suppose you've seen Mr Peploe?'

'No, Sarge.' Sykes eyed him. 'What do you think? What should we do?'

'I'll see if I can find Slater and talk to him. What does he look like?'

'Quite a big bloke. A bit smaller than the CSM and his face looks like he's been a few rounds. Oh, and he's got a limp.'

Tanner grinned. 'Of course. Shouldn't be too hard to spot, then. Where are these stores?'

'Right down the back end of this place. There's a big hangar to the far side of all the huts. It's away to the left of that, on its own at the end of a long workshop.'

'I don't think we should poke around in the stores yet, though.'

'No. Too many people about. Have a look tonight, maybe. Didn't you say we're on airfield duty later?'

'I did. All right - we'll do that. I'll put money on there being something in that storeroom that shouldn't be.'

'Like stolen fuel?'

'Yes, Stan,' said Tanner. 'Like stolen fuel.'

Tanner found the store easily enough. It was a creosoted wooden structure with a corrugated-iron roof, tacked onto the end of a longer brick-built workshop. There were no windows, only a door that was double- padlocked. He wondered whether Sykes would have the means to break the lock - but that was expecting a lot. A small distance away, towards the pilots' accommodation blocks, a Bofors light anti-aircraft crew were manning their gun, but otherwise no one was about, and certainly no one answering CQS Slater's description. A truck rumbled onto the road that bisected the airfield, crunched through its gears and continued on its way. In the distance he heard someone yelling orders. A wasp buzzed near his face and, startled, he swished it away.

He walked round the building, the sun warm on his face. Damn it, he wanted to know what Slater and Blackstone had inside. Ammunition boxes principally, uniform, equipment spares, and what else? Tonight, he told himself. He and Sykes would have to get in somehow.

When he returned to the hut there was no sign of Sykes, but several of the others were now awake and playing cards.

'Mr Peploe was looking for you, Sarge,' said McAllister, his hand in front of his face.

'When?'

'Ten minutes back. Said he'll be in the office block.'

Tanner headed out again, across the parade-ground and into the now familiar building, and soon found Peploe's office, a small room that the lieutenant shared with the two other platoon commanders. Peploe was the only one there; the door was open and Tanner saw him leaning over his desk, his head resting in a hand. His brow knotted, he was apparently in deep thought. He didn't notice his sergeant. 'You wanted me, sir?'

Peploe looked up. 'Ah, Tanner, there you are. Come in.' He pushed back his chair, stood up and went to shut the door. 'Have a seat.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Tanner, sitting on a rickety folding chair. 'Did you see Torwinski?'

'Yes - he's all right. Well, physically at any rate. He's been placed under arrest and there's a - what did you call them? A Snowdrop standing by his bed.'

Tanner shook his head. 'At least he should be safe.'

'Well, yes, there is that. He was due to be discharged about now, handed over to the civilian police and taken to the station in Ramsgate.' Peploe sighed. Suddenly he looked very young. Tanner supposed he must be in his early twenties. 'I'm afraid it's all a bit bleak,' Peploe continued. 'They found documents this morning in the men's hut. Details of deliveries, that sort of thing. The OC told me that, as far as he's concerned, it's an open and shut case. And that, I'm afraid, has come from the RAFP and the police inspector working on the case. I protested, of course, but it seems no one's interested in hearing an alternative version of events. I mean, I can see it from Captain Barclay's point of view - he's got other things on his mind, like our departure for France, and he's obviously relieved to have had the whole matter taken out of his hands. But I would have thought the police might be a bit more open-minded. It's wrong, Tanner, very wrong.'

'Has anyone spoken with the other Poles? Who's in charge of them?'

'There's a Polish colonel and, yes, they have. According to the OC, they're being very co-operative. I went down there to see the colonel myself a short while ago and they're obviously a bit upset, but they seem to have accepted the official line without question.'

Tanner sat in silence, wondering whether to tell the lieutenant about Slater and the stores. No. Best not. Instead he said, 'Is there any news on when we'll be off, sir?'

'Could be any moment. And then we'll have to leave this sorry business unresolved. I don't mind telling you, Tanner, I still feel pretty bloody shocked about what's happened and, frankly, helpless to do anything about it. Whether the CSM had anything to do with it, I'm not sure, but the thought of a murderer getting away with it and for him possibly to be part of our company when it goes to France . .. Well, I can't say it thrills me.'

Fanner looked away. Uncomfortable memories were returning, memories from his childhood - or, rather, the end of his childhood. But that was very different, he thought. He frowned. 'Don't worry, sir. I'm sure the truth will out.'

'Do you believe that, Sergeant?'

'Yes, sir,' said Tanner. 'I do.'

It was around ten p.m. on Friday, 10 May, and Tanner and Sykes had kept their plans to themselves. The rest of the platoon were on airfield duty, which meant having sentries posted at the watch office, the fuel stores and the main office building, and manning the gates at the entrance to the airfield. Tanner had done several rounds, checking his men, but as dusk gave way to night, he called Sykes away from the watch office and together they crossed the southern end of the Northern Grass towards the company stores.

Rather than walking there directly, though, they doubled back, weaving a route through the rows of wooden huts until they emerged behind the building beside two accommodation huts that were visibly empty. Waiting in the shadows at the end of the last hut, Sykes felt in his pocket and pulled out a set of Bren-gun reamers. 'These should do the trick,' he whispered. 'Listen, Sarge, don't take this the wrong way, but I think it's better if I go there alone.'

'I don't - someone needs to watch your back.'

'Yes, Sarge, and no offence but you're quite a bit bigger than me and with two there's more to see than one. Let me sneak over there on my own, unlock the door and have a squint inside. If there's anything worth seein' and the coast's still clear, you come on over.'

Tanner thought about it. 'All right, Stan. Just be quick, all right?'

'A couple of minutes.' Sykes scampered lightly across the short distance to the stores and disappeared into the shadows.

Tanner strained his eyes but couldn't see him, then glanced to either side. Nothing. It was quiet. The sliver of moon was behind him, casting long shadows. Good. At least the door to the stores would be in shadow too.

Then something made him start. A kind of rustle, from the left-hand side of the hut. Tanner pressed himself to the end wall, and turned his head in the direction from where the sound had come. His heart thumped, but as the seconds passed and he heard no more, he began to relax. A rat or something, he told himself, even the breeze.

There it was again. Tanner strained his ears until a sixth sense made him turn. A dark shape and then, too late, he saw the silhouette of a rifle butt—