Darkest Hour

Chapter 5

Sykes reached the door of the stores, paused and looked round. A couple of hundred yards away he could just distinguish the outline of the Bofors but he was sure he had been neither seen nor heard, especially from that distance. It was dark in the shadow of the building, but once he had found the first padlock he no longer needed his eyes. Picking a lock was about listening and feeling, not seeing. He selected a reamer but it was too big so he tried the smallest. That's more like it. Gently probing with the narrow metal pin, he felt for the mechanism. He crouched down, ear next to the padlock, turned the reamer and heard the locking mechanism spring open. With his hand already round the padlock, he slid it from the bolt. One down.

The second was even easier. It had, he reckoned, taken him about twenty seconds to undo both. Not bad, he told himself, especially considering he hadn't picked a lock in years. He drew back the bolt and prepared to open the door, praying its hinges wouldn't squeak.

Slowly Sykes pulled it ajar and slipped inside. He pushed it to and got out his torch. He made sure the blackout was across the lens, then switched it on and opened the filter until he had a sliver of light.

The store was filled with rows of wooden shelving from floor to ceiling and smelled of dust, canvas, oil - and, yes, petrol. Immediately ahead he saw boxes of .303 ammunition, No. 36 grenades and Bren magazines stacked together. Slowly he walked past two more rows of shelving, turned down the third, and immediately smelled fuel. But there was nothing - no barrels, no four- gallon tins. For a moment, he paused, then squatted down and noticed circles in the dust, one of which had stained the floor. Circles caused by fuel barrels.

Sod it, he thought. It was evidence of sorts, but not enough. Then he went back, turned down the last row and his heart quickened. Halfway down, a stash of boxes blocked the passageway between the shelves. Sykes went up to them. They were light cardboard, filled with clothing and overalls, easily movable. He lifted down the top box, then others until he could see beyond. He shone his torch. There, double-stacked at the back of the storeroom, were a dozen barrels of aviation fuel.

He was about to head back to find Tanner when he heard a noise from the other side of the wall now facing him. Turning off his torch, he pressed himself against the shelving. A moment later, the door creaked open and he heard a man gasp. Then something heavy was dropped on the floor.

'There's got to be someone in here,' said a low voice.

Sykes froze. He heard muffled whispers, then a torch was turned on, throwing shadows. Sykes dared not move.

Footsteps, careful, measured. Two steps, pause, two steps, pause, each time getting closer.

Now Sykes wished the sergeant was with him. He had no weapon on him, save his clasp knife. The sergeant had just seconds to rescue him. Come on, Sarge. Where the bloody hell are you?

Two more steps, then the man shone his torch straight into Sykes's eyes, momentarily blinding him.

Blinking, Sykes tried to see who it was but couldn't tell. All he saw was a dark figure behind the torch beam. He held up a hand to block the light, but as he did so, the man swung his fist into the side of his head. The force of the blow knocked Sykes backwards into the stack of clothing boxes, then onto the floor.

With his eyes closed, he lay as still as he could, despite the pain. The man took two more steps towards him and kicked him. Then, satisfied that Sykes was out cold, he turned and went back. More muffled voices, then the sound of tearing cloth and a fresh smell of fuel. Jesus, no, thought Sykes. A match being struck, a brief pause, then the whoosh of petrol igniting. He heard the door close and the keys turn in the padlocks.

The stores were darker now, but a faint orange glow came from near the door. He fumbled for his torch, switched it on and got to his feet groggily, staggered and half fell, then recovered and hurried back to the entrance. Flames were already licking up the first row of wooden shelving and at its foot lay a body - Tanner's.

For a split second, Sykes was paralysed by indecision. Then he stepped round the flames, shoved Tanner to one side and began frantically to pull ammunition boxes off the shelves. Already several were blackening, but he knew that the moment they caught he was dead. When he had given himself breathing space, he dragged Tanner to the next row and, to his relief, heard the sergeant groan.

'Sarge!' he said, slapping his face. 'Sarge! Wake up!' He slapped Tanner again and this time the sergeant opened his eyes.

'Stan?' he mumbled.

'Get up, Sarge! Quick!' He leaned round to check the flames. They were spreading fast. Soon they would reach other ammunition boxes and the stacks of grenades. Time was running out rapidly. He sped back to where the flames were now licking towards the roof and along the shelving. The storeroom was filling with smoke and he coughed, his chest tightening, his throat beginning to sear. He quickly tied his handkerchief around his face, held his breath and grabbed another box of grenades, then stumbled back to Tanner.

Tanner was shaking his head and blinking.

'Sarge!' said Sykes again. 'We've got to get out of here - quick!'

Tanner spluttered, then seemed to regain his senses. He looked around, then scrambled to the other end of the stores. 'Stan, bring your torch,' he called, his voice hoarse.

Sykes did so. The last row was filled with rifles and a couple of boxed Bren guns.

'Good - no ammo here.' Crouching, Tanner hurried away, grabbed one of the boxes of grenades and, with trembling fingers, undid the fastening. 'Thank God,' he said, when he saw that the weapons were not greased up. 'Quick, open these,' he told Sykes, passing him the tin of igniters in the centre of the box. Then he took out a grenade, unscrewed the base plug and grabbed an igniter from the now open tin.

They were lying on the floor away from the flames but already the smoke was choking.

'The torch, Stan - shine the bloody torch!' Keep calm, Tanner told himself as he struggled to feed the igniter. Don't rush. He was conscious of Sykes's frantic glances at the growing flames.

'They've reached the ammo boxes, Sarge. Are you nearly done?'

Tanner took the base plug, tried to screw it on, missed the thread, cursed, then got it right at the second attempt.

'Sarge, any second now those bullets are going to go!'

'Shut up, Stan,' said Tanner, snatching the base-plug tightener from the lid of the box. 'You're not helping.' He tightened the grenade, then scrambled to the end of the last row, pulled the pin and ran back, hurling himself to the ground.

There was a sudden surge of flames and the sound of bullets as strips of .303 rounds ignited and pinged furiously around the storeroom. A second later the grenade went off.

'Go!' shouted Tanner. 'Go!'

A draught from the far end of the storeroom told them the explosion had been successful. Sure enough, there was a jagged hole just big enough for them to squeeze through. 'Quick, Stan, out you go!' urged Tanner, and then it was his turn. The clear, fresh air hit him like a wall. 'Run!' he said. 'Iggery! Let's get the hell out of here!'

There were now cries and shouts from the other side of the storeroom. Tanner saw Sykes run ahead, past the first of the huts. First, though, he had something to retrieve. Pausing where he had stood not ten minutes before, he dropped to his knees and felt around the grass. Good, he thought, as he found the familiar wooden butt of his rifle. Then, just to make sure, he put his hand around the breech and his fingers touched the scope mounts he had had especially fixed to it. Clasping it, he ran on, until a loud whisper from Sykes called him into the shadows of the second hut along.

'I can't believe I'm alive,' gasped Sykes. At that moment there was a deafening explosion and the storeroom was engulfed in a mass of livid orange flame. Both men flung themselves flat on the ground, already damp with dew, as debris pattered around them.

'Come on, Stan,' said Tanner, hoarsely. 'We don't want to hang around here. Let's get to the hut, clean up and join the others.' He stood up and dusted himself down. 'You all right?'

'I think so, Sarge. What about you?'

'My head's felt better.' He put his hand to it and peered at his fingers. 'Damn.'

'Blood?'

'I'll have to think of some excuse. I tell you, Stan, we can't let those bastards frame us for this. We'll have to be bloody careful. Blackstone was always a right bastard in India but I wouldn't have said cold-blooded murder was his way.'

'You're sure it was him, then?'

'Aren't you?'

'I don't know. I couldn't see. Whoever it was always kept the torch shining on my face. Then he whacked me one and I pretended to be out cold so I didn't dare open my eyes. He never spoke. I heard another bloke, but it wasn't the CSM. What about you, Sarge?'

'I fell for the oldest trick in the book. I was distracted by a noise from one side of the hut and hit in the head from the other. And, no, I didn't see who it was, but I still know Blackstone's behind this. He's got to be.'

'Anyway, at the moment they think we're croakers, don't they? That gives us a bit of time.'

'So it does, Stan. Let's make the most of it.' He stumbled forward, then stopped. 'Thanks - back there.'

'Self-preservation, Sarge.' He grinned. 'I didn't think I'd get out without your help.'

'That's all right, then.'

The wash-house was empty - a stroke of luck. They cleaned the smoke from their hands and faces and Tanner swabbed the gash to his head. He needed stitches, he knew, but that would have to wait.

Cleaned up, they hurried back to their hut. Tanner dabbed his head again then covered it with petroleum jelly from a tin in his pack to stem the blood. Then quickly changing into their spare battle-dress, the two of them headed out into the night once more. It was now just twenty-two minutes past ten. They had been absent from the platoon for less than half an hour but, with the inferno raging at the company stores, both men were keenly aware that they had to get back to their men without delay.

They wove their way behind a row of buildings to the south of the parade-ground, reached the road in front of the office block, then headed back towards the burning stores to the west of the Northern Grass.

'OK, listen, Stan,' said Tanner. 'We've come from the direction of the watch office, all right? We've been keeping an eye on things at the far side of the airfield, and we hurried over as soon as we heard the explosion. Got it?'

'Right, Sarge.'

The fire-wagons were already at the scene, as were Lieutenant Peploe and most of the platoon.

'There you are, Tanner,' said Peploe, on seeing Tanner and Sykes walking briskly towards him. 'Where have you been?' The light from the flames betrayed the tension in his face.

'Sorry, sir. Came as soon as we heard the explosion. How did it start?'

'Not sure. The ack-ack boys say they didn't see or hear a thing until it was too late. Apparently, one of them noticed flames and the next minute the place blew.'

'Well, all that ammo and so on,' said Tanner.

'Probably someone dropped a cigarette or a match or something, sir,' said Sykes.

'Probably,' agreed Peploe. 'An odd coincidence, though, two blazes in two nights. And have you heard the other news?'

'We're off to France, sir?' said Tanner.

'No - we've got a new prime minister, Churchill. It seems Chamberlain resigned yesterday, the day before the Germans decide to launch their attack. They announced it this afternoon.' He pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Winston Churchill - who'd have thought it?'

'Proves coincidences do happen, sir,' said Sykes.

'I suppose so.' He looked back at the fire. 'Incredible, really, that no one was hurt. God knows what the OC will say. We needed those stores for France.' He felt inside his battle-blouse and pulled out his silver hip-flask, unscrewed the top and took a swig. 'Chaps?' he said, offering it to Tanner and Sykes.

Tanner coughed. He could still feel the smoke in his throat. 'Thank you, sir. This time I will.' The whisky burned the back of his throat deliciously. Briefly he closed his eyes. That's good. 'Shall I get the men back to their posts, sir?' he said, as he passed the flask to Sykes. 'The fire-wagons and Snowdrops seem to have everything under control.'

Peploe nodded. 'I'm going to stay here in case the OC or the station commander shows up, but you get going, Sergeant.'

With the men sent back to their posts, Tanner paused. He had a raging thirst and unclipped his water-bottle from his belt. He drank freely, savouring the cool fluid as it soothed his throat. His head hurt like hell - a throbbing, stabbing pain that prevented him thinking clearly. Gingerly he put his hand to it again, felt the Vaseline and blood in his matted hair and tilted his helmet to hide the wound. The worst of it was that there was nothing he could do. Peploe might believe him, and Sykes, but no one else. Blackstone would see to that - and it would be easy. Tanner knew he was already a marked man. Jesus.

A car approached and drew up alongside the far end of the workshop. Tanner watched Wing Commander Jordan and Captain Barclay get out and stride towards the still- burning storeroom. Then Peploe hurried towards them, silhouetted against the flames. He was glad it was the lieutenant rather than himself facing the anger of the station commander and the OC.

Footsteps from the direction of the parade-ground made him turn. Tanner strained his eyes, but it was not until the figure was only a few yards from him that he realized it was Blackstone.

'CSM,' said Tanner.

'Jack?'

Tanner switched on his torch so that he could see the CSM's face but, to his astonishment, his expression betrayed no surprise.

'Shouldn't you be with the rest of the platoon?' Blackstone asked.

'I'm on my way,' said Tanner.

Blackstone looked past him towards the fire. 'Well, get on, then.'

It occurred to Tanner that it would be easy to kill Blackstone there and then. The distraction of the fire, the night darkness, an arm round his neck, then a yank of his head. All over in a trice. Yet he knew he would do no such thing - not even if he had been certain that the CSM had tried to burn him alive half an hour before. Tanner had killed several men but had never resorted to murder, no matter how well deserved.

Yet for the first time, doubt gnawed at the back of his mind. Perhaps he had been wrong about Blackstone; perhaps he was not behind the fuel theft and the deaths of the Poles, after all.

Without another word, Tanner stepped past him and went on his way.

The following morning, just before eight o'clock, T Company's movement order arrived from the War Office. It had not taken the hundred and four men long to get ready. Canvas kitbags had been packed the day before, after the movement warning had been issued, although Tanner had decided not to bother bringing his with him. His old uniform was scorched and soiled and he reckoned he would hardly need his thick wool greatcoat in France in summer. In any case, he had always found ways of getting extra clothing in the past whenever he had needed it, and saw no reason why it should be any different in France and Belgium. What kit he reckoned he would need - respirator, spare shirt, spare underwear, shaving kit, mess tin, towel, jerkin, gas cape, housewife and his few personal belongings - fitted easily into the pack, haversack and pouches of his field-service marching-order webbing, which each man had been ordered to wear. He had discarded other bits of kit that he had either never used or reckoned would be of limited value on the Continent, such as his brushes, canvas shoes and overalls.

At ten, the company were paraded and ready to begin the three-mile march to Ramsgate harbour. An hour later, they were being ticked off a list by the embarkation supervising officer and walking up the gangplank of the cargo ship. Tanner watched the men as they boarded the Raglan Castle, a four-thousand-ton vessel already laden with trucks, guns and munitions. Some chattered animatedly, excited at the prospect of heading over the Channel to war. Others were solemn, alone with their thoughts, their faces betraying apprehension and fear.

Tanner waited for all the men in the platoon to board before he went up the gangplank. As he stepped on deck, Ellis grinned. 'So this is it, then, Sarge. We're finally off. I can't believe we'll be in France in just a few hours.'

'Maybe a bit longer than that,' said Tanner.

Ellis looked at him quizzically. 'I thought it was only twenty miles or so across. That can't take very long.'

'Nor does it. But we haven't set off yet, have we? Trust me, Billy, there's always a lot of hanging around at port. We won't be going anywhere for hours.'

His prediction proved correct. Tanner made the most of the delay by catching up on his sleep, as did Sykes and some of the other more experienced men. He was glad of the chance. Not only was he tired, his head still throbbed. He had seen the MO that morning. The doctor had seemed to accept his story about having been hit as someone opened the door of a truck and merely warned him to wear his tin helmet more often. The wound had needed four stitches, all of which were neatly hidden by his thick dark hair.

When he awoke a couple of hours later, his headache had all but gone, but the ship was still tied firmly to the quayside. When they had not left by three thirty, frustration mounted, even in Tanner. The delay, it seemed, was caused by a missing convoy of Guy Ant fifteen-hundredweight general-service trucks. It was four o'clock when at last they arrived, and half an hour later the ship let go its moorings and inched out of Ramsgate harbour.

Tanner had few superstitions, but he liked to be out on deck when a ship left port and now he stood, the gulls circling, to watch the cliffs and the neat little streets shrink before him. A light, soothing breeze brushed his face.

England always looked so unmistakably English, he thought - the sheer, white cliffs, the rows of terraced houses, the patchwork of high-hedged fields. The quiet order.

'Looks pretty, don't it, Sarge?' said Sykes, appearing at his side. Then without waiting for a reply, he said, 'How's the head?'

'Not too bad. The stitches itch a bit.' He touched the hard scab and the loose end of the thread. 'You seen the CQS yet today?'

'He came down with the trucks. So no.'

Tanner thought for a moment. 'Tell me again, Stan, you did hear voices in the store last night, didn't you?'

'Yes, but it wasn't much and it was quite low. I'm not sure I could identify anyone from what I heard. But it did sound like a Yorkshire accent.'

'Could have been anyone from up north - there's probably Yorkshiremen in the ack-ack units and in the RAF as well as our lot.' Tanner felt for his cigarettes. 'Damn it, Stan. Damn those bloody bastards. We're never going to nail them, are we?'

Sykes shrugged. 'Don't know, Sarge. If we keep our wits about us .. .'

Tanner tapped one end of his packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Sykes, then placed another between his lips. Turning out of the breeze to cup a match, he had just successfully lit his cigarette when Lieutenant Peploe joined them.

'I suppose you two are old hands at this sort of thing.' He pulled out his own cigarettes.

'I wouldn't say that, sir,' said Sykes. 'Only the second time for me. That last trip was a bit hairy, wasn't it, Sarge? I hope we don't get another torpedo.'

'You were torpedoed?' said Peploe, bleakly.

'Not us, sir, no. A supply ship. We lost most of our kit, guns and transport. But we'll be all right. Be in Calais before you know it.'

Peploe gazed at the shrinking English coastline. 'I know people have been doing this for centuries, but it's quite a thing to find oneself a part of it - you know, leaving home and heading off to war. I don't mind admitting I feel apprehensive.'

'It would be strange if you didn't, sir,' said Tanner.

'Still,' Sykes put in, 'I'm glad to be getting away from Manston.'

'Yes,' said Peploe. He coughed. 'I'm sorry, Sykes, but would you mind giving me and Sergeant Tanner a moment?'

'Course, sir. Let me go and check how the lads are doing.' He raised his cigarette in acknowledgement and left them.

'Sorry about that, Tanner, but I feel we've barely spoken today, apart from to issue orders and so on.' He took off his cap and the breeze ruffled his unruly hair. 'I just wish we were leaving in better circumstances. This matter with the Poles, I promised we'd get to the bottom of it and I haven't been able to.'

'We couldn't have known we'd be sent to France so soon, sir.'

'Even so ...'

'I know, it doesn't seem right, but we've got other things to worry about now and the platoon to look after.'

'It's the thought that those responsible are with us here, on this ship. It makes my blood boil.'

'Maybe they're still in Manston, though, sir. Perhaps they weren't from our company, after all. Could have been RAF or the ack-ack lads.'

'I thought you were convinced CSM Blackstone was behind it.'

'I'm not so sure. I might have been wrong about that.'

'Why the change of heart?'

'I can't explain. Just a hunch. But the point is, sir, we know it's definitely not anyone from this platoon. If we make sure our men go about their business in the right way, we'll be fine.'

Peploe smiled. 'Perhaps you're right, Sergeant.'

Tanner flicked his cigarette into the sea. He wished he could believe what he'd just told the lieutenant. Perhaps the killers really were back in Manston, and perhaps the platoon could look after itself. Yet the unease that had accompanied him almost from the moment he had arrived at Manston had not left him. Rather, it had grown. A hunch, he had told Peploe, a sixth sense, some instinct he couldn't really explain but that had saved his neck on a number of occasions. The problem was, it was only telling him one thing: that up ahead lay trouble.