Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  Barclay,' he said, as he reached Peploe and Tanner.

  The two men followed him. Barclay, Captain Wrightson and CSM Blackstone were standing in the shade of the station house, examining a rough, hand- drawn map. Blackstone looked up briefly at their arrival, then, once the others had arrived, turned to Barclay. 'Everyone's here, sir.'

  Except Sergeant Wilkes, thought Tanner, with a stab of alarm.

  'Good,' said the captain, then cleared his throat. 'We're going to dig in along these banks from here to that farm up ahead on the bend in the canal.' Set back from the water, it was some five hundred yards away from where they were standing. Tanner noticed there were troops there. 'That farm,' said Barclay, 'marks the end of the BEF's line and the start of the French First Army. It's currently occupied by a battalion of the Second North African Infantry Division. Ten Platoon will dig in on our left, here, towards the village, Eleven Platoon in the centre and Twelve between them and the French.' He looked at Lieutenant Peploe. 'But try to avoid the French. I know we're allies, but we do our thing and they do theirs. What's more, their men are all bloody wogs, and apparently even the officers are a shifty bunch, hardly to be relied upon. Spoke to a chap back in the village - a major in A Company, actually - who says the French First Army have been an absolute bloody shower so far. One of the main reasons we're making a general withdrawal is because their part of the line collapsed as soon as Jerry showed up.' He tapped the side of his nose. 'But that's strictly entre nous, all right?' He looked at the men then said, 'Good. All clear? Any questions?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Peploe. 'How long are we expected to stay here?'

  'Not long. We're not quite sure where Jerry is, so I can't say for certain, but probably we'll fall back tonight. We'll be taking up the rear once the rest of the corps arc clear. Anything else?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Peploe.

  Barclay made little attempt to hide his impatience. 'Yes, Lieutenant?'

  'Last night, sir, you said that one of our sergeants would be joining B Company.'

  'Yes, Lieutenant, and so they have.'

  Tanner felt a hollowness in his stomach. So I was right. The bloody bastards.

  'But, sir, Sergeant Tanner is the most experienced sergeant in the company by some margin. That posting should be his.'

  'Careful, Peploe,' said Barclay. 'It's not your place to tell me who gets promoted from this company.' He shuffled his feet. 'There are a few question marks over Sergeant Tanner. That episode back at Manston, for example - shooting at Squadron Leader Lyell. And last night, I hear, he seriously undermined the authority of the CSM.'

  Tanner groaned inwardly, saw Peploe glance at him - what's this? - and then, to his mounting fury, Blackstone grinning at him triumphantly. Of course. He should have known Blackstone would use that to his advantage.

  'Now how would it look, Lieutenant, if I recommend a sergeant to join B Company as a newly promoted platoon sergeant-major and they find they've got a trouble-maker on their hands? Hm?'

  Tanner watched Peploe's pale face redden with indignation. 'Very well, sir, but I'd like it made clear here and now that I do not believe Sergeant Tanner is a trouble-maker of any kind and that I, for one, am glad to have him in my platoon. I think he's been treated appallingly.'

  Tanner looked at his feet, embarrassed by Peploe's impassioned outburst.

  'That's enough, Peploe,' said Captain Wrightson.

  'Yes,' added Barclay. 'I've made my decision and that's an end to it. Now, get to your men and start digging in right away.'

  As they walked back, Peploe said, 'I'm sorry, Tanner. That's a bloody outrage.'

  'Thank you for standing by me, sir. I appreciate it.'

  'It's wrong, Tanner. Quite wrong. The man's a first- rate arse.' He tugged at his mop of thick hair. 'Shouldn't be saying things like that to you, I know, but it's true.'

  Tanner could think of stronger words, but kept them to himself. Instead he said, 'We've got a platoon of good lads, sir.'

  'That's true enough.' He looked at Tanner. 'Do you mind me asking what happened last night between you and the CSM?'

  Tanner told him. Peploe listened. Then he said, 'Well, Sergeant, I'm sorry, and between you and me, I think you were probably right. I know I like the odd glass, but I'm sure the men would have got themselves drunk. If it's any consolation at all, though, I meant what I said back there. I'm glad you're still with us. I fancy we've got a testing time ahead.'

  Tanner agreed. He had said nothing to the lieutenant but the scenes of retreat were horribly familiar to him. True, there were more vehicles than there had ever been in Norway, but the expressions on the faces of the men were those he had seen a few weeks before: fed up, resigned, exhausted. Men whose confidence in their commanders had been shaken.

  A roar of aero-engines made him look up. Above, a dozen German bombers, no more than eight thousand feet high, were droning over, seemingly unchallenged. And that was another thing, thought Tanner. Once more the Luftwaffe appeared to rule the sky. He'd seen barely a French or British plane since they had arrived in France. He had never thought too much about air power, but he reckoned he had seen enough to know one thing: that whoever ruled the sky would probably win the battle on the ground. Sighing heavily, he pushed back his helmet and wiped his brow. The lieutenant was surely right. Things did not look good.

  Although fanner had seen few Allied aircraft, they had been operating in the skies above since the Germans had made their move a week before. In fact, together the RAF and French Army of the Air had many more aircraft than the Luftwaffe. However, most of these were either back in England or scattered over France, so that at the front, the Germans did have superior numbers, and especially in the northern sector operating over Flanders. Not only that, all too many French and British aircraft that had been available had already been shot down and even more destroyed on the ground; which was why at first light that morning, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell had learned that 632 Squadron would, from now on, be one of six Hurricane squadrons that would fly daily to an airfield in France and there operate alongside what remained of the RAF's Air Component.

  Lyell had led the squadron over to Vitry-en-Artois in northern France where 607 Squadron were already operating. Pandemonium had greeted them. Shortly before their arrival, the Luftwaffe had paid a call so that as the squadron circled over the battered airfield, plumes of thick smoke were still rising into the sky. The grass runway was pockmarked with bomb craters, full of soil and pulverized chalk. As Lyell turned in to land he could see the remains of a Hurricane still burning furiously, its blackening wings spread out against the ground, its fuselage nothing more than a fragile skeleton. He had hoped he had sounded confident and authoritative - nonchalant, even - when he warned the others to mind out for craters, but his heart had been pounding and his breathing had quickened. Christ, he had thought. It was not what he had imagined at all.

  No sooner had they refuelled than they had been sent back into the air, ordered to patrol a line 'Louvain- Namur'. Armed only with a rough map, he had led the squadron of two flights north-east over Belgium, uncertain whether or not they were in the right place.

  Nonetheless, having climbed to fourteen thousand feet he had spotted what he thought must be Mons and Charleroi, two grey stains among the green patchwork of Flanders, and had then turned due east. It was just as he was leading the squadron towards what he hoped was Namur that Sergeant Durnley had spotted a formation of two dozen Stukas emerging from a large bank of white cloud. The enemy formation was heading west, away from them, and several thousand feet below. It had been almost too good to be true and Lyell had immediately led the squadron round and into line astern, then ordered a Number One Attack.

  The enemy dive-bombers spotted them too late, and although arcs of tracer fire curled up to meet Lyell as he led the attack, the aim had been wide and the bullets stuttered past harmlessly. The Stukas broke formation hurriedly, but they still provided rich pickings. Lyell was surprised by how slow and cumbersome they seeme
d. On his first pass he was certain he hit one and then, glancing behind to see the squadron still attacking in turn, spotted a lone Stuka banking hard to port so followed suit. His first burst of fire overshot, but on his second, now right behind it and closing faster than he had at first realized, the bullets struck home. Then, to his astonishment, the enemy machine exploded, disintegrating beside him as he sped past. Bits of aluminium clanged against his canopy, making him duck his head involuntarily.

  And another surprise: in a trice the immaculate attack formations they had practised over and over again had broken up into a swirling melee of aircraft and individual battles. Gone, too, was radio discipline as his pilots whooped and cursed, shouted and chattered, deafening screeches reverberating through Lyell's headset. Aircraft tumbled from the sky, with trails of smoke following them but, to his surprise, it appeared to clear of aircraft as quickly as it had filled. As Lyell banked again and tried to bring himself back into the fight, he found the sky almost deserted. He tried to call his squadron back together but it was no use: several of his pilots were now miles away. Deciding that the patrol would have to be forgotten, he ordered the squadron to make their way back to Vitry instead.

  He was one of the first to land. A sensation of intense exhilaration settled over him. That he had been responsible for the deaths of at least two people did not bother him, he was glad to discover, yet as he tried to light a cigarette on the way to Dispersal, he discovered his hands were shaking and his knees weak.

  The others returned in dribs and drabs. Two had flown halfway to the German border, it seemed. Derek Durnley, who had spotted the formation in the first place, had not returned at all, last seen heading east; Robson had got completely lost and had eventually rung through from Lille-Seclin, some twenty miles away from Vitry. Most claimed to have shot down at least one Stuka, and although 607's intelligence officer eventually accepted claims of just six confirmed kills, this did little to dampen the pilots' buoyant spirits.

  They had been due to fly back to Manston at noon, but with Durnley missing, Robson still grounded at Lille-Seclin and half of their Hurricanes still to be refuelled, rearmed and patched up, Lyell waited a while longer at the airfield. Robbo was finally back by half past two, but just as they were about to get going, a request reached Dispersal for another flight to provide top cover for a bombing mission on German positions east of Brussels. When Lyell was asked if 632 Squadron could help, he agreed immediately.

  Half an hour later, at nearly half past three that afternoon, he was conscious that the exhilaration had gone, replaced by a wave of fatigue and irritation. Rendezvous with the bombers - a flight of Blenheims - over Brussels at 1520 hours. Well, he could see what he assumed must be Brussels, but there was no sign of any Blenheims or, indeed, any bombers at all.

  'This is Nimbus Leader calling Bulldog Leader,' he said, over his R/T for the third time that minute. 'We're over RV at angels fourteen, over.' But still there was nothing. 'All right, boys,' he said to the others. 'This is Nimbus Leader. Make sure you keep your eyes peeled. Let's go round again. Over.'

  He pushed the stick over to port, the horizon swivelling, then pulled back, his stomach lurching as the Hurricane banked and began its turn. Looking round, he was pleased to note both Walker and Nicholls tucked in close behind him. Then he glanced downwards again, hoping to see a sign of the bombers - the familiar outline of the Blenheims, or the sun glinting on a canopy. He cursed. Where the hell were they?

  Lyell straightened and began to fly westwards again, the glare making him squint even through his tinted goggles. Looking back over his port wing, he glanced at the vic of Flying Officer Newton's Blue Section, some forty yards behind, and spotted the last man in the formation, Sergeant Baird, peel off and dive out of the formation, smoke trailing. Stunned, he hardly heard Newton's screech over the R/T as he shouted after his friend.

  A deafening crack, and despite the tightness of his Sutton harness, Lyell was pushed up out of his seat and smacked his head against the canopy. The choking smell of cordite filled the cockpit, as more cannon shells exploded. Jesus! He'd been hit, but where? Thrusting the stick to one side, he yanked it back into his stomach as a Messerschmitt 109 hurtled past.

  'Jesus Christ!' shouted Lyell. His mind froze. Christ, Christ, think! Panic coursed through him, and then his brain cleared. Turning the stick to starboard, he half rolled the aircraft and tried to dive out of the fray, but then a second burst raked his machine. A large chunk of his port wing was punched out and the control column was nearly knocked from his hand. Lyell gasped. Clutching the stick firmly again, he heard the engine splutter, felt the Hurricane lurch, then begin to dive. The engine screamed, the airframe shook and more smoke poured into the cockpit. The altimeter spun anticlockwise. Six thousand feet gone just like that! Grimacing into the rubber of his oxygen mask, Lyell gripped the stick with both hands, pressed hard on the rudder and dragged the stick back into his stomach until - thank God - the Hurricane levelled out.

  He pulled back the canopy. As he did so, the smoke rushed out, sucked into the clear air. Frantically, he looked around him. Ahead, away to the west, he could see contrails and tiny dots as aircraft wove and tumbled around the sky - but it seemed no Messerschmitt had chased him down. With cold sweat trickling down his neck, he glanced at the dials in front of him. Oil pressure falling, manifold pressure dropping: confirmation of what he already knew - his aircraft was dying. A deep, grinding sound came from the engine in front of him. It was losing power fast. 'Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus bloody Christ,' he said, despair sweeping over him. He was not sure what to do - try to glide towards home until the engine completely died, or bale out now? But he didn't want to bale out. The idea of leaping from his stricken aircraft terrified him. What to do?

  Lyell glanced in his mirror and jolted. A 109, like a giant hornet, flashed through his line of vision and, a second later, more bullets ripped through his fuselage, through the floor, between his legs, into the control panel and the underside of the engine cowling. With a loud crack, the engine gusted a new burst of black smoke and seized, the propeller whirring to a limp turn.

  'Oh, my God!' he cried. For a moment his mind was blank. He couldn't think what he was supposed to do. Ahead, the Messerschmitt was banking, circling again. His heart was thudding, his whole body trembling. He looked below to the never-ending patchwork of fields, woods and snaking silver rivers, and thought how far away they looked. I don't want to jump out, he thought, to plunge head first into an unknown sky.

  The aircraft was dropping. I haven't long, he thought, and glanced at his altimeter. Six thousand feet. He had to do it - he had to do it now. Trembling fingers. Radio leads, oxygen plugs, the clip on his Sutton harness. He closed his eyes, pushed the stick over and felt himself lift out of the seat, but as he began to slide out of the aircraft something caught and his head smashed against the gun- sight. Now the Hurricane was diving, falling almost vertically. Frantically, Lyell felt behind him, heard something tear and then he was tumbling free, the ground hurtling towards him. The ripcord, the ripcord. He grabbed it with his gloved hand and yanked. Please, he prayed. The wind was knocked out of him and his arms almost pulled from their sockets as the parachute opened. Thank God, he thought. Thank bloody God. He could see his Hurricane plunging towards the ground, impossibly small already. Any moment now, he thought, and there it was - a burst of bright orange light and the dull crump of an explosion. His face was wet - why? - and the ground was rushing towards him now. There was a river, and he wondered whether he would fall into the water. But, no, he was drifting on the far side of it, to fields that rose towards a wood. Lyell braced himself for the impact.

  The men of D Company, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, had watched the dogfight in the skies above them. Sergeant Tanner, sitting beside Corporal Sykes's freshly dug two-man slit trench, had looked up as soon as he had picked up the faint hum of aero-engines. Then, when he had heard the distant chatter of machine-guns and cannons, he had delved into his respirator b
ag and pulled out his binoculars, a pair of Zeiss brass Dienstglas 6x30, which he had taken from a German officer in Norway; it was about his only souvenir of that campaign. Admittedly they were a bit scratched, but he didn't mind too much about that; at least he no longer had to use his Aldis scope for this purpose.

  Although the platoon had dug in behind a line of thick bushes between the canal, a narrow brook and the railway, the view above was clear enough. Tanner had been watching the sky carefully for most of the day. 'That morning he had seen a number of enemy aircraft, mostly lone twin-engine machines he had recognized as aerial reconnaissance. They were, he knew, the harbingers of a forthcoming attack; it would not be long before German ground forces appeared over the crest of the hill facing them. And the enemy would want the skies cleared - no wonder they were trying to drive off the Allied planes now flying overhead.

  'Come on, get out . . . get out,' he muttered, as he followed a Hurricane spiralling from the sky. Nearby some spent cartridge cases tinkled as they fell into the trees behind them.

  'I reckon he's a croaker, Sarge,' said Sykes.

  'Well, he's certainly not going to get out now,' said Tanner. They lost sight of the Hurricane but a few moments later they heard the crash - a sharp crack followed by a dull boom. 'I tell you, I'm bloody glad I'm not flying around in those,' he added.