'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.