Darkest Hour Read Online Free PDF Page B

we do get to join the BEF we
might be of some use.' He glanced around the men. 'You'll meet the rest of the
platoon on the parade-ground at four o'clock - or, rather, I should say,
sixteen hundred hours - and then we'll be heading off to Kingsgate for some
coastal guard duty. Right - now I need to know who you are.' He stepped from
the doorway into the hut and approached each man in turn, shaking hands and
reiterating how glad he was to have them serving under him. Then he spoke
briefly with Tanner, straightened his cap, and left them to it once more.
    Sykes came over to Tanner, who had made a beeline for
his pack. 'He seems all right. So did the CSM for that matter.'
    'Mr Peploe's fine,' agreed Tanner. 'It's early days but
I'd say he was a good bloke.'
    Sykes thought a moment, conscious that the sergeant
had made no mention of CSM Blackstone. He hadn't known Tanner long - a few
weeks only - but he believed a friendship had been forged in Norway, founded on
mutual trust and respect, and developed during a difficult trek through the
snow and the mountains. The enemy had dogged their every move yet they had made
it to safety, rejoining the rest of the British forces as the final evacuation
was taking place. In many ways they were very different, both physically and in
character, but although neither had ever spoken of it, Sykes had recognized
early that they shared one thing in common. Both were outsiders among these
Yorkshiremen, and there was a tacit understanding of this between them: while
most of the Yorkshire Rangers were drawn from the northern cities of Leeds and
Bradford, Tanner was a countryman from the south-west and Sykes a working-class
boy from
    Deptford in south London. And these differences
revealed themselves every time they spoke - Tanner with his soft south-western
burr, Sykes with a Cockney lilt.
    'And the CSM?' he asked.
    Tanner said nothing.
    'Sarge?' Sykes persisted.
    Tanner stopped fiddling with his pack and turned to
him. 'Let's just say there's some history between us.'
    'Before the war?'
    'Yes - in India. He may seem a right charmer, but take
a piece of advice. Watch how you tread with him around, Stan.'
    'All right, Sarge. I'll bear that in mind.' For a
moment, he thought about asking what that history was exactly, then dismissed
the idea. He already knew Tanner well enough to sense he would get no more out
of him now. Eventually, though, he would get to the bottom of it. He promised
himself that.
    It was around one a.m. on the morning of Friday, 10
May, when Stanislaw Torwinski woke to find a hand pressed hard across his
mouth, a hand that smelled of old tobacco and oil. No sooner had he opened his
eyes to the almost pitch dark of the hut than two more hands grabbed his
shoulders and dragged him out of his bed. He tried to speak, but the hand
across his mouth merely pressed harder.
    There were only three of them in the hut, the overflow
from more than a hundred of their compatriots who were housed in identical huts
alongside. More Poles were on their way to join them, they had been told, but
in the two weeks since they had first arrived at Manston, it had remained just
the three of them.
    Torwinski was conscious of Ormicki and Kasprowicz
struggling too. As his eyes adjusted, he was aware of a faint hint of light from
the open door, then a voice said, 'Get dressed,' and a torch was briefly turned
on, shining at the clothes laid out on the empty bed next to his own. The hand
released his mouth.
    'Tell the other two, but otherwise don't say a word,
understand?' The unmistakable muzzle of a pistol was thrust into his side.
    Torwinski nodded again, then spoke in Polish. 'What do
you want with us?' he said, conscious of the tremor in his voice. A fist
pounded into his face and he gasped.
    'I told you not to speak,' said the same voice again.
'Now get dressed.'
    Torwinski did as he was ordered. Quivering fingers
fumbled at buttons. His head felt light, his brain disoriented. There were
several men, but how