'You mean you don't want one of mine.' Blackstone sighed. 'Jack, can't you tell I'm trying to be friendly? Come on - let's have no hard feelings. It was a long time ago now. Let bygones be bygones, eh?'
Tanner still said nothing. Blackstone stopped and offered him his packet of cigarettes again. 'Come on, Jack. Have a smoke. Water under the bridge, eh?'
They were now at the parade-ground. A platoon of men was being drilled on the far side, the sergeant barking orders. Tanner looked at Blackstone, then at the packet of cigarettes being held out towards him. Briefly he considered taking one.
'Look here, Jack,' said Blackstone, 'we're at war now. We can't be at each other's throats.'
'Agreed,' said Tanner, 'but that doesn't mean I have to like you.'
The smile fell from Blackstone's face.
'A few pleasantries and the offer of a smoke,' Tanner continued, 'and you think I'll roll over. But I was never that easily bought, Sergeant-Major. Trust and respect have to be earned. You prove to me that you're different from the bastard I knew in India, then I'll gladly take your bloody cigarette and shake your hand.'
Blackstone stared at him, his jaw set. 'Listen to you!' he said. 'Who the hell do you think you are? I offer you an olive branch and you have the nerve to spit in my face.'
'Don't give me that crap. What the hell did you expect? You listen to me. Whether we like it not, we're both here, and for the sake of the company I'll work with you, but don't expect me to like you and don't expect me to trust you. Not until you've proved to me that you've changed. Now, I thought you were taking me to see the OC so let's bloody get on with it.'
Blackstone laughed mirthlessly. 'Oh dear,' he said. 'You always were an obstinate beggar. I can promise you this much, though, Jack. It's really not worth getting on the wrong side of me. It wasn't back then, and it certainly isn't now.'
'Just as I thought,' snarled Tanner. 'You haven't changed.'
'You're making a big mistake, Jack,' said Blackstone, slowly. 'Believe me - a very big mistake.'
Chapter 2
By the time he reached Manston Squadron Leader Lyell was already in a bad mood, but his spirits fell further when he saw the wagons dousing the flames of Robson's Hurricane - or, rather, what was left of it: the fuselage was nothing more than a crumpled black skeleton. Then, clambering out of the cockpit, he saw Cartwright, his rigger, examining what was evidently damage along his own fuselage.
'Don't worry, sir,' said Cartwright. 'Only a couple of bullet holes.'
'I didn't notice any difference,' Lyell muttered.
'No - looks like they went clean through. Soon patch that up.'
'What about Robson?'
'Believe he's all right, sir. His kite didn't blow until he was well clear.'
'That's something, then.' He began to head back, but Smith, his fitter, called after him.
'Did you get it, sir? The Dornier?'
Lyell stopped. 'Put it this way, Smith, I doubt very much that it will have made France.' As he walked on across the grass, he decided to continue with the lie, but it did little to improve his mood or assuage the humiliation and anger he felt at having been foxed by a lone German reconnaissance plane. Christ, how many times had they practised their aerial attacks? Almost every day since the war began! Each attack procedure had been assiduously drilled into every pilot, yet the first time they had tried the Number One Attack - which was also the most straightforward - it had failed hopelessly. He had been thrown by the Dornier's return fire, but what had really shocked him was the ineffectiveness of the .303 Browning bullets. Was it the range, or their velocity? He wasn't sure. And his ammunition had run dry so quickly. Fifteen seconds had always seemed a reasonable amount during gunnery practice, but in the heat of combat, it had gone by in a trice. Had their training been wrong or were the German aircrew simply better?
As he neared the dispersal hut he saw Dennison, the intelligence officer, hovering by the doorway, itching to ask him about the sortie. Lyell felt a further flash of irritation.
'So what happened, Skip?' Dennison asked as Lyell dropped his flying helmet into a deck-chair in front of the wooden hut.
'Did you get the bastard?' asked Granby, the commander of B Flight.
'I caught up with him, all right,' Lyell told them. The other pilots were also listening now. 'He was a wily sod, though, making the most of the cloud. Still, I managed to get in a couple of bursts and I'm pretty sure I knocked out his port engine. Must have got the rear-gunner too because he shut up shop pretty quickly. Anyway, she was losing height and trailing a fair amount of smoke when she disappeared into a large bank of cloud.'
'Probably in the Channel by now, then,' said Granby.
'I'd have thought so.' Lyell glanced up at the almost perfectly clear sky above them. 'Bloody weather. Why couldn't it have been like this all the way to France?' He looked at Dennison. 'Don't worry,' he said to the IO, 'I know we can't claim it.' He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled and said, 'I hear Robbo's all right.'
'Bloody lucky,' said Granby. 'Another few seconds and, well, I hate to think.'
Reynolds, the adjutant, now approached Dispersal. 'Station commander wants to see you, sir,' he told Lyell.
Lyell sighed. 'I'm sure he does.' He ran his hands through his hair. 'I think we should have a few drinks tonight.' He addressed this comment to Granby, but it was meant for all of the pilots. 'We should celebrate Robbo's narrow escape, commiserate over the loss of a Hurricane and raise a glass to our first almost-kill.'
'Hear, hear,' said Granby.
'And I don't mean in the mess. Let's go out.' He turned to the adjutant. 'Come on, then,' he said. 'Better face the music.'
Tanner had followed Blackstone to a brick office building at the far side of the parade-ground. In silence they walked up a couple of steps and through the main door, then along a short corridor. Blackstone stopped at a thin wooden door, knocked lightly and walked in.
'Ah, there you are, CSM,' said the dark-haired captain from behind his desk. 'And this must be Sergeant Tanner.'
'Yes, sir,' said Blackstone.
Tanner stood to attention and saluted, while Blackstone ambled over to a battered armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, taking out another cigarette as he did so. Tanner watched with barely concealed incredulity. Jesus. He was surprised that the captain should tolerate such behaviour.
'At ease,' said the captain. He was, Tanner guessed, about thirty, with fresh, ruddy cheeks, immaculately groomed hair and a trim moustache. Beside Tanner, sitting stiffly on a wooden chair in front of the desk, was a young subaltern. The room smelled of wood and stale tobacco. It was simply furnished and only lightly decorated: a coat of whitewash, a map of southern England hanging behind the desk, a metal filing cabinet and a hat-stand, on which hung a respirator bag, tin hat and service cap.
'I understand you know the CSM,' said Barclay, taking his pipe from his mouth.
'Yes, sir.'
'In India together?'
'Yes, sir. With the Second Battalion.'