Darkest Hour by James Holland

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