Darkest Hour Read Free

years'
overseas service. Having been issued with new kit, he had gone straight to the
Royal Armoury where he had had a gunsmith mill and fit two mounts and pads for
an Aldis telescopic sight. They were discreet enough and few people had noticed
- no one in authority, at any rate, not that he imagined they would say much
about it even if they did. The scope had been his father's during the last war
and Tanner had carried it with him throughout his army career. Although he had
never attempted to become an army sniper, he had certainly sniped, and on
several occasions the Aldis had proved a godsend. Slinging the rifle and his kitbag
onto his shoulder, he followed the others into the hut.
    Jack Tanner was twenty-four, although his weatherworn
and slightly battered face made him appear a bit older. He was tall - more than
six foot - with dark hair, pale, almost grey eyes and a nose that was slightly
askew. He had spent almost his entire army career in India and the Middle East
with the 2nd Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, even though he was a
born and bred Wiltshireman. This last Christmas he had finally returned to England.
Home leave, it had been called, not that he had had a home to return to any
more. He had not seen the village where he had been brought up for over eight
years. A lifetime ago. He wished he could
return but that was not possible and so he had spent the time in Yorkshire
instead, helping a gamekeepeer on an estate in the Dales; it had reminded him
how much he missed that life. Four weeks later he had presented himself at
Regimental Headquarters in Leeds and been told, to his dismay, that he would not
be going back to Palestine. Instead he had been posted to bolster the fledgling
Territorial 5th Battalion as they prepared for war. In Norway, the Territorials
had been decimated; Tanner and his five men, along with a few others, were all
that remained of the 5th Battalion. A fair number were dead, but most were now
either in German hospitals or on their way to a prison camp.
    Tanner had hoped he might be allowed back to the 2nd
Battalion now, but the regimental adjutant had had other ideas. The 1st
Battalion was with the BEF in France; new recruits were being hurried through
training and sent south to guard the coast. Men of his experience had an
important part to play - all the veterans of Norway did. The 2nd Battalion
would have to do without him for a while longer. Forty-eight hours' leave. That
was all he and his men had had. The others had gone home, to their families in
Leeds and Bradford, or in Bell's case to his family farm near Pateley Bridge,
while Tanner and Sykes had got drunk for one day and recovered the next.
    The hut was more than half empty. Just ten narrow
Macdonald iron beds and palliasses were laid out along one wall, but otherwise
it was bare. Tape had been crisscrossed over each window. Tanner slung his
kitbag beside the bed nearest the door, then lay down and took out another
cigarette.
    'What are we supposed to do now, Sarge?' asked
Hepworth.
    'Put our feet up until someone tells us where we're to
go,' Tanner replied. He lit his cigarette, then closed his eyes. He was
conscious of another Hurricane landing - the engine sound was so distinctive. Bloody airfield and coastal guard duty , he thought. Jesus. He told himself to be thankful for it. They had
escaped from Norway by the skin of their teeth so a soft job would do him and
the others good. In any case, the war wasn't going to end any time soon, that
much was clear. Their chance would come. Yet part of him yearned to rejoin his
old mates in Palestine. For him, England was an alien place; he had spent too
long overseas, in the heat, dust and monsoon rains of India, and the arid
desert of the Middle East. Before that he had only ever known one small part of
England, and that was the village of Alvesdon and the valley of his childhood.
He still missed it, even after all these years. Often, when he closed his eyes,
he would