Darkest Hour Read Free Page A

remember the chalk ridges, the woods on the farm, the clear trout
stream, the houses of thatch, cob and flint. But both his parents were gone,
and dark events from his past ensured there could be no going back.
    He sighed. Long ago, he had resigned himself to exile,
but it still saddened him. That long train journey south from Leeds: too much
time to think, to remember. Tanner chided himself silently. No point in getting bloody maudlin. What he needed was a
distraction. Activity. It was, he realized, barely a week since they had
returned from Norway yet already he felt as though he had been kicking his
heels for too long.
    Soon after, he dozed off, the others' chatter a
soporific background noise that lulled him to sleep. He was awake again,
however, the moment his subconscious brain heard a new voice in the hut - a
distinctive one: a deep, yet soft Yorkshire accent that was strangely familiar.
    'Morning, gents,' Tanner heard, followed by a squeak
of springs and the clatter of boots on the wooden floor as the men stood
quickly to attention. Tanner swung his legs off the bed.
    'All right, lads,' said the newcomer. 'As you were.'
    Tanner's eyes widened in shock. A big, stocky man of
nearly his own height stood in the doorway. 'The bright sun behind cast his
face in shadow, but Tanner would have known him anywhere. Blackstone. Jesus. He groaned inwardly. That was all he
needed.
    Blackstone stared at him, then winked and turned back
to the others. 'Welcome to Manston, lads,' he said, 'and to T Company of the
First Battalion.' He had a lean face, with deep lines running across his brow
and between his nose and mouth. He was in his mid-thirties, with thick sandy
hair that showed beneath his field cap.
    'I'm Company Sergeant-Major Blackstone,' he said.
'Captain Barclay is the officer commanding of this training company, but as
far as you lot are concerned, I'm the one who runs the show. So if I were you
I'd try to keep in my good books. It's better that way, isn't it, Sergeant?
Then everything can be nice and harmonious.' He grinned at Tanner. 'Now,' he
continued, 'I'm going to take Sergeant Tanner here away with me for a bit.
Later on you'll meet your platoon commander and be shown about the place. For
the moment, though, stay here and get your kit together. All right?' He smiled
at them again, pointed the way to Tanner and said, 'See you later, boys.'
    Outside, he said, 'Well, well, my old friend Jack
Tanner. Fancy us ending up here like this.'
    'Fancy,' muttered Tanner. 'You recovered, then.'
    'Oh yes, Jack. You can't keep a good man like me down
for long.' He chuckled. 'I'm taking you to see the OC.' He took out a packet of
Woodbines and offered one to Tanner. 'Smoke?'
    'No thanks, sir.'
    'Don't tell me you've given up the beadies, Jack.'
    'I just don't want one at the moment.'
    '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