waited for all the men in the platoon to board
before he went up the gangplank. As he stepped on deck, Ellis grinned. 'So this
is it, then, Sarge. We're finally off. I can't believe we'll be in France in
just a few hours.'
'Maybe a bit longer than that,' said Tanner.
Ellis looked at him quizzically. 'I thought it was
only twenty miles or so across. That can't take very long.'
'Nor does it. But we haven't set off yet, have we?
Trust me, Billy, there's always a lot of hanging around at port. We won't be
going anywhere for hours.'
His prediction proved correct. Tanner made the most of
the delay by catching up on his sleep, as did Sykes and some of the other more
experienced men. He was glad of the chance. Not only was he tired, his head
still throbbed. He had seen the MO that morning. The doctor had seemed to
accept his story about having been hit as someone opened the door of a truck
and merely warned him to wear his tin helmet more often. The wound had needed
four stitches, all of which were neatly hidden by his thick dark hair.
When he awoke a couple of hours later, his headache
had all but gone, but the ship was still tied firmly to the quayside. When they
had not left by three thirty, frustration mounted, even in Tanner. The delay,
it seemed, was caused by a missing convoy of Guy Ant fifteen-hundredweight
general-service trucks. It was four o'clock when at last they arrived, and half
an hour later the ship let go its moorings and inched out of Ramsgate harbour.
Tanner had few superstitions, but he liked to be out
on deck when a ship left port and now he stood, the gulls circling, to watch
the cliffs and the neat little streets shrink before him. A light, soothing
breeze brushed his face.
England always looked so unmistakably English, he
thought - the sheer, white cliffs, the rows of terraced houses, the patchwork
of high-hedged fields. The quiet order.
'Looks pretty, don't it, Sarge?' said Sykes, appearing
at his side. Then without waiting for a reply, he said, 'How's the head?'
'Not too bad. The stitches itch a bit.' He touched the
hard scab and the loose end of the thread. 'You seen the CQS yet today?'
'He came down with the trucks. So no.'
Tanner thought for a moment. 'Tell me again, Stan, you
did hear voices in the store last night, didn't you?'
'Yes, but it wasn't much and it was quite low. I'm not
sure I could identify anyone from what I heard. But it did sound like a
Yorkshire accent.'
'Could have been anyone from up north - there's
probably Yorkshiremen in the ack-ack units and in the RAF as well as our lot.'
Tanner felt for his cigarettes. 'Damn it, Stan. Damn those bloody bastards.
We're never going to nail them, are we?'
Sykes shrugged. 'Don't know, Sarge. If we keep our
wits about us .. .'
Tanner tapped one end of his packet of cigarettes. He
offered one to Sykes, then placed another between his lips. Turning out of the
breeze to cup a match, he had just successfully lit his cigarette when
Lieutenant Peploe joined them.
'I suppose you two are old hands at this sort of
thing.' He pulled out his own cigarettes.
'I wouldn't say that, sir,' said Sykes. 'Only the
second time for me. That last trip was a bit hairy, wasn't it, Sarge? I hope we
don't get another torpedo.'
'You were torpedoed?' said Peploe, bleakly.
'Not us, sir, no. A supply ship. We lost most of our
kit, guns and transport. But we'll be all right. Be in Calais before you know
it.'
Peploe gazed at the shrinking English coastline. 'I
know people have been doing this for centuries, but it's quite a thing to find
oneself a part of it - you know, leaving home and heading off to war. I don't
mind admitting I feel apprehensive.'
'It would be strange if you didn't, sir,' said Tanner.
'Still,' Sykes put in, 'I'm glad to be getting away
from Manston.'
'Yes,' said Peploe. He coughed. 'I'm sorry, Sykes, but
would you mind giving me and Sergeant Tanner a moment?'
'Course, sir. Let me go and check how the lads are
doing.' He raised his
before he went up the gangplank. As he stepped on deck, Ellis grinned. 'So this
is it, then, Sarge. We're finally off. I can't believe we'll be in France in
just a few hours.'
'Maybe a bit longer than that,' said Tanner.
Ellis looked at him quizzically. 'I thought it was
only twenty miles or so across. That can't take very long.'
'Nor does it. But we haven't set off yet, have we?
Trust me, Billy, there's always a lot of hanging around at port. We won't be
going anywhere for hours.'
His prediction proved correct. Tanner made the most of
the delay by catching up on his sleep, as did Sykes and some of the other more
experienced men. He was glad of the chance. Not only was he tired, his head
still throbbed. He had seen the MO that morning. The doctor had seemed to
accept his story about having been hit as someone opened the door of a truck
and merely warned him to wear his tin helmet more often. The wound had needed
four stitches, all of which were neatly hidden by his thick dark hair.
When he awoke a couple of hours later, his headache
had all but gone, but the ship was still tied firmly to the quayside. When they
had not left by three thirty, frustration mounted, even in Tanner. The delay,
it seemed, was caused by a missing convoy of Guy Ant fifteen-hundredweight
general-service trucks. It was four o'clock when at last they arrived, and half
an hour later the ship let go its moorings and inched out of Ramsgate harbour.
Tanner had few superstitions, but he liked to be out
on deck when a ship left port and now he stood, the gulls circling, to watch
the cliffs and the neat little streets shrink before him. A light, soothing
breeze brushed his face.
England always looked so unmistakably English, he
thought - the sheer, white cliffs, the rows of terraced houses, the patchwork
of high-hedged fields. The quiet order.
'Looks pretty, don't it, Sarge?' said Sykes, appearing
at his side. Then without waiting for a reply, he said, 'How's the head?'
'Not too bad. The stitches itch a bit.' He touched the
hard scab and the loose end of the thread. 'You seen the CQS yet today?'
'He came down with the trucks. So no.'
Tanner thought for a moment. 'Tell me again, Stan, you
did hear voices in the store last night, didn't you?'
'Yes, but it wasn't much and it was quite low. I'm not
sure I could identify anyone from what I heard. But it did sound like a
Yorkshire accent.'
'Could have been anyone from up north - there's
probably Yorkshiremen in the ack-ack units and in the RAF as well as our lot.'
Tanner felt for his cigarettes. 'Damn it, Stan. Damn those bloody bastards.
We're never going to nail them, are we?'
Sykes shrugged. 'Don't know, Sarge. If we keep our
wits about us .. .'
Tanner tapped one end of his packet of cigarettes. He
offered one to Sykes, then placed another between his lips. Turning out of the
breeze to cup a match, he had just successfully lit his cigarette when
Lieutenant Peploe joined them.
'I suppose you two are old hands at this sort of
thing.' He pulled out his own cigarettes.
'I wouldn't say that, sir,' said Sykes. 'Only the
second time for me. That last trip was a bit hairy, wasn't it, Sarge? I hope we
don't get another torpedo.'
'You were torpedoed?' said Peploe, bleakly.
'Not us, sir, no. A supply ship. We lost most of our
kit, guns and transport. But we'll be all right. Be in Calais before you know
it.'
Peploe gazed at the shrinking English coastline. 'I
know people have been doing this for centuries, but it's quite a thing to find
oneself a part of it - you know, leaving home and heading off to war. I don't
mind admitting I feel apprehensive.'
'It would be strange if you didn't, sir,' said Tanner.
'Still,' Sykes put in, 'I'm glad to be getting away
from Manston.'
'Yes,' said Peploe. He coughed. 'I'm sorry, Sykes, but
would you mind giving me and Sergeant Tanner a moment?'
'Course, sir. Let me go and check how the lads are
doing.' He raised his
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