Free Darkest Hour by James Holland

'I'm
improving by the minute.'
    He was older than Timpke by five or six years, with a
square, unrefined face that Timpke had always felt betrayed his upbringing in
the rougher suburbs of Munich. Timpke liked him well enough and considered him
a friend, even though he knew Knochlein looked up to him in a way that was,
frankly, a bit embarrassing. As with so many of Knochlein's age who had lived
through the hard years of the 1920s, Timpke had detected resentment at his
core. Poverty had forced him to abandon his schooling, and although he was no
fool - and certainly had a streak of ruthless cunning - Timpke knew he was
insecure about his lack of education. It was why the SS was so perfect for
Knochlein and others like him: an organization that gave its members a sense of
purpose and unity, rewarding performance rather than social standing.
    Timpke was peering through his binoculars at the
target, and smiled to himself. Not bad.
    'It's incredible news, isn't it?' said Knochlein.
    'What news?' said Timpke, immediately lowering them.
    'Haven't you heard? We've attacked France and the Low
Countries.'
    'Without us! Damn them. What happened?'
    'It's not entirely clear. The Luftwaffe have been busy, though.'
    Timpke's heart quickened. So it had started! He
glanced at his watch. 'Those supplies should be here soon.' He slung his rifle
over his shoulder. 'How can you be so relaxed, Fritz? Let's get going. We might
be ordered off at any moment.'
    The trucks began arriving back at the Kaserne just before eleven that morning, filled with
fresh supplies. Timpke sensed anticipation in the men, who were chattering and
laughing loudly, a new spring in their step. Vehicles were soon lining up,
engines rumbling, ready for the he move. The courtyard of the barracks was
crammed with trucks, troop-carriers, half-tracks, armoured cars and staff cars.
Behind the Kaserne yet more vehicles waited, as
well as the division's anti-aircraft guns, anti-tank guns and field guns, including
a dozen 150mm heavy howitzers. Timpke and Knochlein walked among them,
marvelling with pride that the division would be heading to France with more
than two thousand vehicles under its banner. A motorized infantry division
about to move.
    Timpke laughed and gripped Knochlein's shoulder.
'We'll show those Army bastards, and we'll show those French and Tommy soldiers
too.' Briefly he took off his cap, and admired the silver skull-and-crossbones
insignia - the death's head - emblazoned upon it, then fitted it back on his
well-groomed head. He smiled. 'We'll let them see what the Totenkopf is capable
of.'
    The news of the German offensive had made an immediate
impact at Manston, too. In Captain Barclay's office, Tanner had been dismissed,
albeit with a warning.
    'All right, Tanner,' said Barclay, 'you can get back
to your platoon. This matter will have to wait for the moment. There are more
pressing things to attend to now.'
    'And what about my car?' asked Lyell.
    'For God's sake, Charlie,' Barclay snapped, 'how
should I know? Get it to a garage and see what they say. Damn it, we've got a
war to fight now.'
    Lyell shoved back his chair angrily and made to leave
with Granby. Tanner opened the door for them, but as Lyell passed him, he
stopped and jabbed him in the chest with a finger. 'I'll be sending you the
bill, Sergeant. You might have been saved for now, but I shan't forget about
this.'
    Not for the first time Tanner had to bite his tongue.
Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to wipe the arrogant snarl
from the man's face and knock him out cold. He wouldn't forget the incident
either, but he had long ago learned that patience was indeed a virtue. One day,
he assured himself, his chance would come, and then he would teach the man a
lesson.
    He started to leave but Peploe stopped him. 'A moment,
Sergeant,' he said, then turned back to Barclay. 'What about the murders, sir?'
    Barclay sighed wearily. 'If they were murders, Peploe.
What about them?'
    'As the duty