The Darkest Hour A Novel
Dedication
For my Mum and Dad, sorry you never got to read it,
and for Boo, thanks for keeping me warm when I was cold
Epigraph
We do not yet know what will happen in France or whether the French resistance will be prolonged, both in France and in the French Empire overseas. The French Government will be throwing away great opportunities and casting adrift their future if they do not continue the war in accordance with their Treaty obligations, from which we have not felt able to release them. The House will have read the historic declaration in which, at the desire of many Frenchmen, and of our own hearts, we have proclaimed our willingness to conclude at the darkest hour in French history a union of common citizenship. However matters may go in France or with the French Government or with another French Government, we in this island and in the British Empire will never lose our sense of comradeship with the French people. If we are now called upon to endure what they have suffered we shall emulate their courage . . .
I expect that the battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL, HOUSE OF COMMONS, JUNE 18, 1940
Acknowledgments
I USED TO THINK that being a writer would be a lonely job; well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’m a lucky man, and this page will show you why.
I really couldn’t have written this book without the nudging encouragement of the fabulously talented Tracey Edges, her chivvying kept me working away when I was struggling to see the point. You should buy one of her paintings and give her the platform she deserves. Two others who were there at the beginning are Mary and Kenny; they kept knocking on my door asking me for more, and they helped push me on when I wasn’t sure if I could do it.
Sweeney, Terry, Jimmy, and Barry, four likely lads who stood by me when it was dark, who held me up, never doubted, and were always there. You’d be lucky to have one of these in your life; I’m not sure I deserve four. Thanks, lads.
Col Bury, a brilliant writer and a brilliant guy, living proof that there are people out there who will help another for no other reason than they can. You changed my life, mate; it’s as simple as that.
Ian Collins, Cash Peters, Jo Hughes, and Jane “StooshPR” Buchanan; early believers who encouraged me and helped spread the word.
Angie Sammons, who opened the door of my cab and led me to a new life. She taught me a lot and occasionally gets me drunk; a special friend who started the ball rolling.
Nat Sobel and the amazing, patient people at my agency Sobel Weber. They put up with the stupid emails and daft jokes and never complain, they never lose patience and they teach me a lot. I’m a very lucky man to have Nat as an agent. They invented the saying “carrot and stick” for the legend that is Nat; he’s perfected it to the extent that he is now able to hit me with both items simultaneously, and I’m very grateful that he does.
The team at HarperCollins and William Morrow: David Highfill, Jessica Williams, and everyone else there behind the scenes. You made the magic happen, you made the dreams come true and the sun come out. You guys changed my life; I hope I don’t let you down. Thank you.
There are so many others I should thank: my sister Denise, my brother Philip, John, Tony, Ian, Tracey, etc. This list would be longer than the book if I was to add the name of every person who helped me, encouraged me, and loved me. Rest assured if you’re not here and you helped—I love you and thank you for putting up with the selfishness that comes with writing. Christina, I’m looking at you.
Finally, the most important people, the men, women, and children who fought and died in the darkest hours mankind has ever known. Your sacrifice inspired and gave us all a free voice.
I hope I’ve used it well.
Tony Schumacher
Liverpool
July 2014
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
IT WAS THE dream with the blood.
So much blood.
Pouring from a wound he couldn’t find, covering his hands, making them so wet he couldn’t open his tunic. No matter how hard he tried to grip, his hands slipped and splashed in the blood.
Around him crowded gray faces, leaning and towering, looking down as he looked up, slipping and splashing, coughing and choking; he looked down for the wound and then back up at the faces.
He surfaced in his bed.
John Henry Rossett listened to the rain lashing against the window. Panic over, sleep long deserted, he listened to the rain outside and pretended.
He pretended nothing had changed and that the world was the one he’d known back when he was a boy. A boy curled under the covers listening to his father toss damp coal on the kitchen fire after a night shift. On mornings like this, if he closed his eyes and tried, he could hear the studded work boots clattering across the backyard with the clang of the dirty metal bucket coming to rest on the cobbles.
Long ago now.
Before the blood.
Before the gray faces.
A gust elbowed the window and more rain rattled on the glass like tossed gravel. Rossett shivered and opened half an eye to look at the clock on the wooden chair next to his bed.
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