Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “Ha,” said Murphy with some relish. “Come up front, it’s worse. I’ll trade you.”

  “No deal,” cracked Todd. “You’re up front, that’s what we agreed.”

  The vibrations were not affecting how the bomber flew but it was a distinctly uncomfortable experience. Carter glanced at the port engine out of his window. Everything seemed fine, but the Vulture was like that. They could seduce you like a lover, make everything seem normal right up to the moment when they blew up on you.

  They were down to fifteen hundred feet when they made it to Ringway. Carter could have brained Woods. One glance told him that the place was not an operational station. A menagerie or aircraft were parked all over the place. There were Whitleys, Ansons, Oxfords, Beaufighters, Halifaxes and even some single engined aircraft in Coastal Command colours. A runway ran roughly south west to north east and there were hangars both north and south of it.

  Vos tried raising the tower but finding the right frequency was like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. They made a few circuits while Carter got the lay of the land. He dropped the undercarriage to signal his intentions. Someone fired off a green flare from the tower. Carter looked around but saw nothing else in the sky so assumed it was for him. He continued to descend as they circled and had one last look around to size up his approach. The windsock by the tower was stiff and pointing straight south. Carter grimaced, that would make it a crosswind landing, just one more thing to cope with.

  He had White drop the flaps and he came in from the south west. It was empty fields that side of the station, that way if anything happened and the engines did quit, they wouldn’t have to worry about crashing into houses when they tried to put her down.

  The vibration in the yoke was making his fingers tingle but he maintained control all the way. The wheels screeched as he thumped her down. It wasn’t his best landing but he didn’t care. They were down, style points cost nothing when you were nursing a sick aircraft. They turned off the runway and the bomber rocked as it rumbled over the grass. White pointed out two Manchester’s by a north side hangar and Carter taxied over to them. He killed the engines and hit the brakes when they got within one hundred yards.

  An assorted group of people came out of the hangars to look at this unexpected arrival. Some wore RAF blue, some wore brown factory workmen coats or other civilian clothing.

  “Everyone all right?” he asked as his crew assembled under their bombers nose.

  “Can I have a cushion to sit on?” asked Todd. “My bums gone numb.”

  “I’ll settle for a bath,” said White. He yawned and windmilled his arms. They watched as some of the men in brown coats walked towards them. One of them carried a clipboard and had that universally recognisable shop steward air.

  “Can we help you?” he asked. His voice was clipped, daring them to try and be amusing. Carter hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Sick kite. Had to put down somewhere and this was the first place we came across.”

  The man sucked on his teeth as he flicked a glance to their aircraft. Carter had seen this look before. His father had taken the family car to a garage before the war and the mechanic had taken one look and sucked on his teeth like that. Then he’d rubbed his chin, tipped his cap from the back of his head to the front and then whistled tonelessly. You could almost see the pounds and shillings sign rolling behind his eyes when he told his father how much it was going to cost.

  “Highly irregular,” the man said. He looked at them like they had come from the moon.

  Carter was starting to bristle. Bureaucratic little ticks like this wound him up. He was expecting him to say, don’t you know there’s a war on, next. A calming voice stopped any unpleasantness in its tracks.

  “All right, Stevens. Let’s get our guests a cup of tea and sort this out.”

  The officious older man nodded stiffly and spun on his heel, stalking off towards the hangar. That left them with the new arrival. Carter reckoned he was thirty odd. Dark hair was slicked back and a colourful silk scarf was wrapped around his throat. He walked towards them wearing a white shirt and Khaki officers pants. A battered pair of flying boots completed his look.

  “Welcome to Ringway. I’m, Andrews.”

  Carter made the introductions as Andrews looked up at their Manchester.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Andrews asked, looking at the Manchester with a critical eye. He spent his time flying factory fresh aircraft, it made a change to see an operational bird, even if it was broken.

  “Starboard engines running hot,” Carter told him. “Something else is up though. She was shaking fit to bust before we set down.”

  Andrews nodded, clearly interested.

  “Not to worry. Follow me, we’ll let your people know where you are and get this all sorted out.” He led them back to the nearest hangar.

  As they got closer, Carter saw the winged, triangular AVRO logo on the hangar above the doors. That explained the civilians in brown work coats but that was not what drew his eye. He looked at the second Manchester they had seen from the air. The fuselage was right, but it had a bigger wing and had four engines in streamlined nacelles instead of two Vultures. The underside was painted yellow and a yellow P in a circle was on the side of the fuselage. Carter had heard rumours a new version of the Manchester was on the way but this was the first time he had seen it. Andrews saw where Carter was looking and smiled. He was rather proud of her.

  “Ah, I might have to ask you all to sign a bit of paper about that; loose lips and all that.”

  They crossed the hangar and were shown in to an office. The older man held out a phone. Carter took it and asked to be put through to Amber Hill. He sat on the edge of the desk and swung his left leg back and forth while he waited. Andrews brought him a cup of tea and a sandwich and Carter nodded his thanks.

  The crew left him to deal with the call and went back outside. Undoing their bulky flying gear they leaned back against the side of the hangar. Todd wadded up his jacket and lay down, his forage cap covering his eyes.

  Ringway was a busy airfield. Since 1940, it had been the home of the No.1 Parachute Training School. No.14 Ferry Pool of the ATA also operated from there to deliver the hundreds of aircraft built by Fairey who were based on the north side of the airfield. They were awarding some returning Whitley’s marks out of ten for their landing when Carter returned from his phone call.

  Slurping on a fresh cup of tea he slumped down next to Woods and White who were playing chess on a small travel game set. Woods always carried one with him in his navigators bag, just in case.

  “What’s the news, skip?” he asked absently as he studied the board. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against his lips.

  “Bloody shambles. It’ll be tomorrow before they get some mechanics out to us to take a look.”

  “I might be able to help there,” Andrews interjected. “You’re here. It would be churlish to sit back and do nothing when you’ve brought an Avro kite to an Avro workshop.” He let the hint trail away.

  “You really mean it?” Carter was thinking the browncoats would be less than pleased.

  “Of course I mean it. It’s the least we can do. I should have some pull around here.”

  “Thanks awfully,” said Carter.

  “Think nothing of it,” replied Andrews.

  The crew watched with professional interest as some platforms were wheeled out of the hangar and placed around their Manchester. The cowlings came off the engines and the mechanics had a rummage. It was a matter of minutes before there were exclamations of surprise and Andrews was called over to take a look.

  There was some pointing and gesticulation and a crowd gathered on the right side of the starboard engine. Chewing on a sandwich, Carter picked himself up and sauntered over to see what all the fuss was about.

  “Now what?” Woods asked.

  “No idea,” said White. “You know how civvies flap. Check by the way.” Woods turned his attention back to the chess board a
nd frowned. “Check,” repeated White. “I moved my horsey.” He pointed to the knight.

  “What’s the problem?” asked Carter, talking around a mouthful of bread and bully beef. He peered up at the knot of men who were stood on the platform, staring at the engine.

  “You’re a very lucky boy,” said Andrews. He got down next to Carter and pointed upwards, circling an area. The engine mount on the outside of the engine was completely burned through. He glanced at the cowling leaning against the scaffold and saw the scorch marks on the paintwork. Carter whistled between his teeth.

  “Strewth.”

  “An understatement,” said Andrews, deadpan. “You said the controls were vibrating?” he asked. Carter nodded, his eyes riveted to the engine.

  “Yes, for a good hour.”

  “And the engine temperatures were high?”

  “Yes, but not always. Power had been surging and the instruments had been going up and down like billyo.”

  Andrews nodded soberly, filing those things away. As a test pilot for Avro he was intimately familiar with the Vulture and all its little ways. He had worked for months with the engineers from Rolls Royce to address the issues reported by the operational squadrons. What was rare was to actually have an aircraft survive a catastrophic failure like this so it could be inspected. A few Manchester’s had landed safely or force landed after a failure, but often, an aircraft lost on training or operations didn’t leave enough evidence to identify the cause.

  Carter saw just how close they had come to disaster today. With the mount burned through, there was not much to keep the engine in place. He had little doubt the vibrations he’d felt through the controls was the engine bouncing around inside the nacelle. Any sudden movement and the engine could have torn loose and doomed all of them. It was a lucky escape indeed.

  Andrews and Carter went back to the office in the hangar to make some phone calls. Plans changed. Avro engineers at Ringway would inspect L-London and Rolls Royce would fly up to have a look at the engine. Andrews interviewed Carter and White about the flight and he made notes so he would have something to give the Rolls Royce boys when they turned up. The crew was driven to a nice hotel in Manchester, guests of Avro. They enjoyed the plush beds, turned the heating up, soaked in the bath and then took advantage of the tab Andrews put behind the bar for them. They were flown back to Amber Hill the following morning by a delightful brunette from the ATA pool.

  They made it back in time for lunch and Carter discovered he was not the only one to have suffered a mishap. Walsh was surrounded by a crowd of amazed onlookers. He was just telling the tale again when Carter and Woods sauntered into the Mess.

  Woods and Carter came over and had drinks pressed into their hands. Walsh’s complexion was a ruddy red and he rubbed his face again on a towel. He made exaggerated tasting motions with his mouth as he downed most of a pint.

  “Go on,” one of the throng urged.

  “Again?” He scratched a patch of sore and irritated skin behind his left ear. “Really?” He yawned and stretched. They howled in protest at the delay. He grinned, playing to the crowd. “Well, I’ll tell you,” said Walsh, warming to his theme.

  His was a short cautionary tale. The total flying time had been a mere eight minutes and it took nearly that long to tell the story. While the squadron was abuzz with the news of Carters adventures, Walsh had taken off that morning for a short air test. The erks had been tinkering with the engines and they’d asked him to make sure everything was operating normally.

  Climbing away from the airfield there had been a sudden bang inside the cockpit. The hydraulic system had failed in spectacular style. Under 400lbs of pressure, the air was instantly filled with fine drops of oily hydraulic fluid, coating the controls, the instruments, the canopy and everyone in the cockpit.

  At such low altitude, no one was on oxygen yet so Walsh got a mouthful of it. He had to hang on flying straight and level with his eyes screwed tight shut, tears streaming down his face. He choked as it caught at the back of his throat. Everything was coated in a film of hydraulic fluid, including his clothes, so when he rubbed his face with the sleeve of his flying jacket, that only made it worse.

  Eyes burning, everything was a watery blur but he could see just enough to know where the horizon was. He kept his Manchester level and shouted for help.

  “Someone get up here with a rag to get this crap off my face,” he shouted.

  His navigator, similarly affected, blindly scrabbled his way up and handed over a handkerchief. Walsh rubbed it across his eyes doing his best to get the worst of the fluid off. He kept blinking and opened the cockpit side window. As he cracked it an inch, there was a huge howl of suction and the oil laden air was sucked out of the cockpit. The noise, already loud was now unbearable but it was a small price to pay to get clean air to breathe. He spat to clear his throat and was still doing it two hours later when Carter came into the Mess.

  Once he could see again, it was a simple matter to do a fast circuit, blow the wheels down with the emergency bottle and land as quickly as possible. Walsh had bathed to wash off the oil but his eyes still stung and were an angry manic red. His nostrils burned, his throat was sore and he could still taste the stuff on his tongue. Someone gave him another pint to wash the taste it away but it made little difference to his taste buds.

  Carter knew Walsh had a very lucky escape. One spark in such an oil impregnated air mix could have turned the entire aircraft into a raging inferno, with Walsh and his crew the Roman candles.

  The final highlight of the week was a moment of horror mixed with pure dumb luck and Carter had a grandstand seat. While L-London was still at Ringway, he’d had a late breakfast and went for a walk along the perimeter track. He’d gotten bored of being asked about the engine failure as had Walsh about his hydraulics adventure and the pair of them had gone for a stroll to the far side of the airfield.

  Carter sat down on a frost covered mound of frozen earth. He fished a hip flask out of the pocket of his greatcoat and offered it to Walsh. His room mate unscrewed the lid and took a quick nip. The alcohol burned on the way down but he still couldn’t really taste it.

  “How long do you think it’ll be before we get our girls back?”

  “End of the week?” suggested Carter. “It can’t take them too long to change an engine out surely? Yours just needs a wipe down.”

  “Funny man,” said Walsh, his thick Liverpudlian accent mangling it.

  He glanced up as the sound of engines starting thundered across the airfield. Carter and Walsh watched as the bomber trundled down the runway. The tail came up in good time and the pilot held it there, letting the speed increase before lifting off.

  Despite the love/hate relationship, Carter never tired of watching the Manchester in the air. He loved the sleek lines, the rounded nose and the roar of the engines. It passed almost overhead and he saw the ID letter, N-Nan, Andrews aircraft; one of his rookie crews from OTU. The wheels came up and the Manchester climbed away, clawing for height.

  Carter stood up and brushed the frost off his backside. They’d just turned to start walking back when they heard a loud bang above them. They looked up, transfixed as they saw a long banner of flame trail back from the Manchester’s port engine.

  Already, Andrews had dropped the nose and was looking for somewhere to land. Carter watched with a professional eye. Engine failures on takeoff were not unheard of. When it happened you got it down as quickly and as fast as you could. At low speed and low altitude, there was little margin to get creative.

  “Oh my god!” exclaimed Walsh. “What the hell is he doing?” They stood, rooted to the spot in morbid fascination as Andrews came around, trying to make the field. Hovering just above stalling speed, he rolled left and leaned on the rudder.

  “I have no idea,” replied Carter. He’d drummed into Andrews time and time again, if your engine failed, you never, ever turned back and you never, ever turned into a dead engine.

  Andrews carried on thr
ough the turn. The angle steepened. The wings canted over and the nose slid past the horizontal. Any second Carter expected the Manchester to fall out of the sky. Then, a miracle happened. Andrews levelled off, dropped the undercarriage and came straight in.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Carter, his voice almost a whisper.

  “He’s had the angels watching him today,” observed Walsh, shocked by what he had just seen. By every known aviation law Andrews should have been wrapped in a smoking pile of wreckage on the grass. The man must be blessed. At the very least it called for a few virgin WAAF’s to be sacrificed to appease the gods.

  “Well don’t just stand there,” he shouted at Carter as he ran towards the Manchester which had just touched down further up the field.

  After so many mechanical problems so close together, Group acted fast. 363 were grounded pending further investigation. The ground staff felt this keenly, feeling the finger for these problems was pointing in their direction. With an intact example of another engine failure, Rolls Royce sent their experts to Amber Hill to take a look. N-Nan was wheeled into the hangar for inspection and relieved of her port engine. Particular attention was paid to the newly changed oil pump and filter but Carter thought they were just guessing and dressing it up as being thorough. Until Group had some answers that either indicated a fundamental design problem or poor work practices, 363 were on the ground.

  Over gossip in the Mess, Carter discovered this was not the first time this had happened. The squadron had been grounded shortly after it was formed, again due to engine problems. The enforced inactivity made him twitchy. He was used to an operational tempo of at least one op a week, sometimes two, sometimes three. Even allowing for winter weather, he wasn’t used to being sat on his duff, doing nothing.

  L-London was returned from Ringway by Andrews. He explained what had happened over lunch, while the erks fussed over what had been done to her.

  Stripping the engine down, they’d found the front bearings had become starved of oil. Normally, when Vultures overheated they either burst into flames or threw a con rod when the bolts failed. In this instance, the engine casing had become so hot it had actually melted and burnt through the engine mounting arm. The whole time Carter had felt vibration through the controls, was in fact the engine rocking from side to side in its mounting.