Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “Decent is a peacetime word. It’s every man for himself sunshine and the quicker you realise that, the longer you’ll live.”

  That finished the conversation, the mood had soured. Todd’s cut throat attitude had shocked them more than they cared to admit. He got a few steps before he realised they’d stopped following him. He looked over his shoulder.

  “Come on. We getting this stuff or what?”

  They avoided the main admin buildings and went for some of the ancillary stores. When there were no Ops on, guard patrols tended to concentrate where intel and the squadron operational staff were based which left other places relatively unguarded.

  They stopped at the back of the laundry building. It was a low, single storey brick house with a flat roof and it had its own boiler and its own store. Todd produced an iron bar from his jacket and handed it to Tucker.

  “You watch this corner, Queenie; Martin the other,” Tucker whispered. His companions nodded and split up, going to either end of the building, peering into the dark. “You could help,” he hissed at Todd.

  “No chance. I’m just a friendly observer.”

  “You’re good at just watching then?” Tucker sulked, still stung by Todd’s earlier comment. He bent his weight on the bar and the padlock gave easily. He swung the door open, wincing as the hinges shrieked. In the quiet, it sounded like the wailing of banshees.

  Tucker slid into the store. He was so smooth, Todd was convinced he was wasted in RAF life, he should have been a cat burglar. Tucker picked up one of the hessian sacks filled with wood and handed it to Todd. He tossed another bag over his shoulder and they headed back to the Nissen hut. Todd led the way, Martin and Tucker carried the bags, Winsor brought up the rear, watching behind.

  They were almost back to their billet when there was a shout from behind. Picking up the pace, they legged it and melted into the dark, carrying the bags between them for extra speed. Just when they thought they had ditched their tail, they collided with another foraging party running in the opposite direction.

  “Redcaps!” someone shouted in the ruck and they all scattered in different directions. Todd carried a bag with Winsor and they took the long way round to get back to their hut. Todd hammered on the door and it opened quickly. They almost fell inside.

  “Quick, close the door!” he shouted. “The blackout.”

  “What happened?” asked Murphy.

  “I dunno,” said Winsor. “Someone shouted cops so I just ran.”

  “Be thankful we got back with some wood,” said Todd. He kicked the sack. Murphy picked it up and emptied the wood into the tub next to the stove. He shoved some kindling in the grate and got to work getting it lit.

  Tucker turned up ten minutes later sans sack, hot, bothered and very out of breath. He had been chased by the MP’s and he had led them a merry dance around the huts. He flopped on the floor, leaning against a bed.

  “Where’s, Martin?” asked Donovan.

  “I’ve got no idea.” They looked at him. “No, seriously,” he told them. “He went left, I went right, god knows where he is.”

  17 - Pushing Your Luck

  “So we’ll be going in daylight. Take off time is 0945 hours.” The briefing room was as silent as the tomb. Normally when a target was announced there would be moments when a murmur went around the gathered crews as they weighed their chances. Men would look left or right and pass a few comments with a colleague. This time, no one moved an inch as the enormity of what Asher had just said sunk in.

  The squadron had already been to Brest five nights previously to lay some mines in the approaches to the port. As operations went it had been relatively easy. A diversionary raid had been mounted on the harbour itself at the same time as they had gone in to lay their mines. It had been perfect, all the defences had been looking the other way while they had bumbled along at low level just off the coast.

  During the Napoleonic Wars, the Royal Navy had blockaded the French and Spanish Navies to keep them in port and keep control of the sea. Fast forward a hundred years and things had changed. Minelaying had become the new way to blockade. With U-Boats roaming far and wide from the French ports, the Royal Navy was finding itself hard pressed to escort the convoys in the Atlantic and keep the casualties down.

  In addition, the German Battleships, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau had put in at Brest earlier in the year after carving up some Atlantic convoys and there they had remained ever since. Prinz Eugen had joined them after the breakout into the Atlantic with the Bismarck.

  For whatever reason, the big ships had stayed in port and not ventured forth again. Woods had joked in the Mess that Hitler was too chicken to send them out after what had happened to the Bismarck. Carter wondered if there was some truth to that. Whatever the reason, Tirpitz lurked in the Baltic while Scharnhorst and Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen were at Brest, always threatening to sortie and cause mayhem.

  Bomber Command was doing its best to make sure they didn’t leave again. A few squadrons had hit Brest last night, returning only a few hours before. Now the rest of them were being sent back to keep the pressure on.

  “Command feels that going in once in broad daylight can finish the job,” the CO explained, doing his best to whip up some enthusiasm and failing miserably. He looked at his crews, giving them a long appraising gaze and he could see it was like water falling off a ducks back. He changed tack slightly. “Now look here chaps, we’ve been pecking away at these ships for months. You know it, I know it.” He sighed and relaxed his stern demeanour slightly, leaning back against the table, hands gripping its edge. “There have been eight raids of varying size in the last few weeks. Some hits have been reported but its not been enough to really put them out of action. This is going to be a precision raid to deliver a knock out punch.”

  The silence became oppressive. Asher strode to the front of the platform and stood there, hands on hips. He imposed himself on all of them, looking around, waiting for someone to raise an objection. No one spoke.

  The briefing continued but Carter found he wasn’t really listening. He was still rocked by the thought of flying in broad daylight. All of his operational flying had been at night, he’d never flown a daylight raid before and he found his mouth had gone dry.

  Linkletter told them the weather would be lovely and the predicted winds would be light. He got his usual applause when he told them the airfields would be clear upon their return. Black Jack went through the approach to the target, highlighting the aiming point.

  Carter only started paying any real attention when Billy Kent took the stage and went over the likely fighter opposition. He pointed out that the nearest Luftwaffe fighter field was miles away at the other end of the Brittany peninsula. They were cheered somewhat when they were told there would be fighters escorting the raid in. The flak in the city was moderate but he told them they could expect the Battleships to put up their own barrage as well. Regardless, 363 would be bringing up the rear again so the defences would be well warmed up by then.

  “The barrage from the ships might give you chaps an extra aiming point,” he suggested with some enthusiasm, trying to gee them up. No one rose to the humour.

  Etheridge came forward and took his turn. Normally, the crews liked his pep talks, that final bit of encouragement to send them on their way. This time it was different, he was almost apologetic.

  “I realise that sometimes orders don’t seem to make sense. We obey them anyway. That’s what we do. There is a chain of command and we do what we are told, from the lowliest airman to the aircraft captain, to the flight leader and so on. You have your orders. So let’s get out there and do this right so we don’t have to go back and do it again. Good luck to you all.”

  He gave them his best encouraging smile. He would have given a lot to be going with them for this one. When the orders had arrived in the early hours no one could quite believe it to start with. There had been a flurry of signals back and forth to Group until it was confirmed as being correct.

/>   The aircrew had a similar reaction when they had been stirred from their pits at six am. They were never woken up so early. Theirs was a night time war with night time hours. Getting early wake ups was something the bods in 2 Group got to do. The men had slowly stirred themselves over porridge and then nearly choked on it when the tannoy called them to briefing at 0645 hours.

  Carter felt ill while he was getting dressed in the equipment room. He had survived a tour of thirty ops but he had never experienced anything like this.

  When he’d got to twenty five ops, he’d been twitchy. You weren’t normal if you didn’t. Men without imagination didn’t last, they just slowly cracked up until one day they could no longer take it. You had to knuckle down and conquer your fear just long enough to get through it all. So he had buckled down and summoned the courage to finish his tour. This feeling of dread was far worse.

  When they were driven out to the aircraft at dispersal there was none of the usual banter and joking. Each man had withdrawn into himself, lost in his thoughts. Even the erks were quiet, picking up on the mood of the crew. They kept a respectful distance while the men made ready. Carter walked round L-London and signed the Form 700. He looked at the armour piercing bombs in the bay. They would be heavy taking off and he reminded himself to take a long run before hauling back on the yoke.

  Vos went through his radio checks but his thoughts turned to Denise and what would happen to her if he didn’t come back. White thought about the letter he had written to Elaine. He should have dashed off an extra few lines before sealing the envelope and leaving it on his sideboard. It was too late now.

  Carter went through the start up like a robot, his voice flat and lacking any of the usual emotion or conviction White had come to expect.

  “Master engine cocks? THEY ARE OFF!”

  “Throttles? SET TO HALF-INCH OPEN!” White nudged them to the starting position and gave Carter an additional thumbs up.

  “Prop controls? UP!”

  “Cut-out switches? SET TO IDLE CUT-OFF!”

  “Supercharger controls? SET M RATIO!”

  “Warning light? NO LIGHT!”

  “Air intake heat? READS COLD!”

  “Radiator shutters auto? RAD SHUTTERS AUTO!”

  “Tank selector? NUMBER TWO TANK.”

  “Master cock?” ON, BOOSTER, ON.”

  Carter leaned out of the cockpit window and twirled a finger above his head. The erk raised a hand and pointed at the port engine.

  The engine whined and the prop started turning. It caught almost straight away with a loud throaty roar. Carter advanced the throttle to the idle position and watched the needles settle down. The starboard engine started up and Carter slid the side window closed.

  He pulled on his soft Kidd leather gloves and gripped the yoke. He had a final go at moving the controls. White looked out of the canopy across the wide slab of wing, watching the ailerons move their full range of travel and nodded to Carter.

  White advanced the throttles and they taxied out, slotting in with the other aircraft of the squadron as they went along the perimeter track. Asher was up front, then Church. A real maximum effort. A green flare went off from the tower and Asher started rolling.

  Watching from the tower, Group Captain Etheridge leaned over the railing on the upper balcony. Dickinson stood next to him.They watched the first Manchester go into its run, engines blaring. The tail picked up and it hung on its mainwheels. Etheridge followed it as it slowly left the earth. Almost immediately the undercarriage retracted and it climbed away, turning to port to clear the runway.

  There was a bang behind him and the smell of cordite irritated his nostrils as another flare was fired off. The second Manchester started its roll. A WAAF from the Ops room stood next to him. She was clutching a clipboard to her chest and her eyes glistened as she watched the squadron go to war.

  “I’ve never seen this in daylight,” she whispered. She had always waved them off in the dark before now. The Manchester’s were creatures of the night, they blended into the background, heard as much as seen. You would hear the great roar of the engines, the orange stab of the exhausts, the deep bass throb of the Vultures and the glint of the canopies as they went off into the moonlight.

  Etheridge could only nod. He was pensive as more Manchester’s took off. The last time the RAF had tried daylight raids with heavy bombers had been at the beginning of the war. The theory of tight formation flying and defensive firepower had been put to the test and been found wanting. The Wellingtons had been cut to pieces attacking a coastal target not unlike this one. The Me109’s had torn into them and picked them apart like foxes sniping at a bunch of chickens. If half the squadron came back from this he would be very surprised.

  Woods had to work hard on the outbound route. Rather than head east as they normally would, they went over the south west of England. They passed near Torquay and picked up a final pinpoint before heading out over the channel, keeping well to the west of Jersey.

  Carter found things easier. Normally you had to strain and concentrate all the way there and back. You had to rely on the little things to tell you what was going on around you. There might be a short spark of orange flame from an exhaust, or you might feel the turbulence in the controls as you crossed in someones wake. In daylight, there was none of that. You could see the aircraft around you and the only danger was running into someone as you climbed through cloud.

  They got up to fourteen thousand feet comfortably and then the Manchester made them work hard for another fifteen hundred feet. They ended up five hundred short of the briefed height but Carter could feel that they had reached their limit. The controls were soft and he was having to input more aileron on the yoke to keep level.

  All the way across the channel the aircraft began to bunch up. No one flew formation as such, but the great gaggle of bombers clung to each other in the bright light, relying on safety in numbers and depth of formation to get them through. Any second, they expected the sky to be filled with 109’s and Carter was convinced they were hiding behind each fluffy cloud.

  The sky mercifully remained clear and they flew parallel to the west coast about four or five miles out before turning east for the bomb run. One of the last to bomb, Woods had a fantastic view of the show. In contrast, Todd hated it. It was his turn up front in the nose turret and he flinched as blasts went off ahead of them.

  At night, flak was almost invisible, there was just the occasional bright flash which was there and gone, a mere flicker. In the harsh noon light they were dark brooding puffs of smoke with an evil orange centre. In the tail he saw none of this sort of thing while he sat in the dark, alone in his turret. His stomach dropped as L-London shook and a flak burst exploded below, bodily lifting the bomber.

  Carter wrestled with the Manchester, doing his best to keep them straight and level. White rode the controls, ready to take over in case Carter was hit.

  Woods peered through the bomb sight. For once he didn’t have to do paint by numbers. There was no problem picking up the target today. Smoke from the previous nights raids lingered over the city and clung to the ground, but he had a perfect view of the harbour.

  On the southern coast of the Brittany peninsular, Brests harbour ran roughly south west to north east. Prinz Eugen was tied up to the harbour wall and then there were the two large dry docks occupied by the other two Battleships.

  South west of Brest was the La Phare Du Petit Minou, a spit of land that stuck out and had a small bay and a beach. The coast ran from there in a straight line to the harbour, a perfect starting point to make the final run in.

  Beyond the harbour was the Rue Jean Jaures, a long straight road that led to the Place de Strasbourg. Other roads radiated out from here like the spokes of a wheel. Personally , Woods would have preferred coming in from the other direction. The Rue Jean Jaures was a wonderful line to follow in the run up to the target and it would be a good visual cue for Carter to fly. Also, if they had approached the target from this directio
n, any bombs that went long would still explode in the harbour. Woods was conscious that if he made a muck of this, his bombs could end up going into houses and killing a lot of innocent Frenchmen.

  The flak was ferocious. With their undersides painted black, the bombers stood out against the sky like cockroaches racing across a white rug. The warships also added to the conflagration, their own flak guns firing into the sky.

  Woods gave Carter a few corrections and watched as the targets crept into his sight. He had been briefed to bomb Gneisenau. She was the nearest Battleship of the two in drydock. He set his sight on a commercial building just before Gneisenau. If he went long, whatever missed would go on to hit Scharnhorst in the next dry dock over but not in the houses beyond. He dropped the bombs in pairs in quick succession, with a half second delay between each pair. He counted to three.

  “They’re off!” he shouted as he flicked the switch to close the bomb doors. Carter counted to ten, holding it straight and level for the camera to go off and photograph their aiming point, then he turned left to clear the city and head for home along with everyone else.

  Two Stirling’s went down over the target. Flying lower than the Halifax’s and Manchester’s they bore the brunt of the flak gunners attention. One minute they were there, the next they were gone. 363 lost one of their own over the harbour. Flying ahead of Carter, they were off to the right and slightly below when a flak burst caught them close on the starboard side. The canopy shattered and glittering pieces of perspex flew in the air like wedding confetti. The starboard engine shed its prop and a bright streak of flame trailed back from the nacelle. Almost immediately, a small shape dropped from the nose, then another. One more dropped from the rear turret.

  “They’re bailing!” Todd cried out.

  Two parachutes opened. The third man continued to fall, tumbling end over end. No one saw if his parachute opened or not before he was lost from view.

  Before anyone else could jump, the Manchester rolled onto its back and dived vertically. Part of the tailplane broke away, then the third fin shed its canvas during its death dive.