Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  Carter felt ill. He had never seen that in such detail before. He’d seen bombers attacked over the target get bracketed by flak and blown to pieces. He’d seen a nightfighter stitch a Whitley from nose to tail once, but never in daylight. It was too raw, too clinical. The dark hid many things.

  “How many?” asked Carter over the R/T.

  “I saw three,” said Murphy from the back.

  “Who was it?” asked Vos.

  “I saw an H,” reported Todd. His keen eyes had seen the letter on the side of the bomber. “Anyone?”

  No one knew who it was. They would have to wait when they got back. A black pall of smoke hung over the city behind them as the remaining bombers made their runs on the targets. Despite everyones worst fears, the Luftwaffe did not put in an appearance and they got a free run home as fast as their engines could carry them.

  Halfway home, they passed over a Halifax that had ditched in the channel. The yellow dinghy bobbed alongside the wreck waiting for pickup. Woods made a note of the coordinates in his log book to hand over at interrogation.

  The station personnel were out in strength to see them in. They stood around the control tower waving as each Manchester touched down. They got back just as the light was beginning to fade, casting long shadows on the ground. They’d only lost the one Manchester and Archer had put down at an airfield in the south. The men were buoyant in interrogation, the room buzzing with chatter as they talked about the raid.

  When he got back to his quarters, White retrieved the letter and read it again. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began writing. Woods relaxed with a book. It was nice to delve into some detective fiction after the mayhem of the day.

  With an early finish, Vos caught the first transport to Lincoln to surprise Denise. He caught her doing her hair and he watched, fascinated as she sat cross legged on the floor in her room. She had her long hair over a basin of hot water and was letting the steam do its work. Every so often she rubbed her hair in a towel to dry it and get the dirt out. Once she had cleaned it, she sat brushing it from crown to end before pinning it in rollers. As she worked he asked her how her day had been and listened attentively.

  She talked about her new job. After a few days of hanging around the hotel and exploring Lincoln, she had gotten fidgety. She needed something to keep her busy when Vos was away during the day and he had encouraged her to find a job. She found one in the supply department of a factory that supplied diesel engines to the army. It wasn’t highly paid but it was a start.

  When she asked him about his day he just said they had been training. She had heard the drone of bombers earlier in the day but she had no idea they had been on a raid.

  He distracted her by talking about the coming holiday and festivities. He went through the newspaper, looking at the adverts for what was coming at the theater and cinemas. It would be good for them to go out and do something, ops depending.

  Carter hovered around the Mess for a bit and then turned in early. He lay on his bed as he stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the days events. The Manchester they had seen go down had been Bishops. This meant both of the crews Carter had passed through OTU back in October had gone for a burton within five ops. It was hard to write it off to the luck of the game even though he knew that was exactly what it was. His sleep was troubled that night while Walsh snored from across the room.

  Archer flew in the following afternoon light one crew member. Carter heard the story in the Mess. Bracketed by flak over the target, Archers port engine had been knocked out. They’d also had a small fire in the fuselage and there was an anxious few minutes until the wireless operator got it under control, patting the flames out with his bare hands.

  Unable to maintain height, they had thrown out everything that wasn’t nailed down. The gunners left a few tails of ammo for the guns and dumped the rest. Even the Elsan chemical toilet had been unbolted and thrown out the door to avoid ditching in the Channel.

  They’d made it back with a thousand feet to spare, the temperature gauge jammed in the red with Archer expecting the engine to burst into flames any minute. They thumped it down at the first available airfield, glad to be back.

  18 - Bah, Humbug

  The dance was in full swing. The gods of war had smiled kindly and there was a lull in operatons. High winds and bad icing conditions mixed with heavy cloud over central Europe had killed off the chance of ops for a few days. There was the usual minelaying along the coast, but 363 hadn’t been called on to participate. They still went up flying and training but their war had taken a break for a short while.

  Bunting had been strung across the rafters in the hall. Paraffin heaters had been used in the afternoon to banish the biting cold. A table was covered in glasses and two large punch bowls. Another bowl held the egg nog.

  Carter’s nose wrinkled in distaste and he moved away from the table towards a makeshift bar at the other side of the hall. He shouldered through the throng and held up one finger and flashed a shilling. He was handed a bottle and change and took a long pull at it before navigating the crowd back out.

  He joined Walsh and his second dicky, Nicol by a table and stood with one foot on the rung of a stool. The general noise in the hall ebbed and flowed as more people arrived. He caught a glimpse of his crew as they came in as a group. He waved a hand and they steered towards him. Murphy took off his forage cap and slotted it underneath his epaulette.

  “What kept you?”

  “Laughing boy here,” Murphy gestured towards White. “You were making yourself presentable, weren’t you, sir?”

  Murphy playfully cuffed White across the shoulders. White smoothed his hair back down and assumed a superior air. He brushed some imaginary dust off his chest.

  “I’m not going to be rushed.”

  “Yeah, yeah, spare me,” said Todd, rolling his eyes. White blew a raspberry at him.

  “Where’s Vos?” Carter asked, noticing he was missing.

  “Sorting his popsy out,” said White, with a wink at Woods. It was the first time the rest of the crew had seen her but they were curious to see the siren that had managed to charm their wireless op.

  “No offense fellas,” said Nicols. He stood up from his chair and shouldered his way through to the front of the group. “You lot have got nothing on me. It needs class to pull a lady.” He pulled down his short battledress jacket and straightened his tie.

  “You’re going to need every ounce of luck you possess to pull that off; sir,” Todd told him tartly. There was a chorus of agreement.

  “We’ll see about that,” said Nicol, full of confidence.

  He swept the crowd with his eyes. Amongst the RAF blue were splashes of colour of women in their finest, the crush of rationing and austerity thrown off for an evening. He started his target selection, his eyes fixing on a tall vision in a maroon dress stood in a group of four girls near the stage.

  “Brother, that’s for me,” he murmured, like a thirsty man who had suddenly found a barrel of water. He shoved off from the crowd to move in. He clamped a hand around Murphy’s upper arm.

  “Come on,” he said peremptorily, “I need a witness. And if you’re really good, I’ll introduce you.”

  Murphy managed a resigned, “But I don’t even-” before giving up and trailing along in Nicol’s wake.

  Carter grunted in amusement as he watched the two of them wend their way across the hall. Talk about chalk and cheese, the officer and the Flight Sergeant, the Oxford man and the lad from Barnsley. The women spotted them crossing the dance floor and shifted position slightly. The tall blonde angled right so she could still talk to her friends but then turn to look at Nicol with minimal effort if she chose to do so.

  They watched with an air of anticipation as Nicol made his final approach. Vague interest was thrown in his direction as he made an observation and gestured towards the girls in their dresses. Murphy was introduced and he took a reluctant step forwards. There were smiles and then the group opened up to allow the
two of them in. Conversation flowed. Nicol said something and the women laughed. The blonde gave him all of her attention and stood closer to him as he span a yarn.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Todd.

  “Beginners luck,” commented White.

  “He doesn’t look glamorous,” said Woods and in truth he was right. Nicol looked barely old enough to shave.

  “It’s the wings,” Todd said with mock jealousy. “Have a pair of wings on your chest and they’ll drop their knickers quicker’n winking.”

  At that, all gazes turned towards Carter and Walsh. Carter paused as he drank from his pint to see four pairs of eyes staring at him.

  “Don’t look at me,” he told them. He licked off his beer moustache. “I’m not chasing any skirt tonight. No chance.” He hooked a thumb left towards Walsh. “Try him.”

  Vos arrived with Denise. She walked a little behind him, clutching his hand tightly. When he’d mentioned the dance to her the week before she had been enthusiastic. Now it was here she found herself quite shy.

  She wore a green dress with more pleats than she knew what to do with. As her daughter was away in the WRENS, her landlady had loaned it to Denise. Her dark hair was gathered up so it was curled into waves on top and rolled under into a chigon on the bottom. Gold studs shone at her ears and she had applied a little bit of eyeshadow and lipstick.

  “Blimey,” Todd whispered to Woods as he saw her.

  “Bloody hell,” said Walsh, coolly impressed. She was like a little china doll with her trim waist and long neck. She nodded to Woods and Carter, recognising them from London.

  “Hello to all of you,” she said nervously. “Christophe has told me so much about all of you.”

  “None of it’s true,” said Walsh deadpan, taking the initiative and stepping forward, embracing her by the shoulders and kissing her on each cheek, continental style. “Enchante,” he said as he did so. Vos bristled at the familiarity. He introduced each of them and she said hello more personally although none of the others dared kiss her as Walsh had done.

  Vos disappeared to get them both a drink and she stood next to Carter. He asked her how she was settling down in Lincoln and she told him she was all right, keeping her answers short. She looked around the hall. She’d not expected so many people to be here. Vos returned a few minutes later carrying two drinks, gin for her and a beer for himself.

  “They didn’t have any wine,” he apologised. “Is gin okay?”

  She nodded and took the drink from him, glad of some added courage.

  Once the band started up the party really got going. After weeks of ops, the crews were quick to let their hair down. People paired up with feminine company and hit the dance floor. Others clung to the walls in clusters, fists clutching bottles and pints as they smoked and drank. The air was tinged with a hazy blue from the smoke. Nicol’s blonde stayed glued to his side all evening. Murphy found a sympathetic brunette who listened with puppy dog eyes while he bared his soul.

  Nicol was dragged onto the dance floor and struggled to keep up. He may have been be a deft touch in the air but his dance style was limited. His dance partner ran rings around him until they finally went outside for some fresh air and more besides.

  Denise persuaded Vos to take a turn and they danced. The girl moulded herself to him, moving in slow time regardless of the music, oblivious of everything else around them. Woods watched them for a while, pleased to see that all had turned out well.

  Carter and Walsh found a good spot near the bar and began working their way through pints of beer. Walsh told the story of his hydraulics blowout again. Carter had heard it more than once but it had improved with the telling. Walsh pantomimed rubbing his tongue on his sleeve and tasting the air, his lips flapping.

  “Yuk, I can still taste it, nasty stuff.”

  “Have another beer and take the taste away,” Carter told him as he handed him another pint.

  Some late arrivals came into the hall. Asher drifted over to welcome them in and he guided the Air Commodore and his officers to a table. There were introductions all round as they sat down.

  “It’s good of you to join us, sir,” said Asher. The Air Commodore waved away the fuss.

  “Nonsense, Asher. I’m not one to miss a party. A few drinks here and then we’ll move on, more parties to go to,” he said, smiling at his staff officer, who nodded agreement. “You’re not my only stop tonight.”

  His staff officer disappeared to get some drinks. While he waited for service he looked around and blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. He crossed the distance and grabbed Carters hand, shaking it off at the elbow.

  With a few drinks behind him, it took Carter a few seconds to focus on his assailant. When his brain caught up, he let out a yell and they embraced each other.

  “What on earth?”

  “I didn’t know you were back on ops!”

  Carter gestured to the new arrival.

  “Billy, this is Freddie Wilkinson. He was my second Dicky for a while on my first tour.”

  “And I saved your miserable life if I recall correctly,” said Wilkinson, grinning broadly. Carter laughed and Walsh watched with interest, seeing his room mate come alive, the rigid control sliding away as the years rolled off him.

  Walsh stuck out his hand and Wilkinson shook it, his grip firm and strong. The same height as Carter, he had thick dark hair and deep brown eyes. He had Squadron Leader rings on his shoulders and cuffs and a DFC ribbon on his chest below his wings.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Wilkinson.

  “They kicked me out of Scotland,” Carter said simply. “They had enough of me. What about you?”

  “I’m here with the old man.” Carter and Walsh strained their necks to look around Wilkinson and saw the brass sitting with Asher and Robinson. “I’m at Group now. Look, pop in to Grantham when you can and we’ll have a catch up and sort something out. Helen would be over the moon to see you.”

  Carter grinned, his mood buoyed up by seeing his friend.

  “She hasn’t left you then?”

  “No, she hasn’t you sarcastic sod.”

  “You better watch it then,” Carter said, deadpan. “No dancing with anyone or Helen will get to hear about it.” Wilkinson laughed, a good throaty laugh free from strain.

  “No fear. I’m strictly a one woman man and I’ve got mine.” Wilkinson looked around the sea of bodies. “In fact, where’s, Mary?” Carter’s face pinched.

  “I’m afraid that boat sailed.”

  “Ah, genuinely sorry old man,” Wilkinson said with real feeling. Carter shrugged.

  “Wasn’t your fault,” Carter muttered, “her loss anyway.” He knocked back the rest of his drink. There was a whole conversation there, but it would have to be one for another day. Wilkinson’s time was not his own at that moment.

  “Look, duty calls, but I’ll see you soon?”

  “Certainly.” They shook hands again and Wilkinson collected drinks from the bar. He made his way back to the table and found the the Air Commodore making small talk with 363’s CO.

  His mood lifted from the brief encounter, Carter turned back to Walsh and launched into a story of one of his and Wilkinson’s runs into Lincoln. It had ended with a foot chase involving the local constabulary. Escape and Evasion technique practice, Wilkinson had called it.

  Carter realised that had been just about a year ago, New Years Eve 1940. Another time, another age, a million years ago. His face tightened slightly when he remembered who else had been with them that night. Bunny Barker, EDY, Flash Gordon, Stretch Jones, Taffy Morgan and the rest. All gone now.

  Some had been lost in accidents. EDY and Flash were cooling their heels in a prisoner of war camp somewhere in Germany by all accounts. The rest were six feet under.

  Coming back from an op, Bunny Barker had flown into the balloon barrage over Felixstowe in the fog. A cable had snicked off his starboard wing and he had nosed into a factory. Stretch Jones had been shot up by
a nightfighter over Cologne. He had held the dying bomber steady long enough for his crew to bail out, then the control cables parted and he rode her all the way down. His mother had received his DFC in its box on his birthday.

  Walsh saw the shutters coming back down and he shoved another pint into Carter’s hand quick and the pair of them commiserated and bitched about the Manchester and its vices.

  On the other side of the hall, two girls were talking in shouted conference over the noise of the band. They had come together to the dance but the brunette felt like a spare part. She had come because her friend Laura had asked her to, but when she got here, her friend had been swept away by her chap. Periodically, she would circle back for a quick chat before being whisked off her feet again.

  Miffed at being neglected, she sat back down on her stool as her friends pilot zoomed in to take her away once more. They pirouetted onto the dance floor, him smiling, her mesmerised.

  Georgette Waters sighed in resignation and smoothed down her blue dress. Feeling a little flushed, she extracted her compact from her clutch bag and flipped the lid. She looked at herself in the mirror, moving her head around to see herself from different angles. She refreshed her lipstick and ran a hand through her bob of black hair.

  A drunken Pilot Officer lurched towards her.

  “I say, wha…wha…what’s a pretty-” he stammered, getting no further as she shot him a withering look and stood up, squaring her shoulders.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” she said her voice all sweetness and light, “my dates waiting for me,” and she moved around the perimeter of the dance floor to put some distance between them.

  She noticed two men near the bar and changed her line slightly to head towards them. They seemed to be having a serious conversation and this intrigued her, everyone else just seemed to be interested in drinking as much as possible or dancing or shouting. She looked back to see Laura in a world of her own, wrapped in her mans arms. Georgette felt like having some fun herself.