Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “I see.” She nodded understanding. Men and their rituals.

  “Sorry,” he apologised, his face showing the conflict.

  “No, I quite understand. You better get going then.” She made shooing motions with her free hand. “Off you go.”

  “I can walk you home,” he offered.

  “It’s all right, I’m a big girl. I’m only round the corner from here.” She pointed to the street corner ahead. “You run along, deary. Find your crew before you miss the party.”

  Murphy was about to argue with her but it was just one of those things that this had all fallen on the same night. It felt like the whole evening had been a bust. Here he was with a pretty girl, she was giving him his whole attention and he was sloping off and leaving her alone. Some date he was. She stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek.

  “Tomorrow’s my day off. If you’re not flying, come and find me.”

  She turned on her heel and walked away from the pub. She looked left and right before crossing the road. Murphy’s voice stopped her.

  “Wait, how will….?” his voice trailed off.

  “You figure it out,” she said, her tone a challenge and left him standing there.

  Glasses were raised up in tribute.

  “To the best second dicky a man could have,” said Carter. “May you always fly true.”

  There were cheers from the assembled men. Walsh’s crew had come out with them and after crawling from pub to pub, they had ended up at The Tarleton again.

  “Pilot Officer White,” they chorused. Speeches done, they sat down and carried on talking and drinking.

  “When do you get your new crew?” Walsh asked him, genuinely interested.

  “I’m not sure,” replied White. “Squadron Leader Dickinson wants to see me in the morning.”

  “Well be careful,” warned Walsh. “Look what I ended up with.” He gestured in a wide sweep of his arm, encompassing the men in front of them.

  “Hey!” said Nicol in mock outrage.

  “Seriously, don’t just settle,” advised Carter. “You saw how we all came together. Take a few days, feel some people out if you have to.”

  “Just make sure you get a good navigator,” said Woods, rooting for his profession.

  “And radio operator,” said Vos.

  “I know,” said White, nodding sagely.

  “And gunner,” said Todd, belching over his pint.

  “Gunners,” corrected Murphy, who had just come in the door of the pub. His cheeks were red from the walk between where Muriel had left him and The Tarleton. He picked up one of the spare pints from the table. He downed it in one go and then offered his hand to White.

  “Congratulations, sir. Sorry I’m late.”

  “It’s all right, Murphy. Glad you made it.”

  Todd handed Murphy another pint as his friend sat down next to him.

  “Drink up lover boy. You’re way behind.”

  Murphy sipped from the pint and made a face. It was bitter, not his taste but he was stuck with it now.

  White stood up and motioned for quiet. There was exaggerated shushing from the assembled throng. Eleven pairs of eyes stared at him. He blinked, his mind suddenly blank. He licked his lips.

  “I’ll miss you chaps.” There was a pause. “But now I know what the standard is, I’ve got something to measure against for my own crew. You’ll be a hard act to follow.”

  He dried up. When they realised that was it they cheered and applauded, beer sloshing over their glasses as they did so.

  “Aw, thanks, sir. I guess we’ll miss you too,” Todd told him. He rooted amongst the empties on the table, finding there were no more spare pints ready for drinking.

  “Beer!” shouted Todd, his right hand slapping the table top. He turned to his navigator and nudged him in the ribs.

  “Come on, sir,” he said, his Australian accent laying emphasis on the, sir, a word he rarely used. “You know she likes you. Get us a nip of something, it’s a special occasion.”

  Woods sighed at being so arbitrarily nominated. He levered himself upright and went over to the bar. Wiping her hands on a small hand towel she walked over to Woods, her face lighting up as she recognised him. She gave him her best smile. He shifted, a little uncomfortable at having to ask.

  “We’re having a bit of a celebration tonight, is there any chance…?” he folded his arms and rested his elbows on the bar and nodded downwards. She cocked her head to one side, looking at him for a moment. Her eyes narrowed and then she nodded, her green eyes dancing in amusement.

  “I shouldn’t really.” She leaned forward and pitched her voice just for him, her tone husky, inviting. “but as it’s you asking.”

  She knelt down and disappeared behind the bar. Woods leaned forwards and saw her rummage on the middle shelf. He heard glass chinking against glass. She produced some bottles of Burton’s and a tumbler with a generous measure of something dark in. He sniffed the tumbler and coughed, the sting of Whisky tickling the back of his throat.

  She put the bottles and tumbler on a tray and then pulled him some more pints of beer. As she put the pints on the tray, she covered his hand with hers. He glanced up, his cheeks pink.

  “Thanks, Ruth.”

  He slid the tray on the top of the table as the empties were stacked and moved out of the way. He handed a Burtons to Carter, the tumbler he put in White’s hand.

  “Here we are, don’t waste it,” he said with meaning. White swirled the Whisky around the glass and then knocked it back fast. His face screwed up and tears sprang from his eyes as the vapours tickled his nose and the alcohol burned on the way down.

  “Put hairs on your chest that will,” Todd commented, laughing at White’s reaction. He wiped a finger around the inside of the tumbler and licked it. He coughed. “Strewth, that must be pre-war. Wonderful stuff. Why can’t we get more of that?” he asked aloud.

  “There is a war on you know,” muttered Murphy at his side.

  “Gosh, really?” Todd said in mock surprise.

  They laughed.

  22 - Take A Chance On Me

  War is unforgiving. Mistakes were punished swiftly. For the crews that usually meant being shot down and either taken prisoner or killed, it was that simple. In the rarefied atmosphere of command it was a little different.

  When you got a rocket for not measuring up, improvement in performance was expected. Air Chief Marshall Portals rockets were legendary. As Chief Flying Instructor at Cranwell just after the Great War, they may have been rare, but you never forgot them. When he issued orders, he expected things to be done and he expected there to be demonstrable improvement within a short space of time. Anyone who consistently failed to deliver was on notice. Accordingly, when Peirse had been carpeted in November, he was then let loose to make what changes he could and produce some results.

  Winter was not a good time to achieve that. The bad weather interfered with operations. Wind and cloud over the continent made accurate navigation and good bombing difficult if not impossible. When you threw in flak, nightfighters, spoof targets, bombs that sometimes failed to go bang when they should and conflicting target priorities, the odds were stacked against him.

  Peirse did his best with the tools available. Despite the attendant problems he had inherited, the failings of the last year summed up so succinctly in the Butt Report had fallen on his shoulders. The reserve of patience at the Air Ministry had evaporated, results needed to be delivered to ensure the continued survival of Bomber Command and it was felt his time had run out. Fresh blood was needed to turn things around and he now paid the personal price.

  Portal sacrificed Peirse on the altar of expediency and packed him off to the Far East as Commander of allied air forces in South East Asia. His task would be to stem the continuing onslaught of the Japanese Empire.

  To most, Peirse was a remote figure. They had never met him and he was nothing more than a name at the bottom of an operational order or some directive. When the boss was change
d, another would take his place soon enough, brass hats had a habit of looking and sounding alike anyway. The squadrons knuckled down to the task at hand as they always did.

  A few days later, a memo was posted on the notice board in the Mess. The language was stark but the words drew a veil over one mans career. It was short but to the point.

  Air Marshall Peirse relieved of command, effective 9th January. Air Vice Marshall J E A Baldwin, AOC 3 Group, appointed acting commander, Bomber Command till further notice.

  Carter saw the notice when he went into the Mess for lunch. He scanned the brief lines of text, shrugged and then looked at what else was new.

  There was a notice asking for volunteers for special operations which he quickly ignored and next to that was a list of people who were to report to Saunderson to help with a concert party. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his name was not on that list. Carters skin crawled at the thought of being put into a dress and wig and having to prance around a stage.

  After tying one on the night before to send White on his way, he was in no hurry to move around much. He had a leisurely lunch and then grazed on a newspaper while he pondered what to do with the rest of his day. He suddenly remembered the open invite from the Christmas dance and acted on an impulse. He tracked Archer down talked him into loaning him his car.

  When Carter pulled up at the gate to St Vincent’s Hall he produced his ID card to the SP’s. They asked him what he was doing there and Carter fibbed a bit, telling them he’d been ordered to see Squadron Leader Wilkinson. They kept him waiting while someone rang through to check. After a few minutes, the barrier went up and he was allowed to drive on to the grounds.

  The hall was a lavish Gothic revival mansion just to the east of Grantham. Before the war, the extensive grounds were immaculately groomed fields of green. Now, they were covered with a growing number of Nissen huts and duckboards. He found Wilkinson waiting for him as he drove up to the front of the hall. His friend stood on the steps, hands shoved in his pockets as he slowly shook his head.

  “I know I said drop in any time but you do pick your moments, old man.”

  “I had the day off,” replied Carter smiling broadly.

  “I know.” Wilkinson pointed to a cluster of Nissen huts off to the right. “Park over there and then we’ll have a talk.”

  A Corporal brought them two cups of tea on a tray. Once the door closed, Wilkinson put his feet up on the corner of his desk and leaned back in his chair.

  “Welcome to my world,” he said, gesturing around the small office. His desk was covered in a stack of files. A telephone occupied a corner and on the opposite side there was a green bankers lamp. A photograph of his wife Helen was on the window shelf behind him.

  An adjoining door led to a larger office where his staff of four fussed around with target files. After life on ops, Wilkinson was finding it hard to adjust to flying a desk but it was better than the risk of trainees killing you at an OTU.

  Wilkinson asked how things were going and Carter told him about the mishap with the starter motor and having to use the spare. His friend winced in the appropriate places. Flying a strange aircraft with all of its little ways was not a pleasant experience. After a misfortune like that, Carter had been lucky indeed.

  Every time orders came through from Bomber Command Wilkinson was making a lot of phone calls to the squadrons wanting to know how many they could put up. The Vulture engines general lack of reliability was proving to be a constant headache even with the improvements Rolls Royce had brought in. Things had been better recently but there were never any guarantees.

  “How’s your new crew working out?” he asked as he slowly stirred his tea. Carter shrugged as he nibbled on a biscuit.

  “Okay. My second dicky has just gone to get his own crew. I’m waiting for the new one to arrive. They’re not a bad bunch really. How’s, Helen?” he asked, changing the subject. Wilkinson became more animated, brimming with good humour.

  “Wonderful. Blossoming, I think the word is. She keeps asking me why you haven’t settled down yet.”

  Carter almost choked on his tea.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her you’d been busy.”

  “Good answer.”

  A thought suddenly occurred to Wilkinson.

  “Hey, we’re having dinner tonight. Helen’s over from Lincoln at a hotel on the other side of town. Why don’t you join us? ”

  “I’ve not got anything planned. Unless there’s something you know that I don’t?” Carter arched an eyebrow in good humour. Wilkinson laughed.

  “You’re fine.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I’m sorry if this sounds rude, old chap, but I’ve got a meeting with SASO in ten minutes. I’m sure you can amuse yourself for a few hours until dinner.”

  Carter stood up and straightened his tie and tunic.

  “Where do you want me to meet you?”

  “The hotels called The Madison. It’s on the other side of Grantham not far from the Great North Road. Say seven o’clock?”

  That gave Carter a few hours to kill but he wasn’t too bothered. He had nowhere else to be and he’d never been to Grantham before. He’d find something to do.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Wilkinson led him back to the entrance. Carter was nosey on the way out, looking in open doors on his way past. He caught a glimpse of a familiar face working at their desk before the door to their office closed. Wilkinson left him at the entrance and hurried back to get the things he needed for his meeting. Carter paused until his friend was out of sight and then doubled back inside. He retraced his steps until he stood in front of the door he’d noted before, geeing himself up. He made a final check of himself to make sure he was presentable before knocking on the door.

  There was a crisp, “come in,” so he committed himself and turned the handle. He was dismayed to find the door opened onto a large room and not the small office he was expecting. Two WAAFs and a Corporal were sat at their respective desks ploughing through piles of reports. The air was filled with the chatter of typewriters. To the left was another door leading to an adjoining room. She was sat next to the door behind her own desk. Her face dropped when she saw him come in.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh indeed,” he replied, suddenly very aware that they had an audience. Her lips pulled into a prim line. She looked at her staff. All activity had stopped at his entrance and she glared at them. Work continued but all eyes were sneaking looks over the tops of their typewriters. Her cheeks coloured and Carter shifted uneasily on his feet. He thought quickly.

  “Squadron Leader, Wilkinson has a meeting with SASO shortly. He asked if you had that report he requested?”

  Following his cue, she nodded slowly, picking up a folder from her desk.

  “Of course,” she replied crisply. “I was just going to bring it for him.”

  She strode round her desk and made for the door. As she passed him, she grabbed his arm with her free hand, gripped it tight and pulled him after her.

  “Come on idiot,” she hissed once they were in the corridor. She turned left down the corridor, going back towards the halls entrance. Carter thought she was going to chuck him out. Her shoes clicked a rapid staccato pattern on the parquet floor as she went at a brisk pace. Carter skipped to keep up and just about drew level with her when she abruptly turned left and entered an empty office. He followed her in and she slammed the door behind him. She turned on him, eyes blazing.

  “Of all the-”

  “I know, I’m sorry.” He held his hands up defensively. “Look, I was here seeing my friend but truth be told, coming to see Freddie was only part of the reason I came over. I wanted to see you too.”

  That stumped her. She clutched the folder to her chest, armour between herself and him. Her chin jutted out defiantly.

  “But whatever for?” she asked innocently in theatrical fashion. Her eyes widened and she lifted her eyebrows. “Surely you’ve something better
to do?” she asked, mimicking his own words from the Christmas dance.

  “I deserved that didn’t I?” he said, abashed. “I’m sorry. I was rude at the dance and I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when you came over to talk to me.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” she said, her tone softening slightly, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  “I’ll be the first to admit I was being a bit of a prig.” He apologised again. “I’m sorry.”

  She unwound a little and stopped clutching the file so tightly.

  “So what’s changed now?” she asked.

  “Life goes on,” he responded, blurting out the first thing that entered his head. Her brow pinched in annoyance at his flippancy, so he carried on talking. “Look, can’t we start again? Sometimes a fellow realises he’s made a stupid mistake, it would be a shame to punish me for it.”

  The silence was deafening. Carter clenched his teeth and flinched at the gulf between them. She looked uncertain at first but then nodded to herself.

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “Forgiven.”

  “Good.” He visibly brightened, some of the tension ebbing away. “Now, what time does your watch end?” he rushed on, not wanting to give her time to think.

  “Five. Unless there’s a flap on,” she warned him.

  She found the remainder of the afternoon excruciating. No one asked her anything but she saw them exchanging looks across their desks. She let them all get a flyer just to get rid of them, then spent fifteen minutes finishing off before leaving herself at ten past five. She was going out the lobby when a figure sprang up from a low sofa under the main stairs.

  “Taxi?” he asked her. She looked at him with some surprise.

  “I thought you were joking.”

  “Me?” he asked innocently. “Never. Come on, the meters running.” He led the way outside and round the corner of the hall where the Frazer Nash was waiting for him. He sped into Grantham and parked the car outside a pub she directed him to. They got a table in the tap room and Carter got the drinks in, bitter for her, half a beer for him.