Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “Now, Mr Carter. About that leave, I think we might be able to do something there.”

  When the tannoy announced that the squadron was stood down, there was an exodus of personnel from the station. After four days of being cooped up at Amber Hill, the men were keen to see a little bit of life and recharge their batteries. The pubs in Lincoln did a roaring trade and the Police were kept busy keeping things under control while life was experienced with gusto and intensity.

  Vos had to cool his heels for a while. As it was a Monday, Denise was at work until teatime. She found him nursing a bottle of beer, sat on the steps of her B&B when she got home. They fell into each others arms, then they fell into bed and came up for air a few hours later.

  Since leaving London, life had settled down into a pattern for both of them. She had her job to keep her busy and he came when he was able, telling her what he could, making it funny, avoiding the tragic bits as much as possible but four nights on the trot had tested her nerve.

  Night after night, she had heard the bombers go out, the air thrumming with the sound of the engines as the squadrons of Lincolnshire went to war. Each night she heard them come back in. Before going to sleep she had knelt at the side of her bed, hands clenched in silent prayer, willing him to make it back and return to her. She had to force herself to slow down and time seemed to stand still while she waited for any news.

  Todd and Murphy went to The Crown. The place was jammed and there was a fuss when some soldiers blundered into the bar. They were just drunk enough to think they should stick around. One of them made a comment and the atmosphere turned very frosty. They were bundled from the pub and dumped outside, the only injury being to their pride when they were divested of their trousers. After five minutes their pants were thrown to them from an upstairs window and they disappeared before anything else happened.

  Todd consumed beer at a prodigious rate and talked shooting with some fellow gunners from Waddington. One of them also hailed from Melbourne and they were like kindred spirits until the subject turned to Australian Rules Football and the relative merits of Essendon and St Kilda were discussed. Loyalty to a particular team was almost tribal and something that was fiercely defended. No blows were exchanged but the parties had to be separated and plied with more beer before things settled down again.

  Murphy watched this little byplay of Aussie camaraderie perched on the end of the bar. He shared what time Muriel could spare him inbetween serving thirsty airmen. When the pub closed for a few hours in accordance with the licensing laws they went back to her place, a small one room flat above a grocers. She did him an egg on toast with a pot of tea but food was soon forgotten in a frenzy of lovemaking. He told her about the nightfighter attack while the sweat dried on their skin in between sessions. He had stoked the fire back up in the grate and added a few lumps of coal before getting back into bed with her.

  She lay on her side, watching the flames leap and dance in the darkened room. He lay behind her and moulded his body to hers, their legs wrapped around each other. He nuzzled her hair and she closed her eyes, almost purring as he traced his fingers up and down her ribcage. She rolled onto her back and looked up at him. He thrilled at the sight of her laid on the bed. Under the glow of the fire and the dim light from the curtained window, her pale skin almost glowed.

  He ran his left hand over her thigh and then moved up, over her stomach, around her belly button and then down to the glistening thatch between her legs. She looked at him through hooded eyes, her thoughts unreadable as his finger got closer to its target. Just as he teased her blonde hair she shoved his hand out of the way and laughed. She pushed him back onto the bed and got on top, sliding down onto him to start it all again.

  White went out with his new crew. It was their first chance to go for a drink since getting together and they had a lot to celebrate. They’d completed three ops without a scratch, not bad for a rookie crew just getting to know each other.

  Later, he sat at his desk in his billet and wrote to his parents, giving them the news of his getting a crew of his own. Then he sat back on his bed and almost devoured the two letters Elaine had sent him.

  Both had been dated the week before. They were chatty letters, full of details of her daily life. He liked her loopy handwriting, the big bold strokes of the pen, it seemed to suit her somehow. Her mothers health had improved significantly but she would remain at home for some time to come. She talked with yearning about going back to London and going back to her job. She felt a bit like a spare part back home.

  He wrote her a long letter in response, trying to put into words what it felt like being the man in charge and what life was like on the station. He read it again and made some changes. Lots of it would never get past the censor, he was sure.

  As soon as Carter got back to Amber Hill he headed to the Mess and made a beeline for the phone. The operator put him through and someone answered it on the second ring. Carter could hear Mrs Lloyd’s voice ringing out in the background, announcing tea being served. He asked for Georgette and the voice on the other end of the line called her. She came to the phone in a rush.

  “Darling, Mrs Lloyd’s just serving dinner.”

  “I’ll make it quick. Are you free Friday evening?”

  “I should be,” she said, her voice teasing. She was smiling and Carter could hear that down the phone, her voice bright.

  “Good, we’ve got a dinner date with Freddie and Helen again.”

  “Do I get more than ten minutes to get ready this time?” she asked him. He laughed.

  “Dinner’s at seven. And I’ve got some leave coming. The boss told me it’s soon, maybe another week.”

  “I’ll find out and get organised,” she promised him. They said goodbye and she went back in to dinner. She was floating along, not even hearing Mrs Lloyd’s reproach for the interruption. The next seven days could not go fast enough, she just crossed her fingers that nothing would happen to upset their plans.

  After a period intense activity, the erks swarmed over the Manchester’s. All of them needed some kind of work doing, ranging from the patching of holes all the way up to an engine change. Morale was good, after being grounded in Novembers the aircraft were now behaving themselves. Pullen scurried around making sure the men had what they needed. As engineering officer he keenly felt any problems and he spent a lot of the day chasing down a delivery of spares that hadn’t arrived from the depot.

  For all their best behaviour, that was not to say that things couldn’t happen. The next day, Everett’s Manchester petulantly refused to feather the port engine when it overheated on a cross country flight and he had an interesting few minutes bringing it back to Amber Hill.

  Carter air tested L-London, fresh from the repairs in the hangar. Everything handled okay, the engines operated within the acceptable range and the controls were nice and solid. He thought the ailerons were still a little stiff but Latimer assured him they had changed the cables for new ones.

  “It’ll just take a bit of time to bed in, sir,” he promised Carter. “They’ll soon have that little bit of give, you’ll see.”

  Carter left it that. When it came to the aircraft he trusted Latimer implicitly. If he said it had been checked, then it had been.

  That evening 363 had a party and there was good reason to celebrate. Archer had been awarded the DFC with immediate effect after his amazing efforts getting back from Brest. His radio operator was awarded the DFM for dealing with the fire. After the extinguishers had been exhausted he had patted out the flames with his bare hands. He was in hospital recovering. Walsh got a mention in dispatches for bringing his Manchester back after getting shot up on the Brest run. Dickinson had been given the citations when he was at Group the previous afternoon, it had cheered him up no end during the meeting.

  Archer was the centre of attention that night and he basked in the glow of congratulations, pint after pint being pressed into his hand. Drink flowed and the piano was liberally watered to make it sound bet
ter. They sang the Eton Boating song with gusto before segwaying into a stirring rendition of Bless ‘Em All, with a few changes to the lyrics to suit Bomber Command.

  Amongst the chaos, Everett boasted he could get round the Mess without touching the floor. Walsh bet him a pound he couldn’t which was quickly accepted. Everett started at the fireplace, which was a large brick chimney breast with a polished mahogany mantelpiece. He took off his shoes and his tunic and rolled up his shirt sleeves before clambering onto it, using one of the Chesterfield sofa’s as a stool. He shinnied round the corner, hand flailing for the picture hanging rail he knew was there. He gripped it firmly with his fingers and swung a leg round, feeling for the wooden chair rail about three feet up from the floor.

  It was impressive stuff, he clung to the wall like some monkey and shuffled around the corner of the chimney breast. He would edge his foot along, then his right hand. He got to the bookcase halfway along the wall and took a breather. His navigator handed him a pint and Everett drank from it before getting ready for the next stage. There was a solid ceiling height bookcase on the next wall and he would be able to use that to cover some ground. He had no idea how he was going to deal with the door but it had a big frame around it, He might be able to swing onto the small round table next to it.

  Everett was making this look too easy. The squadron spiced it up a bit. Pillows started flying. One thumped the wall in front of his face and he turned the air blue, telling them what they could do with their pillows. The barrage increased. His foot missed a step and he clung on for dear life, his fingers gripping the rail. He got his balance back and clung on, breathing hard.

  “You rotten sods,” he bellowed. More pillows flew. One of them hit him in the face and he dropped to the floor. His eyes fixed on Nicol who was stood there pillow in hand. He came up out of his crouch with a roar. Nicol threw the pillow at him which bought him vital seconds before he pelted for the nearest door. There was a spirited chase before someone grabbed Everett and pressed him to accept another pint which mollified him somewhat.

  Two broom handles magically appeared and they decided to have a game of spinning. They split into flights. Furniture was moved out of the way to clear a space the length of the room. Two stewards were shanghaied into standing at the far end, holding the broom handles vertical. Asher stood on a stool, raising his hand for hush.

  “Gentlemen. Dead easy, up to the end, drink a pint, spin round the broom five times and then run back to tag your team mate to go next. On three, two, one.” He dropped the bar towel like Caesar starting gladiatorial games.

  Dickinson and Church went first, they were the flight commanders so that was only fair. Church got off to a flyer and reached the brooms first but he was not as hardened a drinker as Dickinson. The New Zealander necked his pint in seconds and then put his forehead to the broom, going round and round. He lost count and actually went round it six times but he was still in front when he started running back down the hall. It was a picture. Seeing two Squadron Leaders staggering along, their heads canted one way while their bodies wanted to go the other. Dickinson crashed into a bar stool, picked himself up and lunged forwards to tap the next man in line as Church caught up to him.

  Walsh was off, neck and neck with Archer. They went round the brooms in different directions and collided on the way back. Walsh dug himself out of the tangle of legs first and got back to the start line.

  So it went on. As each man finished they stood off to one side, on and around the Chesterfields. “Flak,” someone shouted and pillows were utilised to spice up proceedings. White veered wildly off course, his balance thrown out of whack and clatttered into the crowd. Willing hands shoved him back onto the field of play and he fell over again, head reeling from spinning round the pole.

  Carter managed to get up and down the run with the minimum of fuss, unlike Archer’s navigator, Turner. His stomach revolted at the spinning and he threw up , narrowly missing the steward who deftly dodged out of the way. 'A' Flight were awarded victory by default and the men lined the bar while Turner was handed a mop and bucket to clean up his mess.

  Carter ducked out when two bicycles magically appeared. Limbs tended to get broken when bicycles appeared. At his last squadron one navigator broke his leg in two places after bicycle racing in the Mess. Walsh joined him on the steps and they shared a cigarette.

  “You too, huh?”

  “Where fools and angels fear to tread,” Walsh replied, blowing smoke to the sky. He shuddered when the sound of broken glass came from inside. He handed the cigarette back to Carter and clapped him on the shoulder. “Once more unto the breach.”

  “Act III, scene I, Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George,” Carter finished for him.

  “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Walsh asked as he walked back in.

  25 - Hoodoo Boy

  Three days later they were called to briefing. Walsh was still hobbling after a heavy fall cycling round the Mess. He sat down gingerly and shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “I warned you,” said Carter.

  “I know, I know. I’m an idiot. God that hurts.”

  With Bomber Command still doing what they could to conserve their force over the winter months, only fifty odd aircraft would be going on this one. Asher unveiled the route on the board. The target for tonight was Munster. A big city, east and a little north of the Ruhr it was a huge military district and home to the sixth and twenty third Infantry Corps amongst other units. As it was an old city, they would be carrying mainly incendiary loads. Old Cities burned well with their narrow streets and wooden buildings.

  After briefing, Carter went out to L-London. Fully repaired, this would be the first op he had flown in her for a week, but it felt like an age. The repaired panel on the fuselage stood out, the fresh paint on the roundel a sharp contrast to the grey fuselage lettering which was dirty and worn. He did his walk around more thoroughly than usual, paying attention to the control surfaces, the bomb door and, the undercarriage. He stood staring up at the engines, willing them to behave this time. Chiefy Latimer watched closely, patiently standing off to one side with the Form 700 ready for signature.

  After the air test Carter retreated back to his billet. For the first time in his operational career he sat at his desk and pulled out some notepaper. He spent an hour writing two letters. After he was finished he wrote names on the envelopes and sealed them. He leaned them against a bottle of aftershave and sat staring at them until Walsh came in. Carter quickly sat up and pushed his chair back, clearing his throat as he stood up.

  “You ready?” Walsh asked, not looking as he chucked his flying helmet onto his bed and shucked off his boots.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Carter replied reluctantly.

  “You should have heard, Archer earlier,” Walsh continued. “The arrogant little shit was saying he was looking forwards to this.”

  Carter shrugged, for once not bothered to hear about the ongoing feud, other things on his mind. Walsh got into bed, set the alarm on the small travel clock and got his head down, still grousing about Archer without pausing for breathe. Carter picked up the two envelopes and left Walsh to it.

  He went to the admin blocks and found Saunderson behind his desk censoring mail. He knocked on the door jamb and Saunderson motioned at one of the spare chairs. Carter flopped down and put his feet up on the other chair. Saunderson carried on reading. He’d seen the moody face on Carter as soon as he came in, so he waited, sure that he would speak when he wanted to.

  He chuckled to himself as he read the letters, impressed at Flight Sergeant Baxter’s tales of sexual prowess. He got out the big brush, dipped it in the pot of indian ink and wiped out a few lines of text. He tutted as Baxter made mention of operations and wiped out some more words. Carter watched silently as Saunderson put the letter back in the envelope and moved on to the next one.

  “Don’t you ever get bored of that?” Carter asked, pointing at the letters.

&nb
sp; “All the time,” replied Saunderson without looking up from the next page. “I’ve seen it all, sex, war, medical problems, relationship problems, home sickness, you name it.” Saunderson was about to make a crack about it being a dirty job but thought better of it. “Have you come to volunteer your services?” he asked instead.

  “God no,” Carter choked, suddenly remembering that Saunderson was still hunting for people to help out with his concert party.

  “You sure? I see you doing a bit of Shakespeare.”

  “No,” Carter told him, his voice flat.

  “Oh well, it was worth a try. Think about it, won’t you? What about the rest of your crew? Surely there’s a budding thespian amongst them?” Saunderson persisted. If Carter wanted to invade his office, then the price was someone for his party. Carter locked gazes and then gave in, suddenly not bothered.

  “Jensen’s young and keen. I’m sure he’ll be what you need.”

  Saunderson leaned back and picked up a clipboard hanging on a hook. He wrote Jensen’s name down on the list and put the clipboard back. Carter stayed in the office, watching quietly as Saunderson worked through the daily business of the squadron, all the background stuff that kept the machine oiled and moving along. He took another hour to plough through letters of complaint from local councils and landowners. Mail from Group went into a tray to go to Asher.

  Eventually, Carter cleared his throat. Saunderson didn’t look up from the Air Ministry circular he was reading. Carter leaned forward in his seat and produced the two envelopes from his tunic pocket.

  “I wanted to ask a favour.”

  Saunderson stopped reading and looked up. He’d seen many sides to Carter the last few months, but he’d never seen him so serious before, not even when he was voicing his concern over Vos’s girl. Carter slid the two envelopes across the desk. Saunderson picked them up and weighed them in his hands.