Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “If I don’t come back, you’ll make sure those get to the right people?”

  “Of course, old chap. No problem.” He opened the top drawer on the left side of his desk and put the envelopes inside. He slid the drawer slowly closed. “Consider it done.”

  Carter nodded a silent thanks and then glanced at his watch. Time had crept round to four thirty, it was time to start getting himself ready. He swung by his billet, woke up Walsh who was spark out and they went to the Mess together.

  It seemed like time slowed down as he ate lightly and without much appetite. Around him, everyone talked like it was just another op, the banter running along well worn lines. A sense of foreboding grew inside of him and there was little he could do to stop it taking hold.

  The feeling continued as he got ready in the crew room. Carter tried to blank out the clamour of noise as he sat on the bench, pulling on his fur lined boots. His legs felt like lead and it was difficult to do anything quickly. Today was his thirteenth trip on this tour and he’d been twitchy like this on his first tour as well. Everyone had their little quirks and superstitions and he was no different. He just felt uneasy and it was a hard feeling to shake off. He knew he’d only be able to relax once they got back to Amber Hill safe and sound.

  His thoughts strayed to Georgette but he put her away in her compartment and focused on the task at hand. He promised himself he’d think about her when he got home. He made sure he thought about it in terms of when, not if.

  He rode in silence in the truck out to dispersal. The crews joked amongst themselves but he withdrew into himself. Walsh gave him a thumbs up before he jumped down from the truck, Carter gave him a weak smile in return, devoid of his usual confidence.

  His crew gathered by the entry hatch to L-London and looked at him. He suddenly felt tired of it all, tired of being the leader who had to bottle his feelings inside and paint a smile on his face.

  “Time to go, lads,” he told them. “I’ve been to Munster once before. Piece of cake. This is no different to any other trip.” He mentally kept repeating this to himself, convincing himself that if he did it enough, then maybe it would be fine.

  They got in and went about their tasks, checking things were in the right place, doing what they always did. Todd came back out of his turret in the nose and double checked where he had stowed his parachute pack. He hated being up front but a deal was a deal.

  In the cockpit, Carter was happy to be back home again. Flying Q-Queen the last two ops had been uncomfortable so he was glad L-London had been ready for tonight. He went through the checklist with Jensen and then sat back, waiting for the start up time. While they waited he broke the news to Jensen that he had volunteered his services to perform on stage. Jensen thought he was joking, that it was just a wind up to divert him from thinking about the trip, then the penny dropped that he was serious.

  “Skipper, You can’t do that to me; I get stage fright. I froze at a reading at school.”

  Carter laughed for the first time that day.

  “Well you know what they say,” he said to his hapless co-pilot, “practice makes perfect.”

  He leaned out of his window and twirled his finger above his head. Chiefy Latimer pointed at the port engine .

  “Contact!” Jensen flicked the cover off the starter button and jabbed it hard. There was a huge belch of smoke and flame from the exhausts as the prop span into a blur. The airframe vibrated from the power.

  “Cut out!” he called.

  “RUNNING POSITION!” Jensen shouted and gave him a thumbs up.

  Latimer pointed to starboard.

  “Contact” he shouted, his voice snatched away by the roar of the port engine. The starboard engine came to life and Carter slid the cockpit window shut, settling himself in his seat. He made sure he had the brakes on and then ran up the engines. He could feel the power as L-London edged forwards and pushed against her chocks. The engines warmed quickly and the temperatures settled down. Across from them Walsh’s Manchester was also running, the props, yellow tipped discs in the dark.

  “Crew check in please.”

  “Nav, here.”

  “Radio.”

  “Second pilot, present.”

  “Nose gunner, skipper.”

  “Tail ready.”

  “Assume take off positions.”

  Todd squirmed up from the nose and went back down the fuselage. He sat on the floor facing forwards, his back resting against the main spar. Vos sat down with him. The engine note deepened as Jensen brought in the power and they taxied out.

  Todd hated this part. The engines blaring like banshees as they shot down the runway, tail up, balanced on the mainwheels, before climbing away into the sky. All he could do was sit and wait for it to happen. He had complete faith in the skipper, but it was still twenty tons of metal convincing gravity that it could actually fly. He gritted his teeth as they jolted and moved along, waiting for their turn to take off. His stomach clenched when he felt them do one big last turn and then come to an abrupt halt as Carter dabbed the brakes, lined up at the end of the runway.

  “Final checks, please,” he instructed Jensen. “Compass!”

  “NORMAL.”

  “Pitot heater!”

  “ON.”

  “Trim!” Jensen double checked the trim settings. Carter had specified what he expected for take off. The pilot notes said slightly forwards for elevator but Carter preferred a few notches more. He found the Manchester heavy on the elevators and he preferred to make it easier to get the tail up on the take off run.

  “ELEVATOR SET FORWARD, RUDDER AND AILERONS, NEUTRAL.”

  “Prop!”

  “FULLY UP AND SET.”

  “Fuel!”

  “MASTER COCKS ARE ON, CROSS FEED OFF, BOOSTERS ONE AND TWO ARE SET.”

  And so it continued. Each system checked and ready. Jensen dropped the flaps for take off and then put his left hand behind the throttles. They both looked towards the control hut at the left side of the runway. The glow of an Aldis lamp appeared in the small perspex dome. They were cleared to go.

  Carter pushed hard on the throttles, driving them forwards with the heel of his hand. As they started moving, Jensen took over, his fingers threaded between them as he pushed. Carter gripped the yoke with both hands, feeling all the bumps as L-London started to roll. Jensen called out the speed as they accelerated down the runway. Carter kept the nose lined up, using the rudder to keep them straight.

  “Max!” he called. Jensen shoved the throttles to the stops.

  “MAX POWER!”

  The engines howled as they were taken to the limit. The nose came up and now came the tricky part, keeping twenty tons of bomber balanced on her mainwheels without burying the nose into the concrete. Carter could feel the air over the control surfaces as the speed built up.

  “Passing one hundred,” Jensen called. “One ten.”

  Carter kept her glued to the ground. He had enough experience with Manchester’s to know that you didn’t yank them off the ground. You treated them with kid gloves and you gently coaxed them into lifting off.

  “One twenty, and five.”

  Now was the time. He eased back the yoke. Not much, just enough to let the air get under the wings. He wanted to tease her into the air. He waited a few more moments and slowly pulled back. L-London left the ground and they were on their way.

  “You look beautiful,” he told her, meaning it as they got into Archers car. Once again, Carter had prevailed on Archer to loan it to him. Archers girl was away and he was going into Lincoln with his crew so he had no need of it tonight anyway.

  The drive to Grantham had been pleasant enough. He bumbled along at a fair clip, not paying much attention, the car almost driving itself. He got to the street of Georgette’s digs and parked a few doors away. Then a bolshy streak took hold and he let the car creep downhill until it was parked outside the house. He got out and almost skipped up the three steps that led to the front door. He knocked twice and waited.r />
  After an appreciable wait, the door was opened by a tall silver haired woman, her blue eyes slitted and measuring as she looked him up and down in an instant. A pinafore was tied around her waist but she was meticulously turned out all the same, with not a hair out of place.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in clipped tones, her Scottish brogue much more noticeable in person than it had been on the telephone. Clearly this was the formidable, Mrs Lloyd.

  “I’m here to escort, Miss Waters to dinner.”

  There was a moments pause as she decided what to do. Her house had rules. They were her girls and she was charged with looking after them. Admitting a gentleman caller was unheard of. But, Miss Waters had told her a few days ago she would be missing dinner that evening because she had another engagement. Mrs Lloyd liked that, it showed respect and consideration. She eyed Carter again with some suspicion and then stepped back as she opened the door.

  “Come in,” she said stiffly, gesturing down the hall with her right hand. Carter stepped in to a spartan hallway. Spacious, it was about eight feet wide with a patterned terracotta tiled floor. Flower print wallpaper adorned the walls and a number of decorative plates hung from the picture rail on thin chains. A coat rack to the right was full of ladies coats of all colours and greatcoats in RAF blue.

  “May I take your coat…?” she paused, waiting for him to introduce himself.

  “My name’s, Alexander Carter.”

  “Arabella Lloyd; Mrs,” she almost sniffed her title at the end, hinting that she was a respectable women who should not be crossed.

  “A lovely house, Mrs Lloyd,” he said, trying to break the ice, She took his coat and hung it on a hook, but he kept hold of his battered peaked cap. Mollified somewhat by his comment about her home, she led the way to the front parlour on the left.

  The room was about ten feet square with a large bay window at the front. Heavy blackout curtains were drawn across the windows. A bevelled mirror hung above the fireplace. The alcoves either side of the chimney breast had been fitted with shelfs filled with books. Two armchairs faced the fire, their arms draped in white lace covers. Carter imagined it could be quite a cosy room if it felt like it, but there was no fire in the grate and it was chilly.

  Entry to the house did not include an invitation to sit and he stood by the mantelpiece. Mrs Lloyd left him there while she went up to inform Georgette her gentleman caller had arrived. He craned his head to look at the titles of books on the shelf to the left of the fireplace. Mrs Lloyd’s tastes appeared to run to the conventional. He saw a bible, a set of Encyclopedia Britannica and a treatise on British birds.

  Carter did his best not to gape when Georgette came downstairs ten minutes later. She was wearing a dark green dress she had borrowed from one of the other girls. Off the shoulder, it pinched her a little bit at the waist but it would do. A black fur wrap was across her shoulders. Some slide clips pinned her hair back from her face.

  “Hu-hullo,” he stuttered, taken aback. She smiled, pleased to have made such an impression on him.

  “I’m not late am I?” she asked.

  “Not at all. A lady can never be late anyway,” he said with arch gallantry, coming over to her from the fireplace and taking her hand. He would have hugged her but Mrs Lloyd was stood at the door, her face a rigid mask of marginal disapproval, her hands clasped in front of her. He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

  “Be careful dear,” cautioned Mrs Lloyd as they made for the door. She knew what these flyer types were like, all flash and talk, no substance. She hated to see her girls heads being turned by a smart uniform and a pair of wings.

  “I will, Mrs Lloyd,” Georgette replied, suitably abashed and demure. The door closed with a bang as they went out to the car. Carter didn’t look back but he would have bet money that he was being watched through a slit in the blackout curtains. He opened the passenger side door for Georgette and took her hand as she got in the car. He let in the clutch and they pulled away smartly.

  “So that’s the dragon,” he commented, concentrating as the front window steamed up slightly. He wiped it with a rag.

  “Oh darling, you mustn’t. She’s not too bad really.”

  “I can tell. Do you have to be back by a certain time or does she raise the drawbridge for the night and leave you to the mercies of the ravening hordes?”

  “No, she doesn’t. She’s just looking after us.”

  “That’s one thing to call it,” he observed, his tone more acid than he intended.

  “Well, she is a little strict sometimes,” Georgette grudgingly admitted.

  “Sometimes!” exclaimed Carter. “My God, a smile would kill her.”

  “Cheer up grumpy. We’re not having dinner there.”

  He mellowed at that. He drove out of Grantham and a short time later he went up the drive of The Madison. Carter parked near the entrance and they walked through the front door. He took her coat and handed it to the porter who gave him a ticket for it. It was a little before seven so he escorted her to the lounge and left a message at reception so Wilkinson would know where to find them.

  The decor themes of the dining room had been carried through to the lounge. The heads of stags and deer looked down on a room painted in pale yellow shades. Oriental rugs adorned the polished woodblock floor. An old military type was sat by the fire, basking in the warmth while he read his newspaper. Two old ladies were in their finest having aperitifs before dinner.

  Carter picked a table farthest from everyone else and held the chair for Georgette. She settled and he sat next to her, hitching his chair round so there was no space between them. The waiter asked what they wanted and Carter ordered drinks without really paying attention, mesmerised by her.

  He’d been thinking about this since seeing her earlier in the week. Now the moment had come he found himself tongue tied. She looked at him, seeing his nerves and she smiled, her cheek dimpling with her lopsided smile. She reached across the desk and placed her hand over his.

  “Worth waiting for?” she asked. He nodded.

  “I’m just glad to be here,” he managed to get out.

  He yawned, fighting it. His body clock was still racing to adjust after the previous nights op. He stared into the distance, distracted a little by the leftover feelings of foreboding he had suffered the day before. Even now it was hard to shake off that sense of doom that had fallen over him.

  “Alex?”

  “I’m sorry; it’s just.” He breathed out hard, his cheeks ballooning. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Georgette detected the edge to his voice and was dismayed.

  “If you’re tired we can do this another time.”

  “No, NO,” he said firmly. “It was just hard last night.”

  The worst part had been when they had flown over the Ijsselmeer. Sucking down oxygen, Carter found himself breathing faster than normal, his eyes raw from staring into the dark. The patchy clouds were stacked up above them, the weak moonlight making them glow like ethereal ghosts. This was where they had been attacked the last time so he had been on edge all the way until they had left it behind them. He put that and other thoughts away and turned his attention back to her.

  “I’ve been thinking about this all week.”

  “So have I. It seems a long time since we were here last.”

  “Two weeks,” he murmured.

  “Too long.”

  He tapped his glass off hers.

  “Here’s to us.”

  She lifted her glass in salute and then sipped.

  “To us.”

  They talked about their coming leave, throwing suggestions into the hat. Georgette suggested Skegness. It was not far away and some good seaside air could be quite refreshing. Carter wrinkled his nose in disapproval. He’d gone there with Mary on his first tour and he didn’t relish the idea of revisiting old haunts.

  One thing they did agree on was to avoid Lincoln. That really was too close to home. On the other hand, Carter didn’t want to go too far.
On a short forty eight, he wanted to spend as much quality time with Georgette as possible, not just cooped up in a train carriage going back and forth. Eventually they settled on York. They were still discussing details when Freddie Wilkinson and Helen were being directed to their seats by the waiter.

  “Here you are,” his friend said breezily, full of bonhomie as he saw them sat there clearly lost in one another.

  Helen was all smiles as usual, pleased to see him and pleased to see the new romance blossoming so well. She liked Georgette very much and they had talked a few times on the telephone in the last two weeks.

  They went through to dinner. Chef outdid himself again, turning rabbit into a delight and the accompanying sauce was magical.

  “This was a good idea,” said Wilkinson as he attacked his apple pie with gusto. He caught the waiters eye and asked for more cream. Carter grunted agreement, his mouth full of confectionery.

  Helen commented that she had spent the afternoon choosing baby names. Wilkinson choked on his drink at that announcement.

  “But I thought we’d agreed. Edward if it was a boy, Eloise if it was a girl. After my father and your mother.”

  “Freddie that is sweet of you, dear, but it’s not carved in stone. I just wanted to see how some others sounded before making up my mind.”

  “Just don’t forget, Alex is a good name for a boy,” said Carter, smiling wide like the Cheshire Cat. Helen playfully swiped at his hand.

  “You’re a perfect rotter.”

  The plates were cleared away and soon after, Helen announced she was tired and everyone fussed around to make sure she was okay.

  “I’m fine,” she assured them as she levered herself up from her chair. “Just tired.”

  In the hall, Helen hugged Georgette with genuine warmth.

  “It was lovely to see you again. You promised me a shopping trip.”

  “I know. How about tomorrow?” Georgette suggested. “If you feel up to it, that is.”

  Helen’s face lit up with enthusiasm.

  “That would be wonderful. A good nights rest will see me right. It would be nice to get out of this place and go shopping.” She hugged Carter close. “Goodnight, Alex.” She turned to the stairs and called her husband to heel, “Freddie.”