Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  On the trip back, Jensen watched the instruments while Carter flew. There was little conversation between the crew, they all knew that this was one of those times that Carter wanted them concentrating on their jobs. The Manchester went up and down like a yo-yo in the turbulent winds and Jensen knew enough pilots that would have fought them with brute force, trying to bend the aircraft to his will. He watched as Carter played the controls like a concert pianist, feeling the vibrations through his seat, the tug on the yoke as the air washed over the elevators and ailerons, the kick as his feet rode the rudder pedals.

  Jensen’s world shrank to the few dials in front of him and the throttle levers. While he focused on the vibrating needles, he kept thinking about the ENSA girl who’d looked after him the previous night. He smiled as he remembered her lovely eyes and smile.

  He had marched onto the stage in a fog and did his bit, a halting rendition of When the boat comes in. As soon as he got off stage he threw up in the bucket and had a pounding headache. He’d felt like a fool singing it but it was the only song he knew by heart without nerves getting the better of him.

  She had stayed with him until it was her turn to go back on stage and he never got the chance to thank her for looking after him. He never even knew her name.

  Thinking about it afterwards, he felt a right idiot for not asking her out for a drink but he was hardly in his normal frame of mind to think about such things at the time. He brooded on his ineptitude as they jolted their way home. Maybe Saunderson would know how he could go about getting in touch with her.

  When they got back to Amber Hill, the final thrill of the evening was the discovery that they had no hydraulic pressure. Somewhere on the way back some flak had nicked the hydraulics and by the time they returned all of the fluid had leaked out. Carter blew down the undercarriage with the emergency bottle and made a delicate landing with no flaps and no brakes.

  They got back long after everyone else, did interrogation, had their egg and turned in. The whole trip was a washout. Hardly anyone had claimed to bomb the target and quite a few of the squadron had landed elsewhere. While Woods had been hopelessly lost for most of the flight he felt some pride that he had actually managed to get them back to base; it was the sole crumb of comfort he could take from the evening.

  27 - London’s Burning

  Just after lunch, Todd ducked out of the poker action and went for a walk. He wanted some peace and quiet and there was no chance of that in his hut. The same old faces still came to play, the only change is that they now paid tribute.

  After the last debacle when the huts coal supply had been used up, anyone coming to play had to bring either wood, coal or some other commodity with them. As a result, they had a nice stock of coal and wood for the stove and other things like tea bags, chocolate and biscuits. Their hut had became one of the places to be. It was always toasty warm and there were hot drinks available.

  Todd borrowed one of the bicycles propped against the wall and struck out for the perimeter fence. He wasn’t a confident rider and he took his time, sticking to the road while he worked up a bit of speed. He tried the rear brake and was rewarded with a high pitched squeal that set his teeth on edge. He cycled past the hangars and kept well away from the front gate. The SP’s liked to bugger about when they saw someone on a bicycle.

  Bicycles were actually issued to individuals but the crews had evolved a more fluid idea of ownership when it came to bikes. They treated them more as a collective pool from which you could use one if they happened to be lying around. This was particularly useful if someone actually assigned a bicycle caught a packet. It seemed daft to return it to stores to be reissued, so over time who actually owned what bike had become quite blurred.

  That might have worked in practical terms, but in the rigid world of the SP’s, such fluid notions were anathema. By and large, the crews were left alone, but occasionally, Service Police liked to flex their muscle and cause some issues. Todd took a dim view of that. The only people actually doing any work on the station were the erks and the flight crews so any interference in that irritated him. Add in his general dislike of stuffy officialdom and he tended to hate SP’s on sight. He regarded them as a redundant waste of oxygen and uniform and he wasn’t in the mood to tangle with them today.

  He lifted his backside off the saddle and leaned into the handlebars, building up a head of steam. The spokes creaked as the frame wavered from side to side, his feet working the pedals. He got the fright of his life when a Corporal driving a Bedford leaned on his horn behind him and then swung out wide to overtake. Todd shook his fist as the truck breezed by leaving him in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

  Turning onto the peri track, Todd passed a few Manchester’s and then cut onto the grass. The bicycle bobbled across the uneven ground, the tyres leaving a trail behind him in the frosty grass. He pushed hard, feeling the grass tugging on the wheels.

  Soon enough he came up to the perimeter, an eight feet high chain link fence with coils of barbed wire on top. Running parallel to the fence he kept going until he came to the familiar mounds of grass beyond the bomb dump. On the eastern side of the field there were eight of these long, cigar shaped mounds. The biggest was fiften feet high and about forty feet long and covered in rough long grass. White had told him once they were barrows. He steered between two of the larger ones and stashed the bicycle behind a big gorse bush.

  What few people knew was that behind the gorse bushes there was a gap in the fence that got you off the station without having to sign out at the main gate. The other side of the fence was a thick copse of trees which hid you from sight. Todd looked around to make sure the bike was hidden from view and then went down on his hands and knees. The bottom two feet of the chain link fence was not attached to the mounting post and he squeezed through the gap.

  He waited in the trees until there was no traffic and then crossed the road and struck out across the lane that ran parallel to the field. Setting a brisk pace he got to the farm house within ten minutes.

  The blue tractor was in the yard and Todd sauntered up to the back door with the ease of familiarity. He had come across this farm within his first few weeks of coming to Amber Hill but kept it a closely guarded secret. Aside from growing vegetables, it was also a chicken farm and next to the machinery barn were long sheds full of squawking birds. In exchange for chocolate and other items, Todd had a ready supply of eggs. He knocked on the door and a dog went beserk on the other side of it. He waited until he heard the familiar tread come to the door.

  “That you, digger?”

  “Aye, it’s me.”

  “Hold on,” came the gruff reply. There was some strong language and the dog quietened down. A latch clicked and the door opened to reveal the farmer, a big slab of man in corduroys and shirt sleeves, one meaty hand with a firm grip on the Alsatian’s collar. The big dog tugged and barked, tongue lolling.

  “Hey, Shadow,” Todd said, cuffing the dog on the head and rubbing his hands up and down the animals lean sides. The farmer let go of the collar and the animal sniffed Todd before padding back into the kitchen. It settled itself on its blanket in front of the range.

  “Come in for a warm,” said the farmer.

  “Bonzer,” replied Todd. He bent his head, going through the low door and walked into the kitchen. The floor was great flags of grey stone and the walls were white plaster, stained with the marks of everyday life on a farm. A walking stick and two pairs of mucky boots were by the door.

  Todd pulled up a chair and parked himself to the left of the range. The Alsatian eyed him suspiciously and then lay back down again, muzzle resting on his front paws.

  The farmer leaned back in his chair and eyed Todd through slitted eyes. He puffed on his pipe and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Forty five years old, Bill Edwards was twice Todd’s age but the pair of them had become firm friends over the last few months.

  Edwards was a widower and he’d led a relatively solitary life the last few years un
til the RAF had built a new airfield on his doorstep. The roar of the airplanes disturbed the hens but he hadn’t written angsty letters to the Air Ministry complaining about it like some people did. He’d been a soldier in the first war, his big hide carried the scars of shrapnel he had picked up at third Ypres. He knew all too well that life in the forces was measured in weeks so he was not about to create a fuss.

  Todd relaxed. Time seemed to slow down here on the farm. He liked that. He enjoyed the heat seeping through his bones. The one thing he hated about England was the bloody weather. The persistent cold never went away and he thought about home. Right now he would be simmering in the summer heat back in Melbourne.

  “You came at the right time,” Edwards said. “I was just getting a brew going.”

  “Fine.” Todd leaned forwards and ruffled the dogs ears.

  “The usual?” Edwards asked.

  In reply, Todd dug into the pockets of his greatcoat and pulled out two big slabs of ration chocolate and some bacon. The crews regularly raided their escape kits for the chocolate bars and Todd’s hut had a few spare after the poker players had brought them. There was no point in leaving them lying around. Chocolate had more value than just being randomly eaten as a snack. Edwards put the bars of chocolate in the top drawer of the Welsh dresser. He picked up the chunk of bacon and brought a long knife out of the cutlery drawer.

  “Bacon butty do?” he asked as he began cutting slices from it.

  “You read my mind,” Todd replied with enthusiasm.

  Edwards pointed to the frying pan hanging to the left of the range. Todd got it down and put it on to warm up. Edwards took over, slapping the bacon onto the pan, turning it occasionally as it cooked. When it was ready, the crispy bacon was transferred to wedges of bread on two plates. Edwards took a bite and smiled.

  “Here’s to you, Digger.”

  Todd stayed there an hour before retracing his steps back to the fence around the airfield. He shuffled through the tightly packed trees, squeezed through the hole in the fence and then cycled back to his billet. His cheeks were tingling with the cold when he came into the warm hut. The game was going strong with the usual diehards dealing the cards round the circle. Murphy and Jensen were not in the hut.

  “Anyone seen my mob?” he asked as he chucked his forage cap onto his bed.

  “Went out ten minutes ago,” Tucker said, distracted by the three tens he was holding.

  Todd shrugged and stashed the box of eggs underneath in a cardboard box with some of his personal items in. He would share them later with the hut once the poker crew had gone. The run out on the bike had been enough exercise for one day and he needed a lie down after a big mug of tea and the bacon sandwich. He got five minutes respite before Murphy came running into the hut.

  “Where have you been?” he asked sharply. “Come on, move it. The skipper wants to do an air test.”

  Todd groaned. He was nice and warm. He would have to get up now, get dressed and get very cold. It was not how he wanted to round out his day.

  Part of him wanted to rebel but he knew there was no getting out of this. He looked up when he realised conversation in the hut had come to a stop. The poker players were all looking in his direction.

  “Run along,” said Tucker with a big grin on his face.

  “It’s my bloody hut!” said Todd, outraged. He threw a pillow across the hut at Tucker who deflected it easily. “Right,” he muttered. He got up and went out with Murphy.

  Carter was not amused when Todd and Murphy finally arrived. The erks were stood around waiting for them and the rest of the crew had made ready for takeoff. Carter was sat on the blue trolley acc in his flying gear, his hands shoved into his pockets while he waited.

  “Good of you to join us gentlemen,” he said sarcastically, getting to his feet as they approached on their bicycles. “I’d like to get this done before we lose the light.”

  Carter hated landing at dusk. There was always an hour or so as the sun was going down where he had trouble looking into the sky and then the ground. His eyes had trouble adjusting from the bright sky and the dark terrain below, particularly on final approach.

  Todd just got on board without saying anything. How was he to know there was going to be an airtest before he went to the farm? He settled down against the mainspar and waited for the engines to start. It was freezing inside the fuselage and the sooner this was over, the better.

  Carter settled himself in his seat and fastened the straps, leaving them loose so he could lean forwards if he wanted.

  “You all right, skipper?” asked Jensen.

  “Fine,” Carter replied shortly. “Why?”

  “Oh, you just seemed a bit off.”

  “I’m fine, it’s just been one of those days. You ready?” he asked his co-pilot. Jensen grinned, theatrically cracked his knuckles and then pulled his gloves on.

  “As ever.”

  There was the usual chatter as they checked in over the intercom. Carter knew they would be all business when they got under way. Vos contacted the tower and got permission to taxi.

  “Anyone know what’s for dinner tonight?” asked Jensen. The food in the Sergeants Mess was a bit hit and miss and man could not live off chocolate bars alone.

  “A little fishy on a dishy?” offered Murphy.

  “When the boat comes in, mind,” Woods quickly finished, mangling the Geordie accent. That cracked them all up.

  “Why you…” Jensen stopped himself, what could he say to that.

  “Nothing like a little joke to brighten the day,” said Carter, smiling behind his oxygen mask. “Turning on one.”

  The engines started with the usual roar and Carter took reassurance from the familiar. The plane vibrated as the engines were throttled up and tested, then there was the jolting as they taxied to the runway. On the way round the peri-track, Carter saw he line of mud on the grass where the rookies had strayed off the concrete and gotten stuck the previous night.

  Todd hugged his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut as they swung onto the runway. There was a moments pause, the bomber shuddered as Carter dabbed the brakes, then there was a massive roar as the throttles were shoved forwards. Carter held her on the brakes for a second, feeling the revs build up, then he released her and they shot down the runway. Todd endured every bump, then his stomach lurched as the tail lifted and they were airborne.

  There was the familiar thump as the wheels nestled into their bays and the flaps came up. Once they got up to one thousand feet, Carter relinquished control and he watched as Jensen flew. His eyes caught every move and he smiled as he saw Jensen holding the yoke as he did, emulating him. They climbed easily into the afternoon sky, a blue bowl chased with wisps of cotton. To the west it was more purple as day was giving way to the approach of night.

  Today’s flight was just a short hop to test the hydraulic system so L-London would be operational again. It had been a simple fix but a mucky job. A chunk of flak had nicked a pipe near the main hydraulic pump and needed to be replaced. Then it had been a simple matter of recharging the system and bleeding out the air. On the ground it tested okay, but Latimer knew that this meant little where the Manchester was concerned.

  “Simple box route please, Woody. Say forty miles a side and get us back inside an hour if you please.”

  Woods duly obliged and passed him a course as they flew the first leg north. Jensen took it up to two thousand feet and Lincoln quickly slid underneath them, the Cathedral on the hill pointing to the sky like a spear.

  On the second leg, Todd and Murphy tested their turrets. Carter knew when the tail turret moved, he could feel it in the controls. Whenever the Fraser Nash turret traversed left and right he could feel the tug on the rudders and he made small corrections to keep the nose straight. The same thing happened when the nose turret moved either side.

  On the third leg they slowed down and Carter trimmed slightly nose up while they dropped the flaps and the wheels. Everything worked as it should h
ave done. Latimer had done his work well but Carter had come to expect nothing less. Latimer took genuine pride in his work and he looked after L-London like it was some vintage car.

  Five minutes later L-London proved them all wrong. The starboard engine coughed twice, backfired in a huge shower of sparks and then packed up. The Manchester immediately lurched to the right at the loss of power and Carter and Jensen had to work hard to keep her level. Jensen feathered the prop, but the mechanism seized up before the blades had fully turned into the airflow and the engine began to windmill creating even more drag.

  They advanced the throttle on the remaining engine but even lightly laden, L-London was not playing ball today. They had difficulty staying level and Carter knew there was no way they were getting back to Amber Hill.

  He glanced at the altimeter. They were at three thousand feet and with a dead engine there wasn’t much margin to trade for airspeed. The good thing was he knew the terrain hereabouts like the back of his hand. Lincoln was surrounded by airfields. Ahead of them was Woodhall Spa and Conningsby. It would be close but they should be able to make one of them if they went straight in.

  He had barely altered course to head towards them when the port engine packed up in sympathy. There was a massive bang and it came to a shuddering halt as it threw a con rod straight through the cowling in a gout of oil and a burst of flame. Carter was startled by the sudden quiet and he glanced at Jensen. There was no way they were making an airfield now. They were too low to bail out so it was a matter of putting her down straight ahead before they ran out of height and airspeed.

  “Jensen, start looking for a big field. Fellas, get ready, we’re going in.”

  Up front, Murphy scrambled out of the nose turret and sat on the step at Jensen’s feet. Woods abandoned his navigators table, brushed past Vos and sat on the floor of the fuselage with his back to the mainspar. The Belgian sent out a mayday and got an answer from Amber Hill. He gave their approximate position and then joined Woods, linking arms.