Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  The rest of the day passed slowly which was how Carter liked it. They had a leisurely lunch and after a look inside the Minster they explored some shops on The Shambles, a narrow street with old timber framed buildings that dated back to the middle ages. A sudden rain shower drove them indoors and they had afternoon tea at a tea room off St Helen’s Square. It was all very genteel and it was a pleasant change to have dainty sandwiches and scones.

  The rain started to come down in sheets. Even walking fast they were wet through when they got back to the hotel. She took a robe and some towels and went down the corridor to take a bath. Carter dried himself off and stretched out on the bed. Georgette found him spark out when she came back. All the strain of the last few weeks had finally caught up with him and his body insisted on being heard.

  She hated doing it, but she sat down next to him and nudged him. He stirred slowly and opened his eyes.

  “Good morning,” he said, bleary eyed.

  She draped a shirt over his chest.

  “Good evening in civilisation. Get dressed so we can have dinner.”

  He propped himself on his elbows and lifted up the shirt.

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  Before she could move he reached up and grabbed the front of her towel. She squealed as it pulled loose.

  After dinner they went back to their room, talked for a while and then fell asleep in each others arms. She slept lightly until a sound woke her up. It was Carter. He was twitching, muttering under his breath. His legs kicked, his hands making small scrabbling motions. She stroked his arm and made shushing sounds, trying to soothe him when he suddenly screamed out. His eyes were wide open but he saw right through her. His hands clawed at empty air, then the moment passed. Alarmed, Georgette shook him until he woke up. He looked at her blankly for a moment and then he recognised her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her, his eyes wide, his skin damp and clammy.

  “I should be asking you that question. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. He ran a hand over his face and she noticed his fingers were shaking.

  “Alex. You can tell me, you know.”

  She waited patiently but when he didn’t reply straight away she felt hurt that he didn’t trust her. It was not that, it was anything but that.

  He was embarrassed that Georgette had seen him like this. She must have thought he was crazy. Strands of terror still clung to him as he marshaled his thoughts. He found his senses heightened, his skin sensitive to the touch. He could hear the slightest movements, the creak of the bed as she shifted her weight, the sound of his breathing.

  He told her again about his crash landing, the proper story this time. The story came out in fragments as he described each moment. The whistle of air over the wings as they glided down, the creak of the airframe, the shouts of the crew as they got into crash positions.

  His voice cracked as he got to the part about going under, the water surging over his head, choking on the spilled fuel and oil as he struggled to get out. Georgette sat with his head in her lap, hearing the distress in his voice. Then he came to the source of his fear. He couldn’t swim, never had. When L-London went down he was convinced he was going to die and when the water pushed him back from the escape hatch, for a moment he really thought that was it.

  He’d never told his crew, never thought it was important until then and by then it was too late. When they had practiced ditching drills in the hangar, he knew he could never do it for real. Even doing it in a pool would have been too much for him. Ditching in the ocean deeps, treading water with nothing underneath him scared him beyond measure. When they pulled him from the lake he had been almost paralysed with fear. If he’d not been wearing his Mae West he would have drowned, for sure.

  She soothed him back to sleep, but she stayed awake for a long time after that. She fluffed up the pillows and read some poetry as she always did when her thoughts troubled her. The book was a slim volume of poetry she had won as a prize at school. Her name was written neatly on the fly leaf. She idly flicked through the pages, stopping as a title or a line caught her eye. Poetry didn’t flow naturally for her, but she preferred to give her brain something to do as a distraction in moments like this.

  She sorted through the myriad of thoughts rolling around her head as she read in the dim light. She felt alive, more alive than she had for a long time. After Charles had died she had shut down and it had taken her a long time for her to become herself again. Now, a spark had reignited inside. It was not just the sex. Sex was easy. The physical act was one thing, her connection to Carter was something else. She stroked his arm, feeling the strength in him and the vulnerability too. It’s what drew her to him, the way he held himself in check, conquered his fears but found the strength to carry on.

  In the dark she could be honest with herself. It scared her, the thought that he could be taken from her. She thought about bombing operations and him finishing his second tour. She knew the odds better than most, but she also knew that there was no going back now. She loved him beyond measure.

  29 - Two Down, One To Go

  Carter held out his hand and helped Georgette down to the platform. They headed to the exit, holding hands, shoulders bumping as they walked, trying to stretch out these final moments. The time had passed quickly in the end as it always did. They had risen early and no mention was made of his dream from the night before. He’d ordered breakfast in bed and the porter brought them mackerel and powdered eggs, buttered toast and marmalade on a silver tray.

  They made love one last time. He gazed into her eyes and she poured all of herself into him, trying to let him draw whatever strength he needed from her. Afterwards; they dozed the morning away and she clung to him, reluctant to let go.

  He rang the station and Saunderson sent a car to pick him up. He changed in the station toilet and was in his uniform when it arrived. Stood by the kerb, he was just another officer with pilots wings and a DFC ribbon on his chest. Georgette knew different and she knew what made him special to her.

  The Austin pulled up at the kerb and the WAAF driver got out and opened the back door.

  “She comes too,” Carter told her.

  “That’s what Mr Saunderson told me, sir.”

  The suitcases were put in the boot and they got in. On the drive to the station, Carter and Georgette held hands, gripping each other tight and saying little. At the gate they said goodbye and she did her best not to cry. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry but it was hard. He leaned into the car.

  “I’ll ring you later,”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. He kissed her and then closed the door. He took his case from the boot and the car turned around to head to Grantham. He waved her on her way until the Austin was out of sight and then went up to the main gate. The SP saluted.

  “Are the rest of my crew back?” he asked. “Mr Woods, Vos, Sergeants Jensen, Todd and Murphy?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” said the SP, his voice vague and noncommittal. He asked for Carters ID card and scrutinised it. Satisfied he was the right man, the SP let him through and Carter signed in.

  He dumped his bag in his billet and headed for the Mess, feeling refreshed after two days away from Amber Hill. The tensions had ebbed away as the CO hoped it would. The only thing waiting for him in the mail slot was a Mess bill so he left that alone. He nodded to some familiar faces and had just sat down with a pint and a newspaper when an orderly asked him to report to the CO. Carter nodded, took a final sip of his pint and headed over. When the Wingco asked you to attend the presence, that meant now, no ifs, no buts.

  He was shocked to his boots when he went in and found Squadron Leader Dickinson ensconced behind the desk. Carter had to correct himself when he saw Dickinson now sported Wing Commander rings on the sleeves of his jacket. The New Zealander gestured to a seat and Carter settled himself.

  “How was your leave?” Dickinson asked briskly, all business.

  “Good,
sir. Two days makes a lot of difference.”

  “Yes. Yes it does.” Dickinson cleared his throat and nodded to himself, brooding on the last forty eight hours. While Carter had been off enjoying himself, a lot had been going on.

  Dickinson canted his head to one side and regarded Carter. The younger man returned the gaze without flinching.

  “How’s the neck?”

  “All right.” Carter moved his head around for show. He stopped himself from grimacing but Dickinson caught the involuntary flinch in his neck as he tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. “It still hurts a bit but I’m okay to fly.”

  The fact that Carter was keen to get back in the saddle was a good sign. Dickinson needed men to be the press on types, who would carry on even when things went wrong. He gave Carter the official answer.

  “We’ll let the Doctor make the final decision on that one. The same goes for the rest of your crew. Get a clean bill of health and you’re back out there.”

  Carter nodded, that was fair enough.

  “What about an aircraft?”

  “There’s one waiting for you. Another L-London, so you won’t be breaking your luck getting something else,” Dickinson assured him. “Now get out of here and meet your new Flight Commander.”

  Carter rose from his seat, came to attention and saluted.

  He closed the door behind him, nodding to the clerk in the outer office. He went down the corridor and rapped on the door of ‘B’ Flights commander. The voice that called him was gruff.

  “Come.”

  Carter poked his head around the door to find Fish Salmon behind Dickinson’s old desk. The squadron photos were gone from the back wall and had been replaced with a family photo of Salmon, a woman and two children. There was another photo of him posing in swimming trunks by the pool. Some swimming medals hung from a nail. He looked at Carter down his thin nose, the blue eyes hooded with fatigue.

  “Ah, Carter. Take a seat. How’s the neck?”

  Carter got the story later in the Mess from Walsh. The day he had gone on leave, most of the squadron had been sent to Munster. It was a relatively small raid, not even one hundred aircraft. The weather had been dismal and most of them had bombed blind on dead reckoning. They had taken off at eight and straggled back in the early morning two short.

  One of the casualties had bought it on the return trip, making it back to England miles off track and blundering into the balloon barrage over Great Yarmouth. Asher had been the other one. His last call had been a standard morse signal, ‘enemy coast ahead’ and that was the last anyone had heard from him. He was posted as missing but everyone knew what that meant.

  Losing Asher had been a bit of a shock and Etheridge had acted swiftly to stabilise the squadron. Bringing in an outside man after having the same CO for nearly eight months would have been too disruptive. Dickinson had been due a squadron of his own anyway, he just happened to inherit 363. Group had made him up to Wing Commander and told him this would be officially confirmed in due course. Fish Salmon got bumped to acting Squadron Leader.

  Carter found the squadrons mood was subdued and there was none of the usual banter or horseplay. The biggest bit of news floating round was that some pilfering had been discovered from the officer’s Mess supplies. Exactly when it happened, no one knew but it had clearly been going on for a while. Chocolate, some alcohol and a quantity of eggs were missing. There was the usual speculation but Carter assumed the kitchen staff had done it. Someone could make themselves a pretty penny on the black market with that sort of stuff and they had the most access to the stores. Since the theft the SP’s had been prowling around with more vigour than usual. Suspected parties had been asked questions and their personal affects searched but nothing had been found so far.

  Carter spoke to Georgette briefly on the telephone, confirmed she got home okay then turned in for an early night. Walsh put in an appearance later, crashing into the billet after midnight and making a nuisance of himself. He flopped onto his bed, fully clothed, clutching an empty bottle of Guinness.

  Carter gathered up his navigator and popped round to Todd’s hut after breakfast, curious to see if his non commissioned men had turned up. He found the poker school in full swing. Todd had been persuaded to play for once to make up the numbers and was two shillings ahead. Murphy froze when Carter and Woods came in, a bowl in one hand, spoon in the other, halfway to his mouth with a bit poached egg on it. He stood there tongue out, waiting for the food to be delivered.

  “So,” said Carter, his tone stern. Theft, and his own bloody crew was in on it.

  “J’Accuse,” said Woods, half joking, pointing at their gunner. “Well done, Holmes, case solved,” he quipped. He clapped his hands together. “Oh well, that didn’t take long.”

  “No’ ee,” muttered Murphy, his mouth full of egg. Carter twisted his face in distaste, he didn’t really fancy seeing masticated egg in Murphy’s mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

  “Some trick, guys.”

  “Hey it wasn’t us, Skipper” said Todd, protesting their innocence.

  Carter wasn’t buying.

  “Oh, come on,” he said in exasperation. He nosed around the hut and went over to the two shelves by the stove. There were tins of spam, god knows how many bars of chocolate and packs of cigarettes. He picked up a tin of condensed milk and peered at the label. “If the SP’s found this little lot you’ll be up the creek without a paddle, the whole bloody lot of you. They won’t be bothered about figuring out who did what, you’ll all be stuffed.”

  “Put up against a wall and shot,” Woods finished for him. “Well, maybe not shot, but you’ll be on yankers for the rest of the war.”

  “No, really,” Todd said again, his tone insistent. “It wasn’t us. I get the eggs from a local farm not far from dispersal. You can come with me tomorrow if you want, I’ll show you.”

  Carter eyed his rear gunner with some suspicion. It all sounded convincing enough and he seemed earnest. He shook his head. Problems like this he could do without.

  “Okay, so that’s the eggs accounted for, what about the rest?” he gestured at the shelves. “You don’t get this stuff from a farm.”

  “The lads bring it,” explained Murphy, weakly. It had sounded better in his head.

  “Well it’s going to have to stop,” Carter said, genuinely cross. “Jesus, it’s like you’re preparing for the next flood or something. There must be a fortune in stuff here.”

  “We’ll get rid of it,” Murphy assured him. Carter rounded on all of them, not confining the rollicking to his own crew.

  “You’d better, because if I come again and find this little lot, you’re all for the high jump.”

  He stamped from the hut, his temper up.

  “Strewth,” muttered Todd. He had seen the skipper get annoyed before but nothing like this.

  “Don’t look at me, chum,” said Woods. “Self inflicted I call it.” He appropriated a bar of chocolate, tipped them a casual two fingered salute to the temple and left the hut to catch up with his pilot.

  “And move your head for me.”

  Carter swung his head right and left, back and forth like a pendulum. The doctor pressed on his neck with two stiff fingers, feeling the muscles move.

  “How’s that?”

  “Fine.”

  The doctor uncapped his fountain pen and made a note on his clipboard. He looked up and down his observations, tapping the pen off his teeth.

  “How have the painkiller’s been?”

  “All right,” Carter said warily, keeping his answers short.

  “Not making you drowsy?”

  Cater shook his head. The doctors voice was a dull monotone as he went through his list of things to check. It was his way, he was a cold fish who pronounced on whether they were fit to fly but he kept himself to himself. Even in the Mess he was this aloof figure who kept his own counsel and said little.

  “Relax, Mr Carter. I’m not trying to trap you in
to an answer.”

  Carter sat on a padded examination table, his legs dangling over the side as he looked around the room. A ten foot square box, the lino was grey and the walls were painted in a chalky white colour, a perfect accompaniment to the tang of antiseptic in his nose. A yellowed skeleton grinned at him from one corner. A garish poster on the wall extolled the virtues of abstinence ands saying no to prostitutes to avoid spills and gonorrhoea; charming.

  Carter kicked his legs back and forth while his hands gripped the padded bed. He glanced at the clock on the table. He had been in here for nearly an hour and was starting to get browned off.

  The doctor had done his bet to poke and prod all over the place. He’d hit knees with a hammer, scraped soles with a thin wooden stick and peered down his throat and ears.

  “Sleeping okay?” Carter shrugged. What could he say to that? Oh yes, I get nightmares. Do you know what? Funny story. I woke up screaming next to my girlfriend a few days ago, scared the living daylights out of her.

  “I suppose so. Sleeping in the daytimes always a bit rough with all the noise going on. I’m always chasing the clock on days off to get back to normal.”

  Of course he lied. He’d lied about his neck as well. Of course it had bloody hurt when the bloody man had pressed on it with his bloody fingers but he kept his mouth shut and controlled himself. If he was a fighter pilot it would have mattered, but he was a bomber pilot, he had gunners to do his looking for him.

  “Hmmmm.” The doctor nodded. He did that often, a nasal hum as he listened to what you said and wrote on his clipboard. He rarely made eye contact, masking his thoughts behind an almost blank visage.

  “Your reactions seem to be normal.” He gestured vaguely towards Carter with his pen. “Your muscle tone etc. Your bodyweights a bit low, you need feeding up a bit.”

  He glanced up from his clipboard, suddenly fixing Carter with a stern look.

  “Movement on your neck all right?” He moved his face left and right, regarding him from different angles. It was eerily similar to what Dickinson had done the day before in his office. Carter nodded in response.