Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  They left early the following morning. Mother and sister saw them off.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” whispered Julie as she hugged her sister goodbye.

  Harriet was a bit teary as Carter let in the clutch and pulled away. She had wished him luck and hugged him as they said their goodbyes, much to his surprise. To her daughter, she worried and did her best to hide it. She’d seen Georgette hurt badly once already and didn’t want to see it happen again.

  On the drive to East Grinstead, Carter found himself tensing up again. He disliked hospitals and wasn’t looking forward to this visit at all, but he’d promised White he would come and he intended to keep his word.

  The hospital was just outside the town on the north east side. Carter parked the car and looked around. The grounds were beautifully kept and there were paths that led to secluded groves. He could see men walking around, some of them accompanied by nurses.

  The first indication this would be a testing time was when he walked over to a man in RAF blue sat on a bench calmly smoking a cigarette. His back was towards them and when he turned to look in their direction, Carter felt ashamed that he visibly flinched.

  There was no way to tell how old he was. His face was raw and shiny. One eye was wide and staring and the other was half closed, surrounded by swollen eyelids. A small tuft of dark hair stood up on top of his head. He ran a gnarled hand through it and got to his feet. Carter noticed the thin blue pilot officer ring on his sleeve and the DFC on his chest below a navigators brevet.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. His voice was pure cut glass, each vowel enunciated perfectly from a withered ruin. His good eye looked right at them.

  “Uh, we’re here to visit one of my crew. I’m, Carter.” He stuck out his hand immediately. The man grasped it firm and strong.

  “I’m, Butchart.” He looked beyond Carter at Georgette who hovered behind him.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Carter half turned and held a hand out to Georgette who gripped it hard. “May I present Section Officer, Waters.”

  The man took a half step forward and then shook her hand.

  “Charmed,” he said, what was left of his lips pulling into a parody of a smile.

  Georgette felt weak at the knees and found her mouth had gone dry. She just nodded. Butchart had seen the look before, he was used to it by now. He pointed towards the building behind them.

  “Straight up those steps, old man. Through the doors to reception and they’ll be able to tell you where your friend is.”

  Carter nodded a thank you and headed in the direction indicated, Georgette clinging to his arm.

  40 - Humpty Dumpty

  White sat up in bed very slowly. Days were like that at the moment. Everything happened slowly; very slowly. It hurt to move, breathing was an effort sometimes and when he did finally get comfortable, a nurse or doctor would come along and prod him or ask him to move.

  As much as he hated the routine, it helped to regulate time in the wards. It was early days for White. He had been brought to East Grinstead after a few weeks in hospital in Norwich. Those days had been a blur of pain, morphine and fuzzy memories, shouting, cursing, tears and nightmares. One night, the nurses had found him on the floor, ripping at his dressings while he raved in delirium. His pain medication had been increased after that.

  The night it happened would stay burned in his memory forever. He’d been sat in the cockpit, lord of his domain, doing it the way Carter had taught him. There and back he had done regular R/T checks to make sure they were awake. They had dropped the bombs right on the money, at least, that’s what he told himself. It was the only crumb of comfort he could take away from what happened afterwards.

  They had been nearly home, just crossing the coast and thinking about bacon and eggs when the world came apart around them. There was no warning, no indication it was all about to go wrong. One moment they were bowling along, the next, they were in a flying ashcan as the Manchester was perforated end to end. White had kept the yoke pulled back with one hand while he used his other to keep what was left of his second dicky from slumping forward over the controls.

  The bomber jolted as flak continued to explode around them, punching holes in the thin aluminium skin. He shouted for help but no one came. There was no point firing off the colours of the day, the damage had been done. His navigator hauled the body out of the way so he could get through to the nose. There was a howling gale as he bailed out through the hatch.

  A wall of frozen air hammered down the fuselage and took White’s breathe away, the cold stinging his cheeks. He somehow managed to haul the Manchester back to level to give the rest of them a chance to get out. Wallowing at the edge of a stall, he rammed the throttles forward to the stops. The engines howled, the air screamed past him, flak lit up the cockpit in a kaleidoscopic light show.

  When the controls went soft on him, it was time to go. He hauled back on the yoke, undid his straps and got out of his seat, more in hope than with any real certainty he would actually make it.

  Dragging himself through the escape hatch behind the astro dome, the slipstream almost hammered him flat. He kicked; he wriggled and fought, using the last of his strength to slither out into space. There was a lurch as the Manchester began to dive for the final time and White was thrown out. As he went over the side, the Manchester rolled to the left. Tumbling end over end, White could only stare in horror as the blazing wing rotated in his direction, the great banner of flame reaching for him.

  After that, all he could remember was agonizing pain. His clothes caught fire. The oxygen mask melted, bits of it clinging to his face. Flames licked at his neck, burning through his silk scarf in seconds. His gloves had been tugged off by the slipstream and he batted at the flames with his bare hands.

  He had no memory of pulling the ripcord, but he must have done because a search party of the Home Guard found him on his back in a field. He was easy to find. They heard him screaming every time the light breeze caught his chute and he was dragged another few yards along the ground.

  Mercifully he passed out when they shoved him into the ambulance. At the hospital his burns were coated in tannic acid and then dressed to stop any infections. He lingered for a few days in a twilight world. There were faint memories of someone spooning food into his mouth, or giving him a drink. He could remember a pair of tear streaked brown eyes, looking down at him and a soft voice telling him it would be all right as the morphine sent him under again.

  When Elaine came, he could barely bring himself to speak. What was left of the skin on his fingers had contracted into clenched claws and he hid them under the sheets. He felt embarrassed that he couldn’t even hold a fork or feed himself.

  His mother fainted dead away when she came to see him. His father walked her sobbing from the ward and then came back, assuring White it would all get better in time.

  For weeks afterwards, his mood was very dark. Elaine visited a few times but it was difficult for her as her mother was still ill. It took some choice words from one of the nurses for him to stop moping and buck his ideas up but his mood went up and down.

  A few weeks later he was visited by Dr McIndoe. White had no idea who he was at first, he was just another doctor in a white coat but the nurses, in particular matron, looked at him as if he was the second coming. McIndoe spent some time with him, talking about what he could do and if White would like to move to East Grinstead to get sorted out.

  He fussed over White’s hands, tutting to himself as he turned them over again and again, front and back. He asked White to move his fingers and he watched intently as the clenched fingers opened and closed a mere fraction.

  It took a while for White to realise what was being offered. He had seen himself in a mirror once, there was no fixing that. McIndoe assured him it would take a lot of time, a lot of operations, but there was a very good chance he could make good a lot of the damage.

  The journey over had been very tiring and White had slept for almost twenty f
our hours upon his arrival. He had been put into a ward with seven other men, all of them were fliers and all of them had been burned. Some had been there for months, a few had arrived not long before him. That had been ten days ago. Once he had settled in, McIndoe had come to see him.

  He discussed the plan with White and did his best to emphasise that there was no quick fix. It would be baby steps and there would be setbacks along the way. Now White was awaiting his first round of surgery. The first thing he came to realise was that he was a damn sight better off than some of the other chaps on the ward. While the burns to his hands and neck and face were severe, that was nothing in comparison to some of the other lads.

  In the bed across from him there was the Pole, Piotrwski; Peter for short, who had crashed on a training flight. He had been knocked unconscious and was in the flames for some time before they were able to cut him free. Next to him was the big Scot, MacAdam. He had crashed his Whitley coming back from Cologne. He had got out without a scratch but had gone back into the burning wreckage to pull out his trapped Navigator. He got badly burned and the other man died, despite his efforts. He got a DFC for that, small consolation for the personal cost.

  He had been here for months being slowly rebuilt. He had a new forehead and nose already. Next week they were going to start work on his fingers. MacAdam had told White a lot about the comings and goings of the place. The man was irrepressible, the classic happy go lucky type that carried people along in their wake. He had a cheeky approach to the nurses who tolerated his advances with extreme patience.

  On Whites second night in the ward, they had been sat on the side of their respective beds, talking in hushed whispers when White had asked him how he could be so positive. MacAdam had fixed him with a hard stare before replying.

  “Because it’s a bloody horrible world out there and if I stop to think it’ll all get too much for me lad. There are people in far worse shape even than me.” He gestured at his face. “This is nothing.”

  He told White about a Flying Officer in another ward who had been burnt to a crisp flying a Gladiator. The petrol tank in the upper wing had split and drenched him before igniting. Wreathed in flame, he had bailed out before spending hours floating in the ocean waiting to be picked up.

  “I’m cheery because I have to be. I make the best of things and hope that one day it’ll all come right. Have a little faith,” he suggested.

  That was the big thing with this place. It was not like a normal hospital by a long chalk. Beer was allowed on the wards for one thing. The other nod to sanity was that there were no rigidly enforced visiting times here. Patients could also come and go as they pleased; within reason. The grounds were peaceful and there were some nice walks when the weather was good. The people of the town were supposed to be very nice and welcoming, but White had not yet summoned the nerve to go quite so far afield just yet.

  The girl at reception directed them to White’s ward. Carter peered into each open door as they went along, noting the tidy, brisk organised air about the place. The place was clean, quiet and very restful. When they got to White’s ward, Carter paused outside for a moment. He steeled his nerve and walked in, a smile painted on his face as he entered the chamber of horrors.

  Fire, and being burned was Carters greatest fear when he flew. In the Great War you stood no chance at all. With no parachute, if your plane caught fire, you either put a bullet in your brain or you jumped to spare yourself the pain. Things were better now, but even so, the evidence was all around him of what could happen if you were careless, or unlucky, or brave.

  The ward was a modest sized room with double French doors at the end that opened out to the grounds. The walls were painted soft pastel shades and despite the vases of flowers, there was the usual antiseptic smell on the air, common to all hospitals. There were four beds on each side of a central aisle. Each bed had a side table, a lamp and two chairs for visitors. White was in the middle of the room to the left. The bed nearest the window was curtained off and groaning sounds came from behind it.

  If the nurse hadn’t told him where White’s bed was, Carter would have been pushed to recognise him. The top half of his head was fine. He still had the mop of brown hair neatly combed with a side parting and the brown eyes were steady. Everything else below that was a mess. His cheeks were ragged strips of flesh, his neck was swathed in bandages and his hands were like something you would see on a mummy in a museum.

  He visibly brightened when he saw Carter and more so when he saw Georgette. There were some appreciative whistles when she walked onto the ward. She blushed and kept her eyes fixed on Carters shoulder. Carter stopped in mid motion as he stuck out his hand to shake White’s and realised he couldn’t take it. Embarrassed at such an obvious mistake, Carter coughed and sat down, glancing at the floor while he fiddled with his peaked cap.

  “Here we are,” he said blandly. White nodded.

  “Here you are,” he looked between Georgette and Carter. He remembered her from the Christmas dance. She was not as beautiful as Vos’ girl, but super all the same. Where Denise had a fragile quality about her, Georgette seemed to radiate an inner strength. The girl bit her lip and looked around the room, everywhere but at White. He could tell she didn’t want to be here, but here she was anyway even though she was shaking inside.

  “They boys send their best,” Carter told him. White nodded. It would have been good to see the lads. Carter took a photograph from his tunic pocket. “I brought you this.”

  It was a photo of their crew in front of their first L-London along with Latimer and a few of the other erks. It had been taken last October not long after coming together as a crew. Carter was in the middle with everyone around him. White stood smiling next to him, with his arms folded across his chest. Carter put it on the side table, leaning it against a framed photograph Elaine had brought with her the last time she had visited him in Norwich.

  It was a posed studio shot with her in a blouse and skirt with a cardigan draped over her shoulders. She was looking straight at the camera, smiling, her cheeks dimpled in good humour.

  White lingered looking at her photo before turning back to Carter. His pilot looked at him, almost transfixed, his eyes tracing over his face, noting the burns and the shrivelled skin. White was glad his neck was covered, he doubted Carter would be ready to see the raw puckered flesh. Georgette sat quietly, letting Carter lead the conversation, what little there was of it.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked, thinking it best to keep the conversation on the future. One thing he didn’t want to raise was the crash, he doubted White wanted reminding about that.

  “The start of a long road,” White said, noncommittal. “The doctor wants to do some skin grafts on my face first, my cheeks and chin.”

  McIndoe had explained the procedure to him. He would take a flap of skin from White’s thigh or ribcage and attach it to his arm, rolling it into a tube so it could draw the blood supply from there. Once that had healed, it would be grafted to his face so they could start to rebuild his features.

  “Once he’s happy with them, then he’ll tackle my mouth and my neck.” Carter was pleased to hear White speak so matter of factly about it all. He took that as a good sign. “It makes a chap feel like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  Carter grinned, playing to the humour, keeping the tone of things light.

  “You’ll have some line to shoot for the girls,” he suggested. “You could pass them off as duelling scars.”

  White laughed. Perhaps he would go into town a little sooner than he planned. Take his scars for a spin and see what kind of attention he got. A shirt collar would cover most of the damage and he could always wear brown gloves, it was just cold enough to get away with that.

  “Maybe I will,” he replied, feeling better about himself. “I’m not so sure, Elaine would approve though.” He smiled, at least he thought he did.

  “Your fiancee?” Georgette asked.

  “No,” replied White, his voice a little distant. He
glanced at Elaine’s photograph again. That was not something he wanted to think about just yet. He wouldn’t accept pity as a persons reason to stay. Maybe later, once McIndoe had done the best he could, only then would he let his mind turn to such things.

  “What are you doing with the rest of your leave?” he asked Carter, changing the subject abruptly.

  “Heading to the coast,” Carter told him. “I need a few days away from everything.” He looked across the bed and stared at Georgette and for just a moment, that mask of control slipped and his face softened.

  White caught the look and nodded in understanding. There were questions he wanted to ask but he knew they would have to wait for another time.

  “Why don’t we try a walk?” he suggested. “Lunch isn’t for a while and it seems to be a shame to waste such a marvellous day?”

  Carter was about to ask, “if you feel up to it?” but he felt in this place, it would be the wrong thing to say. Instead, he said, “I’ll get your coat,” and stood up.

  White leaned forward and gave a sharp intake of breath as hot knives shot up and down his back. Georgette held out a hand to steady him and he bit down hard on his lip as he fought the pain. It took him a moment to master himself, then he nodded and she released her hand.

  He moved the blanket out of the way and swung his legs over the side of the bed, shoving his feet into the slippers that he knew were there. He paused a moment, tensed his stomach and stood up. Carter held out the dressing gown and White slid his arms into it. After he tied the belt with clumsy fingers, Georgette took his arm and steered him towards the door. Someone whispered, “get your number dry,” and White laughed at the ribald humour as Georgette blushed to tips of her ears.

  It was bright outside and White took a moment to adjust from the dim lighting of the ward. He blinked and then pointed to the right. There was a big circular patch of soil in the middle of the lawn with a gravel path around it. It would be full of daffodils soon.