Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  In ops, he went over the route with Nancy, Church’s navigator who was the squadrons navigation leader. They now had specific times on target as part of their navigation. Being part of a stream, they had to slot into place. If they were early, or late, things could get very crowded up there. After working himself up, he was disappointed when Church told him he wasn’t going tonight.

  “You’re a Flight Commander now, Carter. We have to take it in turns, you know that.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Carter, a little deflated. “I’d just forgotten about that.”

  “You’ve got the next one, I promise. Besides, you’ll need some time to practice, you’re giving the briefing tonight.”

  Church left him to carry on the mission planning. Lunch was a rushed sandwich as Carter called the bomb dump and gave them the loadouts. Half the Lancs would carry incendiaries, the other half bombs. A few of the incendiary aircraft would also be carrying the new 4,000lb light case bomb dubbed, the ‘Cookie’.

  At two he snagged a bicycle and went around dispersal, visiting each bomber and the ground crew, making sure they would be ready. He wanted to be able to tell Church they were on top line when he asked. He watched intently when he saw one of the big Cookies being winched up into the bomb bay. It was a long green dustbin with no pointed end or fins at the back. It made the incendiaries around it seem tiny.

  He set off on his bicycle again and at the far end of the field came across four Manchesters drawn up facing each other. They looked rather sad sat there, discarded and forgotten until someone remembered to come and get them. Over the last three weeks, the rest of the squadrons Manchester’s had been taken away in ones and twos. These four were the last to go. He dumped the bicycle under the nearest one and went round to the tail, he started when he realised there was someone already there.

  “Only me, skipper,” came the strong Australian voice.

  It was Todd. He was drawing heavily on a cigarette while he looked glumly at the bomber.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Carter.

  “Same thing you are I suppose,” muttered the Australian. “Paying my respects to the dead so to speak.” He walked forward and patted the perspex of the rear turret. “You might have been a cow sometimes but you got us home when it counted girl,” he said to the wind. The Manchester made no response. “Just wanted to see them one last time before they disappeared.”

  L-London had been flown out when they were on leave so they didn’t get to say goodbye to her. Since then they had been too busy getting up to speed on the Lancs to think about it, but now Todd had some time to kill, he thought he would disappear for a bit while everyone else was rushing around.

  As he picked up his own bicycle, he asked Carter a question.

  “Can I take the perspex off my turret, skip?”

  Carter was surprised.

  “Whatever for?”

  “I iced up on the last trip and it was difficult to see things,” Todd explained.

  “It’ll be bloody cold,” Carter warned him.

  “Huh, better cold than dead,” replied Todd, deadpan. “I can handle a bit of draught. I’ll throw on an extra scarf and I’ve got my heated suit.”

  Carter sucked on his teeth. He could just imagine Pullen’s reaction to this, but then the engineering officer didn’t have to fly and fight in these things. If Todd said he needed it, he was saying it for a good reason. What the hell, his authority had to count for something, he may as well use it.

  “All right. If that’s what you want to do. See Latimer and tell him I’ve given you permission.”

  Todd nodded and went off, leaving Carter alone to look around the abandoned plane. The rear hatch was open and he pulled himself up and went inside. It was deathly quiet, his footsteps echoing inside the metal tube. He went up to the cockpit, slithering over the main spar. He sat in the pilots seat for a moment and looked around. There was no voice, no strange communion, just an airplane, mute and immobile. He took one last look and then got back down. Cullen was waiting for him outside. The reporter hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “I passed your gunner going the other way. He said I might find you here.” Carter scowled.

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  “I’ve decided I’m doing a story on you,” Cullen announced. Carter could see he was serious. His cheeks burned.

  “I’m nothing special.”

  “I disagree.” Carter got on his bike and Cullen came over to stand next to him, one hand touching the handlebars. “I’ve asked around. A lot of people say you’re the best pilot on the squadron.”

  Carter snorted.

  “Thats a long way from the truth,” was his quick response.

  Cullen did nothing to correct him. As a reporter, his basic rule of thumb when chasing a story was if you wanted to know about someone, ask around. You got the occasional blowhard, but most of them were modest about their own achievements, effusive about everyone else’s.

  “You’re a hero. A two tour man, DFC,” Carter found it strange hearing Cullen repeat Groupie almost word for word.

  “I’m not the only one to have a DFC-”

  “-but there’s not many on their second tour.” Cullen finished for him.

  Carter pushed off on the bike, the wheels creaking over stones on the concrete. Cullen walked alongside him, almost jogging to keep up.

  “Are you really sure that’s something you want to write about?” he asked the reporter. “Look, Mister Cullen, I’m flattered.” Cullen made to speak but Carter carried on talking. “No, really I am. But there are other heroes to do a story on.” He pulled on the front brake and the bicycle came to a stop. He turned to face the reporter.

  “Do you know where I went on my leave recently?” Cullen shook his head. “I went to a hospital in East Grinstead to see a friend. All the patients there are burn victims. All of them burned from flying. They’re lying in beds with some horrendous wounds to their hands, their face, their legs.” A sudden flash of memory flickered in Carters head and he struggled to contain his temper. “I saw more courage in one room than I’ll ever have. Do a story on them,” he said more harshly than he meant. “They deserve it.”

  Without waiting for an answer he pushed off and pedaled fast while the tears ran from his eyes.

  Cullen watched him go, a blue figure receding in the distance. He had seen the pain in the boys blue eyes for a moment as he talked about the hospital. He thought that was a good measure of the man. How many would go to a place that was a terrible reminder of their own mortality just to see someone, not many he reckoned.

  47 - Teething Troubles

  Carter found the briefing torture. Being sat up front with everyone looking at you was not the same as being sat amongst a crowd. Church chucked him in at the deep end and had him do the opening delivery. Carter cheated and tried to remember what he could from the Essen briefing a few days before. The target was the same so that was easy, the route was similar and he could at least talk about that in general terms having helped prep the details earlier in the day. He just found it hard to relax so his delivery was stiff and disjointed.

  When he finally sat down, his heart was pounding which was just ridiculous. He’d flown through flak barrages and not batted an eyelid and yet here he was, sweating over standing front and centre in a room talking to a bunch of people.

  After that, it was the usual; met, navigation, armaments, target info and then the final pep talk from Etheridge. The crews went off to war and he saw them away from the tower. Seeing the Lancs in the dark was impressive. They almost leapt into the air, which was a big difference to the Manchesters which had always proven to be reluctant to unstick.

  When they got back six hours later it was the same story as the last time. In interrogation, they had their mugs of tea and talked to the intel staff. Although most of them claimed to have bombed the target, Carter wasn’t so sure. Thick cloud had made a mess of navigation and strong winds had scattered the bombers all over the Ruhr vall
ey. The navigators log books were filled with dead reckoning, calculations, corrections and guesswork. Even with Gee and flares guiding them in, not many of them could be certain they had actually hit where they were supposed to.

  Cullen seemed to be everywhere, floating around at interrogation, lurking around the tower as the aircraft returned. He hung around for one more day and then got a lift to catch the afternoon train back to London. Carter saw him off at the gate.

  “You still want to write about me?” he asked.

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet,” Cullen replied. “I thought about what you said.” He double checked his bag while they waited for the transport to the station, making sure he had everything. “The thing is, any story needs a framework, something to focus on, give the public someone to root for.”

  “Make it something else then. The squadron, all of us.”

  Cullen thought about that.

  “I won’t make any promises, but I’ll consider it.”

  A Humber from the pool turned up and took him to the station. Carter watched it down drive off down the road.

  Mid afternoon, a replacement crew arrived. Church gave them to 'B' Flight to replace Salmon. Carter had the pilot come to his office. The admin clerk wheeled him straight in. He was twenty two, tall, strawberry blonde with a dusting of freckles across his nose. He had that keen air about him that all the fresh ones had. Last week Carter wouldn’t have been too bothered about learning his name right away. If he lasted four or five ops, then perhaps he might have noticed him. Now, as his Flight Commander he had to get to know him.

  Once the usual military pleasantries were out of the way, he told Harding to take a seat. The young Pilot Officer sat down, perched on the edge of the seat, hands on his knees. Carter offered him an open box.

  “Cigarette?”

  Harding shook his head.

  “Don’t smoke, sir.” Carter took one for himself and lit it. Harding wasn’t the first person Carter had come across who said they didn’t smoke. The thing was, within a few weeks, most of them were smoking ten or twenty a day just like everyone else. It was a wonderful way to calm the nerves.

  “Why did you want to be a pilot?”

  “My brother was a pilot, sir.” Harding answered quickly.

  Carter caught the ‘was’, the lilt of finality. He asked the obvious question.

  “Was?”

  Harding’s eyes tightened for a moment as he thought about his brother, the older brother he had worshipped.

  “He was killed on ops in 1940, flying Blenheims.”

  Carter left it there, what else was there to say? He changed the subject.

  “Where did you go to School?”

  “Perse School in Cambridge, sir.” Carter wasn’t familiar with that particular school, but judging by Harding’s cultured tones he was sure it was expensive.

  “Good school?”

  “I thought so. I can’t say I can compare it to anything else.”

  “And after that?”

  “I managed a year studying French at university; before I joined up.”

  “I read law,” Carter said. “Didn’t finish, the war got in the way.”

  Harding smiled at the shared common ground.

  “Tell me about your flying training.” Carter knew he could read it in Harding’s training file but he wanted to hear it for himself.

  “I did most of it in Canada, sir. I started on Harvards. Did my multi engine training on Oxfords and Ansons and then did my OTU here in England.”

  “How many hours have you got on Lancs?”

  “Something like forty hours.”

  “It’s a start. The main thing to remember is that you can throw the Lanc around with confidence.”

  “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”

  Carter thought about that. Forty hours was not a huge amount of time on a new type. He made a note to speak to the CO about the remaining Manchester’s they had on strength. It might be an idea to keep them so new replacements could get in some extra practice on them. They were enough like a Lanc it would be a good way for the crews to learn without worrying about bending a new Lancaster. He lit another cigarette.

  “We’ll sort that out, Mister Harding. You’ll start tomorrow. You know, you’re pretty lucky. The squadrons only just converted onto Lanc’s so you’ll find plenty of people talking about it in the Mess. Pin your ears back, you’ll learn a lot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Off you go. Get settled in.” As Harding got to the door, Carter said one more thing. “Oh, and Harding. The doors always open if you need anything.”

  Harding grinned, his eyes alive. It pained Carter to think that would change; if he lived long enough.

  “I’ll remember that, sir.”

  That evening, Todd and Murphy took Byron and Flynn to town for a proper lash up, all the NCO’s together with no fools of officers around to complicate things. They started at The Tarleton and went from there. They’d all got on well the last few weeks. Flynn had become a natural foil to Murphy and the pair of them almost egged each other on when it came to women.

  Byron was more reserved, but that wasn’t to say he couldn’t drink. He could stand toe to toe with any of them and he could also stand up for himself. He’d proved that one night in the Sergeants Mess when a remark was made and he squared up to a much bigger, heavier Navigator with no fear whatsoever. Todd didn’t want to be scraping up what was left of him and had intervened, smoothing things over with some fast talking.

  After two hours, Todd broke off from the gang as they headed to the Gulliver Arms. Pantomiming being caught short, he ducked down an alley and said he’d catch them up. As soon as they staggered out of sight he slid round to Glossop Street.

  He found the door he was looking for at the side of the grocers. There was no immediate answer and he was about to knock again when he heard feet on the stairs. The door opened a few inches and he saw her standing behind it, looking at him through the gap. Her eyes narrowed in displeasure.

  “What do you want?” Muriel asked shortly.

  “To talk to you.”

  She began to close the door and he stuck his foot over the jamb. He winced as his foot got squashed.

  “I’ll scream for the police,” she warned him, her voice almost hissing.

  “I’m not here for him,” he snarled, his foot burning. She stopped pushing and the pressure relented slightly. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” she said in defiance, daring him to say otherwise.

  “After what happened-” his voice trailed off.

  Realisation struck her and she made to shut the door again. He put his hand against it and pushed. She resisted for a moment and then gave way. The door opened onto a narrow stair. She stepped back away from him and crossed her arms. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were red rimmed.

  “So how long had you known?” she asked him directly. Todd looked sheepish and glanced down at the doormat. “I knew it,” she snapped. “Thick as bloody thieves the whole bloody lot of you!” She moved forward to slam the door in his face.

  “Would you have believed me if I’d told you?” he asked her. That stopped her.

  “What do you care?” she challenged, tossing her chin at him. “You never approved of me anyway. Always staring at me with that dour face.” She pointed at him. “You never even spoke to me when we were all together.”

  “Because I bloody fancy you all right,” he almost shouted back at her, the answer dragged from him. “I fancy you; always have,” he muttered. She put a hand up to her mouth and her eyes went wide.

  “Well I never,” she said finally. “I never thought-”

  “I know you never,” he said, cutting across her. “You were seeing my mate. What did you expect me to do? I have to live with the fella, fly with him; fight with him. We have to trust each other. I hated what he was doing, but…” he shrugged.

  “I see,” Muriel said more quietly.

&nb
sp; “I hope so.” He checked his watch; the boys would be starting to wonder where he was. “Look, I have to get back. Can I see you another time?” he asked, his tone humble, almost pleading.

  She thought about it for a moment and then nodded slowly.

  “Maybe.”

  He grinned, winked and was on his way.

  Church agreed with Carters suggestion and applied to Group to keep their remaining Manchester’s for now. Harding started in the morning with some ground instruction. In the afternoon, he snagged Byron and took Harding and his crew for a flip in a Manchester.

  Byron sat in the second dicky seat and helped with the start up routine. Once they were in the air, he swapped places with Harding. Carter had Harding do some circuits and bumps to warm up and then took them up to eight thousand feet, wanting to see what he could do.

  Bimbling along, Harding was fine. The Manchester behaved, the engines purred, it was a clear day, everything was good. After twenty minutes, Carter took back control.

  “I’ve no doubt you’re a good pilot, Mister Harding. You wouldn’t have got through OTU and all the other flying training if you weren’t. Did you go on any trips towards the end of your course?”

  “Just the one, sir. A gardening trip to the Frisians.”

  “Did anything happen?”

  “No, thankfully. There and back. The only excitement was getting shot at by our own guns on the way home.” Harding leaned back and looked down the fuselage. “We strayed a bit off course didn’t we, Oliver?” he said with emphasis over the R/T.

  There was some good natured laughter and Carter waited for them to settle down. Better to make a mistake like that on something easy like a gardening trip. Do that over Germany and there might have been a different result.

  “I hope you’re a quick study, Harding, because you’re going to have to pick stuff up fast.”

  Carter had pre-warned Byron, but even so, the sudden drop when he shoved the yoke forward took him by surprise. He clung on to the back of Carters seat as the Manchester plunged for the ground. Carter held her in a forty five degree dive and watched the altimeter unwind. He pulled up at three thousand, hauling the yoke back into his stomach. After flying the Lancaster for three weeks, he had forgotten how much heavier the Manchester was on the elevators. The nose came up and they were climbing.