Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  After lunch, the gates to Amber Hill were closed and the teleprinter machines started chattering as the Operational Order started coming through. One of the early instructions was the loadout, specifying the bombload. Everyone would be carrying a 4,000lb Cookie with a mix of 500lb GP bombs and incendiary cannisters. Wheeler rang the bomb dump to let them know as the armourers got to work.

  Each bomb had to be fused with a pistol detonator. Some had a long delay fuse set. Then they were fitted with a detachable tail unit and hooked up to a bomb rack before being put on a trolley. Cannisters were filled with bundles of 4lb incendiaries.

  As soon as the airtests were done, the armourers drove out to dispersal and positioned the trolleys under each aircraft so the bombs and incendiaries could be winched up into the long bomb bays. Do that fifteen or sixteen times per aircraft and you were good to go.

  Corporal Dennison was halfway through bombing up a Lanc on the south side of the field. The wind was whipping around his ankles and he was chilled to the bone. Numb fingers fiddled with the rack as he locked it into place. He leaned against the ladder and wiped his nose against the back of his sleeve.

  He felt grotty, he was dog tired, his eyes were itchy and irritated and he had a terrible blocked nose and sore throat. Despite his room mates badgering he’d not reported sick as perhaps he should have done. There was a flap on, he just wanted to push through and get it finished and then he could have a hot bath.

  “Get a move on, Dennison,” shouted Sergeant Lowery. “You’ve got two more to load up after this. Pull your finger out.”

  “Yes, Sarge,” replied Dennison glumly. Lowery spent most of the time in an agitated mood as he flew around the armament sections, driving the men to do more. At least at the bomb dump you could normally spot him coming and tidy up before he arrived. He was worse when ops were on. He watched as Lowery sped off on his bicycle towards the Lancaster opposite, chivvying the men there to work faster.

  Dennison turned back to the task in hand. He checked the rack fitted to the bomb, making sure it was hooked into the bombs lug and the fuse was correct. Four more 500lb bombs and then it was back to the dump to pick up the load for the next aircraft.

  What happened next was always going to be a mystery. Perhaps Dennison sneezed at the wrong moment. Perhaps he knocked the bomb as he was attaching the rack to the bay. Whatever the reason, the grips on the rack sprang open and the bomb fell towards the ground. Dennison just had time to stare in wonder before there was a massive bang.

  That explosion started off a chain reaction that obliterated four aircraft and damaged five others. All that was left of N-Nuts and the other three Lancasters was a series of overlapping stinking craters. Debris was thrown two thousand feet in the air and windows rattled across the station and surrounding farms from the force of the blast.

  Dazed personnel peered out from behind walls while smoke drifted into the sky. Carter worked his jaw to pop his ears. The windows of the briefing room had been blown out and everyone was covered in shards of glass. The station stirred itself and the fire trucks and ambulances sped out to dispersal, onlookers following on foot.

  Ten men were killed in the blast but they only ever found two of them. Lowery and an aircraftman were located two hundred yards from the explosion with not a mark on them. The shockwave from the blast had killed them outright and Lowery lay on his back with a surprised expression on his face.

  The post mortem would have to come later; the war waited for no man. Seven undamaged Lancs including L-Lady were bombed up and ready to go. They went. Carter picked six crews to go with him. Harding, Wright, Higgins, Lambeth, Biggs and Duquene took off for Warnemunde.

  54 - One Of Our Aircraft Is Missing

  For once, Headquarters got it badly wrong; or the Germans just guessed right for once. Two hundred aircraft went out to Warenmunde, twenty failed to come back. Ten percent. Ten percent gone in one night. A few more like that and Bomber Command would be lucky to still exist.

  363 lost four and all those who made it back had damage of one kind or another. Carter came back on three engines with a fetching collection of 20mm holes. He landed gingerly, keeping it light on the port side as he touched down.

  Things had gone wrong for Carter and his crew almost from the beginning. He had picked up on their mood in the truck when they rode out to dispersal. Murphy and Flynn were not their usual chatty selves and there were no tales of their latest sexual conquests. Vos stared moodily into the distance and even Woods seemed dour.

  All of them gave the big cookie a wary look before getting on board. Even Latimer was not as upbeat as he normally was. The days earlier events had unnerved all of them more than they cared to admit. Through the startup, Byron’s voice was a flat monotone, lacking in any life or enthusiasm.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” he told them as they taxied out. “Drinks are on me when we get back.”

  Over the North Sea, he let them talk about the earlier explosion for a while. Conversation turned to their own bomb load and the majority of them were in favour of dumping the Cookie after what had happened.

  Carter would have gladly done so, but he knew the target camera was activated when that was released. If they dropped it early, all they’d have was a photograph of the ocean. They were stuck with it, but none of them could wait to get to Warnemunde so they could get rid of the thing.

  Crossing the coast at Esbjerg, flak chased them all the way along the route to Flensburg. It exploded harmlessly below but it was a taste of things to come. Winds shoved them off track and they strayed too close to a Luftwaffe airfield. They were tense after that. Pushing the engines as hard as they dared, Carter climbed, wanting to put as much height as possible between them and trouble.

  Suddenly, death leapt at them out of the darkness. Todd shouted a warning as the 110 came charging in from the rear starboard quarter. He must have been a rookie because he fired from way back. The cannon shells were as big as golf balls as they trailed behind.

  “Call it,” said Carter. He leaned over the yoke, ready to go. Byron left his panel and hovered next to Carter, his hand on the throttle levers.

  The 110 continued to charge in, still firing in a long continuous burst. The pilot was trying to walk his cannon fire onto the Lancaster.

  “Corkscrew starboard! GO!” shouted Todd. Carter pulled the yoke back and rolled right, turning into the nightfighters path of approach.

  Realising their error, the 110 reversed their turn, trying to follow the big bomber round. At that moment, Todd and Murphy opened up and six streams of tracer laced out, reaching for the 110. The Lady jumped as cannon shells slammed into the outer port wing. Carter could feel the hits go in, but he also felt the vibrations as Todd and Murphy fired back.

  The yoke jumped in his hands and he gripped it tight, steering the Lancaster through the climbing turn. The Merlins were screaming at maximum revs as Byron shoved the throttles through the gate, screwing every ounce of power out of the engines.

  “He overshot! He overshot!” shouted Murphy as the grey 110 screamed past. He craned his neck, trying to see where they went. “He went to port! To port!”

  “Find the bastard,” said Todd.

  “Now!” Carter shouted to Byron. The Flight Engineer chopped the throttles on the port engines. Carter rolled left and then booted the rudder to haul them round and down. In the nose, Flynn clung on like a boy on a rollercoaster at the fair as the Lancaster plunged and then bottomed out of its diving turn and climbed back up again.

  The 110 broke left and climbed. The pilot wiped the back of his hand across his brow. His mouth was dry and sweat beaded on his face. He thought he’d made a perfect approach and the Lancaster was a pigeon, ripe for plucking. He hadn’t expected such a spirited defence.

  He checked his crew were still with him and then with the bit between his teeth, he turned to make another attack. He dodged in and out of the wisps of clouds and stayed low, keeping the Lancaster above the line of the horizon so they wou
ld be highlighted against the background of the starlit sky. He peered intently, looking for the stab of blue flame from the engine exhausts.

  “He’s still back there,” said Todd. He panned his turret to the right and kept a careful eye on it as the 110 stalked them. He watched as it slowly climbed to their altitude and began to draw level on their left.

  Todd grinned behind his oxygen mask. That was an old trick. Going alongside and feigning they hadn’t seen the bomber. If he stuck to the script he would just about come level before turning hard to make a slashing attack, guns blazing. Carter held it steady, every sense tuned, ready to react in a moment.

  “Get ready, Spud.” Todd gripped the gun controls and settled in his seat.

  “I’m ready.” Murphy pressed the oxygen mask to his face and breathed deep.

  The 110 stood on its starboard wingtip and came in. This time they held their fire, wanting to get closer and make sure.

  “Corkscrew to port! GO!” Murphy shouted.

  The port wing dipped and Murphy’s world tilted as Carter dived the big bomber to cut into the 110’s attack. Murphy traversed his turret and fired in short controlled bursts. Todd could only wait. Even at full traverse, the 110 was beyond his firing arc and he would have to hang on for his chance.

  The 110 opened fire as the Lancaster crossed in front of him. He placed the dot of his gunsight on the big fat fuselage. Sparks went flying as rounds went through the thin skin.

  Murphy adjusted his deflection and gave them both barrels. The fighter staggered and then reared up. Murphy carried on pouring it on, pumping round after round into the 110. The nightfighter drunkenly rolled right, exposing their vulnerable belly. Fire streamed from the starboard wing as it dived away out of sight.

  “Got him! I got him!” Murphy exclaimed fizzing with excitement. It had all happened so fast. Blink and they were gone.

  “He got us as well,” muttered Carter as he levelled off. The yoke had juddered in his hands and he could feel the air tugging on something.

  Byron looked at his board of instruments. The temperature on the port outer was starting to climb. He tapped the glass but the needle continued to go round the dial into the red.

  “Port outer caught a packet.”

  Carter glanced left and then back to his instruments. Murphy reported a thin white trail streaming back from the engine. Vos crawled around the fuselage in the dark with a flashlight, looking for other damage.

  The port outer started to labour and Byron shut it down, feathering the prop. Carter edged the throttles forward on the remaining engines but it soon became apparent they’d be unable to maintain their current airspeed.

  “How long to go, Woody?”

  Woods played with his maps and did some fast calculations. The loss of one engine wasn’t too serious. They could maintain height on three easily and once they let the bombs go they would have reserve power to spare.

  “About an hour. East to the island of Fehmarn and then the final run in to Warnemunde.”

  “Eyes open everyone. If there’s one fighter out there, there’s more. Let’s see if we can’t make it two for the night.”

  Warnemunde was right on the coast, just north of Rostock. There was no trouble finding it but it was a far harder proposition than that sleepy little town. Unlike the really big industrial targets, the town and the city itself were only a quarter of a mile wide along the waterfront, it was easy to miss. The Heinkel aircraft factory was ringed by guns and searchlights as were the docks and warehouses.

  The guns sent up a wall of flak. Carter saw a Wellington coned by the blue white beam of a master searchlight. More lights pinned it and no matter how much it twisted and turned, it was only a matter of time. The flak walked upwards, boxed it in and then blotted it from the sky.

  A searchlight passed over them and for a moment, the inside of the cockpit was as bright as day. Carter dived and blinked to clear the spots from his eyes. Flynn couldn’t see a thing either.

  “Get us out of this,” he screamed, his voice shrill.

  Carter was suddenly reminded of what he had drummed into Harding. This was no time to be delicate, they had to get out of the beam. If they pulled the wings off, so be it. The Lancaster twisted and dived. Carter finally broke free after he turned right for the umpteenth time. The searchlight anticipated that they would twist left again but Carter continued his turn. They went one way, the light went the other and they were free.

  Blinking and wiping his eyes, Carter shook his head. He was knackered and his arms felt like they were coming out of their sockets. He levelled off and pressed on.

  Almost blinded by the glare, Flynn got a sighting on something and let the bombs go. Carter waited for the photo and then turned for home, diving for the ground and the safety of the dark.

  Interrogation was short. As only three crews had made it back, it wasn’t long before Kent went back to his office to ring the results through to Group. Lambeth, Biggs, Higgins and Duquene were missing.

  “Just one of those nights, chaps. New day tomorrow,” said Church, trying to gee the men up. Tired eyes stared back at him.

  Yvonne had sighed with relief when Woods walked through the door. She had listened with her heart in her mouth when Murphy relayed the details of the fighter attack.

  The following morning, Carter was noodling with some admin but his heart wasn’t in it. He was waiting for a phone call and was growing impatient. One of their missing Lancs had pancaked on a field on the south coast but there was no information on who it was or if there had been any casualties.

  “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain…” said a voice at the door. Carter jumped.

  “Good lord.”

  “Here I am,” said Wilkinson.

  “Cuppa?” Carter asked, about to call the admin staff outside his office. Wilkinson shook his head.

  “Flying visit, old boy. Official business after yesterdays conflagration. Just saying hello. You’ll be around later?”

  “Of course.”

  Wilkinson disappeared as fast as he had come. Carter closed his office door and went back to waiting for the phone to ring.

  The word came through an hour later. It was Biggs who had made it back. He’d come down hard on an emergency field with two engines out. Two of his crew had been wounded and Biggs broke his left leg on landing. All of them had been taken to the local hospital to be checked out. Carter rang Saunderson so he could start packing up the personal effects of the missing.

  Wilkinson and the Group Armaments Officer went round Amber Hill conducting an enquiry of sorts. It was short and sweet. It was hard to hold a detailed investigation when there were no living witnesses. They questioned the remaining armourers about their knowledge of procedures and the squadrons current work practises.

  There was always the possibility of a handling error but other causes were considered as well. Pullen speculated that stray static could have activated the release mechanism. Strictly speaking that shouldn’t have been possible as the bomb release system was supposed to be isolated before they started loading up, but tired men made mistakes. There was also the chance it could have been a faulty detonating pistol or a defective long delay fuse.

  With no definitive proof one way or another to provide a convincing conclusion, Wilkinson was not about to sully dead mens reputations. In the end, the report left an open judgement.

  Replacement aircraft were flown in and life returned to normal. Civilians who had property damaged by the blast were compensated. The explosion made the local newspapers. It was too big a thing to be ignored but the reports were scant on detail, the censor doing their best to limit what was known.

  Within a week, the holes would be filled in and fresh concrete laid. The only sign anything had occurred would be the scorched grass and even that would grow over. In the end, the only reminder would be a brass plaque Etheridge had commissioned. It listed the date and the names of the dead and was put up in the admin block. After two weeks it was a mere footnote in
the squadron histories. Wheeler noted the names of the dead and the serial numbers of the aircraft written off in the Squadron record book.

  The funeral for the victims of the accident was three days later. No one was explicitly ordered to go but enough nods, winks and suggestions were made over the intervening days that there was a good turnout at the service.

  The village church was a quaint little eighteenth century stone building with a neat graveyard. The Priest was a wizened old figure who shared the service with the station Chaplain. The hymns were suitably solemn and the elderly organ player churned out music that was not far off nails being dragged down a blackboard. Only two of the ten flag draped coffins actually contained anything. The rest were there for show after the explosion had wiped the men from the face of the earth.

  Carter stood near the back of the church with Georgette. He knelt and stood when required but he just went through the motions. Seeing war up close had bludgeoned what little faith he had out of him.

  Sat with Etheridge in the front pew was Sergeant Lowery’s grieving widow. Clad head to toe in black, she would have come down on the train from Sheffield, but Etheridge had sent his car and driver to collect her as a guest of the squadron. She was put up in a hotel in Lincoln. Considering what had happened it was the least the RAF could do.

  The coffins were lowered into the ground and the episode was brought to a close. Church escorted the widow to the wake back at the station. She was a timid little thing, with big tear streaked eyes. She sat with a cup of tea while people stood around offering condolences and tried not to look too awkward.

  Depressed by the service and the stark reminder of deaths proximity, Carter needed to see some life. He took Georgette for a drive and drove off in a random direction, stopping a few miles away from the village where a sign pointed the way down to the river. Carter parked the car at a layby and they went for a walk.