Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “Roger, skipper.”

  Pettifer shook his head as he watched Chandlers Blenheim slightly ahead of him on the right. He liked Chandler. Like himself, the young pilot had come in for some opposition from the more senior cliques on the squadron and he was impressed with the way he had rode out the storm. He also respected Chandler’s loyalty to his crew, but he felt that sometimes Chandler perhaps took that loyalty too far.

  The simple fact was that Morgan was a lousy navigator. His dead reckoning skills were awful and he regularly missed landmarks that might have got him out of trouble. He got lost about as often as he found the way and it was becoming a running joke on the squadron. In peace time, poor navigation like that might be okay, but in action, things like that could get you killed very easily.

  The Blenheims droned on for another few minutes and Pettifer was pondering whether or not to shout up on the RT to advise a course change. The CO had ordered radio silence on the flight over but it would look pretty stupid if they ended up missing their destination and flying over Paris. He was just about to break orders when Chandlers Blenheim wallowed up and down before drunkenly turning left. Chandler kept the turn wide, giving Pettifer room on the inside to keep his position.

  As Chandler straightened up, Pettifer checked his reference points and then eased it in slightly, keeping it tight. They headed east, the flight smooth and Slater gave him the thumbs up, happy that the course was good. Give or take another ten minutes or so and they should arrive at the airfield. Pettifer turned his thoughts to the task ahead.

  While most people on the squadron were naively optimistic that things would be over by Christmas, Pettifer held no such hopes. His family had sacrificed much in the last war and he was under little illusion about his own future. His father had died in 1917 at Cambrai, going forwards with the Rifle Brigade. One uncle had been cut down at the Somme in 1916 and the other over Arras in 1917 in the Royal Flying Corps.

  He could not help remembering his aunts when they gathered together, talking about the war and what they had lost, their hopes and fears magnified by the passing of time. He had grown up in a quiet house, just him and his mother with little male company and he often caught her looking mournfully at his fathers photograph.

  Based on his own families’ experiences, he knew that blind faith would accomplish little and that was why he devoted himself to his flying. His own skill and that of his crew was the only thing he could rely on.

  At Rouen aerodrome, Winwright and Dane stood in the tower, peering through their binoculars as the aircraft circled the field. The Wing Commander kept checking his watch and scowled. He went back inside the tower, muttering to himself. Dane followed him, skirting past the clerk who fussed over a list and joined the CO by the operations board.

  The Blenheims circled the aerodrome twice more before coming in to land. Chandler brought his Blenheim smoothly to ground, crossing over the perimeter fence and then touching down to make a perfect three point landing. He rolled past the control tower, dust swirling behind and then slowly closed the throttle as the other two came in behind him. He gently dabbed the brakes before turning off onto the perimeter track.

  “That’s the last of them, sir,” said Dane.

  Winwright’s eyes roamed up and down the list of aircraft. He grunted and tapped the line marked B-Bertie.

  “Any word yet?”

  “Only that they’d been picked up, sir. They did circle and confirmed that all three of them got out before it sank. They only left when a rescue launch was close to their location.”

  Winwright grunted. The first day was not even over and he was already an aircraft short. On the way over, the new husband Locke had ditched in the channel after both engines had conked out.

  “Chandler’s flight was late,” Winwright muttered. “Almost half an hour overdue and they didn’t have the excuse of Farmer.”

  “No, sir, they didn’t.” Dane agreed. He knew Chandler vaguely from his days at Kings and the University Air Squadron so he was a little protective of the young officer. “I’m sure he had a good reason, sir,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

  Winwright’s narrow horse face pinched in disapproval. He looked around the room of the control tower and then made for the stairs, Dane followed him. Winwright did not speak again until they were outside.

  “I don’t really care what the reason was, Wallis; it just doesn’t give the right impression to our ‘gallant’ allies.”

  “Yessir.”

  “We can’t have our chaps swanning around the French countryside as they please.” Winwright stood on the edge of the apron, hands shoved in his pockets, the breeze whipping at his trousers. Chandler’s bomber taxied to the end of the row of parked Blenheims and then shut its engines down. The other two were still taxying in across the field.

  “The frogs will point fingers. They’ll think we don’t know what we’re doing. Puts up a bit of a black you see.” He turned and walked towards a camouflage painted Citroen. He was about to get in when he turned and looked back over the top of the door. “Tell Chandler to report to me at 1800 hours. We’ll see what he has to say for himself then.”

  Dane gave Winwright a crisp salute and held it as the CO drove off. As soon as the Citreon went out of sight round the admin building, he went in the opposite direction shaking his head. He would have preferred to talk to the Adjutant about this first but he was already waiting for them at their destination near Béthenville.

  Chandler and Morgan strode into the crew room with their kit bags slung over their shoulders. They looked around the room and were suitably underwhelmed. Paint was peeling from the walls, patriotic posters hung in frames, a fire burned in the grate and a collection of pilots were in various states of repose on sofas and armchairs. The room had the air of some seedy waiting room at a train station. All it needed was the drunken tramp in the corner. Chandler ran his hand through mashed down hair and dropped the heavy bag on the floor. Morgan did the same.

  “What a dump,” muttered Morgan in his Norfolk drawl.

  “Well we’re not staying long,” said Chandler. “We’ll be off in the morning.”

  “Not before the CO roasts your behind though,” Morgan said, reminding him of his coming summons.

  Chandler made a face and tried to catch the eye of one of the stewards. He picked up a magazine from the side table and idly flicked through the pages before turning to his navigator.

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll square it. I’m not worried about him.”

  Morgan heard the sneer in his pilot’s voice but chose to make no comment. It was not the first time Chandler had been in Winwright’s office and the more he saw of the CO, the less he liked. This was his first operational unit and he had expected a commander that was a real go-getter, leading from the front with some fire in his belly. Winwright on the other hand was hard and aloof.

  In the weeks before deploying to France, there had been little bombing practice. Chandler was surprised when it appeared the CO was more concerned with some pretty formation flying to impress the French whenever they went across the channel. Winwright expected rigid discipline in the air and often led lectures, preaching the mantra of unit integrity.

  Chandler rolled the magazine up into a tube and dabbed Morgan in the chest with it. He pitched his voice low just for his navigators benefit.

  “If anyone asks about where we’ve been, just tell them some guff about stronger than forecast winds, okay?”

  “What if Pettifer or Osbourne say something?”

  “They won’t. Pettifer’s not a snitch and Osbourne’s a decent chap. We’ll be okay.”

  Morgan nodded glumly, too embarrassed to say much else to the younger man. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten lost on a cross country flight and Chandler had to cover for him.

  Across the room a pair of brown eyes regarded them both. Michael Ashton was a shade under thirty and had a weathered face with sleepy hooded eyes that made a girls pulse go up a few notches. The South Afric
an accent of his youth helped as well and he was never short of female attention on leave.

  Ashton had travelled far after University and ended up flying airmail for two years in South America, running the route between Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires. Then one day he read yet another story about the rise of National Socialism and decided it was time to commit his life to his country. Returning to England, he had pulled strings with some old university pals and joined the service. Riding the wave of the pre-war expansion, his flight experience had got him noticed and he had been promoted rapidly to Squadron Leader.

  He finished his cigarette and stubbed it into the glass ashtray beside him. He glanced sideways at his observer, William ‘Billy’ Mitchell. Mitchell rolled his eyes and laughed, because he knew what was coming. Ashton made a show of glancing at his watch before coughing into his hand.

  “Mr Chandler, a moment of your time if you will.” Chandler drifted over to where his flight commander was seated. Ashton waited until he was stood in front of him. He folded his paper and laid it across his lap before speaking. “You owe me a pound, Chips.”

  Chandlers face pinched at the diminutive nickname he had been given. One day he had made the mistake of disclosing that his father was in the wholesale vegetable trade. Amongst his more elite peers, it mattered not that Chandler had gone to a top grammar school and on to King’s College, he was from trade and the name had stuck.

  “A pound?” queried Chandler. “I already squared the mess bill before we left, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, yes you did,” Ashton agreed, nodding in faux empathy, his face creased in concern. “This is for today. I had a little bet with Squadron Leader, Graves here;” the commander of B flight nodded, his face serious, “that the one who took the longest to get here between the Flights loses.”

  Morgan shifted uncomfortably on his feet but stopped when Ashton fixed him with a glare. A few pilots grinned and shared a look at the exchange. Farmer looked at Preddy and the two of them hitched round in their seats to get a better view. Chandler fought his corner.

  “That hardly seems fair boss. We were the last to leave to start with; we picked up some strong winds.”

  “I know you weren’t the only one who was late,” said Ashton, humouring his young charge. “But over twenty minutes was by far the worst performance. You were last, we lost, so you bear responsibility for the honour of the Flight I’m afraid.” He stretched out a hand. “So; cough up.”

  Chandler opened his mouth guppy like and then shut it again. He was about to argue but then thought better of it. He already had enough on his plate with the CO; it seemed foolish to piss off his flight commander as well. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a tatty pound note and stuck it into Ashton’s hand.

  “Dankie. Be a good chap and try not to do it again.” He turned to Graves and held out the pound note. “Honour is due.”

  Graves smiled and gave the note an experimental tug. Ashton twisted on the sofa and motioned to the steward in the corner. The man came over.

  “Now if you’ll follow old Henri here, he’ll make sure you get bedded down okay.” He lit another cigarette. “Dinners at seven by the way,” he said casually, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Not in the mood to exchange any further pleasantries, Chandler and Morgan gathered their gear and followed the Steward.

  Farmer watched the youngster cross the room and then turned back to Preddy. Pitching his voice for the benefit of the room, he said, “Now that we’re all here and no one else has had any problems; I really think we should consider court martialling old Locke you know.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Preddy, amused.

  “Well it all seems highly suspect to me you know. The only man who got married a week ago is the only one to have a mechanical problem and has to dump his kite in the drink.”

  The room burst out in sniggers and laughs like kids at school. Farmer arched an eyebrow and Preddy was unable to contain himself.

  “He’s sabotaging the war effort,” he managed to get out between gasps.

  “Exactly,” said Farmer, leaping on the remark. “Some chaps will do anything it seems to get one more night with the bride.”

  “What is the penalty for sabotage these days?” asked Arthur. “Firing squad isn’t it?”

  “Hmmmm,” Preddy nodded. “I imagine the wife will be a bit upset.” He rubbed his hands and smiled wickedly. “Pretty little thing she is too,” he said remembering the radiant blonde vision at the mess party. “Yes, it’ll be a shame watching old Locke go to the wall,” he said in mock regret. He caught the attention of a steward and ordered another drink. “Of course, the bride will need consoling.”

  The room descended into mirth.

  After a good nights rest, the crews assembled on the pan by the control tower. The Blenheims were all lined up ready to go. The ground crew they had brought with them had spent a good hour checking the aircraft over under the watchful eye of WO Burke.

  A staff car pulled up and the French station commander got out, followed by Winwright. They made an interesting contrast to each other. Short and stocky, Winwright had his trousers tucked into the tops of his furred flying boots. A slash of red appeared at his throat in the form of a silk scarf tucked inside his shirt with the top button undone. The French officer was immaculately tailored in a uniform that looked like he had been sewn into it. His kepi was tilted at a rakish angle and a small pointed moustache was balanced on his top lip. He slapped a pair of white silk dress gloves from hand to hand as he walked.

  Winwright gathered them round and the French officer addressed them in mangled but understandable English. He spoke of British courage, their French brothers, justice, fighting the tyrannical Boche. No one said a word as he warmed to his subject. Winwrights eyes roamed over the group, ready to pounce on any transgression. They behaved, even though the dourr rhetoric tempted them to do something.

  Finally, the speech was mercifully finished. Hands were shaken, salutes were exchanged and the station commander withdrew from the field, happy. A collective breath was released once he was out of earshot.

  “What a lod of old tosh,” commented Arthur. There was a general grumble of agreement amongst the men. Give them a good speech about giving the Hun a good thrashing, six of the best and they were happy. Start laying it on thick about being a band of Nelsonian brothers and their patience wore thin.

  “Positively ghastly,” agreed Preddy. He pulled on his kidd gloves and flexed his fingers in the new soft leather. “There’s nothing worse than a frog in love with the sound of his own voice.”

  He theatrically shuddered to highlight his displeasure.

  “Ah, but what about the women?” asked Farmer.

  “Well that’s different,” said Preddy. “Froggy women can whisper sweet nothings to me all night if they want.”

  They were just about to disperse to their aircraft when Winwright told them to stay together. A spotty Corporal was walking towards them with a camera in his small hands.

  “Just a few snaps for the scrap book chaps. Seeing as we’re going to war, I think we should get a few photos for posterity.”

  They bunched in close, doubling up the rows. Those in front knelt down. Some chairs were produced and Winwright sat in the middle, arms crossed, with Graves and Ashton either side of him.

  The Corporal ran off a few shots, struggling to get everyone into the viewfinder. After that, Winwright asked for a shot just of the pilots. The navigators and gunners shuffled off to get their aircraft ready. The Corporal suggested getting something in the background and they moved over to where the nearest Blenheim was.

  “Huddle up gentlemen,” he told them.

  A more intimate shot, Winwright was more relaxed, and stood with his hands jammed into his pockets. A Flight were arrayed to his left, B Flight to his right. Farmer stood by Graves shoulder, a hulking mountain of man. Chandler stood next to Pettifer and tried to look earnestly heroic.

  “Ready?” asked the Corporal as he look
ed at them intently through the camera. He waited while there was some horsing around. There was some jostling into position and Osbourne kept moving. He stood face on to the camera then changed his mind, turning three quarters to the front and squared his shoulders back like he was on the parade square.

  “Very pretty,” said Farmer. “You ready for your close up?” he asked the Scotsman. Arthur puckered up and blew kisses at Osbourne before Farmers beefy hand clipped him over the back of the head. “Eyes front, you clot.”

  They took three more photos for good luck and then headed towards their aircraft.

  They took off in sections of three, before forming up as a complete squadron and headed east in formation. Only the day before some German fighters had strayed over the border, spoiling for a fight and the CO preferred to play it safe.

  Winwright led the squadron and spent the entire flight haranguing his crews to keep it close. While he was a proponent of Baldwin’s theory that the bomber would always get through, he also believed in stacking the odds in his favour. For all their sleek lines and speed, the Blenheim was a bomber like any other.

  Fighters were faster and more maneuverable than them so they could neither run, nor dodge the German fighters forever. He knew what they needed to do was keep together and rely on the mutual protection of their own guns. If their turrets could lay down a hedge of fire, then it would be difficult for fighters to press home their attacks. At least, that was the theory.

  Flying in formation in the Battle had been relatively easy, but the Blenheim had been giving some of the pilots some trouble. With engines on either side of the long glazed nose, they had to relearn their reference points. Only with constant practice were they able to get to a standard he was happy with, which was why he had been working them so hard to get it right. Once they were operational every flight would be for real and there would be little chance to practice after that.