Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  He powered up the radio and went through his checks. Satisfied the set was working he turned to the turret. Powered hydraulically from the starboard engine, the turret was wound up into position after take off. It mounted one Vickers gas operated .303in machine gun and had a one hundred eighty degree field of fire.

  Morgan went up next and got into the cockpit using the hatch above the pilot’s position. He lowered himself in and one of the ground crew handed him the box of flares. He put the bulky cartridges in their rack and checked the flare gun, then stowed his parachute under the small table in the nose. He opened his canvas navigator’s bag and spread the tools of his trade out. On the bulkhead to his left, he put his maps in their rack. The dead reckoning calculator, logbook, ruler, pencils and stopwatch went on the table. He shivered and blew on his hands, trying to keep his fingers warm. The Blenheim was still icy inside from the cold night.

  While Morgan busied himself up front, Chandler walked around the aircraft doing his preflight checks. He checked each wheel, giving them a kick, and peered into the undercarriage bays, looking for leaks in the hydraulics. Satisfied, he got in and settled himself in the pilot’s seat, his nerves starting to jangle a little bit.

  He took a breath to calm himself and went through the startup routine. As he flicked switches he was reminded of something he did miss about the Battle, the cockpit layout. As much as the Blenheim gave the pilot acres of room, it was as if someone had just picked up all the switches and levers and just thrown them higgledy piggledy wherever they pleased with no thought whatsoever.

  He started repeating the routine to himself and reached over to the other side of the cockpit to switch the fuel to the inner tanks. He opened the throttles a half inch and set the mixture control to normal. The propeller speed controls were moved fully back before he switched the carburettor air intake to cold. For some reason, someone had seen fit to put the controls for the gills on the engine cowlings behind the pilot’s seat on the right side. He grunted as he reached round and fed in two turns of the wheel to open them.

  The groundcrew stroked the priming pump and then Chandler switched on the ignition and booster coils before starting each engine, one after the other. The propellers span, cylinders banged and the engines coughed into life. The last wisps of mist in the grass were tore apart in the slipstream as the sound tore across the field.

  Drowsy heads popped into view from various tents to see what was going on and people stopped work as the Blenheim ran up. While the engines purred at a fast tick over, Chandler pulled his gauntlets on, feeling fingernails nails go tight against the ends. The leather creaked as he flexed his fingers. He could feel the vibration through the seat, the steady thrum of the twin Mercury engines as they warmed up. His eyes swept the instruments, taking in the details as the needles steadied.

  He worked the yoke through the full range of motion. One of the groundcrew gave him a thumbs up that the chocks were clear so he pulled on the brakes and inched the throttle forwards. There was no mag drop and the temperatures were fine. He backed off the throttle, let go of the brakes and edged gingerly forwards.

  The Blenheim taxied out from the line and turned left rumbling over the grass. It trundled down to the far end of the field before turning into the wind. Griffiths checked in over the RT and Morgan came out of the nose to sit next to Chandler. They were ready to go.

  Chandler held the brakes on as he went through the final actions that had been drilled into him time and again. Double check the hydraulics selector is in the ‘down’ position. Put the rudder trim tab to neutral, set the elevator slightly nose heavy, mixture normal, prop speed controls forward. He selected twenty degrees of flap and then closed the engine gills, working the wheel behind the seat with his right hand again. He opened up the throttle, feeding in the power.

  The bomber surged forward with a roar, the engines sucking in the cold morning air. Chandler used a bit of left rudder to counter the tendency to swing right on takeoff. His eyes roved over the gauges, watching the rev counters and the airspeed indicator closely. The nose came up as they passed 70 knots indicated. He could feel the grass tugging on the wheels and used more rudder to keep the nose straight as they thundered across the field.

  As they topped the slight rise, the IAS hit 90 and he slowly and evenly pulled the yoke back into his stomach. Air got under the wings and the Blenheim climbed smoothly away. With no bombs on board she climbed swiftly, the speed picking up.

  Chandler raised the undercarriage and flaps. He could feel the difference in the controls, the drag of the wheels no longer there, the ride smoother. He turned the hydraulic selector up to provide power to the turret and told Griffiths he could get his gun ready.

  The nineteen year old got settled in his seat and started working the controls to the turret. He pulled back the cocking lever on his Vickers Gas Operated machine gun and made sure the safety was on before traversing left and right, making sure he had the full range of movement.

  Dane watched the Blenheim until it disappeared into the clouds. All being well, they should be back in about two hours.

  1.5 – The Grand Tour

  A little Miles Magister arrived shortly after Chandler’s Blenheim took off. It taxied up quickly towards the huts and turned with a flourish, gunning the engine and using the rudder to end up pointing back the way it had come. The pilot got down as the groundcrew chocked the wheels. There was some consternation when he unzipped his white flying suit and revealed the uniform jacket of a Group Captain.

  Without waiting on ceremony he went into the flight hut and slapped his briefcase down on the desk. Preddy jumped in fright and then stood shakily to attention.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  The Group Captain gave him a very fast up and down appraisal and then the door to Winwright’s office opened and the CO appeared.

  “It’s all right, Preddy. Go and get two cups of tea, there’s a good chap.”

  “Rapidly, boss.” Preddy exited as fast as his legs could carry him.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Winwright. Settling in I trust?”

  “We’re getting there. There’s still a lot to do of course. We only got in last night and a lot of the ground personnel haven’t arrived.”

  “I’ll see about that. There’s been a few problems moving units around. The French have been lagging a bit getting organised.”

  They waited until Preddy reappeared deftly carrying two mugs of tea. Once he had handed them over Winwright flicked his head to one side and Preddy disappeared as quickly as he had come.

  The Group Captain cupped his hands round the mug, letting the heat penetrate his fingers. His cheeks still stung from flying and the tip of his nose was cold. He let the steam rise into his face as he savoured the tea.

  Robert Goddard had only recently been appointed to the staff in France and he was busy doing the rounds of the squadrons to see what they needed. He stood in silence for a few moments, watching the activity around him and he was reminded of the fact that this was now all behind him. He had his day commanding a bomber squadron in Iraq a long time ago but he still missed being in the field. Going from a post at the Air Ministry to the A.A.S.F headquarters at Rheims had got him out from the stuffy atmosphere at Whitehall, but he still relished every opportunity to get out and about.

  He looked at the shiny new bombers with keen interest. Even during what the press had already dubbed, ‘the phoney war’; the French air staff had been giving everyone at HQ a headache demanding a bigger English contribution. Goddard knew the root cause of course. Earlier that year, months before war had even been declared, Goebbels had written in some natty magazine that England would fight to the last Frenchman. That thought obviously still lingered in the minds of government echelons. After some bleating in the corridors of power, a flurry of signals back and forth across the channel had turned the wires red hot.

  This Blenheim Squadron and the two other Battle units were a sop to that growing fear, w
hich explained why they had been sent to northern France around Béthenville. It was hoped that being based alongside French units would help to bolster morale but it had created a headache in the already strained supply chains.

  “When do you think you’ll be ready?” he asked.

  “By the end of the week I should think, sir. Once the remaining groundcrew arrive we’ll be fine. We can make do with what we have until then. I’ll have the crews up on familiarisation trips this afternoon.”

  “Good.” Goddard took a sip of his tea. “You’ve got to drill your chaps between now and when the balloon goes up. You’ve got to drum into them the idea of fast turn arounds; bombing on a tactical level.” He glanced at Winwright who nodded in understanding. “The Lysanders will be the link to the army, giving us information on troop concentrations and then you’ll go out to support them.”

  He looked out the doorway. He gestured to the aircraft in one neat line, the sun reflecting on their metal skins.

  “You’ll need to think about getting those aircraft dispersed. This won’t be like the first war. I don’t want a stick of bombs writing them off all in one go.”

  “I’m already having that taken care of,” Winwright reassured him. “I’m having bays cut into the treeline and we’ll drape camouflage nets across. I’ll have some sandbag revetments made up as well to give them some protection.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything.”

  “I doubt it, sir.” Winwright’s long face creased in thought, remembering the effort it had taken just to get the squadron out to France in the first place. “There’s always the little things that come up.”

  Goddard considered that. The last few months had been a whirl of activity for him, working hard to set up the supply chains and correcting the mistakes of peacetime complacency. Even so, there was still a lot of work left to do.

  “How are the men settling in?”

  Winwright shrugged.

  “There’s been the usual grumbles. It’s a bit of a come down from a permanent station but things will improve.”

  “Quite.” Goddard smiled in good humour. He had seen the tents on the other side of the trees when he had flown over.

  “I saw a manor house near by.” Winwright said. Goddard shook his head.

  “No go I’m afraid. We did ask when we knew you were coming, but the owners a bit of a tartar, some sort of civil servant by all accounts. Have you been to see the Mayor yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do, he’s a decent man. He was a flier himself in the last show before a crash ended his career. I think you’ll get the help you need in that regard.”

  Goddard put the mug down on the desk.

  “Now, let’s take the tour shall we?”

  “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

  Winwright led the way towards the aircraft. Goddard watched Burke rush around, haranguing all ranks to greater efforts. The departure of Chandler’s aircraft had stirred the squadron from their slumber and Burke saw no reason to waste an early start. As they had woken up, the aircrew were told to go over their aircraft and make them ready for air testing.

  Chaos reigned when six trucks arrived with some of the expected ground staff and missing equipment. The adjutant, Kittinger swung into action to get them organised. He lined them up next to the barn, checked names off a list and then had them dump their kit bags in a pile before they could even catch their breath. Some wrestled with putting up some more tents while others set to with saws and hammers erecting additional huts.

  Gradually, the airfield began to take on more order. A work party dug a number of latrine pits downwind in the woods. Others were hacking at the undergrowth, cutting a path to the tent city that was starting to spring up. Duckboards were dumped in a pile waiting to be laid.

  After a walk round, Goddard and Winwright ended up at the northern end of the field, the tall, Group Captain and the short, compact Wing Commander. Goddard kicked at a rotten trunk half buried in the grass and stared off across the open countryside. His eyes crinkled under the bright sun and he shaded his face with a hand.

  “You know Winwright, no one really knows when this thing is going to start.” He lit a cigarette and the air was filled with the pungent smell of the match. “There are some at Headquarters who think it’ll all blow over. Some people think Hitler won’t dare try and attack the Maginot Line and he’ll have his army sit on their side of the border and wait for us to come to them.”

  Winwright thought about that. With all the military might ranged on both sides of the border, he thought it was only a matter of time before the shooting started. Both sides would circle each other like wolves, snarling and snapping at each other’s heels.

  Goddard flicked the match into the grass. He fished out a silver hip flask from his jacket pocket. He offered it to Winwright who shook his head.

  “I don’t pretend to know the future.” Goddard kicked at the trunk again; watching bits of rotten wood splinter off. “I’m not one to read tea leaves and all that rubbish. My job is to make sure we’ll be ready, or as ready as we can be. All I can do is keep pushing everyone to their peak.” He flicked the stub of cigarette into the long grass and drank from the hip flask. Winwright said nothing so Goddard continued speaking.

  “I imagine the SASO will have plenty of work for you. The other squadrons are managing but it’s always nice to have the extra capability.”

  “We’ll manage, sir,” Winwright said quickly.

  Goddard turned and shot him a sharp look. His eyes narrowing as he considered that.

  “It won’t be a picnic,” he warned. “I hope your chaps realise that.”

  Winwright looked back to see the men of his command hard at work. He had a good unit, a good group of men under him. He thought about what lay ahead.

  “They know, sir. They may be young, but they know.”

  Goddard turned on his heel and they began walking back towards the huts and his own aircraft. He lit another cigarette and the smoke trailed behind him as they walked along.

  Two additional huts had been finished and work parties were starting to slap green paint onto the bare wood. The tang of wet paint was in the air.

  The Magisters tank had been topped off and its nose was pointed down the field, waiting to go. Goddard retrieved his white flying suit from the cockpit and put it back on. He shrugged on the parachute harness and settled the weight of the pack on his back before getting into the small trainer.

  “I’ll make sure more ground equipment is supplied.” He pointed to some trucks which had just pulled up with barrels of aviation fuel on board. “We can’t have your chaps refuelling by hand so I’ll whistle up some bowsers.” He glanced at the field and noted the ruts in the surface. “We’ve had to catch up the last few months but we’ve managed to scrounge up some engineers to help out. Tons of grass seed has been shipped across. I don’t know what good that will do at this time of year, but I’ll see about getting the ground more level.”

  “There is the matter of spares, sir,” Winwright reminded him.

  “Get a list to headquarters and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Where do you go next, sir?”

  “The Lysanders on the other side of town. You’ll be seeing a lot of them in the coming months I shouldn’t wonder. If communications break down we’ll be relying on them heavily to pass orders.” Goddard worked the stick, watching the controls. He settled the goggles on his face and looked back at him. “Make the best use of the time you have, Winwright. If it’s anything like the last show, god only knows when it will all end.”

  He twirled his left hand above his head and Winwright shouted for people to get out of the way. Two erks darted in to pull the chocks clear. The air ripped apart as the engine started.

  1.6 – A Jaunt In The Country

  Morgan was having a good day. They were on course, he was reading the winds right and the clear weather gave him all the landmarks he needed. He lay off the next course and handed up a piece of
paper to Chandler. His pilot nodded and they swung onto the new heading. He checked his watch. Five minutes to the beach.

  Forwards out of the nose was the French coastline. Slightly off to the left he could clearly see the port town of Dunkirk. The sea was a dull blue, the surface rough from the wind coming off the low lying coastal region. He saw the white painted hulls of some fishing smacks stark against the dark ocean, pitching up and down as they cleared the safety of the breakwater.

  There were few clouds out there and visibility was good, at least twenty miles or more. He took an experimental look through the binoculars trying to keep steady and focus on something at the same time. He picked out the leading fishing boat and tried to keep it in view while the Blenheim rode the air currents. He found he could just about do it if he braced one elbow on the navigation table and wedged himself against the canopy above his head.

  After a few minutes he put the binoculars down and occupied himself thumbing through the recognition book. He turned the pages, glancing at the silhouettes of ships, going back and forth as he compared the shapes of English and German Destroyers. He looked up English Cruisers and stared at the outline of the Battlecruiser Hood. He admired the long bow, the sleek lines of her hull. His brother-in-law was aboard her and he wondered where he was now.

  Chandler had climbed hard since leaving the airfield, making the most of the short run to the sea. He was up to eight thousand feet. The drone of the engines drilled into his head and he yawned, working his jaw to make his ears go pop. He was still a little tired from the day before and the bad nights sleep.

  In his turret, Griffiths had the best view of all. The countryside was spread out below him and he revelled in the view. As far as he could see was a patchwork quilt of fields, a mix of yellows and greens. Here and there were little hamlets or clumps of trees and hedges. He saw a car meander along a narrow road below, negotiating its way round a sharp corner.

  He looked up and scanned the horizon, quartering the sky around them. He traversed the turret to the left and right and sighted along the gun, tracking on clouds, imagining it was a target. Movement off to the left caught his eye. He glanced across and looked up. Something caught the sun and flashed. He squinted and rotated the turret left. A clump of clouds hid his view. He waited. It happened again and finally it came into view. A dark shape came out from behind the clouds, to be followed by another one a few seconds later.