Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  Cheeks tingling from the cold, they hung their coats on some spare hooks and went through to the bar. The mood was buoyant. This intake had come to the end of their course and it was a chance to have a good knees up before they scattered to different squadrons and Groups around the country. Andrews came over. His cheeks were pink and it wasn’t from the cold.

  “What can I get you, sir?” he asked Carter.

  “A pint if that’s okay,” replied Carter. He spied two more of his pilots by the piano and he knew he would have to pace himself if he was going to get through the evening. Andrews disappeared towards the crowd around the bar and returned a few minutes later carrying three tankards. He handed one to Carter and another to Burton.

  “For you, sir,” said Andrews, handing them over. “Cheers,” he clinked his tankard against each of theirs and drank deep.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” asked Carter.

  “They posted the list earlier,” said Andrews with some enthusiasm. “I’m going to 5 Group, 363 Squadron.” He may as well have added, “I can’t wait,” at the end, such was his obvious pleasure at finally going onto ops.

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” said Carter. Nodding his thanks, Andrews drifted off to join some of his classmates. Carter and Burton watched him go.

  “Crawler,” commented Burton, his tone light.

  “I’ve already written his report up,” said Carter, licking the froth off his top lip. They moved into the room, joining in some of the songs. Tonight was one of those nights where the division between the old hands and the new boys mattered little.

  The following morning, Carter was reading the newspaper over some toast and marmalade. He slurped on his tea as he digested another gloomy headline. He was marshaling his thoughts about how Rommel might be brought to book when a steward hovered at his shoulder and politely coughed behind one hand.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but Wing Commander, Grant would like a word with you.”

  “Now?” Carter was surprised. He didn’t recall doing anything particularly egregious the night before in the bar. He remembered being disqualified after crashing into a rival rider during a race around the Mess on some bicycles. Snagging a piece of toast with a lump of marmalade on, he munched on it as he went across to the CO’s office in one of the admin huts.

  It had rained overnight and the grass was damp but the wind had gone and it was a relatively still morning. He listened to the sounds of the sea as he walked along. He caught the Adjutant’s eye as he came into the room before the CO’s office.

  “Go right in, sir,” said the Adjutant. Carter knocked briefly on the door, heard a rumbled assent and went in. Wing Commander Grant looked up from his desk and smiled as he saw Carter. He gestured to a chair in front of his desk with his scarred left hand. “Carter, do come in, have a seat.” he said warmly.

  Carter sat down and relaxed slightly, still mystified as to the reason for the summons.

  Grant sat back, in apparent good mood. He smiled and reached for a cigarette. He stuck it between his lips and then went for the lighter, his motions precise, his thumb fumbling with the striker. Carter’s eyes were drawn as they always were to the left hand that was missing the top digit of the index finger and the empty right sleeve that was folded and pinned to the side of his uniform jacket. A flying accident before the war had robbed Grant of his right arm but had done little to dull his drive and determination.

  “You had a pretty good day yesterday,” Grant observed. Carter had no idea if the CO was talking about his pupils or the Mess party, so he stuck to talking shop.

  “Not bad, sir. I think this bunch make the grade.” Grants mouth quirked in good humour.

  “I’m glad to hear it; I’d hate to think you would be washing out someone at the end of a course.”

  “Yes, sir. Andrews will do okay. Bishop as well. He lacks a bit of confidence but I’m sure that’ll change with time.” Neither of them uttered the unspoken question, if he lives long enough to get the time.

  “Anyway, we’ll have the new intake coming in next week. Not that they’ll be any of your concern,” Grant said pointedly. Carter frowned in confusion, the scar on his cheek rippling.

  “Sir?”

  “Your orders have come through, Carter. You’re going back to the coal face.” Carter blinked. “Ops.” The CO’s voice seemed to come from far away as Carter tried to focus on what he’d said. Grant let him absorb the news and watched the reaction.

  Carter rubbed his hand through short dark brown hair. His blue eyes glittered in intensity as his mouth went dry at the prospect of ops. Grant had seen those eyes cut a candidate stone dead when they made a mistake, but he’d also seen them soften in sympathy when words of encouragement were required. Average in height, Carter was slight in build but had filled out a little bit during his time at Lossiemouth. After months of operations, a man got thin living on a diet of cigarettes and adrenalin.

  “I’ll be sorry to lose you, but you’re going home. 5 Group.” Grant tapped a bundle of papers on his desk. “Your orders are in there. You don’t need to report to your new squadron until the 23rd October so you’ve got a week’s leave. Uncle will sort out your travel warrant for you later.”

  He handed over the envelope. Carter was surprised his hands were so steady when he took it. His whole world had been turned on its head. He always knew that he’d go back on ops sooner or later; he just thought he would get a bit more notice. At least with some leave he could see his family.

  He thrilled at the chance to see Mary again. It had been two months since he’d last seen her and in the intervening period he thought there’d been a cooling in her regard for him. Her letters to him had become more infrequent and shorter and far less personal.

  “I realise this is something of a surprise, but you have been here nearly six months. We’ll have a bit of a send off tonight and then you can get away on your leave.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Carter replied woodenly, only part of his attention in the room. Grant came round from his desk and Carter stood up, the envelope clasped tightly in his hands.

  “I just wanted to thank you for your efforts,” Carter shook his hand warmly.

  Carter was just trying to close the lid on his suitcase when Burton stormed through the door of the billet like a hurricane. He took in the scene in a half second.

  “Bloody hell, so it’s true.”

  “It is,” said Carter. He put a knee on the suitcase and strained to get the clasp to click shut. “That got around quick.”

  Burton shrugged and moodily shoved his hands into his pockets as he leaned against the door frame.

  “You know what the village tom toms are like. Nothing stays secret for very long. Where are you headed?”

  Carter nodded to the envelope Grant had given him on the chair by the bedside. Burton picked it up and pulled out the top sheet. He muttered under his breath as he read the bald language.

  “Who’s 363 squadron when they’re at home?” he asked. Carter shrugged.

  “Not a clue. I’ve never heard of them. They weren’t in 5 Group the last time I was there.”

  “Hmmm, rum,” muttered Burton. “Drop me a line, when you get there?”

  “I’ll do you one better,” said Carter, “you can go in my place.” He shoved the remaining clothes in his kit bag and stood up. He cast an appraising eye around the room to see if he’d missed anything and then clapped Burton on the shoulder. “Come on, you can get me a drink before I go and tidy up my paperwork.”

  When the goodbyes had been said and the last songs sung, Carter had lain awake for some hours. He lay on the bed, arm behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. He worked his way through a few cigarettes in the dark. This was one of those occasions he was grateful instructors got a room to themselves.

  He cast his mind back to his first op as captain of a Hampden. It had been a milk run to Brest. Even so, the flak had been terrifying. The sharp pock as shells burst nearby which you felt rathe
r than heard. A Hampden up ahead had been bracketed by searchlights and he watched, fascinated as it gyrated around the sky, trying to shake off the cones of light. The flak crept up to meet it and the aircraft was changed into a flaming comet that streaked for the ground.

  When they finally got to their target, the port was covered by cloud and Carter had criss crossed over the city three times before they let their bombs go. He had no idea if they ever hit anything. There had been many more operations after that, but the first one never left you.

  He blinked away tears as he smoked in the dark. He tried to convince himself it was the smoke from the cigarettes irritating his eyes that caused it.

  2 – A Stranger, In A Strange Land

  The Adjutant, Flight Lieutenant Harold Saunderson showed Carter to his new billet. Strictly a ground bird, Saunderson had been an insurance salesman in civvy street. He had that homely trustworthy face that oozed sincerity, just the kind of trait you needed to be selling pensions and life insurance to people sat on an armchair in their living room. Like most Adjutants, he was the mother hen that fussed around behind the scenes, seeing to the squadrons needs and being the touchstone that the CO could tap to gauge the mood of the men when required.

  Saunderson stood at the door as Carter went in and dumped his bags on the floor. He had the bed on the left in a two person room in a fairly tatty run down Nissen hut. There were two beds, a chest of drawers and a small bedside cabinet. A communal desk and chair was in the corner to the left. A wardrobe occupied the space to the right of the door. Carter sat down on a corner of the bed and bounced up and down slightly. The springs creaked and squealed with every movement, setting his teeth on edge.

  “Not much I know, but I’m sure you’ll make the best of it,” Saunderson commented smoothly. Carter said nothing. He wrinkled his nose at the smell emanating from the other side of the room. Clothes were screwed up and shoved under the bed.

  “The CO will see you at 2pm. You know, you’ve thrown us for a bit of a loop old boy, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “What can I say? I couldn’t wait to get here.”

  Senses twitching, Saunderson knew there was more to that statement but he also knew there was no point asking. When he’d met Carter at the gatehouse, he had seen the simmering anger in every aspect of his frame. Whether that was because of the posting or something else, time would tell.

  “You’ll find the boys to be a friendly lot. There are no ops on today and the forecast is pretty grim, I’m sure you’ll find most of them laagered up in the Mess.” When that elicited no response, Saunderson took the hint. “I’ll leave you to get settled,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

  It was a gloomy day, so Carter switched the light on. That made little difference, the low watt bulb barely lighting the corners. Sighing heavily he began unpacking his kit. He slung his sponge bag onto the bed. He hung up his shirts and shoved his flying gear in the wardrobe. His underwear and small personal things went in the top drawer. He chucked his boots under the bed along with the suitcase.

  He ruminated on his leave as he unpacked and put his things in order. Four days at the family home in Harrogate with his mother fluttering around and making a fuss of him had been marvellous. He’d caught up on the family news as his mother gave him some letters from his brother and sister to read. His sister Margaret was a nurse at a hospital in Manchester. His brother, Arthur, was a Captain in a tank regiment and had been shipped overseas. He didn’t say where he was going but considering what was going on, Carter thought Egypt was the most likely destination.

  His mother seemed to be coping with it all. She was keeping herself busy, helping some of the local families who had taken in evacuee children from London. A number of his childhood toys had been pressed back into service. Carter didn’t mind, it was better they were used rather than gathering dust in some box in the attic.

  The second half of his leave had been a monumental disaster. Once his family duties had been completed, he’d caught a train to London and turned up at Mary’s flat. When she opened the door she’d seemed to be more shocked than surprised. She hugged him and kissed him but there was something not quite right in her reaction.

  A stunning blonde, Mary stirred his blood as much now as the day they had first met. He’d always been mystified that she was interested in him when they first got together. On leave in London with his crew, they’d literally bumped into each other on the dance floor. Helping her to her feet, she’d smoothed down her blue dress as he apologised for knocking her over. She was tall, lithe and moved with a fluid grace, like a cat does when it prowls across a room. Her blonde hair was cut in a fashionable short bob that framed her oval face and her green eyes were like two emerald pools you could drown in.

  When her group abandoned the club, Carter and his navigator Ducky Webb were invited along. They all went to a plush Grosvenor flat with lots of rooms. Webb disappeared with a gorgeous redhead not long after and as the rest drifted away, Carter had found himself alone with her.

  She literally tore his clothes off that first night. Maybe it was the attraction of a man in uniform but Carter was not entirely convinced by that argument. Her father was some high up type in the Air Ministry and she had travelled a lot before the war so she’d had no shortage of suitors more senior than him vying for her attention.

  She had been his lifeline during his tour, bucking him up when his spirits were down. She moved to Lincoln to be closer to him and he saw her as often as he could when the squadron was stood down. At the end of his tour they had gone to North Wales and spent some proper time together. Everything had been fine then. She moved back to London when he was posted to Scotland and that was when things changed. The distance between them had become emotional as well as physical.

  Carter had been hoping to do something about that when he got to London. The good thing about being in the middle of nowhere in Scotland was that there wasn’t much to spend your money on and he was never a heavy drinker. They had tea and sandwiches at Claridges and then a bottle of Chenin Blanc, the price of which made Carter wince. She looked at him over the top of her wine glass but it was like a stranger staring back at him.

  They went for a walk around Hyde Park. She drew plenty of admiring glances in her turquoise dress as she looped her arm in his. Their shoulders bumped as they walked along but he could feel the gulf between them. When they were together in the past she had always been quite chatty, pointing places out to him or talking with animation about things that caught her attention. This time she was more reserved and introspective.

  When he told her he was going back on ops she had visibly tightened. It was the one time he had noticed genuine worry in her eyes. She had weathered three months of waiting when he was part way through his tour the last time. He had thought that his being safe in Scotland would have made her happier but clearly the distance apart had been a bigger obstacle than he realised. Out of sight, out of mind seemed to fit the bill.

  Their lovemaking that night had seemed almost perfunctory. He had marvelled at her beauty but noticed the reserve in her eyes. Afterward, he had lain awake for a while, wondering where it had all gone wrong. His reception was no warmer the following day. She was civil, but the spark had gone, drifted away like smoke on the wind.

  “I am fond of you, you know that,” she’d told him over dinner.

  “But you don’t love me?” he finished for her, his tone curt.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” she protested. “When you were on operations, do you have any idea how much agony it was for me? Every night I’d hear the bombers going overhead never know if you were alive or dead or coming back. I would listen to the radio.” She laughed just the safe side of hysterical. “I even listened to that idiot, Haw Haw.” Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “I don’t think I can go through that again.”

  “Can’t, or don’t want to?” he asked her.

  “Can’t, darling,” she protested, the strain evident in her voi
ce. She stared off to the left, not wanting to meet his eye. After that there was little point in staying. She made a half hearted attempt to persuade him but he could tell she was grateful when he went.

  “Look after yourself,” she’d told him as they stood together at the door to her flat. She smoothed down the lapels on his battledress, her fingers lingering over the wings on his left breast and the purple and white ribbon of his DFC.

  “I always do,” he answered with an air of finality. He went straight to Lincoln overnight on the train and had a long hard think. She’d helped him get through his first tour and he was grateful for that; maybe that was enough.

  Once he had everything squared away he jammed his battered peaked cap on his head and went for an explore. On his last tour, he’d been spoilt; flying from one of the pre-war stations with all the comforts of home. The officer’s quarters had been a splendid red brick building next to an equally splendid Mess.

  Seven miles from Lincoln, he found RAF Amber Hill was every bit as basic as Lossiemouth. He passed row upon row of Nissen huts with muddy paths leading from one hut to another. There were a few duck boards down, but he imagined this place would turn into a swamp once it got wet in the winter. The control tower was a squat, boxey building and he could see the dark shapes of three large T2 Hangars on the horizon but that was about it.

  The wind tugged at his trousers as he walked. The sky was darkening to the east and there was every indication it would rain later on. Tucking his chin into the top of his greatcoat he quickened his pace as he followed the signs to the admin buildings.

  The interview with the CO was short. Wing Commander Asher occupied a small office in the ops building. A blackboard was on the wall to the left, filled with names and dates. Carter saw the squadron was split into two flights, with enough room on the board for over twenty crews to be listed. He also saw a number of rows were blank, the names rubbed off.