Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  South of Rendsburg the anti aircraft gunners woke up. Their range finding was very accurate and there was an uncomfortable few minutes flying through a storm of flak bursts. They wove from side to side, always heading eastwards. Just as the flak batteries were getting the range they abruptly stopped. The hairs on the back of Carters neck stood on end. Every sense came alive and he broke out in a cold sweat.

  "Pilot to crew, keep an eye out for nightfighters," he called on the R/T. Smith and Jones acknowledged promptly.

  They crept on, every minute seeming like an hour. Carter hunched forward in his seat, almost leaning over the yoke. Any second he expected to hear a panicked warning and he was ready to throw his aircraft around the sky.

  "One of ours catching it behind," shouted Jones, his thin and reedy voice further distorted by the R/T. "Four o'clock, our level a mile or so back."

  Eyes snapped to the right. Forrester peered over the lip of the canopy. Slightly behind them, lines of tracer were reaching out. The target was a Hampden, its long slender fuselage limned by orange flames on the starboard side. Closing in for the kill, the German pilot sent a final squirt into the blazing wing tanks and then broke right, not even bothering to admire his handiwork as he hunted for more prey.

  A small shape fell from the doomed bomber, then another. The crew were bailing out. The nose went down as it started its death dive. The clouds were illuminated from within for a moment as the burning aircraft plunged to the ground.

  No one commented on the chain of events. Jones was just relieved it wasn’t them. Smiths finger twitched over the triggers for his guns. With a snarl he went back to quartering the sky. Tinsley marked the location on his chart.

  "Keep your eyes open, where there's one, there may be more," Carter cautioned. Smith swallowed a retort. He was not fresh off the boat and resented being told the obvious.

  Adjusting for wind drift, Tinsley called out a course change to port. Comparing his map with what little he could see on the ground, he figured the wind had veered. It had changed from easterly to a more north easterly bearing and was pushing them south. Carter made the change to get them back on track.

  The rest of the leg was uneventful and they got ready for the run in to the target. Ahead, the sky was glowing. Searchlights dodged left and right illuminating the clouds like some sort of shadow puppet theater. Fires on the ground were scattered far and wide which was not a good sign.

  Tinsley came forward from the navigators position and settled himself on his cushion to peer through the bombsight. It was his show. On the run in, he opened the bomb bay doors. Carter felt the drag on the controls and did his best to keep the Manchester steady for the bomb run.

  Tinsley couldn’t see very much. The clouds had drifted in on that easterly wind. He caught the flash of weak moonlight on water and followed the silvery line through the thick cotton. It ran roughly north to south, undulating left and right and before curling away. He tried to picture the run of the river on his chart as he looked at the countryside below but the cloud cover was making it difficult. There were a few fires below but nothing particularly concentrated, the flak wasn’t very heavy either. Black Jack and Kent had told them to expect heavy defences over the target.

  “This doesn’t look so good,” he said ominously. The curl to the water seemed right but nothing else seemed to fit.

  “What’s up?” asked Carter.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think we’re where we’re supposed to be.”

  “It’s your call,” said Carter. “Tell me what you want.”

  “The are fires further north west, twenty odd miles away?”

  “I see them.” Carters lips pulled thin. With his old crew he could have this conversation with Dobson and almost know what he was thinking. He also had confidence that Dobson had got them to the right place. He drummed his fingers on the yoke and did an orbit while Tinsley discussed back and forth what to do.

  Tinsley thought they could be over Lübeck and Carter had to agree. The wind must have pushed them much further east and it had been Neumünster they had passed over, not Rendsburg. Last year he might have gone lower for a look see but not now. In the Manchester, height meant everything if there were problems with the engines.

  They closed the bombs doors and headed north. It wasn’t long before Tinsley knew he’d been right. Heavy flak started as soon as they got close to Kiel but there was little Carter could do about that. He needed to hold it as steady as he could for Tinsley, keeping the inputs small.

  Tinsley peered through the sight and cursed. Smoke rose into the sky from the scattered fires which only made the poor visibility worse. He wiped sweat from his face. There was very little that seemed to look like a shipyard but there was no way he was asking Carter to go around again. He picked up the coastline and followed it down, looking for the dry docks and slipways. He spotted a big crane and some buildings that looked like workshops and asked Carter for a final correction. He waited a few seconds for the plane to steady and then he hit the release.

  "They're off!"

  The Manchester almost leapt upwards as the bombs fell away. Smith peered down hoping to see the bombs go off but there were too many flashes from the guns firing up at them. He carried on watching the sky, looking for those little tell tales that would show someone creeping up on them.

  The German flak gunners suddenly seemed to wake up. The big bomber rocked as flak burst much closer. Carter fought to get her back under control as the starboard wing lifted. Shrapnel pinged off the canopy and the stench of smoke filled his nostrils. He pushed the oxygen mask to his face and breathed deep, the tang of rubber on his tongue.

  Carter took them down, diving under the wall of explosions. He then cut the corner on their exit out of the target area, going to port. They were disappearing into the darkness as the Manchester jolted again.

  "Strewth, that was close," said Jones. There had been a massive bang to port and there was a huge draught somewhere below because he could feel the cold air rushing on his legs. He ducked down out of the turret for a look and was horrified to see sparks and flames.

  "FIRE! Fire, in the tail!"

  He rushed for an extinguisher clipped to the side of the fuselage. Flames licked around a box and sparks flew as acrid smoke began to fill the air. The extinguisher made short work of the fire and he was just putting the last of it out when Forrester got over the main spar to help him.

  "I've done it," Jones panted. Forrester clapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the mid upper turret. Jones nodded and went back to his position. Forrester gave the smouldering box a few more squirts from his own extinguisher before having a look. Wisps of smoke issued out of the torn metal casing and there was a puddle of molten metal on the floor. He used a torch to check for any other damage. He went down to the tail and saw the turret rotating left and right so the hydraulics seemed fine. He went up to the cockpit and plugged back in to the R/T.

  "It's a bit draughty back there but I think we're all right. The IFF box took a hit though. The fire was the thermite charge going up."

  "We're lucky it didn't burn the tail off."

  "We get lucky sometimes," Forrester smiled behind his mask, his eyes crinkling in good humour.

  "Crew, check in." They called out their names one after the other, prompt, as he liked. "We've still got two engines, nothing majors fallen off, but we've got a long way to go so be on the ball."

  Tinsley gave him the next course to steer and they hunkered down for the long haul back, Linkletters tail wind shoving them along.

  "Bloody hell," said Forrester as they stood looking at the damage on the port side. Just behind the roundel there was a jagged three foot gash and there were at least ten other holes of varying size punctured in the thin metal. Paint had blistered off from the heat of the thermite charge, the shine of the aluminium bright against the flat black paint around it.

  The ground crew tutted and whistled as they fussed around the Manchester. There were a few other holes here a
nd there in the wings and tail but nothing to worry about. They would have them patched in no time. The Sergeant wiped his hand on a rag as he walked up to Carter.

  "A few days to sort this out I think, sir. Were the engines okay?"

  "Fine, Sarge. Didn't miss a beat." The erks stood a little straighter, pleased their hard work had paid off.

  Leaving the erks to it, they hopped on the truck and were driven to debriefing. They were one of the last to get back and the room was full. Carter saw Dickinson at the far end of the room, leaning against a radiator while he nibbled on a biscuit.

  "Good trip, Carter?" he asked, his tone amiable.

  "We made out okay, sir.” Carter shrugged as he spoke, which spoke volumes. Nothing to worry about, piece of cake. “Took a bit of damage."

  Dickinson examined Carter for the little tell tale signs he had seen before but was pleased to see they had vanished like smoke in the wind. All it had taken was one good op for him to settle down and relax and get back in the groove again.

  "How about the rest of the boys?" Carter asked.

  "Everyone made it back. One wounded and Granville made it in with one engine out. Apart from that, a pretty good show all round."

  Chairs scraped as a crew finished debriefing and Carters crew sat down. The WAAF officer looked to each of them, waiting for an indication of who was the captain. Forrester pulled out a chair for him and Carter joined them.

  "Sorry I'm late," he muttered. She caught a glimpse of pilots wings on his battledress where his leather jacket was open and asked him what aircraft they were. "P-Popsie," he told her. She wrote that at the top and waited for him to continue, pen poised.

  5 - Gardening, A Very British Past Time

  Over the next few days, Carter got to know some of the other members of the squadron and there were a few individuals who stood out from the crowd. By general agreement, his room mate, was a decent sort. He was a bluff little Liverpudlian pilot called William Walsh, ‘Billy’ for short, “it matches my height,” he’d said in his thick Scouse accent. He smoked like a chimney, drank his pints quickly and was a constant ball of energy.

  There was ‘Fish’ Salmon, a rail thin Scot. He was reputed to have been an Olympic swimmer before the war and he certainly fit the part. Long of limb and large of foot, he was someone who had obviously shot up in his youth and just kept on going. He had a narrow face, thin aquiline nose and sad watery eyes.

  Another stand out was Archer, a tall blonde rower from Cambridge who had acquired a press on reputation. He had a dazzling smile that Carter was sure worked wonders on the ladies. On the ground he played as hard as he flew. When he wasn’t drinking his way through the bar supplies, he could be found roaring round the countryside in a natty little lemon yellow sports car. Inherited from a former member of the squadron, an engine fitter had tweaked the engine to like aviation fuel without blowing the spark plugs through the bonnet.

  A Flight Lieutenant called Everett rounded out the field. One of the other DFC’s on the squadron, he’d done half a tour on Whitley’s before being posted to 363. He was never seen without a cigarette in his hands and would sit quietly, watching what was going on around him, his eyes constantly moving, ever watchful. The rest of the squadron, Carter would get to know in time, if the fates allowed.

  The remainder of October was a frustrating month. In the week following the raid on Kiel the squadron was alerted twice and scrubbed twice. The first time due to weather conditions over the target, the second because of weather conditions at home. It had been slightly misty at take off time, but the forecast for their return had been thick fog. The AOC was willing to accept some casualties on a raid but even he wasn’t mad enough to risk his force being unable to get home afterwards.

  It wasn’t all bad news. The ground crew had time to patch Popsie up and five days after they got back from Kiel, Carter took her up for an air test. Where the gash had been, they had reskinned the fuselage with a new panel. The other holes had been patched with small flush riveted plates. Everything had been given a fresh coat of paint and the ID letters had been refreshed as well.

  Even though there was little operational flying, there were still casualties of one sort or another. One of the crews got a scare on an air test when their starboard engine packed up and then promptly caught fire. They managed to get down at Coningsby, but it was a nasty reminder that the Manchester was not as docile as she sometimes made out to be.

  Another crew was lost on a navigational exercise. Getting lost in heavy cloud, they let down expecting to find themselves over the Irish sea and instead discovered they were in the Lake District. The Manchester ploughed into the side of a steep hill and the flaming wreckage spilled down the side of the rock face.

  When they weren’t flying, the men spent their time as aircrew always did, in the pub or the Mess. On full stand downs they ventured as far as Lincoln congregating in the pubs, living life fast and hard.

  Every day, Forrester, Tinsley and the rest of the crew asked the MO how their proper pilot was doing. Despite Carters best efforts, he knew he was still the interloper and he couldn’t really blame them. They had come through OTU with Lambert, it was only natural their loyalties would lie with him. The MO assured them Lambert was doing well. He was still as spotty as a plum duff, but he was no longer the angry red he’d been a few days before and he was keen to get back out there. That cheered them up no end.

  Carters room mate returned from leave and Walsh introduced him to his second dicky over breakfast in the Mess. Softly spoken, Eddie Nicol was a quiet, reserved lad from Bristol, a perfect foil to Walsh’s bubbling enthusiasm. Carter liked him very much and it was good to make some new connections in the squadron.

  Despite the best efforts of the ground crew, 363’s serviceability continued to be a problem. Since July, aircraft availability had been shocking, averaging only eight or nine out of a squadron strength of eighteen. Some of it was down to the usual niggles of getting to used to a new type of aircraft, but the engines continued to be the main source of woe.

  363 had inherited their Manchester's from 207 and 61 squadrons as they in turn received new aircraft. There was nothing particularly wrong with the planes they received but like the Manchester's Carter had seen at Lossie, some of them were just a little tired.

  One day, they gathered in the hangar to look at a new one which had been delivered fresh from the factory, its fuselage bare of squadron ID letters. There was spirited debate over who would be assigned the aircraft. The sure bet was one of the Flight Commanders, but here people did Dickinson and Church a disservice. They had their plane, they were used to its foibles and quirks and trading it in for an unknown held little appeal.

  Two days after the new kite was delivered, six aircraft were tasked to lay mines off the Baltic coast. Enemy shipping went up and down the coast of occupied Europe delivering cargo. By day, Bristol Blenheim's from 2 Group went out to attack this shipping. Nightly, the Royal Navy ventured across the water to play merry hell with the coastal traffic in MTB’s and other small craft. Dropping mines, or Gardening as it was called, was the other half of the RAF’s contribution to this effort.

  When Carter’s crew found out where they were going, they weren’t that bothered. A short hop over the water to drop a bunch of mines sounded easy; easier than threading their way through the flak and fighters over Germany at any rate. Carter knew otherwise, they’d learn soon enough.

  Dropping mines was a precise exacting job. You had to fly low and slow in a straight line which made you a ripe little target for the enemy. While there was less chance of running into a night fighter off the coast, the Germans had gotten very good at siting flak ships along the sea lanes, ready to catch the unwary napping. Your navigator needed to get things right as well. After a long run over water in the dark with unpredictable winds, it was all too easy to drift off track. Precious time could be spent circling to try and pick up a fix before dropping your mines in the right place.

  A Manchester could car
ry four mines and Carter glared at the malevolent lumps as he watched them being winched up into the cavernous bomb bay. Each mine was nearly ten feet long and weighed 1500lbs. A parachute pack at the rear would deploy when it was dropped and would detach itself once the mine hit the water.

  From the beginning, Carter knew it was going to be one of those nights. If Popsie had been a dog on the last op, she was no better this time. Even with the throttles to the stops, they had been lucky to clear the trees at the end of the runway and she made them work for every foot of height on the outward leg. During the climb, it was a constant debate between Carter and Forrester over the engine temperatures. Forrester tapped gauges, they juggled the throttles, anything and everything to coax the bomber to perform.

  For a while, the port engine ran very rough indeed. Carter could feel the vibration through the yoke and near the main spar, Tinsley felt his teeth rattling. Then, as mysteriously as it had started, the engine settled down and was smooth as silk. Forester began to relax and that was when Popsie reminded them to never take her for granted.

  A gout of sparks shot back from the port engine and it started to surge, giving varying amounts of power. For a brief instant, Jones and Smith thought they were being shot at and they looked frantically round the sky for an attacking fighter. Another spray of sparks issued from the engine and lit up the night sky.

  Carter debated calling it a day. If the engine gave up on them off the European coast then that was them headed for the bag, no two ways about it. He glanced at the altimeter. They had clawed up to eight thousand feet so he levelled off and closed the throttles slightly to give the engines a chance to settle down. Forrester stared at him and Carter shrugged in response, there wasn’t much else they could do.