Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  When he got back to Amber Hill he was informed in fairly bald terms that his crew had got the chop while he’d been away. They’d gone out on a trip to Cologne and failed to return. Posted as missing, Todd knew that was just a euphemism for the bits that were left being too small to identify.

  Their walk had taken them to the hangar where Popsie was being worked on. Popsie had been wheeled into the hangar and the mechanics had already pulled off the wrecked port engine.

  During the walk, Carter had asked Todd about his kill and the Australian had been honest enough to admit it was ninety percent luck. He had been flying along, skipping over the tops of the clouds when a 110 had suddenly appeared right behind him. It was over in a matter of seconds. No more than fifty yards away, his four .303’s had skewered the sleek nightfighter from nose to tail before it disappeared back into the clouds, streaming a banner of flame.

  Carter found this admission to be a good measure of the man. It would have been easy to shoot a line about it. He made his decision. He offered Todd his hand and the Australian took it.

  “First come, first served, Todd, welcome aboard.”

  “We’ll need some good lads to make up the rest of the crew, sir.” Todd said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Carter replied.

  Over the next two days, Carter accumulated the rest of his crew and a mixed bag it proved to be. None of them had done more than one or two trips, but personal recommendations and direct approaches mollified any concerns Carter may have had. His new navigator had collared him over breakfast in the officers Mess.

  A large figure loomed over him, in actual fact, blocking the light. Carter glanced up to see a mountain of a man looking down at him with brown eyes. His chest was bulging fit to pop the buttons off his battledress jacket. He had the Canada flash on his shoulders and Pilot Officer rings on his epaulettes. After a short conversation, Paul Woods became his navigator.

  Woods was a double act. He brought with him a wireless operator, a Pilot Officer called Christophe Vos. The pair of them had come from Canada under the Commonwealth Air Training Plan. Belgian, Vos had got out of his homeland in 1940 with the shirt on his back and little else. He had joined the RAF with the fire of revenge burning in his heart.

  His second pilot came via Forrester. A quiet type, White said little, but in the air, he was all business, his tone brisk and his attention focused. He flew with a confident hand, his control inputs were small but well judged, enough to keep a Manchester under firm control. He would do.

  Todd provided their mid upper gunner. Where Todd was dark and compact, Murphy was blonde and tall. Todd came from the outskirts of Melbourne, Murphy from Barnsley; a scruffy mining town just outside of Sheffield. The two of them had met on their gunnery course and hit it off right away.

  Off duty, they were a double act. Going regularly into Lincoln, they had made the Blue Anchor their pub of choice and did their best to cut a swathe through the female inhabitants of the city, using the glamour of the uniform and their limited charm to great affect.

  Walsh loaned Carter his Manchester and they went up as a crew for the first time on the Tuesday afternoon. Woods proved to be a good navigator, confidently taking them north east to the coast before looping back to the bombing range at Wainfleet. They dropped a bunch of practice bombs from different heights and Carter spelled out what he expected from his crew. Wireless Op’s would keep watch for fighters out of the astrodome. Gunners would call out pinpoints to help the navigator. He would do regular checks on the intercom and he expected prompt responses. He wasn’t bothered if they said Captain, skip or, sir as long as it was on the button. The one thing he would not tolerate was idle gossip. Too much chatter meant people were distracted from their jobs.

  The other golden rule he wanted to impress upon them was that no one took a break until they were back on the ground. He’d never done it on his first tour, he was not about to start now.

  When they got back he gathered them together and gave them the out. If anyone felt they would not be a good fit, now was the time to say so. No one moved. He had his crew. That evening he went to see Dickinson and gave him the good news.

  The following day Dickinson assigned them a Manchester and they went over to the hangar to see it. It was a brand new one which had been flown in the day before. The code letters ‘L’ had been painted on either side of the roundels. They spent a good hour crawling over her, trying out their respective stations. Carter fiddled around until he had the pilots seat adjusted like he wanted.

  This Manchester wasn’t fitted with a mid upper turret so Todd and Murphy argued over who would have to be up front and the other in the tail. They flipped for it, Murphy won so he picked the front turret. Close to six feet, he hated folding himself into the rear turret, finding it too cramped for his legs. At least up front he could let his feet dangle and enjoy some comfort on these long trips. After lunch they went up on another air test, starting to click as a team.

  It was starting to snow when they got back to Amber Hill. The weather had changed quickly and Carter had to descend to eight hundred feet to keep the ground in sight. The clouds had thickened and a chill wind started to blow from the east. It bit into them when they got back on the ground.

  “Gods,” said Vos through clenched teeth. “Let’s get inside quick before we freeze up.” He fastened up his jacket and huddled into the furry collar. On the ride back to the crew room in the three tonner they decided to head into Lincoln for a drink to celebrate. They rounded up Walsh and his crew along the way. As Walsh said, “We can’t let you boys celebrate all alone now, can we?”

  They caught a Bedford for the seven mile run into Lincoln. The motor pool had a few trucks running most evenings between the station and town. Alternatively, a one mile trudge got you to the nearest bus route which was a little unreliable. If worst came to the worst, a fellow could walk or cycle there and back but that was a last resort as the winter weather continued to be deeply unpleasant.

  They wrapped up with scarves and gloves against the cold. Vos went one further and wore his flying jacket on top of his battledress for which he was ribbed mercilessly on the ride in. Carter reflected it wasn’t as severe as being on the coast of north eastern Scotland, feeling the wind coming in off the North Sea.

  The truck dropped them at the bottom end of the high street. After six months away in the north of Scotland, Carter found himself back in familiar territory. Things in town hadn’t changed very much. With so many airfields around the city, Lincoln was awash with uniforms. Men wandered from pub to pub, living life like blazing comets because tomorrow, they may not be around to enjoy it.

  For all the bonhomie between crews, there were still distinct class divisions of where they socialised. The officers main watering hole was the Saracen’s Head. In the centre of town it was at the top of the High Street, right across from the Guildhall. Until the railways had arrived it had been a main stop for coaches running north and south, east to west. The original pub dated back to the middle ages but in the 1800’s it had been rebuilt and had a splendid Victorian facade. The front of the pub was deceptive. Most of the building was hidden behind shops either side of it and there was another entrance on Salter gate, handy if the MP’s ever showed up and you needed to make a quick exit.

  The NCO’s hung out at the The Crown and never the twain would meet. On those occasions when an officer wanted to hang out with the rest of his crew, both sides would meet on neutral ground at pubs like the Linden or the Blue Anchor or anywhere else that took their fancy. Carter had gone for many pints with his old crew at the Blue Anchor but this night, they stopped at a modest little pub called The Tarleton on Portland Street.

  The sign had a painting of a light cavalryman from the Napoleonic period. He was riding a white horse with a red shabraque. The artist had made him very dashing in his blue uniform with a pelisse slung over his left shoulder and black Tarleton hat on his head with a white plume. Murphy peered in the tap
room window though a gap in the blackout curtain and announced that it would do and they piled in.

  A few figures in RAF blue propped up the bar, two army officers occupied a small table off to the right near a blazing fire. The new arrivals commandeered two tables and shouted for beer. The barmaid acknowledged their presence and started putting pint glasses on the bar.

  As the new boy, Carter got the beers in and splashed the cash a little. Nicol and Walsh attacked theirs. Murphy and White sipped pints of mild. Vos nursed a ginger beer which drew odd looks but no comment. Walsh waited until everyone had a drink and then tapped his pint glass with a key. He waited until there was hush and all eyes turned in his direction.

  “I suppose it falls to me to welcome into the fold the squadrons latest crew. Now I’ve watched Carter here for a while, and I must admit, I saw greatness there, a leader.” Fists thumped the tables in good humour. Walsh swept his hand from left to right encompassing Carters men. “And let’s face it, with a bunch like this, he’s going to need every bit of inspiration he can muster to keep them going.” There was a howl of protest and then laughter. He raised his pint glass. “I give you, the crew of L for London.” They raised their glasses and said, ‘Cheers’.

  “Nice speech,” said Carter. He finished off his pint and was about to rise to get another one when Walsh put his hand across Carter’s chest.

  “I’ll get this,” said his room mate. He sauntered off to the bar and gave the bar maid his best smile. “Two Burton’s please my darling.”

  “Darling my eye,” she said, distinctly unimpressed by Walsh's approach. She shook her head to herself as she pulled a pint for someone else. “You’ll have to wait a minute,” she told him as she sashayed back down the bar to an army officer. Walsh admired the line of her calves as she exchanged pleasantries with the Captain. A large figure lurched across his view and leaned on the handles of the beer pumps.

  “And what can I get for you, sir?” he asked, his voice tinged with just enough menace for daring to leer at the legs of his staff.

  “Two Burton’s please,” said Walsh, suitably repentant in look. The landlord grunted and picked up two glasses from the shelf above the bar. Walsh took the glasses back to their table. “My oath, there’s a corker serving behind the bar,” he announced as he sat down.

  “Why do you think I wanted to come in here?” Todd said sagely as he sipped on his pint. Nicol thought Todd was joking but the Australian was deadly serious. Ever the keen eye for the ladies, he had spotted her through the window when they were deciding where to go. Tall, lithe, with flame red hair, pale skin and bumps in all the right places she had immediately caught his attention.

  The crews started talking shop so Woods ambled over to the bar and struck up conversation with the barmaid. She patted her hair and stared up at him, charmed by his easygoing manner. He bashfully answered her questions about his home while she held his big paw. Todd glanced over and was annoyed someone had beaten him to it. He was convinced it was Woods soft Canadian accent that did it.

  White challenged Carter to a game of darts. Carter couldn’t throw a dart for toffee, but then that was not the point of the exercise.

  “Best of three?” he asked his second pilot.

  They were there an hour when a noisy crowd of RAF blue streamed in. At their head was Archer, who was leading his crew on a crawl around Lincoln. This was not their first stop and most of them were three sheets to the wind. A Pilot Officer with big broad shoulders and beefy hands, Archer thumped the bar top for attention.

  Carter saw Walsh’s face twist into a scowl when they came in and he arched an eyebrow in question. Walsh jerked his chin towards their table and Carter drifted away from keeping score on White and Murphy's game of darts.

  “What’s the story?” he asked as he sat next to Walsh.

  The Liverpudlian glared at the tall figure in the midst of the new arrivals.

  “Glory boy and I don’t get on,” he muttered in a low voice.

  “Glory boy?” Carter looked at him with renewed interest. For all his outward brashness, Walsh was quite level headed when it came to ops. To hear him comment so directly on another pilot spoke of some past transgression that offended even Walsh’s standards.

  Walsh fished a pack of cigarettes out of his top pocket and lit one while he thought about how to phrase a response to Carter’s query.

  “You’ll have heard he’s a press on type?” Carter nodded and Walsh continued. “On his second trip, they were hit by flak, two crew killed. God knows how they got home.” He could still picture Archer’s Manchester when they’d got back. The whole rear of the fuselage had been like a colander, the rudders mere skeletons and one elevator ripped off. Archer had earned himself a mention in dispatches for that.

  Walsh picked a flake of tobacco from between his teeth and stared at the table top. His eyes followed a gouge in the wood where somewhere had carved a random pattern with a coin while he marshaled his thoughts.

  “The next time out, he lost the intercom on the outward leg, well before they reached the coast but he carried on anyway. They made it to the target, dropped the bombs and made it back,” Walsh stubbed out the cigarette and moodily grabbed his pint glass, his hand gripping it tight, his knuckles turning white. “Yeah, they made it back, but not before a night fighter had stalked them for a while and killed the rear gunner. The mid upper managed to drive it away before it finished them off.” Walsh glared at Archer. “He just said it was the luck of the game.”

  Carter listened in silence. If something went wrong on an op you were expected to carry on regardless but there were a few accepted reasons to abort. Losing the intercom was one of them. No intercom meant no warning in case of attack. To push on in those kind of circumstances was foolhardy at best, reckless at worst.

  He glanced up from this conspiratorial chat to look again at the man by the bar. He thought long and hard on what Walsh had told him but found it hard to condemn the desire to press on. Clearly Walsh and Archer did not get on, but Carter wasn’t about to judge someone on second hand information. It was easy second guessing decisions when you weren’t there to judge. As far as he was concerned, everyone had a fresh slate until he was shown otherwise, but it certainly seemed like there was some reason for caution.

  Once they were served, Archers crew drifted over to them and space was made for them around the tables. Walsh stayed mum and didn’t involve himself in conversation if he could help it. Up close, Carter was surprised how young Archer appeared. Hazel green eyes stared back at him from a smooth, pale skinned face. He considered his own scarred appearance in comparison and felt like an old man.

  “Must be nice to have your own crew finally,” Archer said in an Essex accent.

  “Yes,” Carter replied, his tone neutral. “It’s not the same when you borrow someone else’s.”

  “I can imagine,” said Archer, his tone dismissive. “Of course, when someone buys it you have to help the new men settle in. That’s why we should drink and make merry while we can.” There was a pause while those words were digested and then it hit Carter, that was as much eulogy as Archer’s previous crew members were going to get.

  For Archer, it never even registered for one second that it could have been him. He firmly believed you made your own luck. Flak was something that happened to other people, the same thing went for nightfighters too. If his crew had been more alert, they wouldn’t have got the chop. Carter looked at him askance, wondering how much of this persona was for show.

  7 - It’s Always The Little Things

  L-London was on the final leg back to Amber Hill. Aside from a few holes in the starboard wing, their brand new Manchester had performed well. Even the engines had behaved although Carter was never going to trust them like he did with his old Hampden.

  The squadron had been sent to Cologne. In the heart of the Ruhr, it was a vital industrial centre and was a veteran from Bomber Commands frequent visits. The inhabitants went to their shelters in good order, the
defences of heavy guns and searchlight batteries were well organised.

  When the tannoy had called the crews to briefing late in the afternoon, Carter already knew they would be flying. Despite the general servicing problems, with a brand spanking new plane, there was no way they weren’t going to be on the list. Most of Bomber Command was going to Berlin tonight, but 5 Group were going to bomb Cologne instead. Air Vice Marshal Slessor had seen the weather reports and objected to the plan. The AOC didn’t press the issue and allowed 5 Group to withdraw to do their own thing.

  Church was upbeat about it at briefing. With over two hundred aircraft going to the big city, all eyes would be on them. That should leave the way relatively clear for 5 Group and 363 to nip over, bomb Cologne and get home again without attracting too much attention.

  Carter tried to quell his nerves as he wiled away the hours until take off. He went back to his room and found Walsh asleep when he came in. The man had the uncanny knack of being able to sleep on demand. The fact he was also flying didn’t seem to worry him in the slightest. Carter caught up on his correspondence. His sister had sent him two letters since he’d come to Amber Hill and he knew he should have responded before, but now he had something to tell her.

  The rest of his crew dealt with their nerves in their own way. Woods dug out his charts and went over a few things, trying to anticipate any problems he might encounter. He sorted out his navigators bag, sharpening pencils, checking his log and making sure his stop watch was working. He found solace in routine.

  Vos borrowed a bicycle and went for a ride around the airfield. He was restless, waiting for the off. He got up some speed, panting as his legs pumped. The spokes rattled, the frame creaked as it swayed from side to side. He went faster, trying to outrun the ghosts that lingered.