Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “You might find the pace of things slowing down,” Etheridge cautioned, his voice noncommittal. Asher’s brow pinched in interest. The old man was not normally so circumspect. Everybody knew that operations were always curtailed over the winter months due to the bad weather but they would persevere as they always did.

  “There’s been a change of direction,” Etheridge told him, unburdening himself finally. Asher blinked rapidly, waiting for the punch line. “Air Ministry take the view that we need to conserve our forces for the good weather in the spring.”

  So that was what had happened at Group, Asher told himself. He had seen Etheridge going out the door like a scalded cat at the time, but there had been no sign that anything was particularly wrong when he returned. Asher thought about the raids of recent weeks.

  Casualties had made things difficult to be sure. While 363’s chop rate was no worse than anyone else's, everyone knew the Berlin job had been a balls up from start to finish. It had been a stroke of good fortune that 5 Group had gone to Cologne and avoided the bad weather. Asher thought it would have been cheaper if Bomber Command had just taken a few hundred of their men round the back of a shed and shot them.

  Etheridge drummed his fingers on the desk top.

  “The Butt report’s stirred things up a bit,” he said in clipped tones.

  Asher nodded, keeping his face neutral. He’d not read it himself but he had heard the highlights from a friend at Group. Frankly he thought it was a load of old cods, but he was also aware of the stink it had caused in the higher echelons.

  “It’s felt in some circles that if it was to ever see the light of day in the press there would be hell to pay.”

  “If, this boffins right,” Asher commented pointedly.

  “I know, Peter,” Etheridge soothed, “I know. But when have the members of the press ever let facts get in the way of a good story? Personally I don’t think these academic types can tell their arse from their elbow. They’ve never been on a raid, what on earth do they know about what’s going on?” He shrugged, “But there it is. For the time being, Bomber Command will be limiting its offensive operations until we get better weather in the Spring. Once we’re declared operational again, we have a real chance to use the lull to build the squadron back up, increase the tempo of training so we can be ready for whatever lies ahead.”

  11 - The Big City

  Saunderson had a heart attack when Asher casually shoved his head around the door of his office and announced the whole squadron would be going on leave. As it was unknown exactly how long it would be before the squadron would be declared operational, Asher hedged his bets and sent them off in two batches. Robinson beat Church two out of three at paper, scissors, stone so 'B' Flight got to go first.

  Those with further to go got seven days leave regardless of whether they were married or not. That may have sounded generous but Saunderson and the CO both knew that with intermittent trains and missed connections, a chap might spend half of their leave going back and forth in rickety carriages. Regardless, leave was leave and transport was laid on to get them to Lincoln train station.

  Carter packed light. He had one medium sized suitcase and his gas mask bag. He wore his greatcoat, it saved him from having to carry it. Besides, it was a dull day and a train platform could be icy cold. He gathered his crew under the Ionic portico of the St Marks station before they went their separate ways.

  “Two of us are on for Sheffield, skipper,” said Murphy.

  “Watch out for the Police,” Carter warned. “I don’t want to get a phone call from some magistrate asking me to be a character reference.”

  “We’ll be good,” Todd assured him.

  “See that you do,” Carter told them sternly. He fished in the pockets of his greatcoat for his gloves.

  “No fear,” said White. “Home for me.” He was already thinking of some good home cooking and sitting in the parlour with his feet up, being warmed by the range.

  “What about you two?” Carter asked Vos and Woods. Woods shrugged and spoke for both of them.

  “Not sure.” Strangers in a strange land, they were stuck. Vancouver was thousands of miles away and Vos couldn’t go home even if he wanted to.

  “We could go to London,” Carter suggested.

  “That sounds good,” said Woods. “I haven’t seen much of England since I came over from Canada.”

  “Agreed,” said Vos. The Belgian Government in Exile was in London and he wanted to make some enquiries about his family.

  They got their tickets and waited on the platform. Todd and Murphy got away first on the Sheffield train. Walsh went with them to get the connecting train to Liverpool. Vos, Woods and Carter caught the later Cleethorpes train to King’s Cross.

  They got a compartment to themselves and Woods slept on the way down. Vos taught Carter a card game, Klaberjass. It was a strange game involving a thirty two card deck, tricks or trumps and bidding for points. Carter had trouble following the instructions but it helped pass the time.

  Carter avoided asking about how Vos got out of Belgium and listened to him talk about his family instead. He was quite animated as he talked about his father, a baker. He had no siblings and only a small extended family, all he had was one Uncle, an Aunt and two cousins. All of them lived in a small village just outside of Ghent.

  “Not long now and the canals would freeze over,” he mused, staring out the window of the carriage as the countryside whipped by. He thought about the flat land around the mill, the network of canals at the back of his house. When it was really cold, he would skate up and down on the ice.

  They got in to King’s Cross at seven. There was a sea of uniforms of every colour, milling around in different directions on the platform. Some where running to catch a train, others were heading for the exit. There were few taxi’s so Carter led the way and down from St Pancras they hopped on a bus.

  They got rooms in a small Knightsbridge Hotel, The Avalon. The lobby was like stepping back in time. Wood panelled walls had faded prints in dusty frames and the carpet had a thin threadbare appearance. The concierge gave them two rooms at the back of the hotel on the top floor that were basic but clean.

  Carter had a small window that provided a view of chimney stacks of various architectural styles and a slate covered roof. Barrage balloons in the background completed the look. The wallpaper was peeling on one wall by the wardrobe. Woods and Vos were in the larger room next door with their own bathroom and a bath. They dumped their gear and headed straight out. It was getting towards nine o’clock but they wanted to make the most of their time.

  Over drinks in a pub they thrashed out a general plan for the next few days. Woods wanted to see Big Ben and Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park. Vos wanted to go to the Belgian government building and then a few art galleries. Carter was easy. He knew London quite well so he had no problem being the tour guide.

  They bought a newspaper and looked over the theater and cinema listings for the following night while they sipped their pints. There were quite a few variety shows on and they settled on ones where the primary feature was dancing girls. For the cinema, they picked out a few titles that intrigued them, avoiding the more obvious propaganda films. They had enough war back at Amber Hill, they didn’t need to see it on the silver screen as well.

  They moved on from the first pub, their tunic pockets filled with beer bottles. The streets were dark in the blackout and there was little moon light to show them the way. Walking the streets they popped out at Hyde Park and Carter took them left until they got to the Royal Albert Hall.

  They crossed over to the Albert Memorial. The grass around it had been turned over to cultivation and there were rows of turnips and cabbages along the tree lined avenue. An old man sat in a small wooden hut, guarding the vegetables from being pinched. He gave the three of them a suspicious look as they sat on the steps leading up to the memorial. The Gothic canopy of the memorial covered an altar and a seated statue of the dead Prince.
In the dark, gold highlights glinted, hinting at the intricate decorations.

  They sat and listened to the night time sounds of a city putting itself to bed. Even with petrol rationing, there were still vehicles on the roads. Red buses travelled their routes and a few taxis plied their trade. Behind them were the natural sounds of Hyde Park. The trees rustled, the bare branches swaying while squirrels scampered around in the grass.

  Contrary to their expectations, they were in bed by eleven. Months of being geared for war finally caught up with them and they were asleep as soon as their heads hit their pillows

  They slept late. They were less than impressed when they tumbled downstairs to find the that the dining room was no longer serving breakfast. They migrated down the road to Harvey Nichols and had toast and cups of tea in the restaurant. Carter winced when the bill came. They paid up and left without leaving a tip. Delivering a pot of tea and toast didn’t warrant one.

  They split up but arranged to meet up later at Trafalgar Square. That would give Vos time to do what the wanted and leave room for dinner before the evenings entertainment. Woods and Carter took the short walk back to Hyde Park.

  An army Corporal threw them a salute as he strolled past with his girl hanging off his arm. They passed an old gentleman sat on a bench, reading a book, his flask and sandwiches next to him. Every so often he threw a tidbit which was snatched up by a waiting red squirrel.

  They went round the north side of the Serpentine following the path by the bank. The water was dark and still, thick with cold. Both of them were amazed to see people swimming by the lido on the south bank.

  “Freeze the brass balls off a monkey,” muttered Carter, shuddering at the thought of willingly getting into the water at this time of year.

  They walked through the columned arch at Hyde Park corner and down the tree lined avenue of Constitution Hill towards Buckingham Palace. There was scaffolding up around the north wing where the palace had been damaged by German bombs the year before.

  Woods was disappointed to find the palace was a lot smaller than he’d been expecting. He’d thought it would be this massive sprawling building with liveried footmen wandering around. What he got was guardsmen at the gate in standard army khaki. It was a bit of a let down after seeing all those pictures in school books of men in ceremonial red jackets and big black bearskins.

  They went through St James’s Park over to Big Ben. They waited to hear it chime at two and then sauntered down to Westminster Bridge. There was a man there with a stall selling chestnuts. Carter bought two bags and they watched the river traffic while they ate. Barges went up and down the Thames, shoving loads of coal. On the horizon were the cranes around Docklands in the East End.

  When they got to Trafalgar Square, Carter relaxed on a bench while Woods walked all the way round the towering monument to Nelson. He straddled one of the great bronze lions and looked around. He liked the energy of the place. The square was busy with a constant stream of people hurrying to and fro.

  Pigeons fluttered around him, disturbed by his presence. Wings beating, they looked for somewhere to perch. A big fat one settled on the head of the lion and looked at him disdainfully, head bobbing to observe him from a multitude of angles. He flicked a hand at it and it deigned to hop six inches out of the way.

  He slid off the lion and flopped onto the bench next to Carter who was working his way through the last of the Chestnuts. Crossing his arms, Woods appraised the local female wildlife. His keen eye spotted more than one pretty girl in a dress who was on their way home.

  “What do you think of it so far?” Carter asked his navigator.

  “It’s big,” Woods replied. Carter smiled thinly, the scar on his cheek rippling. “My old man was right, the whole world goes through Trafalgar Square.”

  “How did he know?” asked Carter.

  “He was here in the last show. He didn’t say much about France, but he told me a lot about London.”

  Growing up on a ranch north of Vancouver, Woods was used to wide open spaces. The bustle of London was something new. Even going to Vancouver itself for initial aircrew selection was nothing like this. Watching everyone rushing about, he felt like an ant among many ants.

  His father had gone to France as part of the 2nd Canadian Mounted Rifles in 1915 and been invalided out in 1917 after a whiff of gas. At weekends, his father would go out with a rifle and range across the countryside, enjoying the solitude and the fresh air. When he was old enough, Woods would go with him and this was when his father came alive to him.

  The thrill of the hunt was in both of them and they would lie in wait for hours for a moose or deer. While they waited, his father talked a little about the war, but it was always funny stories about his training, or his time in London on leave; never about the trenches itself or what he had seen or done. Carter was fascinated by Woods descriptions of life on the Canadian frontier. It was a long way from his comfortable existence in Harrogate.

  Both of them had trained in Canada and they swapped stories of their experiences. They were hip deep in conversation when Vos appeared. He looked like he was carrying the weight of ages. His head was down, shoulders slumped, chin tucked into his chest.

  “Pull up a pew,” said Carter, concerned.

  Vos sat on the bench and collapsed like a leaky air bed.

  “I need a drink,” he muttered, his accented English flat and without colour.

  They went in the first pub they found. Carter got the first round in. They drank in silence while they waited for Vos to say something. The Beglian sat bolt upright, his left hand on the top of his leg. A vein throbbed in his forehead and his blue eyes were overly bright.

  After leaving Woods and Carter to explore, he’d gone along to the Belgian Government building on Belgrade Square. He’d spent half the day sat in a corridor waiting to be seen. At one, he had been shown into a small office where a sharply dressed clerk listened to him, making notes in a book.

  Vos wanted to know if he could find out anything about his family. The clerk was noncommittal. News from occupied Belgium was intermittent. They had contacts in the civil administration where discreet enquiries could be made, but messages passed could put people at risk. The clerk took down the details of his family and they parted on a handshake with assurances that any news would be passed along.

  Vos had sat in Green Park for a while after that, oblivious to the pigeons cooing around his feet. He had gone there with the expectation of answers. To be met with vague assurances had been dispiriting.

  Dinner was a quiet affair. They found a quaint restaurant where the food was basic but hearty. Woods cleared his plates in short order. His big frame needed fuel and he had walked a lot that day. He attacked his sponge with gusto and then finished off Vos’ portion after that.

  From there, they debated the evenings entertainment. Vos replied in monosyllables. Woods and Carter argued the merits of a show or the cinema. Neither of them felt like something noisy and loud music would do for another day.

  They got tickets for the front of the upper circle at the cinema. Vos bought a packet of Woodbines in the foyer and lit up as the lights dipped. Pungent smoke wreathed around him, making him a murky shadowy figure in the dark.

  The first feature was a short comedy. Carter had seen it before up in Scotland but it was funny and he found his mood lightening as he laughed along with it. The newsreel covered the recent action from the North Africa campaign. Tobruk was still holding out and a succession of clips showed the Australian garrison hanging on against shelling and air attack. It finished with an upbeat note that the Eighth Army would soon launch a counteroffensive to push Rommel back.

  An usherette appeared during the interval and he bought some salted nuts. Vos declined, seemingly able to exist on Woodbines as he worked his way through the pack. The lights dipped again and the main feature kept them entranced.

  The streets of San Fransisco were a million miles away from war torn England. Carter loved the story of greed and the
obsession of finding a jewel encrusted figurine. He bounced out of the cinema in a good mood; it was exactly what he needed to lift his spirits after the weeks of stress.

  They went to a pub afterwards and dissected the film. Woods and Carter argued over the history, wondering if there ever was such a thing.

  “My word, it would be amazing if there was, wouldn’t it?” Carter asked with some wonder, his imagination filled with the image of a golden bird, just waiting to be found.

  Neither of them noticed that Vos was drinking fast. It was only at closing time that Carter realised just how far gone the Belgian was. When they got up to go, Vos couldn’t stand. Carter and Woods took an arm each and manhandled him out of the door. His head hung down from his shoulders, his toes dragging along the road.

  “Bloody hell, he’s smashed,” commented Carter.

  “Stating the bleeding obvious, skipper. God, he may be skinny but he’s bloody heavy.” Woods staggered as he adjusted his hold. Vos was almost unconscious, all his limbs limp and his whole body weight hanging off their shoulders.

  Halfway back to Knightsbridge, Vos started raving. Words streamed out of him. They had no idea what he was saying but it showed he was starting to sober up slightly. At least, Carter hoped he was.

  They leaned him against a shop front to give their back a rest. Vos was warm, his skin slick with sweat. His eyes were wide, seeing straight through him.

  “Come on, you dozy bugger,” said Carter. He kept Vos vertical, letting the fresh air get to him.

  “Kill them all,” Vos looked almost wild. “The boche, they bomb my home.”

  “Yes, yes, old chap,” Carter soothed. He guessed it was eighteen months of repressed frustration spilling out. All this time, Vos had to control himself, get to England and get through the training to get onto an operational unit. He had wound himself up as tight as a spring and now it was all uncoiling. Maybe that was a blessing, he thought, he had to let it out some time.