Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  “Did you get your licence?”

  “Nearly. I needed a few more hours. I did solo though.”

  That broke the ice and they slotted back into the more easy manner they had shared when they were younger. He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs, watching the flames as they danced in the grate. She poured him some more tea and joined him on the sofa rather than staying on the armchair. They talked about flying for a while. She frowned when he told her he was a second pilot.

  “When do you get your own plane then?” she asked.

  “Five, six trips or so? There’s not really a hard and fast rule about it. The idea is I fly a few trips to get some experience and then get moved up to a kite of my own.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about the prospect,” she asked. He paused as he drank his tea, the cup halfway to his mouth.

  “It’s not quite so simple, Elaine. I wish it was.” He drank his tea while he marshaled his thoughts. “I do want my own kite, but we’re a good crew, we work well together. Then just as we get used to each other,” he clicked his fingers, “I’ll be off.”

  “But you’d be getting a crew of your own,” she objected. “Surely that’s a good thing.?” White scratched his cheek.

  “I know, but the skippers a great pilot.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she told him with genuine confidence.

  Time time slipped away from them after that and White realised he would have to say his goodbyes if he was ever going to make his train on time. He had to get home, pick up his gear and then head off to the station. He could change once he was on the train. She walked him to the door.

  “You’ll tell me how you get on, won’t you?” she asked him.

  “If you want,” he said, a little surprised. She nodded.

  “I’d like that.” He held her hand as they kissed lightly on the cheek. She lingered, resting her forehead against his cheek and he held her, one hand resting on her hip.

  “Please be careful,” she said. He promised her he would and she watched him all the way down the drive until he was out of sight, leaving her alone on the doorstep.

  15 - Back In The Saddle

  White was late but that was entirely down to the trains. He’d made his connection and then sat in the station for an hour due to a signaling fault. Todd and Murphy had timed their arrival to perfection, making it back to Amber Hill for dinner at the Sergeants Mess. 'A' Flight went off on leave and returned without incident in their turn a few days later.

  Carter took his crew to the local pub their first night back to get everyone together. The mood was buoyant but they didn’t push the boat out. Everyone was pretty much skint until payday and they pooled their pennies to pay for drinks.

  Todd told a tale involving twins but he missed Murphy slightly shaking his head next to him. They laughed and ragged on him for shooting a line, but it was still a good story. White talked about Saffron Walden but said nothing about Elaine.

  Woods and Carter told them about London, regaling them with descriptions of the show at the Palladium, the dancing girls and Mercy Daniels. Everyone loved the retelling of Dusty Miller’s jokes, but it was nothing like hearing it from the man himself. Neither of them mentioned Vos’ adventures until the Belgian slid out to go to Lincoln and see Denise. Todd was suitably impressed that Vos was able to get himself a girl so quickly.

  “That’s fast work, even for me,” he said as he asked Woods what she looked like and where he might get one of his own.

  Vos found Denise sat up in bed, reading a book. She had turned in early. She had a hot water bottle warming her feet and a flask of tea on the night stand. The landlady had a daughter in the WRENS not much older than Denise and she was making a fuss of her. He stayed longer than he should have and got back to Amber Hill late that night.

  Still banned from operations, the squadron continued to twiddle their thumbs and did nothing more dangerous than air tests of their overhauled Manchester’s. In the meantime, the rest of 5 Group went on three ops, one of which was a milk run to the French coastal port of Lorient. There was some resentment at that. Easy ops were a godsend, a chance to get one more job scratched off the tally with little risk. The other two jobs were raids on Dusseldorf and Hamburg. By no means the easiest of raids, they were seen as missed opportunities.

  In the end, it was nearly three weeks before 363 were declared operational once more. After the experts at Avro and Rolls Royce had pored over the aircraft and checked paperwork, it was decided a combination of factors were to blame for the recent problems.

  As the squadrons Manchester’s were in the main, hand me downs from other units, 363 had an unfortunate mix of aircraft which had different mods applied in line with the directions from Avro and Rolls Royce. The catalogue of errors was long. Some aircraft didn’t have the increased oil capacity for the engines. Some lacked the modified pumps and filter systems that had largely cured the oil starvation problems. Some still had the intake lips on the wings which had been found to interfere with climb performance above ten thousand feet. Those should have been removed months previously.

  Inspection of the engines themselves revealed other problems. Some Vultures had the latest mod44 update and some didn’t. There was even the bizarre example of two aircraft having one engine that did, and one that didn’t have the mod44 applied. Consulting the aircrafts form 700’s showed that both of them had been returned to the depot with one faulty engine. That engine had been overhauled, but no one had ever bothered to check the other healthy engine at the time; an oversight that could have had serious consequences.

  To cap things off, a few of the older aircraft, Walsh’s included, still had the flawed Ermeto hydraulic coupling system fitted. Ermeto fittings didn’t require wire locking which had sped up production, but under operational conditions, the vibrations in the fuselage led to the joints fracturing as had happened to Walsh. These aircraft were sent back to the depot to have their hydraulic system ripped out. New aircraft replaced them.

  With this collection of niggles ironed out, the squadrons aircraft had finally been brought up to standard. There was still no cast iron guarantee that things wouldn’t happen, but a lot of important issues were finally put to bed. Group received the report and 363 were declared operational again without much fanfare.

  The men had been very subdued at briefing, with everyone pondering how reliable the Manchester’s would be in their first real test since being grounded. After three weeks off it was a little odd to be flying at night. They took off early, taking advantage of the long winter nights as they slid into the dark.

  Over the North Sea, L-London was labouring to get above ten thousand feet and was making a meal of it. Instruments were tapped, boost readings checked, throttles were juggled but it made little difference.

  Carter tried an old trick. He would dive a few hundred feet and then pull up, converting the speed into a climb, bouncing her higher each time, eking out a bit more altitude at the top of each bounce. That got them up to eleven thousand feet and then she obstinately refused to go any higher and was almost hanging off the props.

  Carter gave the engines a rest and then tried bouncing her again to no avail. They might have been burning fuel and getting lighter with every minute that passed but the gods weren’t with them tonight.

  He knew why. Bad weather had doggged them since take off. Thick cold clouds had wrapped around them and made it heavy going from the get go. Looking left and right he could see the sheen of ice glistening on the wings. There was a constant racket as slithers of ice flicked off the ends of the propellers and struck the canopy. Carter fought the controls. They felt mushy as more ice built up and it was proving difficult to keep her going, she was wallowing all over the sky.

  The forecast had been for a cold front across the water and strong headwinds all the way there and for once it was accurate. They had hundreds of miles to go to get to Aachen. They just had to get above the clouds before the ice robbed them of too much lift. If they lost
height, they would never get it back and they needed all the altitude they could get if they were going to stand any chance over the flak belts.

  “How long to the coast, Woody?” asked Carter.

  “Ten minutes give or take.”

  Carter drummed his fingers on the yoke. He really hated doing this but he saw no other way to get some height.

  “Woody, get up front and drop one. We’ve got to give this bitch a kick in the pants.”

  White got out of the way as Woods barrelled through to the nose. He made sure the bombs were fused then opened the bomb doors. Carter felt the tug on the controls as the doors went down and disrupted the airflow. He used the trim wheel to give him a little more elevator authority. The Manchester gave a little leap as Woods dropped one of the 1,000 lb bombs. Woods closed the bomb doors and then resumed his seat.

  Carter eased back slightly on the yoke and L-London responded. Lightened of some weight, she began to climb and Carter squeezed an extra two thousand feet out of her before she started to struggle again. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get above the clag into the clear air.

  They turned south as they crossed the coast. It wasn’t full moon but not far off. The worst kind of night for ops. A bright moon made it easier for the nightfighters to range amongst the bomber stream.

  A patchy bank of cloud ahead of them was three or four thousand feet below which was fine by Carter. That would hide them from the ground but it would make things harder for Woods. Carter looked up, the sky was crystal clear and the stars twinkled brightly.

  “Bomber going down to starboard, no flak.” reported Todd, his voice high and scratchy over the R/T.

  “Keep your eyes open everyone,” Carter cautioned.

  Todd saw a shower of sparks intermittently behind. Only one aircraft chucked out sparks light that, the Manchester, but he kept coming back to that shadow, watching it. If it got closer for no good reason, he would take no chances.

  He thought back to his one and only kill. It had been a sitter handed to him on a plate. The next one would not be so easy. The only warning he might have might be bright balls of tracer exploding from the black.

  Murphy shifted in his seat while he froze and carried on quartering the sky, slowly traversing his turret from right to left. Minutes began to drag as his senses went into overdrive. Eyes strained in the dark, looking to pick up the slightest sign there was another aircraft out there.

  “Searchlights on the horizon. Forty, fifty miles ahead?” Murphy reported.

  Woods checked his chart, plotting the estimated course. They had belts of flak coming up as they pressed on south. They had to thread a delicate course to avoid Essen and Dusseldorf. “Over the Meuse and on to Aachen,” he murmured, tapping his pencil along the track.

  He did some calculations and got a different answer for the third time. Rubbing his eyes he picked up the chart and squeezed past White to go down to the nose. He patted Murphy’s backside to let him know he was there. The tall man moved his feet to the side to try and keep them out of the way.

  The fluffy bank of cloud Carter had seen earlier had been torn into pieces by the winds. Woods got glimpses of the ground amongst fluffy puff balls. Water twinkled under the moonlight and he could pick out rivers and canals quite easily in the dark.

  They had turned south at the Wadden Islands off the Dutch coast. After skirting Deventer he had laid off a course, allowing for the westerly wind. The land should have been wooded around the river but through the blister he could see clear countryside with only a few patches of trees. Something wasn’t right. He asked Todd what he could see out of the tail turret.

  “There’s a bunch of small lakes behind us, north of the river,” said Todd.

  “Can’t be,” responded Woods automatically.

  “I’m looking right at it,” said Todd, slightly offended at being doubted. Woods looked at his map again, peering as he followed the charted course with his gloved finger. There should only have been one lake next to the river on the south side, a bit of a horseshoe shape. He started looking further afield until he found something that looked about right but it was well to the east.

  “Jesus, that puts us about forty miles off track,” he said in exasperation, disgusted that he could be so wrong. “You’re sure?” he asked Todd in some concern as the worm of doubt burrowed away.

  “Look, if you don’t believe me, come back and look for yourself. Small lakes, behind us, north of the river. I can see about ten of them, the surface of the water is glittering under the moonlight.”

  Woods came back up to the cockpit. White vacated his seat to let him through and then sat back down as Woods showed them the map.

  “The predicted winds are all wrong,” he said. “The forecast was for westerly winds so we’ve had to head a little more east to counteract for drift. Only its bloody veered one hundred eighty degrees and its blowing east.”

  “So the correction has just compounded the error and pushed us off course,” said Carter, following the explanation.

  “If Todd’s right,” Woods began. “That puts us here,” he said, tapping the map, “somewhere over the Rhine maybe.”

  They looked ahead over the nose. The searchlights on the horizon were going left and right. The clouds were lit orange from flames and there were sparks of light as bursts of flak exploded in the sky.

  “Everyone’s bombing over Essen and Duisberg.”

  “Christ, no wonder the flaks going mental.”

  Instead of a relatively soft target like Aachen, the main force was right over one of the hot spots they were supposed to avoid. The thick cloud had stopped them getting some good pinpoints on the southern track, so when the wind veered, they’d missed it. The Muese and the Rhine both wound in a leisurely south eastern course, it was an easy mistake to make, but Woods was still annoyed.

  “Gimme a course, Woody.”

  “Steer two three five to get us clear of the city.”

  Carter turned onto the new course, a simple flat turn that kept them at the same height. He was well aware they could easily collide with someone by changing course so drastically.

  “Eyes open lads, we’re going to be on our own from the looks of it. Todd, we’re cutting across the main route. Keep an eye out for anyone coming up from behind.”

  “No problem, skipper.”

  “Vos, get up in the astrodome. I want an extra pair of eyes looking around out there.”

  The Belgian left his set and went up to the astrodome at the rear of the canopy. He peered into the darkness, watching every shadow and seeing a fighter hiding behind them.

  Todd rubbed his eyes and renewed his vigil, moving his turret from side to side. A shower of sparks went past his turret and Todd muttered to himself. When you were trying to disappear into the dark that was the last thing you needed.

  “You know, this might work,” said White. “If everyone’s going to the wrong place, we’ll have a clear run in.” Carter shook his head at White’s wishful thinking. Every flak gun they had would be aimed at them.

  “Did I say it’s my birthday?” said Murphy. “Well in a few hours anyway.”

  “I wasn’t counting on that kind of surprise,” said White.

  “Are we having a blowout when we get back?”

  “If, we get back,” Carter responded sharply. “Settle down, we’ve got a long way to go yet.”

  Todd saw something below them, scudding over the tops of the clouds. At this range it was just a dark shape and too far for him to identify.

  Their Manchester staggered as flak exploded close aboard. Accurate with the first burst, the aircraft bodily lifted from the force of the explosion and then plummeted two hundred feet, as if being shaken up and down by a giant hand.

  Carter kept the yoke shoved forward, picking up some speed. The next burst went off above them which made him suspicious. For predicted flak to be so accurate, so quickly, firing blind through the clouds was not luck. The Germans must have someone in the bomber stream reporting
back heights to night fighter command. The guns carried on firing for a few more minutes but got no closer than that first burst.

  “That was exciting,” commented Murphy. Bits of shrapnel had pinged off his turret like heavy rain on a flat roof.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Carter, suppressing memories of the flak over Berlin.

  Todd traversed his turret slightly to his left. Their shadow was back, threading through the clouds as they did, weaving around the bigger wisps but always drawing nearer. As they got closer, details started to resolve themselves. Whatever it was had two engines and a single tail. That ruled out Hampden’s or Me110’s but not much else. It could just have easily been a Wellington or a Ju88. The aircraft suddenly banked hard to port and that convinced Todd. No Wellington would move like that.

  “FIGHTER! Corkscrew Starboard! GO!”

  Carter didn’t hesitate, he shoved the yoke forward hard and turned it right. At the same time he stamped on the right rudder pedal. Laden with bombs, the Manchester dropped like a rock while anything not tied down rolled around.

  Vos was knocked off his feet. Momentarily weightless, he bounced off the ceiling before hitting the floor hard when Carter reversed his move. White helped Carter haul the yoke back, holding it against their stomachs and reversing the roll. L-London burst out of the clouds, nose high, left wing dropping.

  Todd got off a burst as he saw the nighfighter cross to port. His tracers went wide, falling behind the fast moving fighter. L-London dived again and then Carter corrected the roll, leveling off inside the gloom of the clouds.

  “Report,” Carter got out between gritted teeth as he took stock.

  “Lost him in the dark, skip,” reported Todd. “He buggered off to port.”