Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  Keeping her eye on the two men, she looked at them more closely. One of them was quite short with a tousled appearance, his hair just that bit too long, his shirt collar open and showing a hint of red scarf underneath. The other was taller, slight in build with short dark hair and crystal clear blue eyes. The scar on his cheek moved when he talked, giving his lopsided smile a cruel edge.

  She slid into the press of people next to the two men, close enough to hear them discussing the film Target For Tonight. They were picking it apart, scene by scene with black humour and biting sarcasm.

  The taller one had the DFC on his chest but the ribbon was faded. His eyes told the story though. Eyes like that never belonged to someone on their first tour. He was someone who had been plucked from training and sent back out to do it all again.

  “Does everyone have to be a film critic to be a pilot these days?” she asked them, inserting herself into the conversation. Their eyes swivelled in her direction noticing her for the first time.

  “No, but it helps,” said the shorter of the two, his voice slurring, his Liverpudlian accent a shifting mix of high notes and guttural catches. He looked beyond her. “On your own are you love?”

  She shook her head and pointed towards the dance floor.

  “No, but I might as well be. I’m the spare part. My friend insisted I come to keep her company. She’s with that big blonde chap over there.”

  Walsh and Carter knew who she was talking about right away. Archer stood above the crowd and was holding onto a blonde as he gyrated around. He danced like he flew, bags of energy but not the most elegant display.

  “So what’s a girl to do?” She addressed the question to both of them but she looked at Carter. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and scratched at his left cheek, feeling the line of the scar tissue. He had managed to avoid female attention so far this evening but it appeared his luck had run out.

  She was a pretty girl, She was slim, dark haired and had a lovely smile. Her accent was like silk, all smooth contralto and caramel tones. Her dark hair was swept back to show a long neck and bare shoulders. Her blue dress was cinched in at the waist and the sleeves ended at the elbow.

  He could feel his nerves scraping, kicking and screaming as thoughts of Mary stirred from the depths. He could see the hint, it was there in her eyes, the waiting for him to ask, ‘do you want to dance?’

  Part of him wanted to. She seemed nice but he hesitated and the moment dragged. Seconds piled on top of one another. She shifted impatiently and chewed on her lower lip, feeling foolish for coming over and saying anything at all.

  “Surely you’ve something better to do?” he bit out, his voice flat. Her eyes widened. Walsh coughed into his hand, surprised at Carters bluntness.

  “Maybe,” she shot back, hurt. ”I was only trying to talk to you.”

  “Whatever for?” He gestured left and right, indicating there were plenty of other people around for her to engage with. She didn’t need telling twice, she turned on her heel. Walsh shot Carter a pitying look.

  “Bad form, Alex. Bad form.” He shook his head and dashed after her. Here was a pretty girl wanting to dance, it was just common decency to do so, even if you weren’t interested in anything else. He caught up to her and got her to stop.

  “Apologies for my friend,” he said quickly. “He’s had a bad day. Come for a dance?” He crooked his arm and she took it, letting herself be steered to the dance floor. While Walsh did a competent job of avoiding her feet she calmed herself down.

  “How’s a pretty girl like you get in a place like this?” he asked her.

  “Connections,” she told him. “Actually, I’m a Section Officer. It’s just nice not to wear that uniform for once.” Walsh laughed and span her round in his arms.

  “I’m, Billy.” He held her close, his right arm around her waist as he shimmied through the crush on the dance floor.

  “Georgette,” she replied.

  “How wonderful,” he laughed. “I’ll call you, George then. You look like a, George.” She laughed with him, feeling the tension ebb away.

  Carter watched her spin around, angry with himself. He’d handled that badly but there was little he could do about it now. Every time Walsh and the girl went round the room, she looked at him, her expression unreadable. He couldn’t tell if she was trying to make him jealous or shame him into doing something. He removed himself from the equation and went outside.

  It was cold and his cheeks tingled at the change in temperature. Frost covered the ground. It was dark, a quarter moon hidden by broken cloud. There was a group of aircrew off to the right and he sauntered over, nodding hello as he recognised Fish Salmon amongst them. He tugged out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips as one of them offered him their lighter.

  The smoke warmed him as they huddled like penguins. He shuddered when a light breeze sneaked around the hall and carved through them. He glanced at his watch and had another cigarette as his teeth began to chatter. His fingers were starting to go numb as he worked his way through a third. Once he was happy sufficient time had passed by, he ground the cigarette under his heel and went back inside.

  The hot air hit him like a wall. He paused at the door for a few moments, letting his eyes get used to the gloom and then hunted out Walsh. He saw no sign of a blue dress but then she could so easily be lost in the crowd. He found Walsh chatting freely with his crew who were getting down to some serious drinking with Carters own men. Nicol was missing, still otherwise engaged with his blonde.

  Murphy was glassy eyed and being held up by Todd. His brunette had lost interest after a few dances and moved on. Put out, Murphy had polished off a few pints to console himself. The mistake had been mixing his drinks and having a nip of whisky from a hip flask Todd had sneaked in.

  “Come on, old son,” Todd said, keeping Murphy’s face upright to stop him from dribbling down his uniform. “Will someone help me get him outside?” he asked aloud. White came over to give him a hand and together they manoeuvred the tall man towards the doors. When they got outside they sat him on a wall and let him get some fresh air, which was a mistake as he threw up all down the front of Todd’s uniform jacket.

  Reacting too late to avoid it, Todd jumped back and without his support holding him up, Murphy fell back over the wall onto the grass.

  “You dozy sod,” said White.

  “Look at me!” shouted Todd. “ All down my best uniform.” He was foaming. They got Murphy back up and took an arm each. “Right, I’m not buggering about, let’s walk him around a bit and get him back to the billet.”

  Vos shook his head as he saw them half carry, half drag the drunken Murphy away.

  “And you’re paying for this to be cleaned!” was the last he heard as they rounded a corner out of sight.

  “Will he be all right?” asked Denise in some concern.

  “Probably,” said Vos, offhand. “They know what they’re doing,” he reassured her.

  He opened his greatcoat and she snuggled into him to keep warm. Her dress was lovely but it hadn’t been made for cold winter nights. Even with her thick coat on, she was still cold. He walked with her, heading towards the bus stop.

  Back in the hall, Woods was matching Walsh pint for pint across the table. Carter couldn’t believe Walsh was even vertical. He’d drunk at least six pints and bottles when he was with Carter, let alone however many he’d now drunk at the table. His crew were egging him on and he upended another pint glass on the table after he emptied it.

  Walsh saw him come back into their social circle. He had one more drink and then chucked a ten bob note on the table.

  “I surrender,” he said, he belched and tried to control his churning stomach. One more drink would have finished him off, it was time to quit. The big Canadian pocketed the note and then finished off his own pint just to prove he could do it.

  Walsh took Carter by the arm and steered him over to the table with the punch and egg nog. He asked for two glasses and handed one to
Carter. His room mate gagged as he saw it was egg nog.

  “I can’t drink this stuff,” Carter wheedled.

  “Tough,” Walsh told him. “Consider it your penance for the evening. You snubbed a positively delightful girl earlier, you clumsy clot.”

  No matter how drunk he was, Carter could see that Walsh was serious and wouldn’t let him go until he had drunk the ghastly stuff. He grimaced and then swallowed it in one go. He gagged but controlled himself and held it down.

  “God that was awful.”

  “Too bad,” said Walsh with little sympathy. “It happens you deserve it.” Carter found he had to agree, flaying his soul with guilt for being such a churl. He needed to realise that not every girl who talked to him wanted to have a relationship with him.

  19 - Under A Wandering Star

  New Years celebrations had a nasty habit of going badly for Carter. While he liked a drink as much as the next man, he hated drinking to complete excess. The first sign it was time to quit was a tightening of the skin on his forehead, like someone had grabbed his hair and pulled back hard. If he was stupid enough to ignore that, the next thing would be a feeling that his vision was telescoping, that he was looking at things from a distance, down a tube. If he ignored that, then he would be heaving his guts up not long afterward.

  Going to bed when he felt like this was always difficult. If he lay on his side, the room would start to sway and it would feel like the whole world would come crashing down onto him. If he could lay flat on his back and keep still, he could just about cope. He’d still feel like death in the morning, but getting to sleep without being sick was half the battle. This particular year, a number of circumstances fortuitously conspired together to spare him this fate.

  The evening had started sedately enough. The CO had laid on transport and the trucks dropped them and some other crews in the centre of Lincoln. They were told quite clearly, pick up would be at 1am, no later. Anyone who missed the bus would have to make their own way back to Amber Hill.

  Carter and Walsh’s crew hit the pubs hard. They started at The Tarleton and went on from there, never lingering long before moving on to the next one. Along the way their numbers dwindled as Todd and Murphy split off after bumping into a bunch of gunners from some other crews. Carter had vague recollections of Nicol peeling off with the blonde girl he had met at the Christmas dance a week or two earlier.

  Carter’s forehead started tightening in a pub called, The General. The tunnel vision came on like an express train after White pressed him to have another under the counter brandy. It burned his throat on the way down and started a war on his already turbulent stomach.

  Going outside for some fresh air he was joined by Walsh, Woods, White and Vos. Walsh offered him a bottle of beer but he shook his head and waved him off. Walsh shrugged and drank it instead. He belched as he finished it and chucked it towards the gutter.

  Holding onto each other for support, they staggered back to the designated pick up point to find the street empty. There was no crowd of waiting airmen and no trucks. Leaving White leaning against a lamp post, Carter looked up and down the connecting streets but saw nothing vaguely like a truck.

  “S’not here,” slurred White. He blinked fast and then screwed up his face, letting the three versions of Walsh settle down into a single figure in front of him. Walsh tapped his watch and then flapped his arm around.

  “Bloody watch has stopped.” He shook his arm some more. He peered at the watch face, holding his wrist close so he could see the luminous dial glowing in the dark.

  Stuck in the middle of Lincoln they had a loud conference about what to do next. No taxis were in sight and the buses had stopped hours ago. Stealing a car was suggested but quickly dismissed. Walsh could barely stand and Carter wasn’t willing to drive in his current state. While they were talking, a couple of healthy looking young men in civilian clothes walked by. There was the usual nods of acknowledgement as total strangers pass one another, then one of them was stupid enough; or just drunk enough to make a remark.

  “Can’t take it RAFF?” he said with a sneer, delighting in seeing some flyers worse for wear. He managed half a step before Woods grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and had him in a head lock. The civvy grunted and flailed his arms as Woods patted him on the head.

  “Hush now, hush,” Woods told him, his voice a quiet whisper, smooth and reassuring.

  The mans friend was about to intervene when Vos shoved him firmly in the chest and wagged a finger at them. They squared up to each other but one look at Vos drained the mans courage away. Drunk as he was, the Belgian was rock steady, his hands half open, poised on the balls of his feet, ready to act.

  “Now then my little friend,” Woods said, emphasising the word ‘little’. Piglet like squeals emanated from the mans throat. He thrashed around a bit but Woods held him firmly, tightening his grip. “You got something to say about the Royal Air Force?”

  “Leave him alone,” said his friend, his voice thin and reedy. He wanted to do something but his heart wasn’t in it. Woods looked up and fixed the new player with a piercing stare.

  “He’s a big boy. He can speak for himself.” Woods looked down and gave his victim a shake. “Can’t you?” He rapped his victim on the head with his knuckles. “I asked you a question.”

  “N-n-nothing, no problem at all,” the man half shrieked, half whimpered in response.

  “I didn’t think so,” Woods voice dripped with contempt. He gave him a final squeeze and then let go. The man collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. He scrambled to his feet, his face mottled, tears in his eyes.

  “I’m in a reserved occupation see,” he said quickly. “I’m up at the factory.” The silence was deafening as he shifted from one foot to another and rubbed his throat. “I work the machines, keep ‘em going. Besides, I’ve got flat arches.”

  Woods clicked his tongue, distinctly unimpressed.

  “My heart bleeds. I’ve lost mates who wouldn’t even wipe their shoes on you.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Piss off.”

  They shuffled off, grumbling but not inclined to take matters further. Woods spat on the road behind them.

  “Bastards,” he muttered under his breath as they disappeared around a corner.

  “Hey, forget it,” said Carter, pulling on Woods arm, surprised at the sudden flare of anger. Woods shook him off and stood glaring at the empty street. “Come on,” Carter said again, his tone more gentle, coaxing. This time Woods went with him.

  “S’wat we gonna do?” asked White as they walked off.

  “Hotel?” suggested Woods. “It’s cold, I want to be tucked up in a nice warm bed with a cup of tea.”

  “Cor, I’d like to be tucked up in bed with something warmer than a cup of tea,” said Walsh, thinking about the redheaded barmaid at The Tarleton.

  “C’mere darling,” White slurred, wrapping his arms around Walsh and hugging him close.

  “Gerroff,” said Walsh, struggling to get free from his grip.

  They went looking for a hotel but Carter lost interest. The way he felt now, he would either spend hours staring at the ceiling waiting for morning to come or he’d be violently sick. He rubbed his forehead, massaging the tightness he could feel in the skin. Amber Hill was not that far he decided. He looked up. It was a full moon and the sky was crystal clear. If he was lucky, he might be able to hitch a lift on the way back. He announced his intention to walk back to the station. Amazed faces stared back at him.

  “Don’t be daft, skipper,” said Woods, “It’s freezing.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he assured them, “It’s only a few miles.”

  Carter shooed them off and they parted ways reluctantly. Vos, the most sober of the group, promised Carter he would see the rest of them safely tucked up in bed. Leaving them to it, he walked down the High Street and headed south out of town. The pubs had closed their doors and the streets were nearly empty with just a few isolated groups of people walking home.


  As he walked, Carters cheeks started to tingle from the cold and he quickened his pace to keep warm. The tips of his ears went numb and he hunkered down in his great coat, flicking up the collar. After two miles, he discovered that Oxfords weren’t the best type of shoes to walk long distances in. His heels were starting to rub and his feet were like blocks of ice. The good thing was that he sobered up quickly. The cold chased away the the headache and the dull throbbing behind his eyes had gone away.

  The route home was fairly simple, it was a straight walk out of town and then turn off after passing through Bracebridge Heath. Sat on top of Lincoln cliff, it overlooked the city to the north and the valley of the river Whitham. The hard part was the uphill walk. Carter dug in as the incline got steeper, the smooth soles of his Oxfords, slipping on the frosty ground.

  Halfway up he heard a voice cursing in the dark. He looked around but he was surrounded by fields in every direction and it was hard to see anything. A cow mooed somewhere in the distance. He listened but he couldn’t place where the voice came from. He carried on walking and was grateful when the ground levelled off slightly. He rested for a few minutes, sitting on the dry stone wall to give his feet a break. The road widened here and ahead on the left was a car with a woman stood next to it.

  “I say?”

  She spun round, surprised at the voice from nowhere.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  He walked forwards and she relaxed as he emerged out of the dark.

  “Could I trouble you for a lift?”

  “You can if you can make it go,” she said, gesturing to the car. He drew closer and recognised her the same time she recognised him.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice dropping.

  “Oh indeed,” he replied, his lips pulling thin. It was the girl from the Christmas dance. She was wearing a grey woollen coat. An emerald green scarf was wrapped around her neck. What were the odds? he asked himself. That was then, this was now. There was no reason why they couldn’t be civil, he thought.