Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  He caught her eye as she pulled a pint for Tucker. She topped off the pint and then sashayed down the bar. She ignored two wireless ops that waved ten bob notes at her and went straight to him.

  “And what can I do for you?” she said, her voice neutral although the corners of her mouth twitched in a smile.

  “Two pints to start with and a pork pie would be nice.” She glanced over her shoulder back towards the door that led to the kitchen.

  “I’ll have to see if there are any left.”

  “Oh come on, Muriel my love,” he wheedled, batting his eyes at her and simpering across the bar.

  “Don’t you, my love me,” she told him tartly.

  She pulled his pints for him and then went off to the kitchen to shout at chef. Todd reached over and picked up one of the pints.

  “You’re lucky she doesn’t brain you. How many times have you asked her out now?”

  “Only three,” replied Murphy, a little offended that he was being scrutinised so closely.

  “Four,” interrupted Muriel. She handed over a plate with one small pork pie cut in half and a portion of dark chutney.

  “On the slate?” asked Murphy hopefully. She cocked her head to one side, her smile lopsided.

  “What do you think?”

  Grumbling, Murphy dug into his pocket and put the coins on the bar top. Muriel scooped them up with the flat of her hand. Before she moved on to the next eager customer, Murphy chanced his arm again.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “Working I expect,” she said, offhand, her voice distracted as others clamoured for her attention.

  “What about the night after?” Murphy persisted.

  “Working.”

  Murphy tried one more time.

  “There’s some new films on at The Ritz. Some comedy thing with George Formby or a thriller called The Tower.”

  Muriel made a show of thinking about it for a few seconds before giving him a firm no. Murphy’s shoulders slumped slightly but he took it well. He picked up the plate and stumped over to where Todd had snagged two stools at a small table. Todd reached over and had his half of pie off the plate. He dipped it into the dark chutney and shovelled it into his mouth, crumbs of pastry dropping onto his chest.

  “Glutton for punishment,” he told his friend, speaking round the lump of pie in his mouth. More crumbs spilled out of his mouth onto his uniform jacket. “Anyone else would have given up by now. I would have.”

  “You’re not me.”

  Todd nodded. He dipped a finger into the chutney and chased a lump of carrot around the plate.

  “Get yourself a nice girl like, Vos did.”

  Murphy grunted and moodily bit into his half of pie. He ruminated in silence while he munched on the pastry.

  “Can’t. She’s gorgeous, there’s only one of them lying around.”

  They stayed near to closing time. Todd flirted with the idea of a lock in and getting some more drinks, but they had to get back. The transport laid on finished at eleven and he had no intentions of walking back like the skipper had at New Year.

  As they stood up to go, Muriel came round from the bar to collect their empties. As she scooped up their pint glasses she leaned in close to Murphy.

  “Outside The Ritz, Sunday night, six o’clock. I shan’t wait,” she said briskly.

  Murphy practically choked as she said it. He had to replay it in his head to make sure it had happened and he hadn’t just imagined it.

  “Turning on one,” Carter shouted. The erk manning the trolley-acc waved their arm. The port propeller started turning. The engine coughed once, twice and then span into a blur. Flames and sparks shot out of the four banks of exhausts, the air stank with the tang of petrol.

  “Cut out!” Carter shouted.

  “To running position!” replied White.

  The erk pointed to starboard. Carter twirled his left hand, nodded and White jabbed the starter button. They watched the starboard prop kick once, twice, three times. It carried on turning and then just as it looked like it would catch it juddered to a halt. White jabbed the starter again but nothing happened. Carter shot a look out of the window. Latimer was giving him a cut throat signal.

  They shut down the port engine. Even running such a short time, the noise had been deafening. There was a babble of voices as the crew asked what was going on.

  “Quiet down,” Carter shouted over the R/T. Up front, the erks opened the nose hatch and fitted the ladder. Chiefy Latimer appeared and White got up from his seat to give him room.

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  “Dunno, sir. The lads are looking now.”

  Ladders went up around the starboard engine and the panels came off. Shaded torches waving around as they hurriedly pored over the engine.

  Carter sat back in his seat, arms folded while his blood slowly boiled. Walsh’s Manchester across from them moved off and turned left onto the peri-track. He watched it disappear into the dark. He glanced at his watch, the luminous hands glowing. He clicked his tongue in irritation as the minutes ticked by. He could hear the erks shouting back and forth outside. Latimer appeared again, clearly upset.

  “Sorry, sir. The starter motors gone. Looks like the teeth have stripped. She’s not going anywhere tonight.”

  Carter cursed, venting his frustration.

  “Dammit.” He hit the yoke with a bunched fist. “You cow, you rotten bloody cow.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, his face screwed up in anger. He decided fast.

  “Right. Broken kite, chaps. Everyone out.” He looked at Latimer. “Chief?”

  “Sir?”

  He pointed to the three tonner waiting on the apron. It had dropped them all off earlier and then remained so it could run the groundcrew back to their billets once the kites were away.

  “Transport, I want transport now!”

  “Rapidly.” Latimer disappeared and clattered down the ladder. He ran over to the three tonner, waving his arms to get the drivers attention.

  “Come on,” Carter shouted down the fuselage. “The spare kites by the hangars. Let’s just hope no one else has already snagged it.”

  They They hustled in double quick time over to the truck, threw their bags in and then clambered aboard. Latimer and some of the other erks got on as well. Carter pounded his fist on the back of the cab. The truck shot off with a crash of gears as it went barreling around the peri track.

  During a break between take offs, they dashed across the runway and careered over to the main hangars. The spare was still there and the truck screeched to a halt. They pelted over and got in.

  “Bloody hell,” Carter complained. “The seats all wrong.” He messed about, adjusting it to the height he wanted. The rudder pedals were set a mite too close but he was just going to have to lump it.

  Vos grumbled as he waited for the radio set to warm up. Although it had been airtested earlier in the day, someone had obviously played funny buggers because it was not tuned in to the tower frequency. He twirled the knobs and waited for it to come on.

  Woods spread his gear over the navigation table. He unfolded his charts, dumped a pile of pencils into the pot and opened his log to the right page. He fished around in his navigators bag for his stop watch and other paraphernalia. He hated rushing like this, you always forgot something when you rushed.

  In the tail, Murphy settled himself in the turret while Todd got comfortable in the mid upper. The fuselage rattled as the port engine started. Almost immediately the starboard engine came to life as White and Carter flashed through the startup sequence as fast as they ever had before. Vos checked in.

  “Q-Queen to Rabbit control, radio check, Q-Queen ready to go.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Uh, say again?”

  The engine note deepened as the Manchester moved off.

  “Q-Queen taxying. Reading you strength five.”

  “Rabbit control, received.”

  “Okay chaps, se
ttle down. Take off positions please.”

  Woods looked at his watch and noted the time in his log. They were thirty five minutes late.

  “We’ll be one of the last over the target, skipper.”

  “Can’t be helped, Woody.”

  Carter gunned the throttles, chancing it a bit to get round to the end of the runway as quickly as possible. The rest of the squadron had already gone. They were going to have to hustle to stand any chance of catching up.

  Latimer and his erks watched Q-Queen go. They were coming down from their adrenalin high. The last thirty minutes had been a madhouse as they had all raced to get Carter and his crew in the air. It was only when they got back in the three tonner that they found the last surprise of the evening, a parachute pack in the back of the truck.

  Todd only realised he’d forgotten his parachute when he went to pitch out the leaflets. Getting down from the mid upper, he used his torch to move around in the dark. One thing he always did when moving around was check for where his parachute was in case he needed it. He couldn’t see it. He tried to recall where he’d dumped it when they got on board and found he couldn’t remember doing it. He went very still as it hit him. His mouth went dry. There were no spares on board. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. If they went down, his goose would be well and truly cooked.

  He took it out on the leaflets. He shoved bundles of them down the flare chute and smacked them around with the broom handle, jabbing until they dropped free. He opened the lid of the chute for the next bundle and a blizzard of paper flew into his face. Todd raged as the air was filled with bits of paper. He grabbed another bundle and threw it across the fuselage. The rubber band snapped and more paper flew around.

  They got back, six and a half hours later, well after everyone else. Their groundcrew had been anxiously waiting for their return. Dickinson and Kent waited with them.

  They did the debrief on the way back in. There was lots of back slapping all around. Dickinson pondered putting Carter in for an award of some kind. Not everyone would have had such a press on attitude.

  Carter just wondered how they had made it back with only a few holes. They never did make up the lost time. On the outward leg, they had pushed hard but the engines wouldn’t take it. Q-Queen was a dog. She had been slow to climb and they’d never got anywhere near the briefed height. They’d crossed the coast at ten thousand feet and had an interesting few minutes with some coastal flak batteries that tried their hand.

  Over the target, it had seemed like they had the sky to themselves. Searchlights had waved around trying to latch onto them while the flak over Wilhelmshaven went bananas. Every gun seemed to be pointing at them. The flak had been so thick you could have walked on it. Somehow they had managed to thread their way through the barrage so Woods could drop their bombs. After their recent frustrations, he was happy that they dropped them on the money this time.

  As they headed out over the water, fires raged behind them. Warehouses were gutted shells and the ground was a roiling sea of orange flame. Murphy had watched the glow on the horizon a long time on the way home. It was like the glow of the sun, rising in the east.

  The truck dropped them at the equipment room and they got changed. That was when Carter made the announcement. That had been White’s last trip as their second dicky. He’d be getting his own crew. They were cheered by that, but it was bittersweet news. It was well deserved, but they would be losing White for some unknown rookie. Regardless, it was an excuse for a party.

  21 - Silver Screen

  Murphy double checked his tie in the reflection of a picture frame in the lobby. He brushed his hands down his pants and then straightened up. He was nervous and he paced up and down, checking his watch every thirty seconds. He saw her across the street and waved.

  She waved back at him and looked up and down the road before crossing over. She was wearing a maroon skirt and paired it with a cream blouse and a grey overcoat with a fox wrap around her shoulders. A small red pillbox hat was pinned on her blonde hair. The effect was striking. She offered him her left cheek and he lightly kissed her.

  “You came.”

  “Of course I came. I said I would. I knew you weren’t flying today.”

  Murphy’s eyebrows shot up but he could see she was being serious. He scratched his cheek and looked at her askance.

  “You’ll have to explain that trick to me one of these days.”

  She gave a little laugh and tapped her nose.

  “State secret.”

  The mantra of ‘Loose Lips, Sink Ships’ hammered at the back of his head. Murphy left it at that, not sure he wanted to have a row on the first date. He gestured to the film posters on the wall out front.

  “What shall we see?”

  Muriel ignored the posters and looked at him, gauging him, looking at him properly for the first time outside of the pub. He looked very dapper in his uniform. The short battledress jacket gave him a slim waist and broad shoulders. He had a nice smile, she thought.

  “You choose,” she told him.

  Murphy suppressed a shudder at the choices. He wasn’t a big fan of George Formby, his high voice gave him a headache. The other film was billed as a spy thriller and in the dark he might just get a cuddle out of it. He got tickets for the thriller.

  Two hours later they came out almost shell shocked. Nothing could have prepared them for what they saw. Someone had decided it was a good idea to mix a wartime thriller with a psychological drama. What they had got was a mess of a film that even by B-movie standards was an implausible melodrama.

  They stood off to one side as the rest of the house emptied. People walked off into the night, wrapping up from the cold as they transitioned from warm cinema to freezing streets. Murphy broke the silence.

  “That was awful.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” she agreed, giggling. They laughed, amused at how bad it had been. “Drink?” she asked him. He nodded and she led the way to a quiet little pub she knew off the beaten track. It had just turned eight.

  “Why did you finally say yes?” he asked her as they walked along. He crooked his left arm for her and she looped her arm through his.

  “Because you kept asking. Someone that gives up at the first turn isn’t worth it.”

  Murphy walked along, absorbing that.

  “It sounds like there’s a story there,” he said hesitantly.

  “It’s…..complicated,” she replied. He stayed silent, waiting for her to fill in the blanks. “I was involved with someone.” He nodded and waited for her to continue. She glanced at him, reading nothing in his face. Her voice carried on, staccato fashion. “Well more than one just someone. I was engaged. You know? He-died.”

  Murphy felt like a fink for forcing it out of her. He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She looked at him, her eyebrows raised in irritation. Why was it the first thing people said when they heard someone died was, ‘I’m sorry.’

  “Why should you be sorry?” she asked him, her tone challenging.

  “Well-” Murphy paused. “Well…” he stalled. He had no response to that.

  “But it was nice of you to say so,” she said, softening her tone, not meaning to be so sharp with him. “Then I was seeing someone else for a while,” her voice trailed off while she thought about George. He was a blur now and it was difficult to remember what he’d looked like.

  “What happened? Did he break it off with you?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He’s a POW now in some camp in Germany.” She shrugged her shoulders, her cheeks puffing as she blew out. “So here I am, being chased by airmen,” she giggled at the thought of it. “Lots of airmen, but I’m still waiting for the right one.”

  She took her arm back and drifted left slightly, putting a small distance between them.

  “Makes me stupid I guess.”

  “No, just human.”

  He closed the distance to her until their shoulders
were bumping along and took hold of her hand in his. Her fingers were cold.

  They went into the pub and found it half full. People glanced at them as they came in and then turned back to their own business. Two soldiers, a Private and a Corporal stood at one end of the bar, playing skittles. A fire burned in the grate off to the right. Murphy asked her what she wanted and he went to the bar. He held up two fingers and pointed to a pump. The girl behind the bar drew two pints and he carried them over to where Muriel had secured some space on the bench seat along the far wall.

  She sat close, her right leg pressed up against him. She cradled the drink in her lap, occasionally sipping at it as she talked about a wide range of subjects. She told him about life at the pub, coming to Lincoln from Mansfield and her typical day. Murphy watched her, seeing how animated she was, very different from her more stern persona from the pub. She carried on until she suddenly stopped and put a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh, but you must think I’m terrible, wittering on like this. I’ve not asked you anything.”

  “It’s fine. You know that’s the most I’ve heard you say at one time.”

  She nudged him on the shoulder at that remark.

  “Beast.”

  He laughed. She asked him about where he was from to give him a break from her and he told her a bit about growing up in a rough mining town, his whole life practically mapped out in front of him. His grandfather had worked in the mine, his father had bucked tradition and got a job at the gas works and he would have been expected to follow in their footsteps. Then the war had come along and he’d escaped just in time.

  ”Drink?

  She pointed to his empty pint glass. He flicked a quick glance at his watch and saw it was gone nine. She saw his hesitation and got cross.

  “Somewhere you’d rather be?” she asked, irritation creeping into her voice. Murphy looked pained. “No…yes, no.” He could have spun an elaborate lie but he told the truth. “My second dicky’s getting his own crew. Its our send off tonight.”