Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  With all the factories, coal mines and refineries down there, the area was covered in an almost perpetual fog, making it the bane of navigators and bomb aimers alike. Even when you could see the ground, it was hard to tell which was which. The cities almost blended into one another, making it almost impossible to figure out where you were in the dark. The Germans complicated this further by building dummy targets, surrounding them with guns and starting fires in open countryside to lure RAF crews away from their destination.

  Carter hated the place. He’d been over the Ruhr god knows how many times on his first tour when the RAF had ranged back and forth, dropping bombs for little discernible result. A lot of friends had fallen over the Ruhr; no doubt many more would fall before the war was over.

  “How long to the turn, Woody?” Carter asked; his voice clipped and flat. Woods checked his chart and looked at the watch on his wrist. The thick cloud that had hung around over the Ruhr the last three nights was largely gone, blown south. That same wind would be pushing them along. He clicked the R/T switch in his oxygen mask.

  “Twenty minutes to the turn, skipper. Turn onto course one, seven, zero magnetic. Time on target twenty three forty hours.”

  Carter smiled for the first time tonight, an almost crazy, manic smile. Over the target before midnight, it was the final card fate had to deal that day. He tensed up on the controls and Q-Queen; already wallowing at fourteen thousand feet, lurched to port. Jensen grabbed the yoke and could feel the tremors, the edge of the stall lurking there. He wrestled with Carter getting the Manchester level again with brute force.

  “Sorry,” muttered Carter, abashed at the lapse. He shook his head to clear it and blinked rapidly. He schooled himself to settle down, immersing himself in routine. He did an R/T check and everyone responded promptly.

  In the tail, Todd was fighting to keep himself going. His head was thumping and his eyes were two hot marbles rolling around his head. His scalp itched like crazy but his head was swathed in a dressing and he could do little about it. Frustrated, he ripped his new flying helmet off. He dumped it in his lap and tugged a woolly hat out of a pocket. That helped a little but he still had to last the run home.

  They made the turn and Woods went down to the nose. Flak rocked the Manchester long before they got to the target. To get to Cologne, they had to go over Dusseldorf and Duisberg. All of them were targets themselves on any given night and they threw up a huge barrage, worse than the one they had endured over Essen a few nights before.

  Searchlights wove back and forth, hunting for a target. Woods had heard there was something like two hundred AA guns around Dusseldorf. It certainly seemed like it. A kaleidoscope of flashes filled the nose as the guns fired. Carter did his best to weave, going left and right, either side of the main track.

  There were one hundred fifty bombers up tonight. Normally, they would meander over the target back and forth in penny packets for two, sometimes three hours which gave the defences plenty of time to concentrate on one or two aircraft. This time they were going over in sixty minutes so there was plenty going on.

  The raid was well under way when they got close to Cologne. Bright flares burned amongst large fires in the Nippes district of the city. 4,000lb cookies had blown off the roofs and the incendiaries had torched the rubber works and surrounding factories. Although there was no moon, Woods could still see the Rhine, the water a thin glittering ribbon that bisected the city down the middle, north to south. Woods tensed as a searchlight passed over them but it carried on, still hunting for a target.

  Jensen was breathing hard, leaning forward in the straps, expecting a sharp thump or a hurried warning. His heart was hammering in his chest and his palms were clammy in his gloves. He swallowed hard and shot a look at Carter. His pilot seemed to have overcome his earlier ham fisted nerves and was flying smooth as silk. He was holding the yoke with a fine hand and guiding Q-Queen as if she was running on rails.

  Woods peered through the sight at the destruction below. Whole streets were on fire, the houses gutted shells. He saw a big church at the edge of a large square surrounded by tenement blocks, it was illuminated by some flares that had dropped short. There was a big flash as a cookie went off and collapsed a block of flats on the southern corner. He blinked to clear the spots from his eyes as he held the crosshairs on some factories on the north of the old town. He could see a few tall chimneys next to them that were belching black smoke into the sky.

  “Ten more seconds, skipper!” he called.

  Ten seconds was an age for Carter, because it wasn’t just ten more seconds. He had to hold it level after the drop for their aiming point photo. He dabbed the rudder one more time and then Woods hit the release.

  Carter counted to ten and looked at Jensen, giving him the nod. Jensen rammed the throttles to the stops. The vulture engines screamed and Carter breathed out a huge sigh of relief as the cares of the world fell away. Then fate reminded him it was still there. A burst of flak exploded under the tail and sent the Manchester plunging for the ground.

  Todd bashed his face on his gunsight as the bomber fell out of the sky. Shrapnel punctured the turret and stung his legs. Woods had just squeezed past Jensen when Q-Queen dived. He lunged forwards to grab something, missed, lost his footing and floated for a moment before crashing to the floor.

  She was going down almost vertically and the altimeter unwound at an alarming rate. The controls stiffened as the airspeed built up. Jensen and Carter hauled back on the yoke with all their strength but nothing happened. The ground was looming up before them and Jensen squeezed his eyes shut, uttering a silent prayer.

  For a few seconds Carter thought they weren’t going to get her back. Everything was shaking around them as they approached terminal dive speed. Then gradually, inch by miserable inch, the nose started to come up. They levelled off at two thousand feet and it felt like they had just run a marathon, their arms were like lead.

  “Everyone call in,” Carter shouted over the R/T as he got his breath back. Vos responded immediately. Woods nodded as he got back to his feet behind them. Murphy’s reply was shaky and faint, Todd’s was a few more seconds coming. He turned the air blue until Carter cut him off and asked him if he was okay.

  “No, I’m not bloody all right!” the Australian retorted as he wiped at the blood on his face. “I’ve hurt my bloody nose!”

  Murphy slumped in his turret in shock. It had suddenly hit him that there really was no way out of these deathtraps. If he could have grabbed his parachute, he would have bailed out during that insane dive, but he had been stuck in his seat.

  It was easy for Todd. He could wind his turret to one side and just fall out. Everyone up front was fine, they could open the hatch in the nose and go out that way, but he couldn’t. He had to squirm out of his turret, grab his chute, clip it on, go back up the fuselage, open the exit hatch and then jump, praying to god he missed the tail on the way out. He sat, drained of energy while the import of that sunk in.

  Woods crawled around, picking up his bits and pieces from the floor. His pencils were broken and the glass on his stopwatch was smashed. He muttered to himself as he refolded his chart and sharpened his pencils.

  They headed home, but it wasn’t going to be an easy run. They had to do a wide circuit to bypass the Ruhr and they began the long laborious climb to regain the height they had lost in that mad dive.

  When they got back up to ten thousand they levelled off but Carter found she wouldn’t stay level, she naturally wanted to descend. The flak must have damaged something because the elevators felt soft and the yoke needed to be pulled back to keep the nose up. They tried to trim it out but that made no difference. For the second time in as many days, Jensen had to ride a stricken bomber back to base.

  Three hours later they touched down at Amber Hill without further incident. The usual crowd was at the tower and for the first time, Carter waved back. There was a collective sigh of relief when they got down from Q-Queen. They gathered by the tail as Wo
ods handed round his hip flask. Each of them took a sip to steady their nerves. Murphy coughed and wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

  “My god, I thought that was it this time,” he blurted out.

  “For a moment, I did too,” said Carter. “When we pulled out and I did an R/T check, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find you’d all bailed out.”

  There was a nervous laugh from everyone in response to that comment.

  “The thought did cross my mind,” Todd said casually. He gingerly fingered his nose, convinced he had broken it this time. He ran his tongue around his mouth, his top teeth felt loose.

  “You been in the wars again?” asked Murphy, nudging him on the shoulder. Todd made a rude face.

  “Come on, let’s get this over with,” said Carter, heading towards the truck to complete the ritual of interrogation, breakfast, then bed. He walked along, riding out the last of his adrenalin as the feeling of doom washed away.

  After shutting the engines down, he’d bent down to pick up a glove he had dropped on the cockpit floor. Sitting back up, he saw the clock on the instrument panel was broken. The glass on the dial was smashed and the hands had stopped; at 11.59; precisely.

  39 - To Shelter For A While

  Carter relaxed into the armchair and enjoyed the warmth of the fire. It had been a long drive from Lincoln to Surrey and he was tired. The plan was to spend a few days with Georgette’s family, go to East Grinstead and see White and then finish with a few days just for them on the south coast somewhere. That was as far as his planning had gone.

  He settled down, closed his eyes and listened, absorbing the feel of the house. Some houses were like the grave, morbid mausoleums to the past. Others were warm and lived in, a hive of life. Georgette’s home positively hummed. There was a babble of voices from the kitchen and he could hear a herd of children charging up and down the stairs.

  Georgette’s mother, Harriet had been warm and welcoming. Her brown eyes twinkled in good humour as she introduced her family. Carter felt like he’d been paraded around like a prize petunia. To the children he was like some mythical figure. The two boys had stared up at him open mouthed, their eyes on his wings and medal ribbons. The girls just giggled, all shy when he got down on his haunches, shook their hand and said hello.

  When they were finally shown upstairs, Carter was amused to find his things had been placed in a spare room and Georgette’s suitcase was in her own bedroom. Harriet had given him a pointed look when he sat on the corner of the bed and given it an experimental bounce. Georgette had blushed to the tips of her ears and he had to laugh when she retreated to her bedroom to, ‘do her hair’ and freshen up.

  He opened the suitcase and started putting a few things in drawers but paused when he came across a brown paper parcel in the bottom drawer. Inside the parcel was an RAF battledress jacket with wings on the breast. He silently wrapped it back up again and left it undisturbed, restricting himself to the top two drawers and the wardrobe.

  Supper had been full of vibrant chatter as Georgette caught up with her married sisters, Claire and Margaret and Julie who was on leave from the WRNS. The children had been on their best behaviour. He had offered to help wash up but he was parked in the lounge while the ladies retreated to the kitchen, chattering away.

  He did a circuit of the room, having a good nose around while he was on his own. The bookshelf had an eclectic mix of titles. There were weighty tomes on the basics of British law and the judiciary, a slim treatise on fly fishing, books on embroidery, a full set of Britannica and some old leather bound copies of Dickens. One shelf had a number of P.G Wodehouse. He pulled out a battered copy of Piccadilly Jim. He had started this once at university but never finished it. He settled down in the armchair and flicked through the pages, diving back into the world of high society in New York.

  The clock on the sideboard chimed seven and he glanced at his wristwatch to find it had stopped. He was winding it up when he realised a pair of eyes were watching him. He beckoned them over and Claire’s son, David came in. He was a tall boy, all long gangling limbs. A shock of blonde hair was attached to his head. He looked at Carter, studying him in detail. Carter put his book to one side, well aware there were questions coming. David sat on the pouffee in front of the armchair.

  “How many missions have you flown?” the boy asked.

  “Too many,” said Carter, trying to be offhand. He saw that answer didn’t satisfy the boy so he told the truth. “Fifty one.”

  “Have you killed many, Germans?” Carter shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with that kind of topic.

  “Probably, but I try not to think about it.”

  “But they’re, Germans!” the boy protested.

  “Well they’re people too,” Carter temporised. “I’d rather bomb factories than people if I can,” he said truthfully. That answer seemed to satisfy the lad, then his brain lurched off onto a new tangent as young boys brains were apt to do. He pointed at the ribbons on Carter’s chest.

  “How did you get those?”

  “I won them in a raffle. They handed them out with the sweets back at the station.”

  “And what about that?” David pointed at Carter’s scar. Carter scratched at it absently for a second. He smiled and the boy watched, fascinated as the scar rippled and changed shape.

  “I walked into a door.”

  “Don’t believe you,” was the almost instant response.

  “David!” admonished his mother from the door. The spell was broken. David shot to his feet like a startled rabbit and Carter sat back in the armchair.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” said Margaret. “He asks so many questions all the time. I hope he didn’t offend you?”

  Carter got to his feet and tugged down his battledress. David received a swift cuff to the backside and was propelled towards the door by his mother. Margaret turned back to face him and tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear.

  “I’m so sorry about that, he’s so inquisitive.”

  “He’s young,” Carter agreed.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, gesturing to his book. “I need to get them ready to go home for bed.”

  Carter left the book on the armchair.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” he offered.

  It felt very strange for Carter, putting on a dead mans pyjamas. He would have put on his own but Harriet had already been through his luggage and extracted the things that needed a clean and he had nothing left for bed. Georgette knocked on the door and came in wearing a long powder blue nightgown with her hair loose.

  “Duty done,” she breathed, smiling. Her sisters and the children had left an hour before and everything had been cleared up downstairs. It was just them, her mother and Julie who was occupying her own room down the hall.

  “Noisy,” Carter grinned. “My family gatherings aren’t quite like that.”

  “We’ll have a nice relax tomorrow,” she promised him. She stepped forward and smoothed down the lapels of the pyjama top. “They look good on you,” she said. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.

  “That sounds good.” He laughed suddenly. “It’s a good job your mother doesn’t see us like this.”

  “I suppose, but I can’t say I won’t be tempted to sneak down the corridor tonight.” She giggled as she broke out of his grasp and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight darling.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Unseen demons woke him screaming four hours later. They retreated from the edge of his vision as he suddenly sat up. He felt for his watch on the sideboard and peered at the glowing hands. He groaned when he saw the time. He got out of bed and paced up and down but he found he couldn’t settle, he had the fidgets in his legs. His brain was awake and whirring at a million miles an hour.

  He padded downstairs, wincing at every creek and groan as he went. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk before taking up his seat in the lounge. The fire in the grate had burned low and he pu
t some more coal on, watching as the flames burst back into life amongst the embers. Once it got going he went back to Wodehouse.

  The clock struck three when Julie came in. She had a blanket round her shoulders over a red night dress.

  “I’m not disturbing you?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “It’s your house.” Julie sat on the armchair across from him, folding her legs underneath herself.

  “I’m often up at night with the late watch so I find it hard to sleep sometimes,” she told him. Carter nodded quietly, dodging the obvious question.

  “Georgette said you were on the south coast somewhere?”

  Julie nodded, her face becoming very animated.

  “MTB’s. Exciting stuff, seeing them tearing around the high seas.”

  “Sounds fun,” he said, enjoying her enthusiasm.

  “Oh, it is,” she replied, speaking from firsthand knowledge. She’d managed to wangle a few trips out when they were training and loved it. She loved the roar of the engines as they went full belt, the spray hitting your face as they raced over the waves was incredible.

  Carter was amused to see her light up in excitement. He’d been like that once on his first solo. That fizzy nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach, the elation as he climbed into the sky, the slipstream tugging at his flying helmet.

  He stared at the fire and lost himself in the flickering flames. There was a draught somewhere and the fire danced back and forth.

  Julie watched him quietly, noting the rigid way he was holding himself, the set of his shoulders. In her months at HMS Wasp she had seen similar looks from mere boys who’d suddenly had the weight of command thrust upon them. Many was the time she had stood at the jetty with the Flottila’s CO as the boats came back in. Sometimes a boat would be missing, others would be shot up, their hulls blackened and splintered. On some occasions she had seen blanket shrouded shapes carried ashore on stretchers. The survivors would talk loudly, their eyes wide, coiled like springs; just like Carter was now.