Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  Byron turned on him, his voice stricken.

  “Skipper?” He shook Carter by the shoulder. “Skipper!”

  He saw the lights of some cars approaching across the field. He went down into the nose and dropped through the hatch, running towards them, waving his arms.

  Helping hands got Carter down from the Lancaster and straight into a waiting ambulance. Todd joined him.

  “Why didn’t you say anything, Digger?” asked Woods as he stuck a cigarette between the Australians lips.

  “Somebody had to do it,” Todd replied quietly. Woods lit the cigarette, then the doors of the ambulance were closed and they were whisked away. The ambulance also carried the blanket shrouded bodies of Vos and Murphy. Byron and Woods were watching it drive off into the distance when a studious looking Squadron Leader came over to them.

  “You chaps look done in.” He put a friendly hand on Woods shoulder. “Let’s get this over with so you can get some rest.”

  “Will someone tell our squadron where we are?” asked Woods, his head ringing. Suddenly it all seemed so unreal. Adrenalin was surging through his veins and his eyes were wide, his pulse throbbing.

  “Don’t you worry about that. We’ll take care of everything, old chap,” said the Squadron Leader. “I’ve got a nice hot cup of tea with a nip of something stronger in waiting for you.”

  61 - World Enough And Time

  Initial reports of the raid were highly favourable. Some of the new Mosquitoes flew over Cologne early in the morning only a few hours after the main force had left, but heavy smoke blanketing the city stopped them getting photographs of the damage.

  Losses had been light and despite Harris’ fears, were no worse than any other raid. 3.9% had been lost and the third wave suffered only 1.9% casualties, well below the figure Churchill would have been prepared to accept. Nearly nine hundred aircraft had reported bombing the city and very few had turned back early. More tonnage had been dropped on Cologne in one night than in all the other raids that had taken place since the war began. It was a roaring success by any standard. There had been no sea of fire like there had been at Rostock. Cologne was a modern city with wide avenues and open spaces but the damage was still extensive. Later estimates thought that up to fifty thousand people had been bombed out. Hundreds of factories had been damaged and there had been a major loss of production.

  The CinC was not one to miss an opportunity. While the moon was with him, it made sense to go again before the OTU aircraft had to disperse back to their airfields. The day the newspapers shouted the news that the greatest bomber raid in history had taken place, Bomber Command went to Essen. The weather had foxed Harris again and Hamburg would have to wait for now. Regardless, he had his headline and silenced his most vocal critics. There would be no more talk of breaking up Bomber Command now.

  Late in the morning, Woods and Byron went down to see The Lady while they were waiting for transport to take them back to Amber Hill. In daylight, the full extent of her injuries were clearly evident. Going from the joint of the mid section to nearly the entire length of the tail, the port side was blown out. The metal skin curled outwards like it had been attacked by a tin opener. Only the inherent toughness of Roy Chadwicks design and Carter’s deft handling had seen them home.

  To the untrained eye, she was a write off, but to the repair crews, they knew better. Lancaster fuselages were assembled at the factory in three sections, the nose and cockpit, the main spar and the rear fuselage. L-Lady was disassembled where she stood at Wattisham, loaded onto the transporters and packed off to a reconditioning workshop. The damaged section was scrapped and replaced. Within five weeks she was airworthy again with a new tail and sent to 97 squadron at Waddington as a replacement. She served for another four missions before falling on a raid over Duisburg.

  An Oxford picked up Woods and Byron and they were flown up to Amber Hill in the afternoon to find the station getting ready to go again to Essen. The station was buzzing as the erks worked to get the kites ready. Kent took a quick report off them and Church had the MO put them straight to bed, they were wrung out and in no shape to do anything for a day or two.

  Todd and Carter were whisked off to hospital, suffering from shock and blood loss in addition to their wounds. Tucked up in a soft warm bed, the hell over Cologne seemed a million miles away as they talked about the struggle to get home and the nightfighter attack. Reading about it and the later attack on Essen in the newspapers didn’t seem real somehow.

  Todd was back flying within a month. The bullet had gone straight through his arm and soon healed and he had another scar to go with the one on his scalp. Despite the offer, he still stubbornly refused to be screened and remained a committed ops man. He was left to carry on, one of those incorrigibles that warmed Harris’ heart and he fondly referred to as his ‘old lags’.

  Carter’s recovery was more drawn out. Aside from concussion, the damage to his arm and hand were more extensive than anyone first thought. They managed to save his arm but had to remove some of the muscle which had been torn by the shrapnel. It took two operations before they were happy with his hand.

  The doctors had explained to him that there’d been some nerve damage and it would take a while to settle down before they knew how much function would return. For a long while he found it difficult to manipulate objects with his fingers and he had no grip strength at all. They also warned him that the pain and numbness may never completely go away. Carter considered it a small price to pay considering the bill plenty of others had paid, Church, Archer, Salmon, Dickinson, Murphy and Vos.

  It was the beginning of August before he was released from hospital and went back to Amber Hill on light duties. He found a new man waiting for him in the CO’s office. Wing Commander Forrester had taken over the squadron after Church failed to return from the third thousand plane raid at the end of June.

  He wasted no time on niceties and got straight to the point. Forrester told Carter he was done, his tour was up and he was being sent on recuperative leave. Carter argued to stay until he was fit to fly so he could finish his tour but his appeal fell on deaf ears. The decision had been made from on high and once his leave was up, Group would decide where he went after that. Saunderson had his leave papers waiting for him when he came out of the office.

  Now that he was off ops, Georgette wangled some leave and they were married in a small service at the registry office in Grantham. Woods and Yvonne, Wilkinson and Helen were there as witness, best man and bridesmaids respectively. They visited his mother in Harrogate and then had five intense days near Lake Windermere before returning to Grantham. He got a room at a boarding house in town and spent the days sleeping, reading and enjoying a slower pace of life for once while his arm continued to heal.

  During his time in hospital he’d started to piece things together in his head. As near as Carter could figure, one shell had exploded close to the rear fuselage, blowing out the thin metal skin and killing Murphy instantly. Another shell must have gone up between the port inner and the fuselage and exploded almost directly above the cockpit, most of the force going upwards and away. It was the hammer blow of the blast that had knocked him silly for a few seconds.

  Woods filled in the remaining blanks for him when they got together for drinks after the wedding service. When he saw a photograph of their badly damaged Lanc, Carter was amazed they’d made it back at all. He felt foolish for taking such a chance landing her when they could have just bailed out.

  Vos and Murphy were buried in a sombre service on a rainy day in the first week of June. Denise attended the funeral, a pale figure dressed in black, sobbing her heart out as she clung to Woods arm for support. Breaking the news to her was the hardest thing Woods had ever done. Saunderson had gone with him and Yvonne had offered to come along as well. Woods was glad she did.

  They went round in the early evening on the 1st June. When Denise opened the door, she knew. When a colleague of your man came to the door wearing sorrow as a mask, the
re was only one thing it could be. Fighting back tears, she had gestured into the room with a dead hand and they’d filed in.

  She walked slowly to one of the armchairs by the fire and sank into it. Woods sat across from her. He hitched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Yvonne sat on the bed while Saunderson did his best to disappear. Feeling surplus to requirements, he went downstairs to see if he could get Mrs Peck to make some tea and avoid having to observe this little tableau.

  The girl had stared into the fire, her gaze fixed, eyes glittering with tears. Everything about her was frozen perfectly still, like a sculpture. The silence hung thick in the air and then Woods started telling the story. He skipped some bits, glossed over others and all while he talked, he could feel the gap between himself and the French girl grow. Finally, he ran out of words and sat there, numb, at a loss for what to say next.

  Yvonne came over to Denise and crouched down next to her. It was only when she gathered her into her arms that the girls composure finally cracked and the great wailing sobs came out of her, rolling like waves on a beach, one after another as her life fell apart. Yvonne looked over her shoulder and nodded to the door and Woods took the hint.

  Downstairs in the parlour, the two men sat glum while Mrs Peck poured them another cup of tea with a disapproving scowl on her face. Saunderson stared at the ceiling as more wailing could be heard. Grim indeed. This was not his thing. He packed personal effects and wrote letters for the CO to sign. Calling on girls of the deceased to deliver bad news was outside of his experience. Eventually, the cries stopped and Yvonne came downstairs. Her own eyes were red rimmed and she sat next to Woods, clasping his hand for strength.

  “She’s sleeping now, the poor thing. This news has broken her.”

  Mrs Peck looked up at the ceiling.

  “I’ll go up,” she said.

  “I’d leave it for a bit,” cautioned Yvonne.

  “Is there any hope?” Mrs Peck asked, her voice trailing off.

  “None, I’m afraid,” Woods said quietly.

  They’d left then, promising to come and see her the following day.

  After the funeral she withdrew from from life and Mrs Peck became a surrogate mother, fussing over her and making sure she looked after herself. Woods, Yvonne and Helen would call on her when they could but the French girl became a hollow shell of her former self, devastated by her loss.

  One day, she disappeared, never to be seen again. Helen Wilkinson had gone round to check on her to find the room empty of all her things and no note saying where she’d gone or what she intended to do.

  Mrs Peck was in pieces, worried sick for Denise and the baby. Enquiries were made with the Police and the local hospitals but Helen felt they made a half hearted effort. One missing French girl in the middle of a war just wasn’t a priority. It was a sad end to a sad story.

  Flynn was dead. After bailing out at dangerously low level during that mad dive, he had landed heavily in a ploughed field and hurt his ankle. Abandoning his parachute, he had hobbled along for two miles across the countryside before the Police found him. Flynn contemplated running, but he wouldn’t get far on a gammy leg. He stuck his hands in the air and gave himself up. They searched him, relieving him of a silk scarf and some chocolate before shoving him in front of them while they cycled behind, prodding him with a stick to keep him moving.

  The entire time, the Police officers had nervously looked upwards at the never ending drone of aero engines passing overhead. The noise was terrific. On the horizon, the sky glowed orange where Cologne burned.

  When they got to a small village, they were met by an angry knot of people. Harsh words were exchanged, then the Police officers were shoved out of the way and Flynn was taken hold of. Rushed across the street, a placard tied with a loop of string was put over his head. Crude letters had been painted on it to spell Terfforfleiger. Protesting at being roughly handled, he was still struggling when his arms were pinned to his side and a noose was put around his neck.

  He was strung up from a lamp post in the street, his feet thrashing; hands scrabbling at the rope. The crowd cheered and stood there watching as he slowly suffocated to death. Before he was cut down, one enterprising soul helped themself to his flying boots. The authorities were given a bland account that he’d died from injuries sustained while bailing out and his remaining personal effects were sent home via the Red Cross.

  The big Canadian went on to finish out his tour with a friend. Commissioned as a Pilot Officer, Jensen returned to Amber Hill and gathered up what was left of his old crew. Byron and Todd continued to fly with him as he held them all to the standard Carter had shown him all those months before.

  When his tour was over, there was a massive party in the Mess to send Woods on his way. Ten months after he first arrived at Amber Hill, there were few familiar faces to help him celebrate, a stark reminder of the human cost of a tour of operations.

  He managed a few days away with Yvonne and asked her to marry him. She readily accepted and he spent the remainder of his special leave on the station to be close to her. They had a tearful farewell on the platform at Lincoln train station when he left to teach budding navigators in Wales.

  When his leave was over, Carter was nervous when he went to Group in his best uniform to find out what fate had in store for him. He needn’t have worried too much. 5 Group was not about to let such an experienced man go too far affield. He was posted to take command of a new HCU at New Haven, a satellite field near Bassingham, south of Lincoln.

  The months that followed were a blur. Forming a unit from scratch was hard work, but he threw himself into it. He managed to get a good adjutant who was a whizz at paperwork and Carter came to rely on him a great deal. He gathered a core of experienced men to be instructors and drew up a training program that would get squadrons converted and operational as quickly as possible. To start with, they went to the squadrons to do the work, but once New Haven was ready, crews came to them. He built extras into the program to encompass all the lessons that had been so dearly earned in blood.

  In the middle of it all, he returned to Amber Hill at the end of September to have his second DFC pinned to his chest by Group Captain Etheridge. Todd received the DFM for remaining in his turret while wounded and driving off the nightfighter. It was one of the few occasions Carter had seen the Australian lost for words. Cullen was there to record the event with a photographer. He still considered Carter to be the centrepiece of his story of the bomber war.

  Another medal recipient was White, awarded the DFC for his devotion to duty that night over Norfolk. He made the journey from East Grinstead to stand in his uniform, weathering the pain to be with his peers. Carter promised him a place as an instructor when he was cleared to fly again. White emphasised the when, rather than the unspoken if. Stubborn determination blazed in his eyes to make that a reality.

  The one thing he missed during the fuss of setting up the HCU was Wilkinson. By the time he’d returned to Group, his friend was long gone. At the beginning of July, Wilkinson had been posted as an RAF liaison officer to the newly formed American 8th Air Force headquarters. Helen and their new daughter went with him, setting up house in a nice little cottage, not far from the HQ. He was kept busy, smoothing ruffled local feathers as new airfields sprang up all over the place in Norfolk. The air was filled with the noisy thunder of Wright Cyclone engines as B17’s and B24’s started to arrive from across the Atlantic.

  He still thought the Americans were mad to try daylight bombing. All the same, that didn’t stop him from going on some of the early missions over Lorient and other French targets as a waist gunner to see them in action. Helen would have killed him if she had known her husband was risking his neck over France so he told her he’d gone up on training flights. Wilkinson wrote Carter a letter about it all, telling him about the tight box formations the Americans flew and the B17’s that bristled with guns like some porcupine.

  As 1942 drew to a close, Carter settled into life at New Ha
ven. He went up regularly to see that the trainees were coming up to his standard but he never flew himself. With a gammy arm, the Flight Surgeon had pronounced his flying days were over. Carter had strong opinions about that. If Douglas bloody Bader could fly with no legs and some other fighter johnny could fly a Spit with one hand missing and a hook in its place, then Carter felt he should be allowed to go back on ops.

  One day he managed to wangle a flip in one of the new Mosquitoes. Fast and nimble, she was responsive on the controls and his weak hand was not the impediment he thought it would be. Despite everything that had happened, he still felt the pull to be part of an operational squadron again. He knew he wasn’t ready yet, but one day he would be. It was just going to take perseverance and a lot of hard work to get back.

  He thought about that as he got changed in his office one drab autumn morning. He knew what Georgette would say. Part of him thought he was crazy to contemplate going back on ops, but he knew deep down that if he was ever given the chance he’d jump at the opportunity.

  His arm twinged and his fingers tingled with pins and needles as he took off his tunic and draped it over the back of his chair. He flexed his fingers as he looked at his hand, turning it front to back, seeing the zig zag of scars in the skin. He shrugged on his leather flying jacket and went outside, the straps on his flying boots flapping, the Mae West draped over his shoulder. He got into the waiting Tilly and the Corporal drove him out to dispersal to put another crew through their paces.

  “Right chaps, let’s get cracking,” he said as he climbed up into the cockpit. “Maximum effort!”

  The pilot slid the side window open and gave the groundcrew a thumbs up. The Sergeant pointed to the starboard inner. The propeller started turning, the cylinders banged and then there was a throaty roar as the Merlin engine caught.