Maximum Effort Read online

  Maximum Effort

  By

  Vincent Formosa

  Copyright 2020 by Vincent Formosa

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own legal copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover layout by Vincent Formosa.

  The photograph that forms the basis of the front cover, was provided with kind permission of Andrew Greenway. The photograph is copyright © of Andrew Greenway and may not be reproduced without his written permission.

  This is a novel. The characters, situations and military organisations are an invention of the author, except where they can be identified historically. Any other resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Likewise, names, dialogue and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination to fit the story and not to be interpreted as real.

  Author email : [email protected]

  This book would not exist if it were not for the help and hard work of a number of people. Particular thanks go to my diligent beta readers, Jon Hayden, Barbara Boon, Caroline Edink-Koppelaar and Claire Hack for spending many hours going over my manuscript, making suggestions and discussing their ideas with me for which I am truly grateful.

  I am also especially grateful to Dom Howard for providing copies of the official Bomber Command Night Raid Reports covering the period the novel took place, they were invaluable for helping to make details on the raids as accurate as possible.

  Other titles by the same author

  The Eagles Of Peenemunde

  Run The Gauntlet

  Available in both Kindle and paperback formats on Amazon.

  Contents

  01- Going Home

  02 - A Stranger, In A Strange Land

  03 - Here We Go Again

  04 - Busman’s Holiday

  05 - Gardening, A Very British Past Time

  06 - We’re H-A-P-P-Y

  07 - It’s Always The Little Things

  08 - Deep And Crisp And Even

  09 - One Of Those Months

  10- Tremors

  11 - The Big City

  12 - Lost Souls

  13 - The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

  14 - Chance Meetings

  15 - Back In The Saddle

  16 - On Their Way

  17 - Pushing Your Luck

  18 - Bah, Humbug!

  19 - Under A Wandering Star

  20 - Milk Runs

  21 - Silver Screen

  22 - Take A Chance On Me

  23 - Again, Again, and Again

  24 - Love And War

  25 - Hoodoo Boy

  26 - All The Fun Of The Fair

  27 - London’s Burning

  28 - On The Fence

  29 - Two Down, One To Go

  30 - Best Laid Plans And All That

  31 - Elan And Greek Myth

  32 - Left Hand, Right Hand

  33 - New Broom

  34 - When Luck Finally Runs Out

  35 - Without Which Not

  36 - Send In The Heavies

  37 - Fingernails

  38 - Paraskevi

  39 - To Shelter For A While

  40 - Humpty Dumpty

  41 - It’s So Bracing

  42 - To Fight Another Day

  43 - New Lease

  44 - Waltz The Light Fantastic

  45 - With Great Power

  46 - Baby Steps

  47 - Teething Troubles

  48 - Picking Up The Pieces

  49 - Flogging A Dead Horse

  50 - Bull And Brass

  51 - Monkey And The Grinder

  52 - Joyride

  53 - Unreasonable Haste Is The Direct Road To Error

  54 - One Of Our Aircraft Is Missing

  55 - Hold Them By The Hand

  56 - Command Decisions

  57 - The Measure Of A Man

  58 - The Politics Of War

  59 - Trout

  60 - Crucible

  61 - World Enought And Time

  Sample Of Run The Gauntlet

  1 – Going Home

  The war that had engulfed Europe seemed far away in Scotland. The Germans hadn’t ventured so far north since 1940 and the nearest the rolling hills and lochs got to the war was the sound of engines reverberating off the heather. Aircraft flew up and down, the men on board doing what they could to prepare for war.

  They went out for hours at a time, flying their aircraft around northern Scotland at operational weight, dropping practice bombs on the ranges and then coming home. Sometimes, those close to finishing their course would go on an actual op, laying mines off the coast or dropping leaflets telling the Germans how nasty the war was and they should all pack it in. Relatively easy jobs like this could give a crew more learning than any number of hours in a classroom or on a training flight.

  They had come from all over the world. Trained abroad in Canada, South Africa and Australia as part of the Empire training program, these men had crossed vast oceans to get the final polish at Operational Training Units before being posted to an operational squadron down south.

  Overseeing this training were men who had already been through the crucible. One of them was Flight Lieutenant Alexander Carter. His experience was worth more than gold. It had been won with blood and guts and raw courage during seven long months flying Hampdens over Germany. Then one day, someone decided he’d done enough trips and he was screened, given some leave and packed off to a Flying Instructors School in the Cotswolds.

  Now it was his job to pass on these lessons to the next generation. A stickler for detail, he held his pupils to a high standard and he expected them to excel. War was a serious business. Too often on his old squadron, he’d often seen mediocre aircrew take off into the inky night never to return.

  No one would ever know for sure why they didn’t come back. Some obviously fell to flak, some fell to fighters but a lax attitude could kill you just as easily as the enemy could. He knew of gunners who’d have a casual fag on the way home after a long op. Then there was the crew who would listen to the radio when they got over the channel, like it was a summer outing. He had no time for someone who was here to play. A navigator who got you lost on a clear day with no wind would be next to useless over Germany in the dark. One man's lack of skill could kill six or seven other poor sods that deserved better.

  Carter found he had to balance his own personal standard with that of requirement. Squadrons were crying out for men, so he couldn’t bin everyone he felt was lacking, but he could do what he could to help them survive. If that meant he was harsh sometimes, then so be it. He knew some sprogs called him flak happy, regarding his dour demeanour as pessimism or even a lack of nerve. One pilot he’d washed out had told him to his face he was round the bend. His conscience could live with that.

  Today, he was giving one of his crews their final assessment to see how much they had learned and absorbed from him. He stood in the cockpit just by the right shoulder of a smooth faced twenty year old Pilot Officer who was doing his best under his instructor’s beady gaze. The aircraft dipped on a swell of air and then bounded up again. The airframe of the Vickers Wellington creaked in protest at this sudden shift in height. Carter gripped the back of the pilot’s seat hard to maintain his balance.

  Behind him, the navigator was busy plotting their course and he gave his pilot a course correction over the R/T. The twin engine bomber turned left, the pilot doing his best to maintain the same
height through the turn, riding the controls as he fought the gusting winds.

  It was what Carter called a medium day. Heavy clouds were being turned into fluffy big balls of cotton by high winds, giving them a bumpy ride and an interesting challenge. This was good weather for a raid at night. Cloudy conditions made it harder for searchlights and nightfighters to find you. Darkness was your friend, to be embraced and fondled like a lover.

  Nothing could prepare you for that first time when an enemy searchlight speared you in its white hard glare and the flak started to zero in on you. Your stomach would coil and churn, your eyes would go wide; your mouth would go dry as your aircraft shook from the exploding shells. If you were good enough or lucky enough or reacted quick enough, you’d shake them off and lose yourself in the inky black.

  The Wellington lurched again and Carter smiled. High winds threw off dead reckoning. Turbulence made things difficult for the crew. He made it harder by announcing that their radio had packed up. Now it was all down to their navigator so it was up to the rest of the crew to help him. Soon, gunners were passing sightings of landmarks, lakes, rivers and villages as they spotted them. It was all good stuff at getting them to work together as a team. They had to learn that they relied on one another to survive. It was better they realised that now rather than at a moment of crisis when it was too late to make a difference.

  They held this course for another half an hour, ever westwards. Weaving in and out of the clouds, the bomber flew on sedately. Carter liked the Wellington. On the ground she looked like a pregnant cow, squatting on her main undercarriage. In the air, she was just a little bit tubby around the middle, but she had the strength to get you home. He’d heard more than one tale of Wellingtons coming back with their canvas torn to shreds and the geodetic frames shot through.

  The ones they had at the OTU were tired and had seen better days, but even that was a lesson he could use to his advantage. Pilots needed to have the confidence that their plane would hold together. Minor defects were not things to scrub an op for. You worked around those and you shoved, cajoled and pleaded with the gremlins to cooperate. If that didn’t work, you ignored them and just got on with it.

  East of Inverness on the picturesque shore of the Moray Firth, six miles north of Elgin, was RAF Lossiemouth. The station wouldn’t win any beauty prizes, but it was a wonderful location to fly from. Built on over five hundred acres of rough farm land, it had been completed in May 1939, not long before the outbreak of war. It wasn’t as fancy as the more permanent stations down south, but Lossiemouth still had a lot going for it. The land was flat for miles around, perfect to stop raw crews from wrapping themselves around any odd tree or hill that took their fancy. That was not to say that accidents didn’t happen, but it certainly made the odds of surviving the day better.

  To the south was the hilly expanse of the Cairngorms. Many an escape and evasion exercise had been run in the gorse and heather of the Cairngorms. The local soldiers got to hunt RAF types and throw around a lot of thunderflashes. It was all thrilling stuff, right out of the boys own papers. Biggles would have been proud.

  Coming in from the north over the sea, the Wellington broke into the circuit and waited for their turn to land. Despite the weather and whatever niggles Carter had decided to throw their way, their navigator had managed to stay on track and bring them back on time. He watched intently as the pilot went through the landing routine. Gear down, flaps down, a confident hand slowly closing the throttles as the big bomber descended. Yes, this crew would make the grade, he decided. He’d cast a critical eye over everything and they’d handled it with aplomb. Short of shooting at them, he’d pushed them as much as he could.

  The Wellington kissed the ground for a perfect three pointer and taxied smartly off the runway to dispersal. A final touch of the brakes, full rudder and a quick burst of throttle from the starboard engine and the bomber swung around and came to a stop. The engines were shut down and for the first time in three hours there was peace and quiet.

  The pilot dragged the leather helmet off his head and ran his fingers through his blonde hair. Ears ringing from the engine noise he worked his jaw, trying to make them go pop. Carter crouched down and went into the nose as the bomb aimer opened the hatch. A ladder was hooked on and they got down to stand once more on terra firma. The pilot signed the aircrafts form 700 and then turned an expectant look on Carter. The whole crew did.

  "You'll do," Carter said with a smile. He remembered when he’d been on an OTU himself, that curious feeling of expectation and worry, nervousness and excitement while you waited to be told that you had made it. The pilot extended a hand towards him.

  "Thank you, sir," he said, his voice full of plummy vowels and cut glass enunciation.

  "No need to thank me, Andrews, all of you," replied Carter, addressing the whole crew. "You’ve worked hard to get this far. I just helped polish the rough edges. I'll see you in the Mess later to celebrate."

  Going their separate ways, Carter went to the instructors Nissen hut next to one of the hangars. He sat down at his desk and started writing up some notes on the flight. He was still at it half an hour later when Arthur ‘Askey’ Burton came in. Carter grunted in response to a question as he carried on writing. Burton tutted as he dumped his flying gear on a vacant armchair.

  “All work and no play makes, Carter a dull boy,” commented Burton. He’d just got in from a check flight of his own and was now done for the day. With the course drawing to a close there was almost a holiday air about the place. Burton was looking forward to the forty eight hour pass the instructors would have to relax before the next batch of pupils arrived.

  “Figured out where you’re going?” he asked Carter.

  There was a pause while Carter finished off a sentence before replying.

  “I thought I might drift over to Loch Ness, walk around the hills a bit, stroll by the water.”

  Burton snorted.

  “Haggis hunting?”

  Carter grinned, showing an even row of teeth.

  “The quiet appeals to me.” They both looked up as the thunder of a Whitley passed overhead. “After this madhouse? A few days with some peace and quiet sounds like heaven.”

  Burton made a face, it was civilisation for him and a quick train to Inverness. His needs were simple. He wanted a hotel with a warm room, a comfy bed and some decent booze. He thought about the graduation knees up in the Mess that evening. He was in the mood for a few jars to finish off the day before going off on leave.

  He hovered over Carter, watching quietly as his friend continued to write his report. He shook his head and tutted as Carter wrote a particular sentence.

  “What’s three down, ends in ‘S’, another name for a donkey?” asked Carter without looking up, his voice distant and distracted.

  “Ass,” answered Burton quickly.

  “Well you’re being one,” said Carter tartly. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

  Burton made a face and stuck out his tongue. He shoved his gear off the armchair and sat down on it, his long legs stuck out in front of him. He rubbed a hand up and down his face and yawned. He found assessing someone else’s flying tiring. It took a lot of mental energy to just stand there and watch when you wanted to yank the controls out of their hands and do it yourself.

  A salt of the earth type, Burton had come up the hard way. He’d been a Sergeant pilot on the first daylight raids of the war and watched as his friends got cut to pieces. After surviving that bloodbath, he’d been switched over to night bombing. Like the rest of them, he had groped over northern Europe at six and seven thousand feet in the dark, learning how to do his job all over again.

  After eight trips, he got his own aircraft. On his ninth op, he came back with two dead crew and a skeletal bomber. A fire had broken out and burned off all the canvas from the rear fuselage all the way back to the tail. He got a DFM for that. He got his commission not long afterwards and when his tour was over he was sent to Lossiemouth; a rare survivor.


  Burton picked up a stray newspaper and scanned the gloomy headlines. There’d been very little good news in 1941. They were hanging on but people were starting to ask just how many reverses and disasters they could withstand. Europe was under the Nazi jackboot after the cockup in France and the Low Countries. It was a mess in the Med and now the Russians were catching it.

  He looked over the top of the paper at Carter who was still writing away. He may have been a stick in the mud sometimes, but he could be quite good fun when he was in the mood. Burton remembered when Carter had first arrived at Lossie. He’d been like a coiled spring after months on ops and it took him a good few weeks to unwind. Burton knew what that felt like.

  Carter nibbled on the end of a pencil as he pondered how to word a certain phrase in his assessment. After a few months, Burton had developed the knack to rattle off his reports, but Carter took the time to make them particular to each candidate. This prissy attitude had brought him some stick at times but Burton rather liked this pernickety aspect of Carters character. He didn’t suffer fools gladly but he also gave credit where it was due. That was a nice trait to have Burton thought.

  Carter absently scratched at a thin scar that followed the line of his left cheekbone as he signed off the report. He shoved the paper into an envelope with a bundle of other reports and left it on his desk.

  “There, done,” he announced.

  “Good, can we go to the bar now?”

  Laughing, Carter picked up his cap and held the door open for Burton. The tall man uncoiled from the armchair and loped towards the exit.

  “Ah thang yah,” he said in a slow drawl as he went past. “Gods teeth,” he hissed as he got outside. The weather had turned. On the north east horizon, a bank of dark clouds was looming over the lead grey waters of the Moray Firth and coming in quickly. There was rain in those clouds, or Burton was no judge and he quickened his pace. The wind increased in the time it took them to get to the Mess and their greatcoats were whipping around their ankles when they went inside.