Carrick, great work by Rupert! Those twin guns make all the difference, don't they?

Thanks to everyone for the condolences. I shall miss Vogel and Steinmesser. I think the latter will end the war running a Soldiers' Council and thieving his way back to Germany. Here is my first instalment for my newest reincarnation.

War Journal of Flight Sub-Lieutenant George Ewan MacAlister
8 Squadron, RNAS
Mont-St-Eloi, France

Part 1


Squadron Commander Christopher Draper

The Squadron Commander’s name was Draper. He seemed like a keen sort, unafraid of command yet slightly awkward about it, somewhat like a new prefect although more organised. He motioned for me to put my sea-bag and valise in the corner and take a seat. Then he put me through close questioning.

“Family?”

“Two brothers, HMS Valiant and HMS Penelope. One sister, University of Glasgow.” I watched as the commander scratched notes in his leather-bound journal.

“Father?”

“My father is a surgeon in Glasgow. He practised in London for many years.” Now he is at the Royal Infirmary and teaches at the School of Medicine. Our home is in Dumbarton, but Father stays in the city through the week.”

“So he was never a Navy man?”

I shook my head. “His two brothers are both retired RN, though.”

“School?”

“Harrow, three years. Saint Bee’s before that, sir.”

Draper smiled. “That explains why I can understand you. Training?”

“I did basic at Chingford, sir. Then gunnery at Eastchurch and advanced at HMS Daedilus. Then I was drafted to Dover and got a few hours in on Pups and Camels, sir.”

“How many hours on Camels?”

“Ten, sir. Nearly eleven.”

“Nearly eleven? Splendid. And you haven’t killed herself yet. Even better. You’re going to need a bit more practice before your much good to us, I’m afraid. We have a few of the lads on leave so we need to slot you into patrols, but we shall do our best to keep your world Hun-free. Welcome to Naval Eight!”

Squadron Commander Draper pulled his chair back with a squeak. “Now let’s see who is in the wardroom.” Draper retrieved his cap from a hook by the door and led me outside past a row of Bessonneau hangars to an Armstrong hut that bore a hand-painted sign announcing that it was indeed our wardroom. The skipper entered first and I heard the scraping of chairs as the residents jumped to their feet. I gave a glance over my shoulder before stepping inside. It was raining hard and the guns pounded loud and close. There was a “push” underway a little to the south. The sun was setting and the gun-flashes rippled orange on the lowering cloud. Over by the squadron office, the White Ensign stretched out from its pole and snapped sharply in the wind and the ship’s bell swayed on its gantry.

Inside, it took a second for my eyes to adjust. The windows had no glass, only oilcloth. The heat in the room came from two fat iron stoves. Bits of German aeroplane hung from the walls and ceilings, interspersed with watercolour cartoons and dirty pictures. Two officers lounged over a battered billiard table and four others played a noisy game of ping-pong at the far end of the room. Newspapers and magazines littered odd tables. Armchairs showed stuffing where they had been nipped and torn by one of the several dogs that yelped and skittered about the floor. There were many introductions, and I came away with no memory at all of who was who. I have always been terrible with names.

Squadron Commander Draper bought me a whiskey at the bar. I asked him if he would remind me of the name of the flight commander he said was mine.

“Munday,” he said. “Good man on balloons. Bagged four of them so far. He likes to do it at nighttime.”

I’d had a long day getting here from Dunkirk, but I had to remain in the wardroom long enough to buy a drink for the skipper. That was enough to attract two or three of the other pilots and lead to yet another round. It was nearly midnight before I could leave. My kit was still in the squadron office and I had to find the Officer of the Watch to get the place unlocked. Then there was a long and muddy trudge to find the correct Armstrong hut in the dark. I stumbled about inside until I found a vacant place for my cot.

The next morning, 22 November 1917, I went for breakfast with my cabin-mates. We were all sublieutenants. There was White, a Canadian. He was born and raised on some island in Ontario and told tales of duck hunting and Red Indians. Sneath was a Londoner from Hendon, which explains his love of flying. He told me he grew up at the edge of a flying field. Rounding out our little band of novice pilots was Holmes, a Welshman. He told me his life story over a boiled egg and I did not understand a word. It had been a cold night in our canvas-sided hut. The others showed little sympathy and informed me that until a couple of weeks ago the squadron had been entirely housed in tents. I made a note to buy some blankets on my first trip into a town.

After breakfast, Flight Commander Munday met me at the sheds after breakfast and we spent a couple of hours with my rigger, Semple, and my fitter, Billington. The rain continued all day and the low cloud and high winds eliminated any chance of flying, but we were able to wheel my Camel over to the butts to zero the machine guns.

The skipper gave me a sheet of paper with a list of don’ts for the Camel. There were points on it I had not learned in training such as the importance of keeping the throttle open when the engine is off to let cool air run through the engine. It seems that each point on the list has caused someone to land in a field!

The gods conspired to keep me from the air again for two more days. Finally, on the late morning of Saturday, 24 November 1917, I flew for the first time with Naval Eight. Ours was a defensive patrol well back of the lines, the perfect introduction for a tyro like me. We flew north toward Bailleul, flitted about for a while, and returned home. I knew I was being tested for my ability to keep formation. This crowd keeps a fairly loose formation, the better for combat, I am told. That made it fairly easy. There were a few times when I fell a little behind or below, but I was able to catch up and take my place within less than a minute on every occasion. In all we were out for nearly two hours and did not see another machine. Or at least I did not see another machine. Apparently there were several, all friendly. I am assured that all new pilots have difficulty spotting other machines in the air at first. That is disconcerting, I must say.

The Camel is a lovely machine but a temperamental one. Like all rotary-engined machines, one is for ever fiddling with the mixture. It was drilled into me to ignore the gradients marked on the throttle and mixture quadrants and simply tune the thing by ear like a piano. Not being tremendously musical, this made me nervous, but I soon found it to be good advice. I took special care during turns to keep the nose of the machine on the horizon. That is no small feat in a Camel. Turn one way and the nose falls; turn the other way and the nose rises. The machine guns here have a much faster rate of fire than the guns of the Camel I trained on in Dover. I am told that this is due to a device that uses the escaping gas from the barrel to boost the gun’s recoil. I shall have to get the armourer to explain it to me.

On Sunday, 25 November 1917, the weather broke at last. Squadron Commander Draper was leading the show. He briefly explained to us that our forces, led by masses of tanks, had come close to a breakthrough near Cambrai. Today our job was to patrol the lines north of Cambrai and make sure that no enemy machine was able to spot for artillery or take photographs. We took off in twos and climbed away to the south, arriving over the lines at 7000 feet. I was stationed slightly above and to the left of Draper, with others stepping up on either side and another formation of Camels above and to our rear. It had been pressed on me never to fly more than fifteen or twenty seconds without a glance over my shoulder.

I probably forgot that instruction because of my intense concentration on station-keeping. We patrolled in this manner down to Cambrai and then turned north as far as Courcelles. We had just turned back toward Cambrai when Draper began waggling his wings and turned a little more to the east. We climbed for several minutes. I had been taught that such a wing waggling was a signal that enemy machines had been sighted, yet the sky was empty. I began to wonder what else it might connote when, almost directly in front of me and a little above, a large two-seater suddenly appeared. Most oddly, its wings bore crosses instead of cockades! I watched open-mouthed while Draper and another Camel had a go at it. The German machine, for that is what it was, turned about and passed overhead. I brought my Camel around to the left in a climbing turn, being careful to avoid the stall it was prone to in this manoeuvre. Suddenly there was a jolt and my Camel fell into a sideslip. Off to one side I saw another Sopwith spiralling down with a piece missing from its upper centre section. It seems I had collided in my first brush with combat. I continued my sideslip and watched as the other Camel – it was White’s – recovered control and headed back toward Mont-St-Eloi. My right lower plane was badly damaged. Still, I was able to recover full control and head home. I landed at a somewhat higher speed than normal as my machine threatened to stall at a normal speed. To my surprise, at the moment I touched the ground my landing gear went on strike and walked off the job! The Camel collapsed onto its belly and skidded to a stop. It was the consensus of the onlookers that the sodden condition of the field probably saved my life.


"My right lower plane was badly damaged."

There was little time to fret. Draper called White and me on the carpet and questioned us about the collision. I explained that I was in a hard left bank and had last seen White well off to my right and somewhat behind. White explained that he had also turned to the left and had glanced over his shoulder. When he looked ahead he did not see my machine as his view was blocked by the upper wing and he did not expect me to be in such an aggressive turn. We walked away from the experience having been reminded of how much money we had taken from the King’s pocket and how little brainpower the two of us possessed.

My machine was ready late that afternoon and we were bound for Cambrai and another line patrol. This one was led by Flight Lieutenant Compston. Compston is our leading Hun-getter by all accounts. We patrolled the lines north of Cambrai for nearly 40 minutes before Compston signalled that he had spotted a German. Again we climbed eastward. This time, however, I spotted the Hun when he was still a few hundred yards off. I had been studying the aircraft recognition manual and identified the machine as a Rumpler – a quick, high altitude observation machine. I was perfectly positioned to approach the EA from behind and below and flew under it until I could see its belly through the cutout in my upper wing. Then I pulled the joystick back and fired. It took only a second or two before I popped up on the German’s tail. This was a dangerous situation and one I should have avoided. As soon as one is high enough, the enemy observer has an easy shot at a stationary target.

My intent was to dip back below the Hun but I kept firing and saw my rounds hitting all about the sections of the machine where the observer and pilot sat. And then to my surprise, the Rumpler dipped its left wings and fell into a level spin. I circled about and watched as it continued to fall out of control for more than a minute. Eventually I lost sight of it against the ground, but by that point it was mere seconds from crashing. I turned away and looked for the rest of the formation. Not finding them, I flew to the most northern end of our patrol line, thinking this to be the safest location for a novice flying alone. Nearly twenty minutes passed before I saw a large group of scouts approaching. The distinctive lower wing dihedral of the Camel told me I was back in safe hands.


"And then to my surprise, the Rumpler dipped its left wings and fell..."

Back at Mont-St-Eloi, there were many hearty congratulations and more than a few drinks. It was considered a “bloody good show” to down a Hun on one’s first day over the lines. I was feeling very satisfied with my lot in life.