So much reading to catch up on, and so many pages to scroll through to find it all! Naughty Lou!
Carrick – let me start by sending my condolences. The Curse of the Gong Ferry strikes again. We look forward to your new man and his shiny SE5a.
Epower – you stuck in a new post when I wasn't looking. I completely missed the literary reference. I'll research that tomorrow. I even looked at the address in Chelsea and was pleasantly surprised that I had been a very short distance away back in February when I went to the Saatchi Gallery to see the King Tut exhibit. Had breakfast in the little café tucked into the back of Partridge's. Oliver has certainly had a productive return to duty. I thoroughly enjoyed the leave episodes and am amassing theories about all the little mysteries that you have woven into the tale.
R Talbot – lovely job reproducing the period documents.
Lou – Freddie also did not waste much time beating up on EAs on his return. Please remind him not to linger over Hunland at low altitude!
Wulfe – it is so good to have you back in the mix. Squadron life comes alive in your stories. Wonderful characters! I admired you shooting in that video. That offset gunsight in the Spad never suited me but you are a master with it.
Fullofit – I hope Ziggy is doing well and returning soon.
War Journal of Flight Sub-Lieutenant George Ewan MacAlister
8 Squadron, RNAS Mont-St-Eloi, France
Part 5
"It was snowing heavily near the ground but I could make out a bit of tumbled earth with fewer shell holes than the rest."
4 December 1917 – overcast. The show this morning was a balloon strafe. For this we were rigged with “Le Prieur” rockets. These Heath Robinson contraptions are mounted on the outer wing struts and fired by means of an electrical cable and switch. I’d not even heard of them until I saw the things on my machine. Our meagre supply did not allow for expending any in training. Day, who would lead one of the two flights in the show, told me that the best way to use them was in a dive. “Wait until you’re about to crash into the bloody thing and fire your rockets. Of course, by that time you will be close enough to be destroyed by the blast, but you will be covered in glory and your parents can frame your DSO and hang it beside your picture on the parlour wall.”
Strangely, I found the prospect of attacking a balloon thrilling. They are reputedly well protected by anti-aircraft fire and defensive patrols. C Flight took off before us and quickly disappeared into the grey sky. Day led us up through the cloud. He had figured out that if he aimed his nose at a point just over a hand’s width to the right of the ruined abbey of Mont-St-Eloi, we would be in line with the target balloon. As soon as we were on course he brought us above the cloud, and after about fifteen minutes we dropped back down until we could see the earth again. I was bowled over to see the Hun observation balloon about a mile dead ahead and a little below.
Just as I was preparing myself for the attack, the balloon erupted in flames. C Flight had beaten us to the party! There was nothing else to do and the Archie was most unwelcoming, so we returned to our aerodrome and sent our rockets back to stores.
The afternoon saw us on a long line patrol south toward Cambrai, where the ground Huns were hell-bent on regaining their lost territory. When our time was about up we were attacked by a large formation of Albatros scouts. I made the mistake of turning toward them too quickly and arrived amongst them before my comrades were able to support me. For a very uncomfortable minute or two I had no fewer than five Huns to entertain! Once the others arrived the situation became more manageable. Munday drove an Albatros down and I put a few rounds into another. I spotted an enemy machine on Dennett’s tail and dived on him, firing as I went. Then without warning my machine was hit by a burst from close behind. I attempted evasive action. An aileron wire was broken and my Camel did not handle properly. I could turn to the left only with the stick full over and full rudder. A minute or so later, the offending EA was back on my tail and shooting more bits of my machine away. I was able to force him to overshoot but there was nothing for me to do except find a place to put my crippled Camel down. It was snowing heavily near the ground but I could make out a bit of tumbled earth with fewer shell holes than the rest. I switched off and let my machine drop into the mud. It bounced once and skidded to a halt as the undercarriage partially collapsed.
I took quick stock of my situation. The Canal du Nord had been a short distance off to my left and the village of Etricourt was just ahead. Gunfire was heavy all about and the driving snow reduced visibility. That probably explains why I had not already been shelled. I removed the watch from the cockpit and slipped over the side into the mud. The well-rutted remains of a road guided me to the village, where I found a cluster of soldiers sitting by the tracks of a light railroad. Their actions were heavy and difficult to understand, like a mix of Irish and Cornish. It gradually became clear that these were men of the Newfoundland Regiment. They were leaving the line after holding it against the German counter-attack in the sector. One of their officers, a Captain Whalen, told me that he doubted I could find a working telephone anywhere nearby and he invited me to travel with them as far as Bapaume. This seemed to be a better proposition than walking about with my heavy flying boots. Unfortunately, I was unable to find anyone to guard my machine. In my judgement, the thing was beyond repair in any event.
I reached Bapaume by six that evening and was able to phone back to our aerodrome. The Records Officer was happy to hear that I was safe. I explained the situation with the Camel. After a brief consultation with the Squadron Commander, I was told to remain in Bapaume until a car arrived for me. I gave directions to my crash site. The squadron was sending a lorry with a recovery team. Squadron Commander Draper came on the line and told me not to worry about the aeroplane. He merely wanted a more technical opinion about its salvageability.
Midnight saw me back home, where Sneath welcomed me back to our cabin with three fingers of whisky. It had been an exhausting day. There was a parcel from home that brought tears to my eyes – home-made shortbread, tinned plum pudding, fruit cake wrapped in cheesecloth and soaked in brandy (all in a sturdy tin), Carreras cigarettes, and a copy of Piccadilly Jim. Life had taken a much better turn.
The sun made an appearance on Wednesday, 5 December. After breakfast we lounged about the sheds until the klaxon sounded, followed by two blasts signifying a job for B Flight. Within minutes we were airborne, heading south along the lines toward square some ambitious Hun was attempting to spot for artillery. Finding nothing there, we strolled about the sky looking for trouble. As we passed close to the German aerodrome at Riencourt, we spotted a lone Hannover circling the field in preparation for landing. Day, who was leading our patrol, turned over the field but held off attacking. Perhaps it was impetuous of me, but I throttled back and immediately dived at the Hun. This time I did not attempt to get under its tail. Instead, I came down directly on it and fired into its wings in down into the pilot and observer’s cockpits. The enemy machine shed its wings and fell onto the aerodrome, trailing smoke.
When I climbed away my comrades had disappeared. Archie chased me for several miles as I climbed toward the south. We had been heading in that direction before I dived. I noticed a group of aeroplanes swirling about just to my west. The others – Day, Johnstone, Dennett, Jordan, and Compston – were scrapping with a group of seven or eight Albatri. Coming in late as I did, I caught the Huns unaware. I selected a lovely blue machine that was on Johnstone’s tail and shot at it until it fell out of control. I was sure I had the beast but there was no time to follow its fall.
Another Albatros fired at me from close behind. I climbed to the right and the Hun overshot my Camel. Now the tables were turned and I saw his machine enter a spin and disappear out of control into a low cloud.
On my return I claimed all three machines. Unfortunately, none of my comrades had seen my Huns go down, so the matter rested with the people on the ground.
Late in the afternoon we were back up – a long patrol south toward Albert. It was getting dark and the Huns did not come out to play. Flight Commander Munday allowed me to take his streamers and lead the group. While this was a novel experience in quite a thrill, the responsibility became disconcerting as the sun lowered over the horizon. Thin searchlight beams brushed across the sky and only the faintest reflection of moonlight on rivers or rooftops gave one any indication of where one was. I confess I was totally lost until I saw the rooftops of Arras. The city was identifiable by the curve in the lines to its east. From there I went hunting for the ruined towers of the abbey, which pointed my way home. I began to breathe normally only when I saw the line of fire pots put out to mark our field.
None of my Huns from the morning were confirmed.
We were up twice again on 6 December. It was a lovely day although frigid. In the morning we had a long patrol deep into Hunland. We carried bombs to drop on an enemy aerodrome south of Douai. We picked our way between enemy patrols. The sky was full of Huns, and we were fortunate that none of them spotted us. We made our attack in a shallow dive from three thousand feet and managed to destroy at least five hangers and a two-seater, and then scamper home for a proper breakfast.
In the afternoon we flew north toward Bethune and patrolled over our aerodromes in that sector. After ninety uneventful minutes we returned home.
Squadron Commander Draper informed us at dinner that we have the afternoon off tomorrow and a proper celebration was in order. He mentioned the six Huns I downed in one day and the records of each flight. We have done marvellously well and deserve to feel good about ourselves. Compston is the president of the mess committee and he called his little group together to begin the planning. Every officer was levied ten francs for the extra messing.
Orders came at dinner that the morning show would be an offensive patrol over the area near the Hun aerodrome at Haubordin. We would be carrying bombs in case we had a chance to have a go at the place. There was much black humour in the wardroom about the many ways in which one could miss tomorrow night’s dinner.