Epower – wonderful episode since Oliver's return. Is it "lucky with claims, unlucky with love"? If so, Oliver and Eliza should be back by the weekend.

Wulfe – I love your title, "A Sky Torn Asunder". Little Pierre is a real character. Congratulations on Bill's latest confirmation. I think all our characters are putting their livers through an endurance test. See below…


War Journal of Flight Sub-Lieutenant George Ewan MacAlister

8 Squadron, RNAS
Mont-St-Eloi, France

Part 6

Friday, 7 December 1917 – cloudy with occasional snow. Dinner was set early – six-thirty for seven. But first there was the small matter of an offensive patrol. Normally Munday would have led, but when I walked out to the sheds I saw the patrol leader’s streamer affixed to the rudder of my Camel. Munday was chatting with the skipper, who was joining us.
“It’s your show this morning, Mac,” said Munday as the skipper nodded in agreement. “I’ll give the patrol orders when everyone is here, but you will be in charge of executing them.”

“And don’t get us lost,” added Draper. “I haven’t eaten yet and I’ll be hungry.”

The others were along in a minute – the Canadian, White, and our newest addition, Colton. We were heading up north toward Bethune and from there we were to cross the lines and deny the aerospace over Haubourdin and Phalempin, two Hun aerodromes. The idea left me a little uneasy. Although we were only a few miles over, I understood this to be a busy sector where it would be easy to run into several formations of enemy machines at once. But, in the best tradition of the service, our job was to close with and destroy the enemy regardless of numbers. I’d signed up for this and heartily supported the concept. I simply hadn’t had to do it, and doing it made it all seem quite different.

The flight north was uneventful. We had full cloud cover at seven thousand feet so I stayed below that altitude. I did not have to worry about keeping station because I was leading. There was more time for checking the sky systematically for enemy aeroplanes and for confirming landmarks. At length we approached the southern edge of Bethune, where smokestacks from the mines still poured out black soot. There we turned east and arrived over our patrol area ten minutes later. We carried Cooper bombs and took turns dropping them on Haubourdin aerodrome. Because our main task was control of the air, we did not dive low over the field and our bombing was not very accurate. Squadron Commander Draper managed to set a building alight, so that was some consolation. We sighted enemy machines twice. They were two-seaters and were too high and far-off to be worth chasing. Finally our time was up and we headed southwest toward home.

Munday saw them first – seven Albatri at least a thousand feet above and skirting the base of the cloud ceiling. He dashed in front of my machine and waggled his wings. Then just as I was about to give my first command, he waved for us to follow him as he turned westward. I fell back on his starboard wing tips. The idea was to drag the Huns closer to our lines. But it was already too late. The enemy were dropping on us like falcons. Now it was every man for himself and we turned about to meet the attack. For several minutes it was wild and dangerous. Twice I got a snapshot at a Hun flashing in front of my Camel. And then phosphorus rounds began whipping past my head and leaving trails of smoke. I rolled and dived beneath my attacker. I turned about to find him and more rounds hit my wings. Now I tried a climbing turn, thinking for a second this would fool him. But the Hun appeared directly behind a moment later – a yellow Albatros with a black tail. More phosphorus rounds flashed past.

So it continued. I tried every trick I knew, yet a moment or two later the Albatros would appear on my tail. He was outflying me. This is how it ends, I thought. And then without explanation the German went home. I found myself shaking and covered in sweat. By the time I was on the ground in Mont-St-Eloi, I was as cold as I have ever been.

The dinner could not have come at a better time. We spent the afternoon drinking tea and eating my mother’s shortbread while we cleaned and pressed our clothes. No one, except perhaps the squadron commander, had brought mess dress to France so we were to wear our monkey jackets with winged collars, trousers, and black shoes. If we couldn’t look fancy, at least we would look clean.

I mentioned the wardroom earlier in this journal but did not describe it. It consisted of two Nissen huts joined by a wooden Armstrong hut. The Armstrong housed an entranceway and small cloakroom in the front and a compact kitchen at the back. The Nissen to the left served as the bar and anteroom. Two Canadian stoves in the middle of the room provided heat. A motley collection of armchairs, rocking chairs, and a threadbare sofa provided seating. An overhead wire circled the room in a U-shaped pattern and from it dangled a half-dozen electric light bulbs. There were several kerosene lamps about the room for those who wanted more like to read. Bits of Hun aeroplane adorned the walls. A large, framed print of Trafalgar hung on the end wall above along bookshelf, its glass cracked in two places. A fine oak card table with green baize nestled in one corner and a ping-pong table held the place of honour in the centre of the room. Closer inspection revealed framed Kirchner girls and selected delicacies from La Vie Parisienne scattered about the walls between Hun serial numbers.

Tonight, however, the card table had been moved to the entrance hall and on it was a detailed seating plan for the dinner. I was pleased to see that I was not at the absolute low end of the table. Colton had that distinction, seated across from another new arrival, a Canadian named Cumming. We gathered in the anteroom for cocktails. The steward was mixing up drinks called Manhattans. One of the Canadians, Fowler I think, had brought in a couple of bottles of their native poison, a rye whisky called Yukon Gold. It was mixed with red vermouth and served with a candied cherry. The overall effect was tolerable. There was another new face in the crowd. Reginald Johns was returning to the squadron after recovering from a slight wound that he incurred two or three weeks before my arrival. He came from London. We didn’t get long to speak because he was enticed into telling a story about a nun and an archbishop. Two Manhattans in and some fellow began blowing a boatswain’s whistle. This, I was told, was the signal for “pee parade,” the five-minute warning before mealtime. Once the meal began there would be no getting up from the table before the Loyal Toast.

We settled in and the stewards poured a very nice white wine. They had a gramophone on the go with lovely violin music. I’m not awfully familiar with such stuff but it was pretty. Soup came. A lobster bisque that needed a bit of salt but was very tasty. More wine arrived, red this time. I could feel my cheeks getting flushed and told myself to be careful. The main course was roast pork, served with roast apples, green beans with bacon, and potatoes. It all demanded more red wine. There was seconds for anybody who wanted. I wanted. More red wine.

The tables were cleared and the stewards brought out sherry trifle, fruit, and cheese. Then came the port. Cumming was the youngest and therefore had to propose the Loyal Toast: “Gentlemen, the King.” A little bit up the table, McDonald passed his port glass over his water glass – an old Jacobean trick. “The King over the water.” Bloody Canadian. There are more toasts: “Naval Eight,” “our countrymen in the Royal Flying Corps, ” and the traditional Friday toast of “a willing foe and sea room.”

Draper spoke of how proud he was of the whole squadron. He welcomed and introduced the new men and then said some very kind words about my success in the air.

More port circulated and cigarettes and cigars emerged. The air was heavy with pungent smoke. Decanter can’t touch the table. Keep it moving. I tried a cigar passed to me by Dennett. Another glass of port helped. And a wee bit of brie. Och aye, it’s a grand nicht the nicht. There was a portrait of the King on the wall, but the poor fellow kept drifting away to the right. This was not good at all. I rose slowly to my feet and made for the door, clutching at shoulders and door jambs on the way. The cold air washed over me as I stumbled along the duck boards to the side of the Nissen. There I rested my head against the cold wood, braced myself and stepped back from the wall, and was vilely and enthusiastically ill.

I wandered over to the hangars, where I found Semple and Billington truing up my Camel. They were pleased to see me and overly enthusiastic with the greetings. There was no hiding my condition and I found an oil drum to sit on. “We’ve all been there, sir,” said Semple.

“Been there? Jings, man. I’ve been bloody there and back. Canadian rotgut. Terrible stuff. Red vermouth. Puke in every colour of the rainbow. Oh Christ, I forgot my cigarettes.”

Billington gave me one of his and lit it. “Perhaps the pudding was a bit too rich?” he said.

I nodded. “Very perceptive. That’s exactly it.”

My head was beginning to clear. We chatted a bit about the damage the Camel received that morning and I thanked them for understanding about the pudding. Then I made myself walk as steadily as possible back to the wardroom. There was still coffee and tea to be had and I drank two cups of coffee. The whole squadron repaired to the anteroom. I found a chair in the corner where I could pretend to sip a drink and look dignified. The skipper sat down at the piano and began knocking off show tunes. He didn’t have a bad voice either. Holmes joined in with his Welsh tenor. The show was on. Jordan began with “Poor Blind Nell.” Oswald followed with “Going to the Races” in his best Dan Leno voice. Finally, I was sobered up enough to lead a round of “The Massacre of MacPherson,” complete with Gaelic chorus. Not to be outdone, Johns began a note-perfect impersonation of General Trenchard inspecting the wardroom. It was absolutely hilarious and completely improvised. He dragged Squadron Commander Draper about the room, demanding that he “Make a note of that, Draper.”

I’d had two more drinks by now and wove my way to the latrines where I spent a couple of peaceful hours asleep on my throne before I woke up covered in snow and headed to my cabin.