Epower – wonderful pictures and story of life in 56. An delightful to see you back at the Café Fou.

Carrick – Mr Thorpe seems to be doing well. Now if the claims gods can only get on his side…

Lou – the pictures of the silvery Hun caught in the searchlight are mesmerising.

Fullofit – impressive work on those two Nieuports. For a moment I thought they were going to be all over you.

RT – shattered to see your man gone so soon. I hope you can start up another one quickly. I really enjoy the "historical document" format.


War Journal of Flight Sub-Lieutenant George Ewan MacAlister

8 Squadron, RNAS

Mont-St-Eloi, France


Part 7


"The Albatros came apart in the air, shedding its wings and part of its undercarriage."

Compston welcomed my personal to his little gathering in the C Flight Bessonneau. “MacAlister! You look like a jam jar full of snot.”

He was right, of course. My hair was uncombed and I had not shaven. My mouth tasted like the bottom of a parrot’s cage and I was still not entirely steady on my feet. I was wearing a rollneck sweater over my pyjamas with my greasy as tunic over that and a pair of corduroy trousers. Worse yet, I had a splitting headache and was having a bit of a problem focusing. Compston said he would lead us over but that it would be my job to lead us back at the end of the patrol. “A bit of responsibility is the perfect tonic” is the way he put it.

The job was to marry up with some RE8s over Arras and then escort them to photograph the enemy reserve lines from Cambrai north for several miles. We took off and I slotted into my assigned position at the back of the seven-aircraft formation. I had heard that the cold air at altitude was a hangover cure but had not believed it. I was very pleased to learn that the rumour was true. Thirty minutes after takeoff I was feeling ready to roar. The patrol was uneventful and after ninety minutes, the boys in the two-seaters waved goodbye and dived towards their home aerodrome. I moved to the front of our formation to take the lead from Compston. Just as I was about to do so, I spotted a single Albatros heading east. It was well below us and crossing our path from left to right. I waggled my wings and pointed to it. Compston pointed at me and then at Colton and then he pointed down toward the Hun. I made sure that Colton was paying attention and would follow me and began a long full-throttle dive.

We caught the Hun west of Pronville as he turned north toward the Hun aerodrome at Riencourt. I do not believe he knew we were there until my rounds began smashing into his machine. The Albatros came apart in the air, shedding its wings and part of its undercarriage. I watched it crash a couple of kilometres south of Riencourt and rushed away to rejoin our patrol. Archie followed us back over the lines but we were off and clear within a few minutes.

On our return to Mont-St-Eloi, I filed my report. Unfortunately, Colton suffered from that common inability of novice war pilots to spot enemy machines in the air. Although he had followed me faithfully, he managed not to see the Hun at all!

The next day was Sunday, 9 December 1917. The weather was filthy and all flying was scrubbed. Despite the snow we had a visit from a fleet chaplain and divisions were called for 10 AM in one of the hangars. I expected the usual “let us pray that God smites the Hun” speech but this fellow was different. He had the stewards serve tea with a spot of rum to ward off the chill and we talked about whether it was possible to have war without hate. It really was a splendid discussion, after which there was communion for the faithful and an exchange of somewhat clean jokes.

In the afternoon, White, Sneath, and I got a drive into the village and paid call on Hairy Legs and her little estaminet. We spent a pleasant afternoon and White got to practice his French.

The foul weather continued another day and the snow made the roads treacherous, so we stoked up the stoves in our cabin and spent the day on “make and mend” and sleeping.

Compston let me lead our patrol on the morning of 11 December. We escort it three DH4s over the lines toward Monchy. We had no contact until our return flight when a lone DFW two-seater passed overhead. The DH4s were at our separation point so I immediately turned about and led a chase through the clouds. The Clerget was running beautifully and I emerged alone from a cloud bank to find myself in perfect position immediately below and behind the green DFW. I closed to about twenty yards before firing and then popped up just to one side of its tail and fired about twenty rounds at the observer. He tried to swing his gun around but I jinked over to the other side of his tail and, before he could pull the gun back in that direction, I fired again and saw the observer slip out of sight into the fuselage. Now I could close to a very short distance. The next burst must have killed the pilot because the machine fell out of control. I saw it disappear into some clouds at about one thousand feet, still in a flat spin.

The two-seater was confirmed to have crashed by our batteries on the ground. It became my sixteenth confirmed victory.

The next day brought better weather, although it remained very cold. We were rigged out with Le Prieur rockets for a balloon strafe. Takeoff was in near complete darkness, a new experience and none too comfortable. The target balloon was well to the south. It took nearly forty minutes to get there. The morning sun glinted off its skin, making it visible from a long way off. I was well ahead of the others and attacked first, hitting it with my rockets. I had left it a trifle late before toggling the electric switch. The balloon went up in flames and threw my Camel over. I could feel my spine twinge and made my way quickly back across the lines. The nearest aerodrome was Courcelles. I put down there and had the machine checked over. The place was home to 12 Squadron, flying RE8s. Their commanding officer gave me the lend of a hot water bottle for my back. An hour in an armchair with the hot water bottle put me right again.

The balloon was confirmed for number seventeen.

On 13 December 1917 we were sent up to Ypres on a line patrol. Cloud was very heavy and visibility poor. We flew our assigned route and I was quite convinced that we would go home without contact. But then a large group of Albatri appeared and a general melee ensued. We were outnumbered at first. I managed some snapshots at several Huns, two of which dived away. That left us five-on-five, a ratio much to our advantage. The Huns did not have much stamina. Every time I got a crack at one it disappeared and did not return. Finally it seemed they were all gone. But then I noticed one Albatros down low just behind the Hun lines. It appeared to be circling in preparation for landing at the enemy aerodrome at Rekkem. It was a simple matter to dive onto his tail. He was finished before he knew we were there. Dennett witnessed the attack, which was confirmed as victory number eighteen.