Lou – Good on Freddy, arranging for Lizzie to see his smiling –er, face – again.

Fullofit – Ziggy deserved a bigger show than the one he got for the Red Eagle. An invitation to Charlottenberg was in order. Perhaps he could fly his new Breguet there!

Carrick – Congratulations on the first confirmed victory for Thorpe. May there be many more!

Epower – I am beginning to get nervous about Oliver's state of mind. I think he should be seen by a nurse.

Wulfe – Good to see you back with another stirring episode. Bill is getting his baptism of fire.

A good couple of days for George…



War Journal of Flight Sub-Lieutenant George Ewan MacAlister, DSC

8 Squadron, RNAS
Mont-St-Eloi, France

Part 10


"Its wings fluttered past me, miraculously avoiding a collision, while the fuselage fell like a flaming dart."

18 December 1917 – clear blue sky with occasional puffy clouds. Were it not for the absolutely frigid weather it would be the perfect flying day. As it was, nothing could keep the chill out. I layered a pair of Cornish fisherman’s socks over my Navy issue woollens and my fug boots over that. My issue trousers gave way to a pair of heavy corduroys worn over my Canadian “long johns” – lovely full-length thermal underclothes (in exchange for which I had forgiven Fowler a gambling debt before he left for England). The label on them announced proudly that they were Stanfield’s Unshrinkables. My Hebridean rollneck sweater was squeezed under my khaki tunic (which would not button). Add a scarf and a fur-lined cap and I was ready to go – all with the exception of my coat. And what a coat! It had arrived yesterday in the post, a Christmas gift from my parents. The box announced that it came from Pettigrew & Stephens of Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow. It was knee length, soft rich reddish-brown leather and it was fastened with four buckles rather than buttons. The collar was deep fox fur, also red-brown in colour. There was a map pocket angled into the chest and two large cargo pockets on the skirt, situated where they would be easily accessible while seated. A thing of beauty and my prize possession. The parcel gave no notice that it was not to be opened immediately upon arrival, and I could not wait for Christmas to wear it. So I strutted out to the hangers like the High King of the Air. Dennett and Jordan gave a whoop and begged me to pirouette like a fashion model, and Jordan insisted on referring to me as your Excellency throughout our pre-flight briefing.

It was a line patrol this morning. Our beat was at 8000 feet north to the Ypres-Menen road and back south to Arras. Visibility was splendid. Some clusters of Huns could be seen far off to the east, but the enemy did not venture over the lines. We flew our route three or four times before spotting a lone Rumpler heading east at 10,000 feet. I gave the signal and climbed at full throttle to intercept. Colton stayed on my wing and the others fell behind in a loose gaggle. My Camel was running beautifully and it seemed like only five minutes before I was snugly behind and below the Hun machine. I began firing from fifty yards and continued in short bursts. The Hun pilot dipped down to give his observer a shot. I jinked from one side of the Rumpler to the other and caught the observer with his gun over the wrong side. From that distance I could not miss. The observer slumped in his seat. I fired another burst and the enemy machine simply shattered. Its wings fluttered past me, miraculously avoiding a collision, while the fuselage fell like a flaming dart. I prayed that the two fellows inside were already gone.

Colton was immediately behind me and there was no doubt about this one. It went up on the chalkboard as number nineteen.

The next morning was, if anything, even more perfect for flight. The sky was painfully clear without a single wisp of cloud in sight. We were ordered for a balloon strafe directly across the lines from Mont-St-Eloi. Balloon strafes were universally unpopular and a tradition had grown up that a balloon strafe was a rite of passage for a new pilot with the squadron. Unfortunately, only Colton and Cumming were new to the game and both were in my flight. I needed two more and asked for volunteers. Price and Johns agreed to join me, after which Dennett and Jordan sheepishly joined in. I told them that it would be a simple show. We would fly over, do the job, and return directly home. There was no point in fooling about in machines that were likely to have been damaged by Archie.

The balloon showed up clearly against the brightly lit ground. I spotted it as soon as we were over our own lines. Some seven minutes later I was diving at it, the Vickers chattering smoothly and my left hand reaching for the toggle switch for the rockets. There was no need. When I was still nearly a hundred yards away, the balloon began to smoke and within seconds was engulfed in flames. I saw the observer jump clear in his parachute. This victory, too, was confirmed and brought my count to an even twenty.

The day clouded over quickly and by tea the snow was blowing thick and drifting across the fields. Squadron Commander Draper called for an officers’ dining-in and we gathered at four-thirty to prepare our own dinner – a lovely and spicy stew full of onions and turnips and rabbit and served with boiled potatoes and plenty of beer. Every man in the squadron had to contribute something to add into the dish. My contribution was the idea of adding a half bottle of sherry to the gravy. I should add that others had similar ideas and that the stew should not have been permitted around open flame. Munday braved the snowdrifts to walk to and from town and returned with loaves of fresh bread and pastries for pudding. The evening degenerated after dinner into a lengthy contest of High Cockalorum, Britons versus Colonials (with the Irish protesting that they were neither and the rest of us thankful for that fact). The Colonials won by cheating, or so we claimed. Cumming skilfully argued that, there being no published rules of the game, employing a frying pan to break the opposing line could not be called a violation of the rules. Draper appealed to his sense of decency and morality, but we reminded the skipper that Cumming was a Canadian and he dropped the matter.

As we broke up the game to tend to our wounds, Draper called the room to silence. He announced that he had one more duty to perform before we retired to independent drunkenness. And with that he presented me with a Distinguished Service Cross. I was only the fourth in the squadron to receive this decoration and was taken completely aback. Moreover, I learned that White was in the know for several days and had stopped at the depot in St-Pol earlier in the week to pick up the ribbon. I was invited to change from my khaki tunic into my monkey jacket with the blue and white ribbon. Also a fixed was the small gold star above the eagle on my cuffs, signifying my appointment as flight commander. Finally, Draper read a telegram of congratulations from the fleet and from RFC headquarters.
The evening wound down early and I pulled an armchair up to the stove in the ward room. There I sat for a half-hour, sipping a brandy and feeling very content with my lot in life.