Fullofit – thank you for keeping us entertained over the holidays. Ziggy continues to impress and I continue to watch your videos to learn about all the good things I should be doing but am not. You do a marvellous job of conserving energy.

Carrick – another indefatigable DiDder! How are you enjoying the SE5?

Epower – good to see Oliver in the skies again. I hope you have some catching up time. Some brilliant photographs in your last post.

I have been away from the same for a few days and am happy to be back.

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

8 Squadron, RNAS
Mont-St-Eloi, France

Part 12


The year marked its departure with a spell of bad weather – driving snow, sleet, and general misery. My only flight was a brief one on 29 December. Some Huns had a thought to drop bombs on the aerodrome and we rushed to get into the air and after them. I took a run at a juicy two-seater and broke off when the observer got a bit too keen for my liking. No sooner had I backed away than my machine gave an almighty jolt. I saw another Camel emerge from beneath me, the outer part of its upper left wing shorn off. The outer part of my lower right wing matched it perfectly. I was able to regain control and put my machine down amidst the bombs that were dropping. White – for it was White with whom I had collided – followed close behind. We had both been lucky.

White paid me back the next day. The boy Stephane was hard at work polishing my boots when I came back from tea. “Dere is hot water for you to wash your arse,” he said.

“For me to do what?” I asked.

“You know, wash your arse,” he replied. He made washing motions over his face.

I looked about the cabin. “Which one of you devils is teaching this boy English? He just got ‘arse’ and ‘face’ mixed up. White put down his magazine and peered at my face.

“Honest mistake, I’d say,” he offered.

New Year’s Eve was a bit of a panic. The Brigadier was visiting along with the GOC, General Haig and a high-ranking Belgian. They were staying for lunch and wish to inspect the squadron. One of the perils of the air service is that flying officers are spared the tedium of learning drill to any standard. They also lack the opportunity to command other ranks, being prisoners of their own company. As a result we practised our drill under the direction of the Jaunty, Chief Petty Officer Rosling. Few of us had done much drill since Cranwell and it was a comic show for the first few hours. The denizens of the lower deck lined the field to watch, and CPO Rosling had to threaten them several times to stop their laughter and overly loud comments. In the end, we were able to get on and off parade and avoid bumping into each other.

The GOC’s inspection went well and he called out for officers for decorations. Price, Day, and Johnstone all received DSCs, while Jordan received a bar to the one he already had. Squadron Commander Draper was visibly proud. Lunch was pleasant and I was pleased to see that young Stephane was assisting the stewards. He even got to pour wine for General Haig, who commented on his skill as a waiter. “I learn here,” Stephane told him. “It is f----ing easy for me.” I thought the General was going to die and the Squadron Commander impaled White with a deadly stare. Poor White nearly disappeared under the table.

On the afternoon of 1 January 1918 we flew a distant offensive patrol south of Douai. When we were a good thirty miles over, we were attacked by a very large group of Pfalz scouts. I bagged two of them but neither could be confirmed as the fight broke up all over the sky. The same thing happened on 3 January when I dived on a lone Pfalz and downed it near Monchy. Not until 4 January 1918 was I able to add to my score. We intercepted a pair of Rumplers over Havrincourt Wood and I came up beneath one of them and shot its wings away. Colton was with me and confirmed the kill, number twenty-four.