Fullofit, I am enjoying Rudi's adventures in his new triplane. I regret that I have never had a career that got far enough along to let me fly one.

Lou, wonderful to have Freddie back.

Epower, so a little bit of the story of the dragon's eye is out of the bag… And Eliza always leaves you reading between the lines. Oliver will be back at the heavy bag. Best of luck in home establishment.

Carrick, one more to go until ace status. Hang in there!

George has a change of scenery…

War Journal of Flight Commander George Ewan MacAlister, DSO, DSC

8 Squadron, RNAS
Bray Dunes, France

Part 25



I have been told that February is often mild in France but this year is an exception. Snow flurries and sudden cold rain have marked the last week of the month. On 25 February we had a rare spot of clear weather and I led a line patrol along the southern part of our sector. We ran into a formation of Pfalz scouts and I chased one into Hunland and sent it down. It was not witnessed and thus, as they say, my Hun is “known unto God.”

The next morning we flew through light drizzle to the Hun aerodrome at Houplin and delivered to them a few hundredweight of Cooper bombs. I dived at the hangers to drive some fire away from Dennett and Cooper and, recovering in a zoom, found myself close to a fat Hun sausage balloon. I fired a hundred rounds and sent it down. This serendipitous victory became my fortieth. The skipper wanted a celebratory binge but I insisted that he hold off until number fifty.

Word has come through that we are to move north to Bray Dunes, a field on the French-Belgian border not far from Dunkirk. Here we shall come under command of the Fleet again.

After a long, cold, and uneventful escort patrol on 27 February, I joined Compston, Dennett, Sneath, Jordan, and Johnstone for a final trudge through the mud to visit Hairy Legs at her estaminet. We noted that the ground about had been thoroughly dug into by the Canadian Corps, who has moved into this section of the front. Dugouts and shanties lined the ridge leading up to the Abbey and the smoke of a hundred teapots hung low over the troglodyte city. We had to wait half-an-hour to get a table but it was worth it. Hairy Legs had made her pea soup which is heavenly.

The last day of February saw us off. I led the last group off the ground at Mont-St-Eloi. It was a sad departure. Our little group dipped low past the Abbey and turned north toward Ypres. And then we were gone.