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

8 Squadron, RNAS
Walmer, Kent, England

Part 27



We caught the train out of Liverpool station and were in Harwich by noon. From there we took a cab to the naval air station at Felixstowe where the investiture would be held the next day. It took nearly two hours wandering from office to office before we found someone who had the faintest idea what was happening. Our parade was scheduled for 1 PM and we were given a location – a grass parade square near the barracks. We enquired about accommodations but there was no information.

“Bugger this for a lark,” said Compston. “Let’s get out of here. I know a place back in Harwich where we can stay.” We reconnoitred the parade location briefly and caught a cab back to Harwich. There was a stiff wind blowing in off the North Sea with sheets of rain wafting up the narrow streets from the harbour. Compston led me up a side street to a pub called the Alma where we managed to get a pair of rooms, ancient but comfortable. We agreed to eat early before the public rooms filled up and went shopping about town separately. I picked up a new bag for my shaving kit, a Wilkinson safety razor, and a fine blue silk scarf to help keep my neck on a pivot over the lines. I also picked up a box of good stationery and an Osmiroid pen and ink. I retired back to the hotel and wrote letters until dinnertime.

The pub at the Alma was wonderfully warm and clearly popular with the locals. Compston urged me to “have a bash at the bangers and mash” and it was good advice – home-made sausage, gravy, a Yorkshire pudding, and fried onions. Just the stuff for a cold, wet evening. We enjoyed a few pints and chatted with some friendly patrons.

The next morning we gave ourselves plenty of time. The King, it seems, was reviewing the fleet in Harwich and would travel across the way to Felixstowe at noon. At the parade square we found a rumpled Lieutenant Commander who gave us the drill. It was all fairly simple and informal: March up, right turn, salute the King, receive gong, answer question, one pace backward, salute, left turn, exit stage with hautboys and oboes. We had to leave our greatcoats in the barracks and stand about in the cold in our monkey jackets. By the time the King arrived we were chilled through. When my turn came (I was the third DSO issued that day) I turned right but was too far from the King and a senior officer pulled me forward by my elbow so that the king would not have to reach. Old Bleary Eyes said a few kind words and asked me how our machines compared to the Germans. I told him they were better in some respects and not quite as good in others but overall we were holding our own. He replied, “Hmmm.”

On dismissal, there were tea and sandwiches in a marquee tent. Compston suggested that we get to the train station and back to London as quickly as possible. We need not have rushed. The tracks were being held for the Royal train and we did not get away until 6 PM. We phoned Walmer and told them we would be back the following day and secured rooms at the Regency Palace. At Compston’s urging, we had dinner at the Trocadero and set out for Murray’s.

It was not on to be seen dancing in uniform but Murray’s was one of several places that seemed to be an exception. On any given night, half the pilots in London were there. Compston I got a table and he immediately began asking girls to dance. That is something I have not really been good at so I adopted the role of the understudy and watched from a safe distance.

Two tables over sat a pair of stunning brunettes with two RFC officers. One of the officers excused himself and the other took his partner to the dance floor leaving one poor lonely brunette by herself. “Now, George,” I thought. “Or forever hold your peace.” I made my way across and asked the young brunette for a dance and she gave me her gloved hand.

“I am Dorothy,” she said. “My friends call me Dickie.”

The band began playing something vaguely American. “I’m George,” I replied. “My friends call me Mac. It’s short for McAlister. That’s my family name…”

“I normally dance with flyers,” said Dorothy.

“Well, I’m a flyer,” I replied.

“Dickie” looked perplexed. “But you’re wearing a sailor suit.”

“We call it a naval uniform.”

“Have you shot down any Huns?”

“You’re a bloodthirsty one, aren’t you?”

At this point, Compston reappeared and cut in. “Mac, someone needs to allow this lady dance properly. Excuse me.” Then they were gone, swirling into the crowd of couples on the dance floor. I returned to Dorothy’s table. The RFC officer who had excused himself earlier had returned. I asked if I might have a chair and explained I had asked Dorothy for a dance but she had absconded with my friend before I could return her.
“No problem,” said the pilot with an unmistakably American twang. “In fact, I thought you’d never get here. I imagine being stuck with Dickie all night. Fate worse than death.” We were chuckling and I ordered us a bottle of champagne.

“McAlister. George McAlister.”

“Winningsted, Oliver.” I had heard the name and noticed the purple ribbon he wore. Compston was not returning with Dickie any time soon so we settled in to talking about flying. Much safer than women.