War Journal of Flight Commander George Ewan MacAlister, DSO, DSC
8 Squadron, RNAS
Walmer, Kent, England

Part 28



Meeting Winningsted was the highlight of the evening. Compston had disappeared with his brunette and Winningsted’s comrade had found his own beauty of the evening. So we left Murray’s Cabaret Club together for the little pub attached to the back of the Regency Palace. There, over a pint of bitter, we chatted for a very pleasant couple of hours. I discovered that Winningsted was more of a mariner than I, despite all my Royal Navy trappings and traditions. He had sailed the Pacific before the war and had tales of the orient to make your hair stand on end. Splendid fellow. Earlier in the day I had chatted with a group of American flyers who were dispatched to Felixstowe to meet the King. They stood about awkwardly in their silly uniforms, their puttees too high and tight and their collars ridiculously rigid. They were all new to the game, still in basic training at Reading. Most were charming young men except for one fellow who went on at length about warm beer. According to Winningsted, the American air service is a bit of a shambles, presided over by military Academy cavalry officers with no knowledge of flying. In fact, he claimed that the men were required to wear spurs while flying! Poor fellow, he felt a duty to serve his country but a reluctance to leave the Royal Flying Corps. We discussed the current plan to unify the military and naval flying services. Winningsted felt things were becoming overly nautical, while I believed we in the RNAS were losing our heritage with the Senior Service. We agreed to disagree. At length I bad him my salaams and retired to my little cubicle in the hotel. The next morning I met Compston, much the worse for wear, and we caught the train for Walmer.

On 7 March I led two others on a navigation exercise toward Ramsgate. It was exhilarating to simply fly without peering into the sun for attacking Albatri. Back at Walmer I filed my report and walked to my cabin. I spotted a young lady walking a bicycle by the fence and waved to her. She waved back shyly. Two paces later, my brain engaged and I turned towards her.

“Good morning,” I said. The girl blushed and muttered the same. “Are you interested in aeroplanes?” She nodded. “Would you like a tour of the place?” The girl nodded her head and smiled.

Five minutes later I had cleared her through the main gate and was escorting her down the line of hangars, praying that she was not a German spy. I rattled on about the Sopwith Camel and about the Naval Air Service. “What is your name?” I ventured.

“Bronwyn,” she said.

“What a remarkable name! Bronwyn. Sounds very Saxon. You should be rallying the men to fight the Viking hordes.” She giggled a little, then caught her composure.

“Don’t be ridiculous, sir,” she said. “If the men needed me to rally them, we should have already lost.”

“My name is George,” I said.

“You’re Scottish,” she observed.

“Yes, I am. Proud of it, too.” We chatted for a long while. She had two brothers in the army and her father was the local doctor. We had that in common. She was bright and observant. She watched a Camel taking off and noted the rudder full over, asking if that was to counteract the gyroscopic pull I had mentioned earlier. We walked back outside and I accompanied her into town where we stopped at a tea room for tea and scones.

“Do you do this often – pick up stray flyers?” I asked.

“You are my first stray,” she said. “This is a great adventure for me.”

I’m sure I blushed. “Me too,” I confessed.