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

8 Squadron, RNAS
Walmer, Kent, England

Part 29



We practice formation flying in the morning, north to the Thames and west to Sheerness. We were back and had breakfast by nine. Only eight of us were not on leave and most of the day could pass in idleness. I borrowed a motorcycle and sidecar and drove into town. It was a Sunday morning and the church bells were ringing. I followed the sound until I found a small Norman church whose sign announced it was Old St Mary’s. I wondered how St Mary’s felt about that name. The Eucharist service was about to begin and I parked the motorcycle under a chestnut tree and entered.

The interior was dark and cool, rich with the smell of lavender and pipe tobacco from the local population. I slipped into a pew near the back on the right side and surveyed the congregation, examining them row by row with the precision of a photographic interpreter examining the prints from a line reconnaissance. At the sixth row on the left side I froze. Was it Bronwyn? Her hair was pulled up in a chignon under a fashionable bonnet. She wore a wine coloured shawl over a grey jacket and dress. I examined the brown-blonde hairs at the back of her neck. Certainly it was her. The service was half over before she turned her head and I confirmed it. Now what would I do?

We sang “Morning Has Broken.” I recited the Lord’s Prayer deeply and somewhat loudly. Perhaps my Scottish accent would carry to the front. Alas, it did not. Before long, the service ended, and the vicar receded to the entranceway, there to shake hands with the congregation. I remained in my pew until Bronwyn approached. Finally she noticed me and opened her eyes wide, blinking with a half smile. She continued toward the door. I made my way out wishing a good day to the vicar. I saw Bronwyn speaking with an older couple by the fence next to the churchyard. I waited at a respectful distance until they separated.

“Good to see you in a state of grace,” I said with a wink.

“Is following young women the only way to get your heathen self into church?” she replied.

“Alas, likely so.” Bronwyn was looking about nervously and I asked what the problem was. She explained that she was a schoolteacher and it did not take much to start rumours. I suggested that we solve the problem by getting out of town and that she join me in the sidecar. We could have lunch in Dover, I suggested. She hesitated until I pointed out her shawl and that she could hide herself under it.

She left her bicycle against the back wall of the church and we headed out of town. It was a glorious drive along the clifftops and through several small hamlets. We reached over far too soon and continued to Folkestone, where we found a tearoom near the harbour and enjoyed lobster salad sandwiches and champagne. We exchanged life stories, such as they were. Bronwyn had grown up in Leatherhead, south of London and had attended school there until she began teaching three years ago. I enquired nervously as to whether there was a man in her life. She had written to an old school chum in France, but he was killed in 1915. It was only a friendship, in any event. My story was more boring. I told her about school and playing rugger and fives and somewhat feebly explained my total lack of experience talking with women. Bronwyn was totally unprepared to play the part of the woman of the world that my naivety cast for her, but she took great pleasure in doing it anyway.

“Would you like to come to our squadron dance?” I asked her. She agreed eagerly.

“When is it?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “No one knows about it yet, but they shall as soon I return. Next Saturday might be possible.” She agreed to hold the date.