Epower – every time Clarissa appears I get this "me spider, you fly" sensation. Just when Oliver has done the decent and proper thing, herself shows up ready for a good rogering.

Fullofit – good luck with your meetings with the Royal Flying Corps. Does your return to the British front suggest that you have a new machine to cope with 1918?

Carrick – your man's brewery is probably my favourite in Bavaria! Well done.

Another episode from McAlister.

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

Part 30



Squadron Commander Draper was reluctant to approve a dance at this time. While he applauded the gesture towards building closer ties with the community, he preferred to wait until the entire squadron was together after the second round of leaves. My own leave had been approved to begin Sunday, 17 March. I proposed that the dance would be the night before even though some of those on leave would not yet have returned. I responded to the skipper’s rebuff with a more modest proposal – a slightly out of season thé dansent. The weather promised to hold warm and it would be less of a strain on the mess budget and the kitchen staff. In the end I had to promise to pay for the band from my own pocket.

I coordinated with the mess steward to prepare fruit plates, sandwiches, and trifle, plus a large tureen of turtle soup in case of chill. Our spare hangar with its stage would be the venue and the carpenter shop began work on a dance floor. I press-ganged McDonald and Johns into preparing the champagne cup and a claret punch and set off in search of music. The vicar at Old St Mary’s pointed me in the direction of the local working men’s club where I found a four-man group with a violin, accordion, clarinet, and piano. The leader, a toothless old fellow named Squires, named an extortionate price which I gladly paid. Next I had flyers printed up and posted in the post office, pubs, stores, and churches. I paid a visit to several nearby convalescent homes and a hospital in Folkestone and implored the nursing matrons to allow their flock to stray from their field to ours for one afternoon. The fact that it was only from 4 PM to 7 PM on a Saturday made the concept more palatable.

My job as social convener for the squadron was interrupted by a number of test flights and navigation exercises throughout the week, but nothing too serious. On Friday I laid in wait for Bronwyn to leave her schoolhouse and intercepted her a few hundred yards down the road.

“Not so close to the school,” she protested when I called to her. I explained that I did not have much time and asked if she had seen the notices. “Yes,” she replied. “Will you be there?”

“I’ve organised the #%&*$# thing just to get you to visit.” She shook her head and lashed.

“Then I suppose I shall have to go. Just please don’t be too forward in front of the townspeople. They prefer their schoolteachers ready for the nunnery.”

Saturday, 16 March dawned warm and clear. Orders were for a noontime navigation exercise along the coast to Margate. I flew with Thomas and Dennett. The Bentley was running a bit rough but we got away all right and it smoothed out after a while. The sun reflected blindingly off the water below as we climbed north past Sandwich Bay. Thomas flew on my port and Dennett on my starboard side. Their machines seemed absolutely stationary, scarcely bobbing up and down. We passed Ramsgate and curved along the coast to the west toward Margate. From five thousand feet I could see the shadow of my machine skimming over the farm fields. Then, just shy of Margate, my engine coughed and threw up a burst of oil. Immediately it began to sound like a pot full of stones. I gave the washout signal and turned toward Manston field, barely visible in the distance. It was already 1 PM. It took fifteen minutes before I had bled off my height and settled into the aerodrome. I sprinted to the office to report myself and to request a telephone. After a bit of a wait I connected with the duty petty officer and arranged for a recovery team. Draper came on the line and ordered me to remain with the aircraft until it was returned. “Don’t worry about your damned dance,” he assured me. “You’ll make it.” It was 3:15 PM before the tender arrived with the recovery team. They had a completely new engine to exchange for mine and I sat despondently over a cup of tea in the wardroom, certain I would not get away before nightfall. But scarcely thirty minutes later they announced that things were good enough for me to get the machine home.

“It might be a bit rough,” said Billington, but we can sort it out later. I was airborne in two minutes and circled over the field at Walmer fifteen minutes later. I could see the two white marquee tents outside the hangar where the dance was getting underway and a small crowd of men and women on the grass outside. I made a low pass over the field to ensure that there were no idlers or other obstacles in my way and then turned about and made a perfect three point landing, rolling up to within fifty yards of the group of visitors. And there, clapping daintily, stood Bronwyn. I dismounted and went over to see her.

“I need to report in and then wash my face and change into my second oiliest jacket,” I told her.

“Hurry back then,” she said. “I shall try not to dance with too many men before you get back.”

It was a wonderful afternoon. My working men’s foursome played many of the latest tunes and one of them actually had a pretty good voice. He sang “I Like Your Old French Bonnet,” which was new to Bronwyn. She was wearing a new Easter hat with red ribbons, so the song was particularly apt. The Squadron Commander was on top form. He made an impromptu speech and organised guided tours of the hangars for the visitors. For my part, I sat at a little round tin table with Bronwyn the whole time. And when the party ended I dodged the work duties and walked with Bronwyn a mile down to the clifftops. The warmth of the day lingered even as the sun dipped lower over the Channel. We walked along a pathway and she took my arm. I placed my hand over hers. She was wearing a scent, more musky than floral, a sophisticated perfume.

“The dance passed too quickly,” I said. She did not respond. A sideways glance. A half smile. “And I am growing rather fond of you, I confess.”

“Fond?” she said. “One grows fond of daffodils or dachshunds.”

I cursed under my breath. “Then what does one call it when one cannot think of anything else except a certain cryptic schoolteacher?”

Bronwyn stopped and took me by both arms. “A cryptic schoolteacher would not answer that question. But I think that you might be falling for the girl. And I think she might be falling for you.” And that was when the least worldly experienced pilot on the Western Front kissed a girl seriously for the first time. I felt the chill of the evening and held her warm and safe for as long as decently possible. At length I let go.
“Why in God’s name does time keep moving forward? Why can’t you simply press a blip switch and shut it down?”

“Will I see you in church tomorrow?” she asked. I had a railroad warrant to proceed to Glasgow. I would have to telegraph my parents. Glasgow could wait.