RT – a hearty welcome to Mr Emmons! We now have American flyboys everywhere we look. Perhaps we will have to put in an order with Fullofit to thin out the crop (just kidding – that would be mean). I love the look of your diary. The Nieuport 28 is a machine I have not yet flown, so I’m looking forward to reading more about it.
MFair – congratulations on bagging that Pfalz.
Fullofit – no matter where you fly, your enemy keep serving up above a buffet of Spads for Rudi! And special congratulations for your latest achievement of five confirmations! Incredible!
Albert – welcome, Mr Harrison! It will be lovely to see that screaming Indian head in action. Glad to see he got a good reception on arrival.
Carrick – your man has been in the thick of it right enough. His albatrosses getting a little long in the tooth. With luck the new Fokkers will arrive early. Congratulations on your first victory!
Lou – best of luck with the charms of Droglandt.
Epower – another wonderful episode, and I chuckled at the bit about the one poor bookstore in Hay. The photograph of the Elizabethan sovereign was magnificent. Is there a story there?

War Journal of Flight Commander George Ewan MacAlister, DSO, DSC
8 Squadron, RNAS
Serny, France

Part 31


"It was easily witnessed as pieces of the Hun littered the sky all about."

I changed my departure for Glasgow to Monday so that I could see Bronwyn on the weekend. Squadron Commander Draper had laid on church divisions in the spare hangar for Sunday morning, but I reminded him that I was on leave and not compelled to parade, and soon disappeared with the sidecar for Old St Mary’s. Bronwyn sat by herself near the rear of the church and I slipped into the pew beside her. There was no point in being coy since the tea dance on Saturday. The entire village knew that the teacher and the airman were a couple. We sat and stood together, rising and falling with the tide, an hour’s investment in quelling filthy gossip. A fine High Church officer like me would never think of carrying Bronwyn off to London, there to ensconce ourselves in the Savoy, ordering oysters and champagne to the suite until they stopped working…

But my mind is wandering. We strolled down to the clifftops after the service. Bronwyn had packed a small picnic basket, which she had left in the cleft of an oak in the churchyard. We stretched out on a blanket on the grass. Bronwyn, I learned, was a deft artist and sketched a very good likeness of me smoking my pipe and staring out to sea. I protested that I had no image of her and she said that she had no photographs here in Walmer. I had seen a photographer’s studio in Dover and said we should have our pictures done. That brought up the inevitable discussion of the near future.

I speculated that the squadron would be allowed to rest on home establishment for at least a couple of months and likely would return to France but be situated near Dunkirk for the coastal patrols and raid interception. She wanted me to meet her parents before too long but needed time to prepare them. She even took notes about my rank and decorations. “What will you do after the war?” she asked.

That one stopped me in my tracks. I had no intention of following my father into medicine. Engineering left me cold and I was not artistic. “How does your father vote? Conservative?” I asked.

“God no,” said Bronwyn. “He is a Liberal through and through.”

“How convenient. I plan to run for Parliament as a Liberal candidate.”

Bronwyn looked at me with a squint. “How long has this plan been in the works?” she asked.

“About five to ten seconds I should think,” I replied. “It’s the only job I’m qualified for, given that it requires no qualifications at all.” We had a good laugh and agreed that it would be a satisfactory answer when that question inevitably arose. I would simply have to learn something about Liberal politics.

I walked back to the town, where we stopped for tea. I promised to see her on my return from Scotland next weekend. We stepped back into the street and I heard a loud hello. It was our dispatch rider, Warrington. “I have been looking for you everywhere, sir. Your machine is still by the church.”

“Yes, and I’m hoping you can give me a lift there. What is all the fuss about?”

“Movement orders, sir. All ranks are to return tonight and be prepared to move by eleven tomorrow morning. Something big is up with the Hun and we are bound for France immediately.” I looked it Bronwyn encouraged quietly to myself. Our parting was rushed and, worst of all, witnessed by Warrington. In less than a minute I was settled into his sidecar and heading back to the church for my own motorcycle.

We flew out of Walmer early the following afternoon, bound for Teteghem. We spent one night there and transferred to Serny, a large aerodrome about ten miles south of Saint-Omer. There we settled into Nissen huts and squared our kit away.

The other squadrons at Serny were all RFC. We shared a mess with a DH4 squadron, all solid fellows and very generous. We were given to understand that we would move again within a week but the situation demanded our presence for the moment. Further, the number of aeroplanes assigned to a Camel squadron increased to 25 and several new pilots joined us here. Richthofen’s circus had moved south and was challenging our control of the front near the Somme and south of Arras.

We flew our first patrol from Serny at three in the afternoon of Tuesday, 19 March 1918. I led Thomas, Fowler, White, and two new men – Gerrard and Mann, the latter of which was inexplicably known as “Pedro.” We flew an offensive patrol to Haubourdin. There we encountered a large group of Albatri. I managed to isolate one and shoot it down over the airfield there. It was confirmed for my forty first victory.

On 20 March, we patrolled east of Bethune, looking for two seaters. Instead we found a large group of Albatros scouts and engaged in a protracted dogfight. I got behind one EA and put fifty rounds into him when his wings simply folded up and fell away. It was easily witnessed as pieces of the Hun littered the sky all about. Victory number forty-two.

That afternoon, however, the Huns turned the table on us. We encountered a group of Fokker triplanes and immediately began to mix it with them. I found myself with a particularly crafty Hun on my tail whom I could not shake off. He holed my petrol tank and I experienced the stomach turning fear of having petrol spraying over one’s boots in the air. Fortunately, our C flight arrived just in time to distract the enemy while I dived away for home, eventually putting down a mile short of our aerodrome at La Gorgue.

I had planned to write Bronwyn that evening but preferred to sip whisky quietly instead.