Albert – congratulations on the decoration. I’m sure there will be even greater things to come for Jacob.

MFair – thanks for the medical report on Kemp! Good to know he is on the mend.

Not relevant – good to see Cunningham back with 64. Now for the weather to clear…

Fullofit – I see Rudi has finally found Carrick’s nurses’ residence.

EPower – 130! That is nearly double my best score to date. Incredible performance.


War Journal of Captain George Ewan MacAlister, DSO, DSC
74 Squadron, RAF
Clairmarais, France

Part 36


[Linked Image]
" I saw the enemy pilot fall forward in his seat..."


“My brother Thomas has written and is safe, although he speaks of great movements and disruptions since the German advance. Of course he cannot give me details but it all seems so terribly frightening. I pray every night for his safe return and, of course dear boy, of yours as well. Does it not seem that the world before the war was a dream, a dream of a place populated by a species like ours but ever so carefree and different. Will we ever know that kind of peace again?”

Bronwyn’s brother is with the Middlesex Regiment, if I recall correctly, and she lives in constant fear for him. I tucked the letter away and took up my pen to continue my response.

I described for her a trip I took in the summer of 1914. I went with two friends by bicycle around the north end of Loch Lomond, through Tarbet and Crianlarich and over to camp by the foot of Ben More, then back by way of Kilmahog and Aberfoyle. We fished and set snares for rabbits, catching nothing, and we bought hard cider from a farmer and got pleasantly sozzled in our tent. I wondered whether Bronwyn would be up for such an adventure one day. Of course, we should have to be married first and that was wildly premature.

It was 16 April, the weather still wet and blustery. I had a line patrol in the morning and we mixed up with a group of very keen Albatros merchants. I bagged one but it went unwitnessed. And then, just before lunch that same day, my world was disrupted. Orders arrived that I was to be transferred to another squadron as a flight commander. I knew nothing of the unit other than it was a former RFC squadron and fairly new to France. My orders were to report to Major Caldwell at 74 Squadron, at Clairmarais, near Saint Omer. Leaving Naval Eight was like leaving family after so many months. I made my tour of the hangars and wished farewell to the faithful mechanics and riggers who had laboured so long and hard to keep me in one piece. I paid a last visit to the wardroom and enjoyed a drink with Johns and Jordan and the skipper. Then I retired to my hut to reread Bronwyn’s last letter. I was still writing a response when the tender pulled up outside my hut and the driver honked his horn.

The drive took two hours on rutted roads with troops moving in both directions. The Germans’ northern push was reaching a critical point where it would either break through or be held. I had the impression that order was gradually emerging from the chaos of the first few days.

My first view of Clairmarais caused a sigh of relief – welcoming me was a row of neat Camels. I should be right at home. I had the tender drop me off in front of what was clearly the squadron office. Scarcely had it pulled away when I noticed the sign by the door: “Officer Commending 54 Squadron, RAF.” I enquired inside as to the location of number 74 and was directed to a line of sheds a good half mile off across the sodden fields. And so I made my way, struggling with my valise and small seabag, through the mud. I was still a long way off when approached by a Crossley touring car driven by a tall, dark-haired officer with a wry grin.

“Good afternoon, sailor,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve come too far. The port is back in that direction. Big thing – full of water and ships and such.”

I struggled to see his rank so that I could respond appropriately but before I could, he leaned over and opened the door. I threw my kit in the back seat and fell in gratefully. We lurched forward with the grinding of gears and headed for the correct squadron office. My rescuer was a captain, I discovered, any introduced himself as Mannock and invited me to call him Mick as apparently others did. Captain Mannock, it seemed, was to be one of my fellow flight commanders.

The next shock was when I saw that the squadron was equipped with SE5s. I had not flown a stationary engined machine since a BE2 in training and wondered by what mistake I had ended up with this crowd. I had no time to puzzle this out, for I had to meet the major before dinner. Mannock undertook to deliver my kit to the hut (no longer a cabin) which the flight commanders shared. I stepped into the office, a small crowded room and was immediately welcomed by the squadron commander, Major Caldwell. This rugged-looking New Zealander was immediately likeable. He exuded confidence and it was clear that he would be no friend to a fool.

“The squadron will be the best fighting squadron on the front. Nothing will stop us from achieving that goal. I have asked specifically for you because I have been told that you go after Huns and knock them down. That is exactly what we need from all our pilots. Can you share that ability?”

“I think so, sir,” I replied.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

“Yes sir, it is.”

“Then just say yes. If you say anything else, you are looking for permission to fail.” It was easy to see what Major Caldwell was made of. In the next couple of minutes he took me directly to a Bessonneau hangar where an SE was being run up.

“This one will be yours,” he said. “Engine by Wolseley, so it’s a little more reliable than the Hisso. You’ll still want to save full power for when you really need it. Take it up for a couple of minutes and get the feel. You won’t have much time to get broken in here so get what experience you can.”

I climbed into the machine wearing a greatcoat and leather gloves. The cockpit felt like a racing car. It gleamed with instruments and brass fittings. The mechanic shouted a few words of encouragement and then we went through the litany leading up to “contact” and throwing the prop. The machine roared into life with a comforting steadiness. The Ack Emmas steadied the outer struts as I turned into the wind. And then I was off. The first thing I noticed was the incredible visibility. One looked directly over the upper wing, which was staggered well forward. There were few places for a Hun to hide. The machine climbed effortlessly. I made several circuits and then climbed to 4000 feet, where I rolled and looped and threw the beast into vertically banked turns. It turned marginally slower than the Sopwith but carried much more speed and, overall, felt much stronger. I was surprised how well I enjoyed this new mount.

At dinner I began to meet the others. A compact Welshman named – inevitably – Jones and called even more inevitably “Taffy” was the other flight commander besides Mannock. There were a couple of fellows from Africa and an older chap they called “Dad” who was married. He had a hyphenated name which I forget. The OC is referred to by all as “Grid.” Apparently it is a New Zealand term for bicycle and our machines are therefore referred to as grids. Mannock is an enigma, alternatively serious and solemn and impish and playful. He is of Irish stock and the Celtic blood runs deep. He has taken to calling me “Matey” and I feel in my blue monkey jacket that I stand out like a pair of brown shoes at a white tie dinner.

The next morning I joined Mannock’s flight for a long patrol in which we were to escort a group of RE8 observation machines to photograph German positions near Bethune. I struggled to keep formation without the aid of a blip switch and substituted by using the mixture to temporarily rob the engine of oxygen. It is not a particularly good method but it beats making a mess of my first flight with a new squadron. We rendezvoused with the two seaters near Arras and continued on our way. “C” Flight was providing top cover and as we approach the lines flew some distance ahead of us. I notice them fear off to the east and as we approach the lines I could make out several machines swirling about in a melee. I signalled to Mannock and headed to the attack. I was certain we could overwhelm the enemy and return to our duty within a couple of minutes. To my dismay, however, none of the others followed and I was the only one to leave formation. It was too late to turn back so I committed to the fight. C Flight was tangling with a group of Fokker triplanes. I climbed above the fight, picked a Hun and soon got on its tail. The Vickers and Lewis gun combination did not have the terrifying power of my Camel’s twin Vickers, but it did its job. I saw the enemy pilot fall forward in his seat and the machine began a long vertical dive at full power. I watched it for several thousand feet and then turned back to catch my formation before they disappeared into the distance.

For the next hour we paraded across the front, shepherding our observation machines. Then a group of German two seaters approached, escorted by Albatros scouts. To my surprise, the German scouts broke away and dived at us. The fight was intense for several minutes. I saw a Hun firing at an SE and got behind it. My rounds tore apart its starboard upper wing, which partially broke away. I watched the machine fall out of control. Another Hun took a crack at me but I got behind it and fired. It rolled on its back and began a long slow spin towards earth. I watched it down to about 2000 feet and became convinced that the pilot was disabled. I turned to search for the others from the squadron since the fight had now dispersed. Instead I found a loan Albatros heading east. The EA pilot never saw me until my machine guns tore his Albatros apart. It fell west of Epinoy. I picked up with three of the others and we returned to Clairmarais. I submitted my four claims, only one of which was in my opinion a certainty. It would be hours before the rest of the squadron returned to Clairmarais as they had landed in different places all the way down to Arras and beyond. I hoped that perhaps someone could confirm another machine. As luck would have it, Dolan from C Flight confirmed the Fokker and Mick, who had landed at La Gorgue on the way back, eventually showed up and confirmed that the second of the three Albatri had indeed hit the ground. Mick took me aside, however, and had a few harsh words about my leaving the formation to chase the Fokkers. I realised he was right. My actions set a bad example for the newer pilots and could get them in trouble. In the next breath, Mannock was slapping me on the back and congratulating me on my two Huns. These two victories were my welcome gift to 74 and brought my score up to 47.

Attached Files Kill 46.jpg