For Immediate Release (Undated)

By Sergeant Walter F. Mackie of Washington Elms, Cambridge, Mass., a Marine Corps Combat Correspondent, formerly of the Boston Evening American.

Somewhere in the South pacific (Delayed). - A battle-scarred PBJ bomber nicknamed "Old 38" by her crew, is the first Marine plane of its type to fly 100 combat missions since Leatherneck medium bomber combat operations were begun in March, 1944.

"Old 38" has flown 355 flights since her first hop from the North American factory. She has spent more than 900 hours in the air and dropped an estimated 150,000 pounds of bombs on jap shipping and installations in the Solomons and Bismarck Archipelago.

She has had four new engines since she started combat flying last May and has returned safely from 41 night missions, 25 daylight raids and 34 low level attacks on enemy barge traffic emplacements and other installations.

She has countless flak patches on her wings and fuselage, but the big plane has been badly hurt only once. This occurred when she was sent to the aid of the crew of another plane which had been shot down within range of Jap shore batteries. While making a diversionary strafing attack so that the flyers could be picked up, "Old 38" sustained a direct hit which put one engine out of operation.

Her present pilot is Lieutenant Colonel Norman J. Anderson, of Glendale, California, Co-pilot is First Lieutenant Charles E. Pearce, 21, son of Mr. And Mrs. Charles N Pearce, 5507 glennbrook Road, Bethesda, Md. Other members of thecrew of "Old 38" include: Corporal Paul R. Carly, 20, son of Mr. And Mrs. Paul R. Carly, 423 Wallace Avenue, Farrell, Pa., radio gunner

Responsible for keeping "Old 38" in the air and in fighting trim is Staff Sergeant Leon P. Peterson, 22, of Burt Avenue, Bridgeton, N.J., crew chief. Others among the ground and repair crew are: Sergeant Joseph W. Cope, of Manheim, Pa. Corporal Robert D. Deemer, 20, 11 Lefferts Rd., Yonkers, N. Y. , Corporal Fred Jaroslowsky, 19, of 108 179^th Street, New York City, and Corporal George Wardle, 19, 266 79^th Street, Brooklyn, N.Y. .

No. 38's GROUND CREW - these are the Leathernecks who nursed the first Marine B-25 bomber through 100 combat missions:

Front L to R, Corporal Raymond E. Lawrence, Springfield, ILL., Corporal George Wadle, Brooklyn, N.Y.; Sergeant Joseph W. Cope, Manheim, Pa. 2^nd Row Corporal Robert D. Deemer, Yonkers, N.Y., Private First Class Charles E. Dillow, New Albany, Ind. Back row: Sergeant Robert D. Lee, Steubenville, Ohio, S/Sgt. Leon P. Peterson, Bridgeton, N.J., crew chief; and Corporal Fred Jaroslowsky, New York City, N.Y.

broadcast our problem. We asked the field below to blink their lights once for every 1000' of runway. We had no idea where we were so I couldn't identify the field for their frequency. At any rate, the lights blinked many times I thought and we started to let down after telling them of our intention. We were in the final with everything Go when I looked out the window and saw a man reading in his living room at almost eye-level. What the Hell? I hit the throttles and just in time to hop over a fence at the end of the runway. Things were getting hairy at this time!!!! There was the end of the runway!!! Hit the ground very close to the end---fishtailed the bird and did everything else I could think of get the damned thing stopped because all we could see was the a fence coming at us from the other end!! Anyway to make a long story longer, we did stop it with no damage to anything. Turned out that the field was in Blackstone Va. and was an operational base for P-47s going to Europe. The sign on the back of the welcoming jeep read--Field Elevation 550 feet. No wonder I could see the guy reading his newspaper.

We later found out that the runway was 2200 feet long. Took a hell of a ribbing from the Army pilots about Naval navigation but also received a lot of praise for putting that PBJ down on that runway.

Ted Eckhardt, Pilot

While stationed on Green Island, my crew and I were assigned a mission to search for a native policeman who had been dropped off on the east coast of New Ireland to do some undercover work. When the Australian coast watchers returned to pick him up the following night, he failed to meet them.

This young man had been raised and trained by Australian Army Captain John Murray, a member of the Australia New Guinea Administrative Unit (ANGAU).His name was Silas (pronounced "Sea Lass"). He was a small, rugged, sharp Micronesian man who wore a red laplap with a spotless web belt and a spit-shined brass buckle. He spoke only pidgin English..

During our briefing, we were given a detailed grid map of the area to be searched. If we sighted Silas, we were to mark the location on the chart, but not circle. We were then instructed to insert the chart in a drop tube located behind the pilot's seat and drop it near the Mission building on the tiny island called Lihir ... a few miles east of New Ireland.

During the flight to New Ireland, my co-pilot Wayne "Deke" Hicks and I discussed the possibility of sighting a single individual in

the jungle. We figured the chances were poor to nil. But the weather was clear and we had six pairs of eyes working for us. We began our search at the southeast end of the island at an altitude of 500 feet flying northwestward along the shore at about 125 knots.

After a few minutes, I could hardly believe my eyes. There in a small clearing was our boy Silas ... madly waving his red laplap!

We remembered not to circle but we did give him a little wing-waggle before proceeding eastward toward Lihir.

Upon arrival over Lihir, we circled the mission building, marked the chart, placed it in the drop tube and shoved it overboard . We watched the little parachute deploy and drop near the building. We later learned that we almost knocked the steeple off the mission building.

The Aussies picked Silas up successfully and returned him to Green Island.

To show his appreciation, Captain Murray arranged for Deke Hicks and I and Captain Tom Waller to take a five day cruise on a boat that supplied medicine, ammunition, etc to the various ANGAU island outposts. Included in that cruise was a stop at Lihir Island where we got to meet the coast watchers who ran the show.
Tom Evans, PBJ pilot, VMB-423

I joined the Marine Corps in September, 1942, and went through boot camp at San Diego. The first week was hell, mentally. With the DI's abusive talk and instructions, they literally owned your soul. In getting your clothes issued, you marched in line, never stopping. They had men that would eyeball you for whatever garment they were issuing, size you up, and throw to you whatever size they thought would fit you. If it fit ... great, if not ... you wore it just the same.

We were issued a scrub brush and bucket to launder our clothes. After laundering our clothes at the end of each day, we hung them on a clothesline outside to dry. Before we got our names stenciled on our underwear, some of the men would grab the first item they came to. You would wind up not knowing whose underclothes you had. Whenever you were checked to see if you still had the same number of items that were issued, you had better be sure that you had them, or there would be hell to pay. We were not issued dress shoes while in boot camp, because we were not going anyplace, anyway. Only brogans (work shoes) were issued, and you literally had to shine them for the day of inspection. I used two cans of Kiwi polish to shine mine and actually got a compliment on the shine from the inspection officer.

You lined up to get your shots with corpsmen on either side of you. When they gave you a shot, they would not ask you to move on ... if you just stood there, they'd pop you again. I saw this happen to a couple of guys ahead of me. They barely had time to put the needle to me!

One of my pet peeves was helping to pick up cigarette butts off the ground. I did not smoke, but ... yep, I picked up just as many as the other guys. The physical fitness did not bother me. Being fresh off the farm, that part was a breeze for me ... no problem. Those fellows out of the factories and the office workers would fall out left and right until they got in shape.

One day a Texan and a New Yorker wanted to fight the Civil War over and started fighting each other. The Di went and got a pair of boxing gloves, put them on the two men, and had the rest of the platoon form a large circle. He had the two men get inside the circle and have at it. They fought until they thought they were given out. The DI informed them that he didn't think that they had enough yet and made them fight until they were unable to raise their hands. Needless to say, there were no more discipline problems in the platoon.

The Marine Corps' reputation, richly deserved for physical toughness, courage, and demands on mind and body, attracts those who want to prove their manliness. Perhaps, unwittingly, the Marine Corps exploits and builds on these two basic desires: to believe in something and to prove one's manliness. In the process, the Marine Corps gains two of its most important virtues --- spirit and discipline. These are virtues which are the mark of excellence in any military organization, and which are absolutely essential to success in combat. I can say that after the first two or three weeks of boot camp, there was definitely discipline, but I cannot say the same for spirit. However, after we learned to obey orders from the DI and to do what they asked to the best of our ability , that spirit began to come around. I never knew of a recruit who won an argument with a DI.

I enjoyed the week at the rifle range. We weren't fenced in for a change and had access to a bit of pogy bait. The day we fired our rifle for qualification, I scored 322 points out of a possible 340. That was enough to be classified as an expert rifleman and an automatic $5.00 a month increase in pay for 12 months. The next day, I was contacted and invited to join the Carlson Raiders. No, thank you!!! I had put in for aviation duty earlier and was hoping this would come through .... not knowing at the time where I would be placed.

The first night that I had liberty after boot camp ... not being away from camp for about 2 ½ months ... I thought I was ready. I'd been brainwashed by those DIs, and I thought I could whip anything that crawled or walked. Wound up in one of those San Diego barrooms. Everything was going fine, everyone sipping suds and their drinks, having a big time. All of a sudden, I heard a bottle hit the wall, and in no time at all, it looked as if just about everyone ---- Marines, sailors, soldiers --- was fighting. I don't think it mattered with anyone who they were pounding, just so they had someone to hit. Bottles and fists were flying everywhere. My buddy and I crawled under a table (we didn't have a dog in this fight), for it seemed the safest place to be for the moment. If you've never viewed a San Diego barroom brawl from under a table, you need to do so just once. This Mississippi plowboy got a barroom brawl education right quick. I also found out that maybe I wasn't as tough as I thought I was. Those sailors and soldiers could hold their own, too. Someone hollered, "Shore Patrol!," and you wouldn't believe how fast that room cleared out. I'm sure the SP loaded their wagon, but I didn't hang around to see.

You were usually assigned 30 days of KP or 30 days of guard duty after completing boot camp. Luckily, I got guard duty and was sent across the bay to North Island. We were on guard duty 24 hours, on standby for 24 hours, and got the third day off. Late one afternoon, a dense fog rolled in. I've never seen a fog that dense before or after. It looked just like low banks of clouds rolling in ... visibility was almost zero. The officer of the day instructed the guards going on their post that night to be extra alert, especially those guarding the planes. The situation was ideal for anyone around who wanted to sabotage a plane. It would be easy to slip around and do so. I was walking a post adjacent to another guard who had a group of SBDs assigned to him. Around 01:00, I heard the most awful commotion taking place between two people on this other guard's post. It lasted for about ten minutes. Being dark, and due to the foggy conditions, I could not see or tell what was going on. When this group of guards got relieved, and we got back to the guard house, I asked a fellow who was walking that post what had happened. It seemed that this officer of the day who was on duty and this guard had had a previous run-in. The officer was going to use the situation to slip around and do a little something to a plane to get this guard into trouble. This guard detected someone in close vicinity. There happened to be a broken wheel chock with the 2 ½ foot long piece of 2 x 4 timber, separated from the other two pieces on the tarmac. The guard picked this up. He kept quiet, with his attention on the approaching footsteps. He managed to get behind the officer, and when he raised one foot up on the trailing edge of the plane, and started to pull himself up into the cockpit, the guard hit him on his butt with the 2 X 4 as hard as he could. That's when the commotion took place. Yes, we were armed with rifles, but he preferred to challenge the officer with the 2 x 4. What happened to the guard later is another story.

After the month of guard duty, I was transferred to Norman, OK, to attend aviation mech school. For some reason, upon arrival, I was put in charge of 24 men. The duty required me to muster the men each morning for roll call and calisthenics, to march them to class each day, and to pick up their mail. For this, I received a pass for liberty on Wednesday night, whereas the other men only got liberty on the weekend. On the way to class one morning, before daylight, the men were in columns of threes .... just walking along, talking, and horseplaying. A Navy officer appeared out of nowhere and stopped us. He wanted to know who was in charge of this group. Well, that fell on my shoulders. He didn't exactly chew my ass out, he chewed all around it, and when he finished, it just fell out! He turned me in to the C.O. Man, was I dreading to face him. It turned out he was a Marine officer and very nice. He gave me some advice that came in handy for the rest of the time I was in service. I was well-pleased with the meeting. After this, there was no more grab-assing or horseplaying on the way to class .... everyone in step, and no talking, either.

We had excellent instructors and were given a test each week. If anyone failed, they were immediately transferred to the infantry. I only remember one person failing. After we had been in school for awhile, a large group of WAVES came to be stationed on the base ... fresh out of basic training. They had been confined to their base during training and were ready for some freedom. Talk about partying .... it went on for 2 or 3 nights. Marines and WAVES together. It didn't take administration long to catch on and set up a bunch of rules and regulations ending this partying while on base.

Duty was good in OK. The people in Norman and Oklahoma City were very nice to the servicemen.

After school, I was transferred to headquarter squadron in El Centro, CA. I worked on TBFS, SBDS, and F4U Corsairs. I got to experience that hot desert air during the day in July and August. A couple of fellows and I went out on the town one night and missed the last bus back to the base. We were standing on a street corner pondering the situation as how best to get back without walking those 7 or 8 miles. This car came along, pulled over to where we were standing, stopped, and the driver asked if we had a problem. We explained the situation. He told us to get in, and he would drive us there. He was a doctor and told us that he didn't know if he had enough gas to make the round trip or not, but would chance it. We had only traveled about a mile when somehow the subject of the Army came up. We three Marines immediately started downing the dogfaces and saying how sorry the Army was. The doctor replied, "Fellows, if that's the way you feel about the Army, I'll turn around here, let you get out, and you can walk the rest of the way. My son happens to be in the Army." We had our foot in our mouth, but that Lager Beer did an about face on the conversation. All three of us apologized, and suddenly the Marines were the underdogs, with the Army and their men being the best there was. He drove on to the base gate. I was sitting in the front seat, leaned over, looked at the gas gauge, and the needle was resting on "Empty." We got out, thanked him, and reassured the doctor that the Army was a fine outfit. I've wondered many times if he made it home before running out of gas.

In September, 1943, 1 was transferred to Cherry Point, NC, and assigned to VMB-423, the 2nd PBJ squadron that was commissioned for the Marines. One day while at Cherry Point, a pilot who lived in White Plains, NY, a co-pilot, and I flew to Newark, NJ. Of the many flights I took in the PBJs, I cannot tell you the name of one pilot or co-pilot that I flew with. The pilot told me what time to be at the plane for the return trip. They went on to visit his family, and I went into town to kill time and pick up a few bottles of whiskey for some of the fellows back at the base who had asked me to do so. I was at the plane at the designated time, and here came the pilot and the co-pilot. I could tell by the way they were walking and talking that it would be no boring flight back to Cherry Point. After they started the engines, I got in the plane, and we taxied out to the runway. They checked out the engines and got clearance from the tower for take off. It didn't seem that we had rolled much over 200 feet until we were airborne. Then the pilot decided to circle the Empire State Building. A small plane had collided with the building a few days ago, and he wanted to see how much damage was done to the building. I was expecting the squadron headquarters to hear about this, especially at the low altitude he was flying. Evidently, no one reported it. The rest of the trip was uneventful, and the fellows were happy to get their hooch.

The squadron moved to Edenton, NC, in October for further training. Just how good were we at this point? A couple of days after we got there, a pilot and co-pilot came to the plane and said they needed a mech to go up with them on this flight. I got in the plane with them. After we had been in the air for 15 or 20 minutes, the co-pilot handed me two pieces of equipment and asked me to go in the nose section to look out for other planes ... that they were going to do some blind flying. They had this black curtain that could be attached to cover all the plexiglass in the cockpit, which obstructed their view of anything outside. If I spotted a plane in close vicinity, I was to let them know. After getting into the nose section, I checked out the equipment the co-pilot had handed me. I determined that they were a pair of earplugs and earmuffs. After all, the PBJ is a noisy son-of-a-gun. Have you ever tried adjusting a set of throat mikes to use as earplugs??? The Lord was with us on that flight. Hell, I was a mech, not a radio man. I didn't know how to operate the throat mikes and earphones --- but I did learn --- before taking another flight!!

On one night training flight, we were at the end of the runway and had clearance for take off. There was a forest fire nearby, and smoke had visibility to about zero. The pilot and co-pilot were arguing about take off. The co-pilot said that we would never make it off without crashing. The pilot replied, "I'm not worried about take off. It's the landing I'm concerned about." Made me feel real good to be in that plane! However, we did get up and back down without a mishap.

We shipped out, back to my old stomping grounds, El Centro, CA, around the 1st of January, 1944, for more training. We were housed in tents there. I knew how hot it could get in July and August, but I hadn't experienced just how COLD it could get at night in January while sleeping in a tent with no heat of any kind. At night, we would put everything we found loose on our cot to try to keep warm.

A few days before we departed El Centro, administration gave the squadron a party. It was held off base, out in the desert, where there were some old abandoned buildings. The party had got going in a big way when along came some Army guys in their tanks. They were holding maneuvers out in the desert. Three of them saw what was going on and came by and stopped, each in a different tank. We offered to share food and drink with them. That's all the arm-twisting that was needed. After a couple of beers and some food, one of them asked if some of us fellows would like to take a tank ride. Some 12 or 15 of us, each with a can of beer in hand, crawled on. I got on the left front side where I could sit with both feet braced against the left light guard, and my right arm around the cannon barrel. The others were hanging on wherever they could. The driver started out and headed full speed for the first sand dune, which was probably 6 or 8 feet high. About the time the front of the tank reached the peak, I looked around. It looked as if we had flushed a covey of quail .... 10 or 12 beer cans flying in every direction. I looked forward and the front of the tank was headed straight down. I'd decided that maybe I had chosen the wrong place to get --- but it was too late now. I thought, "If that light guard gives away, I am going to slide right under the left tracks." What a feeling!! After about a ten-minute jaunt over those dunes, he drove back to the starting point, with only about 4 men still hanging onto the tank. The driver got out laughing and said, "I see that you're the only one still holding a can." Starting out, the can was full. When we stopped, it was crushed in and not a drop of beer in it. I hadn't taken the first sip out of it and was all wet in front. I don't know whether it was beer or piss ---- I won't deny if it was some of both!!

What a ride. It was equal to one of Ed Hazlehurst's test hops in a PBJ ... a wild one!!

The majority of the ground echelon and some of the flight crews boarded a train February 19, 1944, headed for Alameda, CA. There we boarded the USS Prince William, a converted aircraft carrier. The sky was overcast with a slow drizzle of rain. I can say that this was not the happiest day of my life. The hangar and night deck were loaded with planes, fighters, torpedo bombers, and dive bombers. We had been boarded for about an hour when the ship pulled out of dock. I think about all of our squadron was on the flight deck as we slipped under the Golden Gate Bridge, none of us knowing where we would land. I can assure you there were many thoughts that went through my mind before that bridge disappeared.

As the days passed, there were plenty of pinochle, poker and occasional crap games going on. At night, all lights were out on the hangar and flight decks. It was a challenge to maneuver your way around those planes and tie down ropes after dark to get to your destination aboard ship.

We had been out to sea for some 8 or 10 days and had a fire somewhere aboard ship. The fire alarm sounded, and everyone was supposed to get their life jackets and go up to the flight deck. I was lying on the hangar deck .. some kind of seasick. The fellows came by and said, "Come on, Chuck. There's a ship fire, and we're supposed to go up to the flight deck." I replied, "Let it burn. I don't care whether it sinks or floats at this point." I never did move. You "ain't" been sick if you've never been seasick.

Everybody needs to experience taking a shower in salt water. That's what we had aboard ship, straight from the ocean. You never felt clean after one --- soap would not lather. After being out for about twelve days, some of us were on the flight deck, and could see that we were approaching a rain shower. We decided this would be an excellent time to get a good bath. We went below, took off our clothes, got our soap, and back up to the flight deck. It was a good rain. We all got lathered up and were feeling right proud. About that time, the ship changed course. It ran out of the rain, leaving us all soaped up. Back down to the salt water shower we went. You have to throw some modesty away when going to war! The ship went in a zig zag pattern all the time to help keep the Jap submarines from zeroing in on her, so we were caught with our britches off.

Finally after about 18 or 20 days, we dropped anchor off shore from Espiritu Santos in the New Hebrides group. It was a beautiful sight from the ship. With our gear, we climbed down the rope ladder hanging over the side of the ship into a Higgins landing craft that carried us to shore. They trucked us to our camp ... small bungalow huts built in a coconut tree grove.

Since our planes would not be there to work on, the captain in charge at the time decided to make an impression. He organized work details to keep everyone busy, which was fine with us. He got ticked off about something and was going to make everyone work all day on Sunday. Some of the fellows approached the chaplain about this and got the matter taken care of. Needless to say, church was well-attended! It seemed as the days went by, this captain got worse and worse and could not be satisfied. He was making things miserable for all. Some of the men organized a group to throw coconuts on top of the captain's hut to keep him awake all night. This continued for several nights. He instructed the guards to catch the guilty parties. It just so happened that the guards were in on the deal. Therefore, no one was ever apprehended.

After our planes arrived, we moved up to Luganville, where the landing strip was located, and the situation got much better after the C. 0. arrived. I don't know what happened to that captain. It was rumored that he left in a straight-jacket. He didn't stay with the squadron. I know this was the only real personnel problem that we had.

The worst experience that we had while training at Luganville was losing two planes with their crews. I went on a flight the next night after we lost the second plane. For awhile, the pilot thought he picked up a distress signal from the plane. He kept circling until it was determined the signal was not from the lost plane.

The plane that I was assigned to work on came up for a 60-hour check while here. The crew had removed all the cowling from both engines. When lunch time came, the work had not been completed. Thinking there might be a chance for rain while we were at lunch, we placed the cowling back on the engines ... only fastening each corner. When we returned to the plane revetment, there was no plane. Upon checking around, we found out that a flight crew had taken off in it. Man, did we sweat this out!! Not even one half of the fasteners were fastened to hold on the cowling. No safety wire on any of the gas draincocks. It was a disaster just waiting to happen. The crew made it back without mishap, but never was there another plane to leave without at least one of its ground crew present. I don't remember who the pilot was. It wasn't Bill Hopper---he would have spotted one loose Dzus fastener 150 feet away!! The mechs respected Bill's close inspections and his mechanical knowledge of the PBJ. I can say that none of the mechs would ever release a plane to fly if they knew of any slight problem with it. We treasured our flight crews ... also, we mechs had a habit of crawling aboard quite often for a flight.

Leaving Espiritu Santos, we were on our way to Green Island and ---- war. This was an experience. While on Green Island, weather permitting, flights were scheduled days and nights. We were at last in war. Besides regular maintenance, those Japs liked to shoot holes in those PBJs .... creating a lot of extra work.

At one point while there, some of the planes began to experience running out of gas on one engine on some of those lengthy missions. It was fortunate that we never lost a plane due to this, but had quite a few to make it back with only one engine operating. The mechs knew those tanks were full before leaving. We always topped the tanks off, even after we had run and checked out the engines before the flight crews arrived for a mission. Upon checking the possible fuel consumption for the time of the flights, there was no way they should have run out of gas. It caused some head scratching. The problem turned out to be that the fuel tanks were collapsing. The tanks were of the self-sealing type ... made out of rubber composition. Solution: change out the tanks --- quite a task. We did not have any electric screwdrivers in those days to remove all those screws ... just burn some more midnight oil.

On one occasion, parts supply got hold of a bunch of bad spark plugs. Our crew changed out three sets of plugs (a total of 168 for both engines) on one inspection before we could get an acceptable RPM drop on one mag. On another occasion, after a complete engine change on a plane, everything checked out perfectly, except the supercharger would not engage. We tried everything in the book: diluting the oil and what have you. After the second day, someone suggested removing the oil sump housing. The housing and matching part had a channel that the oil flowed through to drive the supercharger. Somehow at the factory, the hole in the gasket that fits between the two parts did not get punched out (must have been made in Florida), therefore blocking the oil flow. There was always a constant challenge.

On some of the night flights, if some of the mechs decided they wanted a "cool one" after the plane got back and was secured, they would hide a can of beer in the plane before the mission. You had to hide it really good---the flight crew liked beer, also. Some used a C02 fire extinguisher to cool them, but once this was discovered by the chief, it was promptly nipped in the bud. There was no way to put out an engine fire with an empty fire extinguisher.

The night that Capt. Edmonds and his crew crashed returning from a mission, I was in the sack,. dead to the world. The plane I was assigned to had been heavily damaged a few days prior to this, and our crew had had very little sleep the past three days and nights. The crash occurred less than 100 yards from my tent where I was sleeping. The crash didn't awaken me. The first thing I heard was the guard shouting to clear the area --- that a PBY (at the time, he thought it was a PBY) had crashed, it was loaded with depth charges and was on fire. I grabbed what I thought was my clothes and started making tracks! After getting to a safe distance, I proceeded to put on my clothes. But --- I didn't have any clothes. What I had grabbed was a towel and my mess gear --- left me standing there with my shorts on.

The ground echelon was in a different area from the flight echelon. About the only time we were in contact with them was when they arrived at the plane for a mission. This definitely was not a social time. The pilots were busy checking and inspecting their planes, while the crew was getting inside, checking gear and getting squared away. After the mission was completed, they got out of the plane and headed for a debriefing.

Even after 57 years, I can still see the flight crew with their names printed on their flight jackets, and that's pretty much the way I remember them. My hat is off to the flight crews. They always appeared professional and went about their task as if it was just another day's work. The ground crews worked their tails off, but it was the flight crews who were placing their lives on the line for each combat mission. Sadly, many of them didn't make it back.

While on Green Island, we more or less got to witness the beginning development of the "smart" missile. The TDR was nothing more than an oversized radio-controlled model aircraft. It was a small twin engine, mid-wing monoplane aircraft with a wing span of forty-five feet and length of thirty feet, powered by two 220 HP Lycoming engines. It was capable of carrying a 2,000 pound bomb. In October, 1944, some of these planes were launched from the same runway on Green Island that our planes used. The mother ship to the TDR was a TBM Avenger (one TDR for each TBM). The TBM would be at the end of the runway, and get the TDR airborne. The pilot of the TBM would control the TDR by a joystick, much like the control mechanism on today's TV video games, with a function guide. The mother ship always trailed the TDR at a great distance. Different targets were attacked ... enemy ships, bridges, ammo dumps, and anti-aircraft batteries. Strong radio interference in route to Rabaul by friendly forces caused some to fly erratically and miss their targets. Some had equipment failure, both mechanical and electronic, and fell short of their targets. From September 27, 1944, to October 29, 1944, a total of forty-four TDRs was launched against targets at Rabaul and Bouganville. The success rate was scored at about 45 percent. No KIA, no MIA, no injuries, and no loss of aircraft.

I would say that you could have divided our entire squadron personnel into three categories: the live wires, the quiet ones, and those in between. I do not claim to be in the live wire group, but there wasn't too much that I missed while in VMB-423. It was a great group of men with ingenuity, good work ethics, and compassion for each other, who were assigned a job to do, and they did it with honor. With a C. O., namely retired Maj. Gen. Norman J. Anderson --- men do not come any better and competent than he --- what else is there to say?

Something for us Marines to think about: As Marines tell it, after the fighting in the American Revolution was over and the nation's military forces were disbanded, all that remained was a corps of mules and two battalions of Marines. The Army and the Navy tossed a coin to determine who would

take the mules and who the Marines. The Army won the toss --- and took the mules.

Chuck Gardner, mechanic

...More from Chuck Gardner

Mrs. McDonald's comment on the tank ride (see my previous "Memory") and safety features, reminded me of an incident that occurred on the flight line while we were on Green Island. All was set for a 12-plane daylight mission, all crews inside their planes with engines running. Col. Winston was in Loren Sheckler's plane that day. He usually always flew Burnside's plane and Dick Hohman (he was one of Sheckler's mechanics) closed the front hatch, stooped low and came out from under the plane between the engines and them running. He turned around to give the Col. all thumbs up, but the Col. motioned for Dick to come to the cockpit. Dick did the reverse, stooping down, going under the plane between the engines, on up to the cockpit. Col. Winston chewed him out about the way he exited from under the plane while the engines were running, a safety lecture in general and for him to always go behind the engines while they were running. Well, what did Dick do? He came down the hatch, closed it, stooped real low, came right under the plane, between the engines and gave Col. Winston the thumbs up. Col. Winston just shook his head, relesed the brakes, taxied out ready to lead the raid. On return, Col. Winston did not mention the incident but Dick Hohman changed his manner of coming from under the plane and never again, while engines were running, did he come out between them. He took a ribbing from us mechs and never lived it down. I'll agree the prop wash was unpleasant to deal with, but nothing compared to what a prop could do to you while turning.

Then, there was Robert Deemer, made himself a sail boat and during his off time you could see him sailing out in the lagoon, something he really enjoyed. This one day he was sailing and had approached the only opening from the ocean into the lagoon, when the wind quit blowing. The tide was going out, taking Deemer and his boat toward the ocean. This didn't concern him for he figured the wind would pick up at anytime. As time went on, still no wind and he was getting further out into the ocean away from land. He said it came decision time and he begin the swim back to the island. The tent that Bob Nicolodi and I shared was next to a road and about sundown here comes Deemer walking in the road, just bareley putting one foot before the other. We had seen him earlier in the afternoon sailing and Bob asked him what was the deal. He told us what had happened and when we inquired abut his boat, he said that he scuttled it, did not want any Japs sailing in his boat. I don't know how far he had to swim, but it must have been a great distance, and against the tide, then he had 3 or 4 miles to walk on the coral. I've never seen anyone more bushed, but he still had that Deemer smile. Saw him at the Milwaukee or Hershey Reunion and, of course, we had to rehash his episode. Then his untimely death by falling through the attic of a friend's garage while helping out.

All I can say is that the man upstairs smiled on a lot of us Gyrenes back in those days.

Semper Fi, Chuck

"There's One in Every Crowd" (Sometimes Two)

by Howard Heck

As you know, many of the crew members attended Navy schools at different locales. Quite a few of us attended ordnance school at NATTC, Memphis.

Ed Huie, Dick (Peanut) Graves and I were in the same class. Ed and Dick were natural comedians and gave the rest of us many laughs during a sometimes very boring time.

Our barracks were in charge of a master-at-arms by the name of Wirtz. In our vernacular, he was a s___-bird. Wirtz was a real hard-ass as to how we kept the barracks. You had to give him credit though, because he got us numerous liberties by beating the other barracks in weekly inspection. We did scrub the floor (deck) on hands and knees. Wirtz was adamant about "QUIET" after lights out. He often came out of his cubicle and told us to shut up. Nevertheless, Huie and Peanut often kept verbally going back and forth with comments making the rest of us laugh loudly. One night Wirtz was especially grumpy and came out of his cubicle several times

shouting "Shut up!" After the fourth or fifth time he exclaimed, "One more peep and it is seabags and outside!"Quiet descended and as he turned to leave, a small "Peep" was heard. It was Graves.

The lights flicked on and "Hit the deck!" was heard. We packed our seabags and headed outside. We formed up, put seabags on our shoulders and marched.

Our barracks was between sailor barracks and even though it was past "lights out", the swabbies leaned from the windows and gave us jeers and cheers.

We must have marched back and forth for over half an hour when a Navy officer happened by, stopped us, chewed Wirtz out, and sent us inside. We returned to our bunks a little tired but happy and full of good spirit over the "Peep." We had laughs over that for a long time.

I still smile thinking of the humor Ed Huie and Peanut Graves gave to the rest of class G8-E and later in Purcell, Oklahoma and VMB-423.

Semper Fi, fellows.

Howard Heck

Memories

by Joan Higgins (widow of Sigfried Higgins, Jr., pilot)

Growing up, Sig and I were in the same group of young people, all 16 - 17 years old. Sig and all of my eventual brothers-in-law graduated from St. Benedict's Prep in Newark, New Jersey, a well-known prep school. I lived in Montclair, New Jersey and Sig in the next town, Verona (where we eventually lived and raised our family.)

In college (St. Peters in Jersey City) he was in his Junior year. Several local colleges participated in a program called Civilian Pilot Training. Sig had said "When I go in service, I would prefer to fly." Later, he was accepted in the Naval Training Program and trained at Chapel Hill, North Carolina at the University, then to Lambert Field, St. Louis and eventually Pensacola.

One night, in the middle of an air raid drill (remember them? - my mother was the air raid warden for our street) - it was dark, all lights were out, and the phone rang. It was Sig calling from Pensacola. He was about to graduate and he suggested, since he would be in navigation school in Hollywood, Florida, for a month, it would be a great place for a honeymoon. He was right! It was! (The Beach Hotel was quite famous!)

We were married in The Church of the Little Flower, just north of the Hollywood Circle on August 1, 1943, a Sunday afternoon. He couldn't get Saturday off, as his superior officer said, "Remember, young man, there is a war on!"

We met several members of "423" there as well, including Bill "Swede" Carlson who later became a Lt. Colonel and also served in Viet Nam. He was in our wedding party. Also, Bill Schlegel from Newark - we were in his wedding party after the war.

As you can imagine, in those days a whole month in Florida, plus two weeks leave when we arrived home was an unbelievable gift of time.

When Sig returned to Cherry Point, I joined him in New Bern, North Carolina, which began my friendship with many of the wonderful squadron members who would remain our life-long friends. They include Bob and Kitty Kotalik, Roger and Patti Dickeson as well as Bob Ryan. These friendships would continue more closely in Edenton, N.C., our next base, not only members of the squadron but their wives and their wives-to-be.

Several incidents come to mind. In Edenton one night Sig took me out to the base and I met Bill Hopper, the crew's 1^st pilot. Later, we visited him several times in San Francisco. Bill and I still stay in touch. And I remember Ralph Jones who, with a deep southern accent said, "I would like you to meet Miss Grace Middlebrook." I was so glad I did because Grace became, and still remains, my very dear friend. Another Georgia member of the squadron, Ben Jones, was busy as well, meeting his musically talented wife Dorothy, and I am so glad he did! What great friends I've made!

There was a corner "eatery" on the road leading out to the base where some of the girls would meet for breakfast. One morning, a distraught Joe Egan came in looking for his mother's wedding ring, which she had given him. He didn't want to go overseas without it!

Edenton was situated between a Navy base at Hertford and an Italian POW camp in the opposite direction. We were very fortunate to find a place to live in rooms above the church. We helped Father McCord, who was the Pastor. We helped get the church ready for midnight mass, do his dishes and whatever else was needed as he had no other help. It had been warm and the flowers were out, but the weather turned sharply cold at the end of the week. The roses froze on the bushes around the church.

One of the amazing memories was hearing the Italian prisoners of war, standing up in the bed of a big truck, singing beautifully as they were driven to Mass. You could hear them for miles in the clear, cold air.

We met people from all over the country and learned many different ways of doing things. R.O. Wilson's wife, from California (I can't remember her name - a beautiful little girl) had never seen snow, nor much cold weather. They were staying outside of town with a nice family and when she hung some wash out on the line, it was frozen stiff. She had never seen anything like this, and thought she had made some sort of mistake.

One of my fondest memories was when we stood up for Garnie Gahagan and Norma Elmer when they were married in the church in Edenton. It has been such a pleasure to remain friends throughout our lives. Many years later when Norma passed away we met Garnie's new wife Betty and all I can say is, Garnie has great taste!

The squadron left Edenton for El Centro, most by train. Sig and Garnie Gahagan were assigned as Recreation Officers, and had to round up books, cards and whatever for the long journey. I did not go to California, as I was expecting. Sig's dad and brother and I, along with Bill Schlegel's fiancee, drove home to New Jersey together.

I returned to Montclair, N.J. to my home (my father, Dr. J. C. Yunkers and Agnes, my mother, also two sisters, Agnes and Betty - I was the youngest) to await the birth of our son on May 20, 1944. Most of Sig's subsequent letters concern this event.

I found much to my amazement that I could not deliver a child normally, so on Saturday the 20^th I had a C-section and thus Sig III arrived. The trauma of this time was difficult without Sig. Fortunately, my father was a big help, as was the rest of my family. Mother wrote Sig the news. He said that he had come in from a mission, and picked up the mail unopened and had a good sleep. When he awoke and read the letter of course there was much excitement! I believe that only Ray and Ginny Martin's son is older than Sig III. (Eventually I had eight C-sections and was on the front page of the Newark Evening News. Unfortunately, a boy, Paul and a girl, Mary, only lived a few days, so we raised six children, Sig, Joan, Peter, Patricia, Peggy and Mary Ellen).

After the war Sig returned to Montclair where we lived until we bought a home in Verona, as we were having another son. Sig was very fortunate, as during the summers of his college years he had worked for McNeil Construction in Newark. So when he returned from service, he spent a weekend home, then went down to check on the job. Not having time to get into civilian clothes, he wore his uniform. That was the last I saw of him! He went right to work. I have to say he was very successful and enjoyed his work and the people involved. He eventually bought the business, expanded it and it is still going strong, run by family members. Sadly, he gave up flying, as he felt his family was more important. But whenever possible, he would eat his lunch parked at Newark airport, watching the planes.

I apologize that I did not share my thoughts sooner, as the events of these years are some of my most treasured memories! True, it was war, but we were all so young we were never afraid. We felt that what we were doing was right. Also, the whole country was behind us! And the wonderful friendships formed have lasted a lifetime, too.

Best wishes to all, Joan

PBY Story Triggers Some Memories

By Ben Holden (radio-gunner)

It's been a long time since I've used a typewriter but I still retain some of the key locations.

I enjoyed Adventures in a PBY by Ken Meyer - it brought back some of my memories.

After radio school in Jacksonville, FL a few of us were sent to Cherry Point to another radio school that was a preparatory school for something that was too much for most of us and we were transferred to Norfolk NAS to yet another basic radio school that was for Navy boots [fresh] and with five experienced Coast Guardsmen who didn't know what they were there for either.

Our barracks were actually on the tarmac of the station and they formed a fence for the area where they pulled the PBY's up on the ramp for maintenance and for loading the depth charges.

Anyway, we all enjoyed liberty in Norfolk because the Navy Shore Patrol took us under their wing. There were so few Marines that they gave us all an open invitation to imbibe in the Chiefs' club. Made use of it every time we had liberty. It was greatly appreciated for liberty call was at 1600 and all the joints were dry before 1700. Back on the NAS we ate with the swabbies in a huge mess hall with typical Navy food but nowhere as good as some we were soon going to get. I have no clue as to the date, for it should have been imprinted on all of us. As we, John Gunn and 1, were eating there was an explosion. I was blown across the table and nearly stuck John with my fork. By the time we got untangled and back outside someone came through with the word that all the Marines were to immediately report to the Marine Barracks on the main base. "On the double" and take nothing with you except the clothes on your backs. We were issued all new stuff at the M.B. Also now that we were now stationed there they assigned us to fence, gate and shore patrol duties. It seems that a string of twenty-four depth charges had gone off and our five barracks were no longer there! We lost everything we owned. All of us would rather have remained in school.

Had a Marine PX in the building and no swabbies were allowed. Also ate at tables with white table cloths, with mess attendants serving us. You know that did not last long.

We climbed aboard trucks, with our gear, and off to gunnery school at Dam Neck, VA. which was the home of the shipboard five-inch gunnery school. Did not see them but we sure did know when they were firing!

We did a lot of small arms firing and hours on the skeet and trap ranges. We could check out shot guns to use in the swamps behind us for duck hunting (that is directly in the wildfowl flyway) and all donations to the mess chief were readily cooked and served during the next noon or evening. Most times there was enough to go around. Not there for long and then off to join VMB 423 in Edenton.

Sorry that I cannot remember who else was with us but it was an interesting sojourn for me. By the way, I was never interested in flying in a PBY thereafter.

Semper Fi, Ben Holden

Life's Little Happenings

By Bill Hopper

I just recalled one happening at Edenton .... This must have occurred in the winter of 1943. At least five or six engine blocks were not drained and they froze. These were motor pool vehicles. Col.Winston called the officers together and 'requested' a donation. My memory is hazy but I think it was about $100 each. We ponied up. Capt.Bell, the Material Officer, and perhaps another person took a truck and drove northward until they located, purchased and loaded the required number of engine blocks.. I have no recall as to who was in charge, either officer or enlisted. Maybe some of the other pilots recall this happening?

One other thing. Life's little happenings: When our squadron received new planes they were ferried into either Cherry Point or Edenton. I personally 'signed for' 15 aircraft.. Me, a lowly lieutenant! I really thought this was strange. But it did not bother me. Talk about trying to get blood out of a turnip! At that time I could not have afforded the price of even a set of tires for one plane!!

...I thought of another happening while we were in the South Pacific. It was probably in the fall of 1944 when a B-24 went down somewhere north of Green Island. Some of our flight crews were sent out on sector search patrols which lasted about five hours as I recall. To sit there and sweep the horizon with binoculars was very tiring. Sig Higgins and I would take turns. The other crew members were also searching. We did not find any sign of the B-24, but someone observed some whales who were spouting. About that time a request came to practice a little gunnery on them. I vetoed the idea and we continued the search until we had to return to base. Frankly, I did not consider myself an environmentalist but saw no point in killing whales. Maybe it came from a farm environment where we only shot the number of birds we would eat. Over the past thirty or so years I have, on rare occasions, asked an extreme environmentalist: Would you want a dinosaur in your backyard?

Wishing you all the best! Bill

Just a Matter of Judgment

By Ernie Hughes

We were on Espiritu Santo, where the rain was continuous, day and night, day in and day out. The humidity was at least 150%. All our clothes were saturated, with mildew growing on everything.

We, at that time, had little or nothing to do. All our senior officers were in Australia. A planning conference, I believe it was called or so we were told. In any case, that left Captain "S" in charge. I never knew exactly what Captain "S's" job or duties were. He walked around and looked for someone to talk to. He cornered me a couple of times and told me the story as to how he became the youngest officer in the A.E.F. (the American Expeditionary Forces, WW I). That being true, he would now have to be at least 100 years old. So, I doubt he"s still around to object to my telling what happened.

What happened the day of The Incident, was that I used dubious judgment. I was in the Dallas hut, sitting on my mildewed cot, when in came a clerk from the office. His message was that Capt. "S" wanted to see me. Dutifully, I dashed through the rain to the office, where I spoke to Captain "S". He informed me that I was to go to Headquarters Squadron to fix roof leaks.

I explained that the people in HQ Squadron knew where the leaks were and that they were their leaks, so let them fix them themselves. I don't believe Captain "S"' liked my answer. So ... he told me it was a direct order. "Get a crew together NOW and go fix their leaks." Again, I used somewhat dubious judgment. I tried again to reason with the good Captain. I explained that the only clothing we had that was dry was the clothing on our backs. At this point, Captain "S" stated that if I didn't obey his order he would charge me with disobeying a lawful order.

His impatience did not match mine. I reached across the table and took a swing at my tormentor. Luckily, I missed. However, to this day, I can still hear the Captain's voice, "Corporal of the Guard, Corporal of the Guard, Corporal of the Guard, ..." Finally, someone realized he was the Corporal of the Guard and came in, whereupon he was ordered to place me under arrest.

It was at this point the Captain found that there was no brig to put me into until a trial could be held. He solved that problem an hour later by giving me a court martial. It was a short trial. The judge was the plaintiff, witness and prosecutor. No testimony was permitted from the defendant. The sentencing was swift ... ten days in the brig. The fact that no brig existed was again visited upon Captain "S".

The rest of the day was really hectic ... a lot of talk when the captain was absent, a lot of snickering. Finally, someone asked me, "What are we going to do with you?" I said, "I should be paroled and sent back to a hut until tomorrow. With a fresh mind we will figure it all out." About thirty minutes later, that is what the Captain did, with the admonishment for me "not to leave my hut." Being a good Marine, I stayed put - until it was time for the movie.

The next day ... more confusion. Finally, it was determined that Headquarters Squadron had the responsibility to provide a place of confinement for the prisoner ... me! So, I was escorted to Headquarters Squadron. Two P.F.C.'s with M1's (no bullets) delivered me to a lieutenant, whose name I cannot remember. I do remember he graduated from the University of Minnesota. A lineman on their football team, he was about 6'3", 275 pounds and a tub of flab. He wore glasses with lenses like the bottom of coke bottles. He had many of the qualities of Capt. "S". However, he was one up on Capt. "S". They had found something he could do ... oversee a desperate criminal!

Again the problem of "no brig" was visited upon my captors. Somewhere in Headquarters Squadron someone found a solution. I was placed in charge of - building my own stockade! That is, if you could ignore the one-armed private, whose choice was either to guard me or help me. In any case, we set up an old rotten two- man tent in the center of three palms. Then we took barbed wire and walked around and around the three palms with each pass going a little higher until we ran out of wire. Then my guard ran a stick under the bottom strand and I crawled under it. I was now, at last, beginning my ten days. You've heard of people digging their own grave. Now you've heard of someone building his own prison.

The first full day of my confinement began about 7 a.m. when the guards came for me. (The good Lieutenant from Minnesota forgot to post guards at night, but at least he remembered to feed me.) I was escorted to the mess hall as a desperado. I had to eat separate from everyone else. As I began eating, I heard someone say, "Hey Ernest! What are you doing here?" I looked up and there stood Charlie Gardener. (He was a boy I went to grammar school with ... in fact, he was a good and steady friend through grammar school.) I replied, "Hey, Charlie!" I stood up and shook hands and asked him to sit down and eat with me. He and his buddy (both from Headquarters Squadron) sat down and we began reminiscing. Then I remembered I was a prisoner. So, I informed him of this little detail and introduced him to my guards. Since they were in the same squadron, they already knew each other. My guards just had not been instructed on how to handle this situation. So they moved very close behind me, like an old hen warming her biddies. Soon Charlie and his buddy had to go to work and I was left alone with my guards.

Now was the time to start the hard labor portion of my ten days. My job? Well. it was to burn out outhouses to kill flies and odor. It doesn't take long to toss a quart of gasoline into an outhouse pit and throw in a match. So, in about an hour, I was all caught up on my new job. As I waited for my new instructions, the good Lieutenant came by and told me a couple of football stories about the University of Minnesota.

Stories or no stories, the problem of hard labor still existed. This is where they made 'The Great Mistake'. Some great mind decided I could wash pots and pans in the Senior Officer's Mess.

My caretakers escorted me to the kitchen door of the S.O. Mess. We were admitted but the S.O. cook decided that three extra people in a small kitchen was a bit too much. He told my caretakers he would take all responsibility for me and asked that they wait outside. Not knowing any better, they complied.

A handful of senior officers don't mess up a lot of dishes at breakfast. Again my work was caught up with and I was left with some time on my hands. The cook and I started talking. He asked the questions everyone asked. "Where are you from? What outfit? What's your name?" "Ernest Hughes. What's your name? "Milheim Rahaim." "Hey the girl I'm engaged to is named Rahaim." "Ye-ah, where does she live?" "In Jacksonville, Florida." "Hey, I have cousins in Jacksonville. What's her name?" "Beatrice," I said. "Hey, she's my cousin." At this point, a whole world opened up for me. After lunch was served, Milheim asked me, "What do you want for lunch?" I didn't know how to answer that question ... lamb's tongue, Spam, or Vienna sausage. Milheim answered the question for me. " How about a steak?" I thought I surely must have heard him wrong. He continued, "How do you like yours?" "Rare," I managed to say.

Doing brig time is not always so bad. Where, when, plus who ... can make all the difference in the world. From that moment on, I had an easy job and good food (steak and eggs for breakfast ain't bad!) but that all changed too soon. On my sixth day, shortly after lunch, I was told to get my stuff and go back to my hut. I sadly left my new heaven. As I walked away, I looked back and all I could see was the signs that said, "Restricted ... Authorized Personnel Only." Somehow, I knew they were painted just for me.

When I got back to the hut (with all my excess candy bars, which my many sympathizers had tossed into my prison over the last six days) I had lots of company wanting to know how I survived in that terrible place. For me, telling was easy ... for them, believing was hard.

Someone told me the C.O. and the EX.O. had returned from Australia. I felt I was told this good news to ease my pain. I wondered, "Why hadn't they stayed away just a few more days? "

About an hour after I got back, I was informed that I was wanted in the office. "What now?" I wondered. I dutifully presented myself to the First Sergeant. He looked up at me and said, "As of the first of the month, you will be paid as a 'Staff Sergeant'." I had never heard of anyone being promoted while serving time in the brig. It's usually the reverse.

I still do not know why I got a reduced sentence or how it was entered into my records. Maybe not at all ... for I was discharged on time. No 'add on' for brig time.

Even today, sometimes in the middle of the night, I think I can hear Captain "S" yelling, "Corporal of the Guard, Corporal of the Guard!"

Gentlemen, Thank You!

By Rudy Inman

At the VMB 423 reunion in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, Oct. 12-15, 2000, some members of the ground echelon of VMB 423 were presented with tongue-in-cheek awards of Order of THE DZUS FASTENER and the ORDER of THE CLECKO PIN. While this was done in fun it did express the appreciation of the flight echelon for the support provided by the ground echelon. Seeing these men being recognized caused me to do some serious thinking.

As turret gunner in Lt. Burlingham's crew, I now find it hard to believe how nonchalant we became about the aircraft we used. While it's true we all had a check-list of things we were supposed to do before we took off, many of us became very casual about these checks. We came to the point where we just accepted as fact that the flak holes would be patched, the engines would run perfectly, the ammo and the correct bomb-load would be installed, and everything else would be just as it should be. For my part, I took it for granted that my turret would go around, my twin fifties would go up and down and they would fire as needed. (Heck, I never even tested my parachute because we were assured that if one didn't work, all we had to do was bring it back and get another one just like it.) We knew that the photos of the target area would be exact, we knew we could rely on our radios and instruments, and (if it was a

night flight) Doc Bozik's people would have a night-cap for us when we returned.

In recent times some members of the flight echelon have received Air Medals and Distinguished Flying Crosses for their activities while members of VMB 423. I just want to say to the members of the ground echelon----- from the guys who hauled the bombs and ammo from the magazines, to the ordnance men who loaded them, to the mechs who kept the planes flying, to the metal smiths who patched them, to the photographers, to the radio and instrument repair men, to the guys who packed the 'chutes, and, yes, even to the cooks who did a great job with what they had to work with---- we in the flight echelon could not have done our job if you guys had not been so good at what you did!

Gentlemen, my hat is off to you! I sincerely regret that I didn't say this to you many years ago when more of you were alive to hear it. The medals we have received were authorized, and in most cases were presented, by people who had never heard of us until our name came across their desk. Your "fun" awards, on the other hand, were made and presented by guys who knew you and knew what you did, and who appreciate and respect you for it! Maybe they weren't really tongue-in-cheek after all.

Gentlemen, THANK YOU

Rudy Inman, Turret gunner, VMB423

REMEMBERING VMB-423

by: Harold J. "Johnny" Johnston, pilot

I was born in Thomaston, Connecticut, home of the Seth Thomas Clock Company ...in fact, the town was named for the man whose many clocks bore his name. I was born on April 24, 1917, which means that I am now 85 and still going strong, with a few exceptions, such as Parkinson's, etc.

Following the attack on Pearl Harbor, I enlisted in the Navy and on a cold night around mid-night we arrived (all 30 of us) at the State Pier in New London, CT. It was there that I had my first meeting with a Chief Petty Officer who had to be called out of bed to find a place for a bunch of recruits who arrived unexpectedly..boy, was he nasty, and to my way of thinking he was always the same. Meaner than hell!

I was at that base long enough to become a third class petty officer, Signalman 3rd class, and always had a strong desire to fly so four of us put in for a transfer to Floyd Bennett field in Brooklyn, N. Y, where a review board of three top Navy officers sat in judgement while we were told to tell them about ourselves and why we wanted to be Naval Aviators.

Dan Casey and I were the only ones who were chosen and I didn't see Dan again until after WW2 was over and we were both coming home ... that meeting took place on Tarawa, of all places.

I left Floyd Bennett field in February 1943 for pre-flight school at Chapel Hill, N.C. and after that it was Bunker Hill, Indiana, for actual flight training in those great old Stearman biplanes and finally in September 1943 to Pensacola where I made the grade and got my gold wings in January 1944. I was assigned to photo school for about four months which consisted of flying SNJ's with a student photographer in the back seat, and following that I was transferred to EDENTON, N.C., since I had chosen the rank of 2nd Lt. in the Marine Corps Reserve and there at Edenton, I had my first experience with a PBJ.

In fact, my whole life changed while at Edenton. It was there that I met the girl to whom I have been married for almost 60 years. It was there that we had a darn good dance band of some 14 pieces and the band was directed by Captain Dick Graves who was also a pilot and the girl trumpet player who later became my wife was Corporal Virginia Clawson. The only other band member that I can recall, was Louis Nicolas, who was also a pilot in VMB-423 and lived in Iron Mountain, Michigan. In addition, Lou was a trumpet player and I played piano --- in fact I flew a few night heckler missions with Lou later on.

Edenton was a base like no other facility, whether it was Army, Navy or Marines and there are so many wonderful memories associated with Edenton, that I could write an entire book about what happened there. The most memorable thing, however, was the fact that while a war was waging in two areas of the world and obviously trained pilots were needed, I was "detained" at Edenton for more than a month after completion of PBJ flight instruction in order to play piano for a show that was produced by the staff. Anyone who was in attendance at that show will never forget it. Sure was great!!

After leaving Edenton, I was transferred to Cherry Point and after going through more training I became a member of a crew with pilot Ed MacDonald, and for the life of me the only crew members that come to mind were Maldonado, Raines, Johnson and Anderson--all of whom were terrific at their jobs--but I can't remember the tail-gunner's name although he was a wonderful kid and I can only remember what he looked like, rather than his name.

Finally, in January 1945 we took off in PBJ-lJ-38981 which was the latest model from North American and after arriving at San Diego, we were transported (18 PBJ'S) on a Kaiser-built Aicraft Carrier, the USS Attu, to Honolulu, and after unloading all 18 planes, they were flown by their crews to Ewa, which is (or was) the Marine Corps base near Barbers Point.

We left Ewa and flew the PBJ out to the combat area and on one occasion we were almost shot down by our own troops because we approached Bougainville from the wrong direction and our IFF was not set properly. On March 3, we departed from Hawaii and after dodging thunderstorms and generally lousy flying weather we made it to Palmyra. From there it was Canton, next stop was Funafuti, followed by Espiritu Santo. It seems to me that the next stop was Guadalcanal, and following that it was the approach to Bougainville (referred to earlier) and the landing at B-ville was our first on a portable mat. Wow! What a racket --- it sounds like you're dragging about 100 metal garbage cans, loaded with nails. We finally arrived at Emirau on March 10 and after processing the PBJ we were sent to Green Island and that was our base of operations until later that summer when we moved to Emirau.

How well I remember the first day at Green Island. We were pretty tired as well as hungry and anyone who was there will vouch for the fact that the flour that was used to bake the bread, had small boll weevils or just plain bugs and you could tell who the new people were by watching them poking the bugs out of the bread. It wasn't too long before you forgot about the bugs and ate the bread --- bugs and all!! Apparently the flour was shipped in cargo holds and although it was OK when shipped, however during the long voyage the bugs somehow began to appear.

Probably the next most difficult thing to overcome was the living conditions. We had so damn many rats that no matter how many you killed, there were always as many--or more--to take their place. I remember that someone had sent me some chocolates and the first night I baited the traps with them. Good Lord, within a half-hour the candy was gone but we had rats, rats, and more rats. Captain Moe Iverson lived in a tent nearby and one night he got so fed up with rats that he started shooting at them with his .38 GI pistol. Man, bullets were flying everywhere and that charade had to stop before somebody besides the rats were killed. At least, Moe was relieved of the frustration, for the time being.

I remember that the cot which I slept on was made of a frame consisting of 2 x 4's, with huge rubber bands stretched across the frame. Oh yes, there was a pad in addition the bands, which I later learned came from cutting up old inner tubes that were no longer useable in aircraft tires. Recently, my wife, Jinny, bought a mattress and box springs for a small twin bed which, on sale cost over $200. The beds we slept on probably cost around $3 ... and even with adjustments for inflation and the time involved... represented an increase of more than I care to think about.

I well remember the first shower that I took while living in a tent on Green Island. For the benefit of those who have never taken a shower in warm salt water, IT'S THE PITS!!!! Of course, everything had fungus growing on it and when I got back to civilization, the first thing I did was to have my uniforms, shirts, socks, and everything else, THOROUGHLY CLEANED. All in all, however, it wasn't too bad and I'm sure that many service people had a lot worse to contend with.

I remember that almost all of the food that we ate, was either fake or SPAM. One day, we were lucky enough to find a 40-quart can full of ersatz milk. Powdered, that is. So, it was relatively quiet on the flying side so we took the milk up to 9,000 feet and after flying around for an hour or so, we solved the problem of how to cool the milk. Boy, was that good drinking. (I'm sure General Anderson didn't know how we cooled that milk--but I'm sure he wouldn't have cared after a nice cool glass of milk).

When we first arrived on Green Island, we were told that it was the rainy season and the temperature was always in the nineties and you can readily see what a combination like that would add up to. However, as long as I was in the South Pacific, the weather was always the same. Now I know why they trained us to be so damn tough. it wasn't for the war --- it was to live and work under such difficult conditions.