This exact reprint of an article, including headlines, was written by Robert Cromie of the Chicago
Tribune (the cost per issue was then three cents), dated 14th October 1943.
Cromie flew with the crew of Liberator Satan’s Sister, departing
that morning from 7-Mile Strip near Port Moresby. The Liberator was from the
403rd Squadron of the 43rd Bombardment Group, and was
B-24D-85-CO serial # 42-40680. We can today marvel at the use of the
straightforward, colloquial and expletive language of the day, but we should
not judge it against our modern times. It is easy however, to see the implied
propaganda message of the article, and its purpose of the time:
MacARTHUR BLASTS RABAUL,
By Robert Cromie [Chicago
Tribune Press Service]
SOMEWHERE IN NEW GUINEA Oct.
12 [Delayed].‑‑ In the Liberator "Satan's Sister" I went
on today's raid on Rabaul. We took off shortly after dawn. The crews and pilots
had been thoroughly instructed in the plan of attack and each given designated
targets. Their spirits were extremely high, despite the usual warnings to land
on alternate fields if crew members were wounded. There was the usual ritual of
intelligence officers collecting wallets and other valuables of those going on
the raid‑‑‑just in case. After the briefing was completed the
men climbed into trucks and headed for their planes. A couple of men were
singing‑‑‑one song starting: "It was on the 31st of May,
8:30 in the morning." Others laughed and joked as if leaving for a picnic.
"Don't bomb the geisha
houses" some one yelled. "Why not?" a companion asked. "You
can kill more Japs there than anywhere else. "Yeah," the first
speaker said, "but the last time we did they got awfully mad." Lt.
John E. Bond, 24 years old, of Scarsdale, N.Y., piloted "Satan's
Sister". The co‑pilot was Lt. Elbert M. Rice, 24 Paris, Tex.;
Navigator 2nd Lt. P. O. Van Keuren, 22, Lincoln, Neb.; Bombardier Lt. James W.
Smith, 25, Hayes Store, Va., and Staff Sgt. Ralph W. Powell, 35, of Greenville,
Pa., the tail gunner. With them and the rest of the crew I climbed aboard.
Moves Into Bomb Bay.
As we taxied on the runway I
moved into the bomb bay and stood between rows of 1,000 pound bombs. We had
plenty of respect for the 1,000 pounders‑‑‑Staff Sgt. Fred C.
Whitney, 22, Independence, Mo., Staff Sgt. John G. Shaffer of Logan W. Va., and
I. We didn't return to our comfortable posts in the waist until Bond had plenty
of time to get his plane on an even keel. Other heavy bombers were all around
us. I could count more than 50 at one time. We gradually got into formation and
headed for Rabaul, soon running into heavy fog which hid the wingtips and sent
tiny drops of water running on the windows. Then into the sun once more. The
morning was all blue and gold and blinding white. I went forward and stood
behind the pilot's seat. Tech Sgt. H. V. Milarski of 3800 Diversey boulevard,
Chicago, was working on the radio. As he smoked a cigarette he looked as bored
as if riding down State street in a street car. Tech Sgt. Joseph A. Gosseaux,
23, of Grindstone, Pa., the engineer, was busy writing down the names of the
personnel. He did this with ease from long practice, even to putting down each
man's serial number from memory‑‑‑some numbers containing
eight digits.
Planes Fill the Sky.
Dead ahead of us were nice
planes flying in beautiful V formation, and others far to our left still were
jockeying into position. The whole sky‑‑‑well, almost the
whole sky‑‑seemed to be filled with Allied planes. It was a lovely
sight. I returned once more to the waist to check my parachute size and watch
Powell and Shaffer test their guns. Far below ‑‑‑we now were
high enough to use oxygen‑‑‑ were some of the most beautiful
clouds I have ever seen. It was possible to imagine them as many things‑‑‑a
threadbare white carpet, melted snow, a layer of marshmallow flavoring, or huge
icebergs. Some one spoke over the interphone. "Are we supposed to join
fighters somewhere?" he asked, cheerfully, "because this damn course
is taking us right for Rabaul. "
Fighters Cheer Him Up.
A little while later we were joined by fighters, and I felt much
happier. The bombardier and pilot were discussing how to make the run, and
concluded their conversation with "Then go right over Rabaul harbor.
" Shaffer, hearing this, said "Who‑o‑o‑o," and
made a sign with his hands like ack‑ack coming up and grinned happily. I
grinned weakly. We passed swiftly over water whose coral reefs were amazing
shades of blue and green and then over land checkered jungle and open spaces
and an occasional muddy river. From an extreme height,
Then we were fairly near
Rabaul, and I suddenly developed an intense desire to go home. But I wanted to
go home after having been to Rabaul, if I make myself clear. I looked at a
river far below and thought it would be possible to walk along it to the sea if
necessary. But then we were over
Anyway, Chocolate Is Cold.
Powell and I broke out some
chocolate, chewed them with some difficulty. The only virtue of eating chocolate
in these conditions is that it is cold enough so the candy doesn't melt all
over your hands. A few miles ahead I saw what looked like smoke hanging low
along the water's edge. It was Rabaul. .By leaning a little way out into the
slipstream, I could see a couple of Jap ships beginning to circle frantically
in the outer harbor. From the other window I saw dozens of Jap ships, most of
them still motionless, and a number of bombs bursting among them, throwing
water high into the air and leaving black smoke hanging where the bomb had
split the water.
As Powell and I watched, we
could see one ship disappear momentarily as some sharp-shooting bombardier
scored a direct hit. Then, as we came over the harbor, I lay down and peered
thru the bottom turret to see our brown beauties of bombs drop into space to
begin the long trip down. Someone's bombs‑‑‑either ours or
those of the plane ahead‑‑‑landed very close to two large
ships which still were side by side, perhaps caught as they were fueling. The
bombs made a brisk pattern of near misses, but perhaps even then they did grave
damage to the ships.
Ack Ack Discolors Sky.
The sky became discolored
with bursting anti‑aircraft fire, which came from a few ships and also
from some ground guns near an extinct volcano. Then we turned over the harbor
and began to leave the target area. Behind I could see the town of Rabaul‑‑which
from a height of many thousands of feet looks like a delightful vacation spot‑‑‑the
harbor, where at least two and perhaps more ships were burning with a pleasant
persistence, and a couple of air fields, one of which was almost completely
wreathed with smoke. The ack‑ack guns were still firing at the last six
of our bombers. Two Jap planes, apparently bombers, and the only Jap planes I
saw all day, were flying far below along the shore line as if their only desire
was to get away from there. Then we moved far enough away from Rabaul so that
the only indication that our raid was a success was a heavy irregular line of
dark smoke, 'in startling contrast to the pure white clouds. The allies' two
attacks were less than an hour apart. The first caught the Japs thoroughly
napping and did a viciously efficient job knocking out many Jap planes on the
ground, and silencing much ack‑ack. The second smash was directed against
the harbor and shipping as well as waterfront installations.
Opposition Faint Hearted.
The Jap air opposition was faint‑hearted, their fighters breaking
off their attack in most cases after a few passes. The ack‑ack was far
less than usual. When the last of our bombers left Rabaul, several ships were
burning in the harbor and a smoke pall hung over the whole area, heaviest in
the vicinity of the airfields. As we turned for home, our only worry was a
possible lack of gasoline to get us there. As a precaution we dropped off at an
alternate field‑‑‑where we found that many of the other
pilots had the same idea‑‑‑to get a fresh supply of gasoline
after a long wait. The final stage of the homeward trip was made in the moonlit
dusk, a beauty of a night which caused Lt. Rice to remark sadly: "I sure
could make sweet talk tonight." We made a good landing on the lighted
runway and taxied to a revetment. The first man to greet us was Staff Sgt. Tom
A. Moody of
Fond of the Sister.
"I've been sweating you
out," he said. "I tried to sleep; but I couldn't, so I've been
sitting here waiting. I think I'll be able to go tomorrow." Moody is like
the rest of the crew, including Staff Sgt. Henry L. Sermons, 27 years old, of
Fort Barnwell, N. C., very fond of "Satan's Sister", whom they have
had since bringing her from Topeka, Kan., last May. She had flaunted her
beautiful figure‑‑‑reclining on the side of the ship‑‑‑on
29 missions to date and accounted for three Zeros. The fact that a pair of
panties have been added to her in recent weeks seemingly has not hampered her.
That is about all, except to report that painted beneath the waist guns are a
pair of dice and the words "You're faded." Satan's Sister, as the
name implies, is a hot number.
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