CHAPTER TWO
'This place is the pits'

IRON RANGE is situated on a narrow finger of land at the north-east extremity of Cape York Peninsula. The area receives breezes from the Gulf of Carpentaria and the Torres Strait. There is no prolonged dry season. During the wet season the land has been known to receive 200 inches of rain in sixty days. It is remote and desolate and when overcast it is dark and forbidding. The site had been of interest to the military since the early days of the war. The RAAF believed that an all-weather airfield in the area could be useful.
Plans were drawn up for the project, with an estimated cost of ,£1500. No progress was made until April 1942 when an American aerial reconnaissance flown by Walter Maiersperger reported:

I had been ordered to make a survey of the coastal airfields of Queensland. On this trip I landed with the B-26 at Moresby, Horn Island and Coen and surveyed the area at Iron Range from the air only, as no construction had yet started there. All I saw from the air was the rainforest and the river winding down to the coast. It looked to be a promising site, but there may be logistical problems.

A few weeks later the American 46 Engineer Regiment began working on constructing two 7000 feet sealed runways and thirteen miles of sealed taxiways. The Americans called these two strips Gordon and Claudie. Heavy equipment, personnel and resources necessary for the project were dispatched to Portland Roads, a single jetty facility on the coast. Once unloaded, Caterpillar D8 bulldozers and D12 road graders cleared and widened the twelve miles of bush road to Iron Range. The American 46 Engineers and other ground echelon units did not easily forget the construction of the airfield in the Australian bush. Three camp sites each with 400 men laboured under arduous and primitive conditions to complete the project. As well as being demanding, the work was also dangerous. Work-related accidents were common. In September 1942, fourteen members of the 46 Engineers were stricken with ptomaine poisoning, better known as botulism. Six men from Company B and one from Company C subsequently died.
A report from the regiment to Base Section Three headquarters in Brisbane reflects the logistical and scheduling challenges confronting the engineers:
Iron Range progress report: Building mess hall operations —five room latrine — 12 capacity shower and wash all completed — water installations made. Field baker service available — butcher personnel present, herd en route. Strip 6800' complete and ready for landing although final surfacings not finished. Gasoline in drums available. Road 2 tracks graded from Portland Roads not complete but readily passable.
By November 1942, the 160-degree strip (Claudie) and a 120-degree strip (Gordon) were almost complete. Taxiways and bays were to be completed by December, weather permitting.
American aircraft began arriving at Iron Range before the dromes were even completed. The Gordon strip was still gravel when B-26 Marauders from the 19th Squadron of the 22nd Bomb Group landed on September 9th. Two weeks later the 33rd Squadron arrived. The 22nd Bomb Group were conducting operations — and suffering casualties — from Iron Range as early as September 13th. Only a week after Iron Range began operations, Kansas Comet, a B-26, under the command of Lieutenant Walt Krell, hit a termite mound, shearing off the right landing-gear strut. The aircraft lost control and crashed into a compressor truck parked on the western side of the strip. At this stage of the war several RAAF pilots were serving with the American squadrons. In addition to being an example of United States and Australian cooperation it also allowed many American co-pilots to leave their squadrons and train the ever-increasing number of new crews constantly arriving. Krell's co-pilot on this mission was Pilot Officer G. Robertson. After the collision with the truck, Kansas Comet lived up to its name and caught fire. Walt Krell suffered serious burns as he made a desperate effort to rescue Robertson, who died in the fire. A private from the 46th Engineers, R. G. Rodrigues, also died. It was a tragic accident, but it was only the beginning.
The dense jungle area of the base was useful for meeting camouflage needs, but it would also reveal major problems with large aircraft. The original strips had been designed for the B-26 Marauder, which had a wingspan of 65 feet. The clearing was 250 feet, a prudent distance for this type of aircraft. When the larger and heavier B-24 Liberators arrived, with a wingspan of 110 feet, no alteration was made. Aircraft manoeuvres at Iron Range would have challenged the most experienced pilots, a quality not yet attained by the crews of the 90th Bomb Group.
Some of the 90th Bomb Group's ground echelon had arrived in early November to prepare for the group's aircraft. The 319th, 320th and 400th squadrons arrived on November 13th. The forty-eight B-24 Liberators had been delayed in Mareeba due to faulty undercarriage nose •wheels. It was no small task just to find Iron Range, which was virtually invisible from the air until you were over it. The 90th's pilots were already feeling trepidation about night operations.-Crew members gazed out of the portals and could see the finished but still unsealed Gordon and Claudie strips. There were some clearings in the bush and what appeared to be tin sheds. Potential accommodation was obvious even from the air; pitched tents were strung between the trees. Many of the aircrews had heard scuttlebutt about the primitive latrines and mess areas. For the 289 officers and 1407 enlisted men of the 90th Bomb Group, Iron Range would be, by far, the worst posting of the war.
'Iron Range was the pits,' wrote Ernest Rhodes from the 319th.'... Right in the middle of the jungle. We lived in six-man pyramidal tents and had one large tent for a mess hall. It was hot and the weather for flying to Jap targets in New Guinea and New Britain was horrible.'
Only hours after their arrival at Iron Range, two aircraft from the 319th took off for a reconnaissance mission to Wewak, Madang, Finschhafen, Lae and Buna. It was an uneventful mission. Two days later, aircraft from the 319th and 400th staged the group's first bombing mission. The targets were Japanese ships in the Buin-Faisi anchorage of Bougainville Island. It was a daylight mission and the group was harassed by heavy anti-aircraft fire and Japanese fighters. Sergeant Clifford F. McCarthy, the tail gunner in Lieutenant Eckert's 8 Ball, is credited with being the first member of the 90th to shoot down a Japanese aircraft in the war.
It was a disappointing mission, with negligible damage inflicted on Japanese shipping. The group suffered its first operational loss when Hank Werner's Lady Beverly ditched near the Island of Bia Bara. Only two of the crew, Lieutenant Walter C. Seidel and Sergeant Albert L. Butterfield, survived. Another Liberator, Dale J. Thornhill's The Condor, had damaged a wingtip while taxiing at Iron Range. After hasty repairs at Port Moresby the ship continued the mission, but because of the damage the crew were unable to conserve fuel. The Condor crash-landed on a beach near Iron Range; there were no serious causalities, only wounded pride. Three days later, the .three squadrons were ordered to embark on a mission to bomb the large Japanese naval base in Rabaul, which had been captured by the Japa­nese in January 1942. It contained two excellent harbours, Blanche Bay and Simpson Harbour. There were also four airfields in or around the area. Defensive measures •were formidable. A large Japanese fleet was in harbour and an army garrison of nearly 100 000 men; 367 anti-aircraft guns were operated by navy and army units.
The sortie to Rabaul was the first major test for the group. Four­teen aircraft were to depart from Iron Range beginning at 2300 hours. Rabaul was a distant 850 miles to the north-east. It was a long haul to a hot target. The aircraft were to set a north-easterly course across New Guinea and the Solomon Sea with the airspeed adjusted for an arrival over the target between 0400 and 0600 hours. It was all to be done at night. Most of the crews had yet to become familiar with Iron Range and no one had taken off in the dark.
The Liberators lumbered into position one hour before midnight. The noise was immense. Each ship was loaded with 2300 gallons of fuel and six 500-pound bombs. Squadron Commander Major Ray­mond S. Morse in Punjab took the lead position. Morse had only joined the squadron in Hawaii and barely knew the men under his command. His co-pilot for the mission was the group commander, Colonel Arthur W Meehan, who had flown on the group's two pre­vious missions. Meehan was a 38-year-old ex-West Point career officer who was in command of the 72nd Bomb Squadron the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He had also been Assistant Chief of Staff for 7th Air Force operations before taking command of the 90th. Both Morse and Meehan were determined to lead from the front and it was from this position that. Punjab took off from Gordon at 2300. As lead aircraft they took off with their landing lights on to aid the following aircraft. Morse climbed into the dark sky without incident, both he and Meehan were concerned as they circled the base. It was 2315 and the second aircraft had yet to depart. They could only assume that there must be problems below on the airstrip.
Leroy Iverson in Big Emma was to follow Morse, but he could not transfer fuel from his bomb bay tank. Cursing his predicament, Iverson was forced to abort the mission and leave the line. On board was another guest — Captain Robert S. Holt, the 320th's Intelligence Officer — and he was determined to partake in the mission. Leaving Iverson's ship, Holt ran towards Paul Larsen in Bombs to Nippon and motioned to him to open the hatch. Larsen would have none of it. He had enough to contend with. There was no time and there was no room. Larsen left Holt standing on the runway waving his arms. The incident was unfortunate and untimely, but it was a portent of what was to follow.
At 2310, there was considerable confusion. There was no means of communication with the crews. Some aircraft were not ready for take-off as scheduled. Others were reluctant to taxi out of sequence. There was only a limited amount of ground echelon and only a few wingmen. The runway lights were too far apart, and it was as black as a coal-mine.
Charles Andrews in Change O' Luck finally became airborne at 2314, the dust from his ship making vision even more difficult for Robert Me Williams in Patches. Slowly but unsurely others followed: Leo Campbell in 50 Cal Gal, Charles Jones in Dirty Gertie, and Lieu­tenant John Wilson in Tear-Ass, a ship from the 320th and the ninth to leave the Gordon strip. Like Iverson, Wilson had another senior officer on board — Major Harry Bullis, Commanding Officer of the 400th Squadron.
Larsen in Bombs to Nippon throttled back and motored down the strip. As the ship gained momentum, his wingtip clipped the aborted Big Emma, tearing off the pilot tube and astrodome. Larsen lost con­trol and the ship crashed into another parked Liberator. The aircraft immediately caught fire, with gasoline and bombs creating a massive fireball. Onlookers and medics rushed to help, but the fire was too intense. Larsen and his crew died, as did a lineman who had been sit­ting on the wing of the parked aircraft. A shocked and singed Robert Holt emerged from the holocaust alive but yet to appreciate his good fortune. Eleven men died and four aircraft were destroyed. The four remaining aircraft in line did not partake in the mission. It was a deci­sion that disappointed no one. The airborne Wilson in Tear-Ass was told by one of his gunners that there appeared to be trouble back at the Range — big trouble judging by the large-red glow coming from the direction of the base. Wilson could see that it was the result of a fire. Someone suggested that it could be an air attack, but Wilson and Bullis knew immediately that there had been a collision. The night was already a disaster and most of the group was still on the ground.
Four hours later the squadrons approached the target on schedule, but clouds covered the harbour, creating poor visibility. Searchlights pierced the darkness followed by the crack of anti-aircraft fire. The aircraft dropped flares, which briefly revealed some large ships in the harbour. Campbell in 50 Cal Gal dropped his load at 0420. Whitlock in Cow Town's Revenge circled the harbour for forty-five tense min­utes before the bombardier shouted 'Bombs Away'. Nothing hap­pened. A cursing crew member told Whitlock that Cow Town's bays had jammed with the bombs still aboard. This was a problem with the B-24 that would plague the group during the early months of the war. Two weeks later it would be a decisive factor in the fate of Norman Crosson and the crew of Little Eva.
Andrews in Change O' Luck was frustrated by the clouds and Me Williams in Patches could not find the target. Wilson in Tear-Ass, prompted by Major Bullis, concluded that there was a chance to improve visibility by flying under the clouds. Flying inland to manoeuvre for a run on the shipping, Wilson throttled forward and raced across the harbour at a height of 3500 feet with an air speed of 200 miles per hour. The bombardier, Lieutenant Weinberg, quickly
aligned his Norden bombsight with what he believed to be a large destroyer or light cruiser. The crew swore that they observed a hit — there was fire and smoke. There were also hits on Tear-Ass, and leaks in the hydraulics forced the ship to detour to Port Moresby for repairs.
The raid on Rabaul by aircraft of the 90th Bomb Group did little to aid the prosecution of the war. There was frustration and ignominy. Damage to the enemy was slight, if not non-existent. Me Williams in Patches could not even find the target.
It was 0900 on November 17th when the first aircraft returned to Iron Range. There was so much wreckage and debris that the crews believed that there had been an air raid. It was a sombre base, even more so when the count revealed that two more aircraft were missing. Tear-Ass was located at Port Moresby, but there was no trace of Punjab with Morse and Art Meehan. Milne Bay and Port Morseby had heard nothing from them. The Punjab, 41-11902, and its crew often were never heard from again.
When Norman Crosson and the rest of the 321st arrived two days later, the base was still despondent from the disaster. There was no enthusiastic welcome. Crosson asked why there seemed to be so few aircraft on the base. It was then that he and the 321st were told that Punjab, with Morse and Meehan, was missing and all available aircraft were out searching.
Norman Crosson was solemn as he gathered his crew together. 'It's been a bad week up here. Hank Werner's ship went down near Bougainville, only Al Butterfield and Walt Seidel survived. Two nights ago, Paul Larsen's ship ran into Leo Iverson's. Larsen, Herb Bassman, Dave Muething, Diotti and Picker — the whole crew died in the fire.'
To the men of the 321st it was obvious that they were now at the business end of the war. Forget boot camp back at Barksdale Field, training at Greenville, flying from San Francisco to Hawaii, the fun in Brisbane and the frolics in Townsville — Iron Range was the worst place in the •world and men were dying.
The day before the 321st arrived, Colonel Ralph E. Koon was appointed new commanding officer for the 90th. The slight and slender, polite and taciturn forty-year-old had been a classmate of the missing Meehan. Both had attended West Point, Class of'28. Koon's sympathetic manner and firm but fair methods were not only desirable but also practical, particularly in a place like Iron Range. The transition was complete when Lieutenant Colonel Arthur H. Rogers replaced Ray Morse. Like all of the 90th, both men had no combat experience, but they were experienced officers. Koon had served at Langley Field before the war and both men had flown B-17s.
Although depleted of personnel the group conducted missions to New Guinea. On November 22nd, aircraft of the 321st led a night raid on Japanese installations on and near the Lae airfield at the mouth of the Huon Gulf. The first two aircraft dropped flares to illuminate the target. The next night four aircraft of the 400th delivered an encore. Damage was thought to be considerable, mostly to the runway.
The squadrons had flown direct from Iron Range to the target. The route was over the Owen Stanley Range — the setting for a desperate struggle between Port Moresby-bound Japanese and Australian AIF and Militia. The Japanese had been stopped and the tide had turned in favour of the Allies. By the middle of November the Japanese had retreated to the Buna and Gona beachheads, where another fierce campaign was being fought. Joining the Australians were men of the United States 32nd and 41st National Guard Divisions, who had moved up from their Australian bases in Brisbane and Rockhampton.
On November 29th, six aircraft from the 319th, led by Major Kuril in Elmo Patterson's Chosef, attempted to locate and attack a flotilla of four Japanese destroyers that had been sighted making a dash from Rabaul to Lae. Nobody could find the Japanese ships, but Ed DeFrietas in Double Trouble had become detached from the formation: Before heading for home he decided to perform a solo act on Lae. This target was a popular secondary choice for aborted missions and orphaned aircraft. Shortly after Double Trouble touched down on Gordon airstrip, the ground personnel started to arrive in trucks. The men had left Townsville in the old vessel Cleveland Abbe. It was scenic route travelling north inside the Great Barrier Reef. The majesty of the area gave no hint of what lay ahead. Like others before them, the ground crews were stunned into silence by the isolation and squalor of Iron Range.
Everyone could think of better places to be as they celebrated Thanksgiving. There seemed to be little to be thankful for. The men were kept busy. The officers' mess, surely among the most primitive and spartan in the Pacific, was completed. The enlisted men's mess was even worse. It was little more than a tarpaulin which served as a roof and furniture made from planks and drums. It was tolerable in fine weather, but impossible when the rains came. The ground crews were required to possess the virtue of improvisation. Parts were scarce. The damaged aircraft of the November 16th disaster were stripped for anything worthwhile. A detachment from the US 28 Service Squadron even went to strip Dale Thornhill's The Condor, which was still sitting on a beach five miles from the Range. In thirty-six hours they removed the engines, instruments and fittings; only the carcass remained.
Between missions the men faced the formidable challenge of finding something to do. Lieutenant Walter Higgins, when not behind the controls of Cow Town's Revenge, summed up the plight of the American aviators in the bush:
MacArthur forbade any booze in a lot of areas. That was no problem for the Air Corps. We bought footlockers and filled them. The Aussies had quart size beer bottles, but we loaded them up. We didn't worry about the General. He was too busy at the best hotel in Brisbane running the war. We had as much as possible without women. We drank, explored the jungle, sang ribald songs often about the ancestry of the General and the Japs and anyone else that came to mind. Damm the snakes! We walked through the bush drunk or sober. We cursed the bully beef and hardtack, tea and whatever else the cook served. The food chain at Iron Range was very rusty. Then we would sing another chorus of Roll me over in the Clover and do it again. We learned to sing Waltzing Matilda. No one knew what a billabong or a swagman was. We read and discussed our work, thought about home and wished the mail service was better. We even tried to build furniture out of the local bamboo and ironwood, to no end. It always fell apart and we would start all over — anything to keep busy. Jesus it was a terrible place. No good to visit. Even worse to live there.

James A. McMurria, a 26-six-year old pilot in the 321st, took a long look at his new home and environment:

There was no town, no village, no farmers, or ranchers that I ever saw living around Iron Range. There were some crude docking facilities in its sheltered harbour a few miles from the airstrip, but I never saw anyone tending it. Occasionally an ancient Australian barge of some dreary type would pull in there and a handful of Aussies would, appear from the jungle and swap yarns with the crew until it moved quietly on. In the low areas dividing the hills were black pools of stagnant water. Huge trees stood in the middle of these pools much like our cypress, but their roots or knees were sometimes five feet above the water and extended themselves 10 or 12 feet toward the drier floor of the forest. To all of us it seemed like a' Lost World'-— unchanged for centuries.

Organised entertainment at Iron Range became a welcome respite from the pressures of war and the solitude of the posting. Colonel Koon introduced one outdoor epic in a solemn manner:
When we pause this day to recall all the things that we've done, the places we've been, and the fellows we've worked with, we do so not without remembering some of our buddies who are no longer with us. The memory of these men will always be mingled with high esteem and respect for their courage. Should any of us some day be called to join them in the same sacrifice for our beloved nation, their example would cause us to do so bravely.

These words were the only moments of solemnity in an otherwise joyful occasion organised during the bleak period of late 1942. A soft-ball game between the 320th and the 321st started the spectacular at 1.00 pm. There was a ping-pong tournament, a volleyball match, and a horseshoe-throwing tournament that was dominated by the Texans. A band, which turned out to be a trio led by Corporal 'Lefty' Fowler, provided musical relief with songs of love warbled by Corporal Kerry O'Brien. But the big attraction was the evening movie. It was a battered 16 mm print of Western Union, which was flown in from Brisbane. The gala ended with a community singalong. The Army Air Corps song was an obligatory choice: 'Off we go into the wild blue yonder. Climbing high into the sun' was sung in mellow unison by the men. The final two bars were always bellowed with defiant enthusiasm:' No thin' will stop the Army Air Corps!'
The most anticipated entertainment was a letter from the States. The more the men read about home, the more they missed it. A portable phonograph and a collection of records were priceless items. Low-fidelity crooning by the Andrews Sisters, Bing Crosby and the Ink Spots were familiar sounds during liberty hours. The most popular recording was Benny Goodman's 'Jersey Bounce'; the shellac was soon worn off the Columbia single. Lieutenant William Krunz from the 320th squadron suggested that 'Jersey Bounce' would make a good name for one of the ships. Krunz was typical of many of the 90th's members who were blessed with improvisational flair but not always in the interests of Uncle Sam. He was one of the most successful foragers for liquor in the group, and he could also find women. When the 320th was in Mareeba, Krunz found a female companion in the nearby town of Atherton. Stranded with no transportation and the squadron due to fly out, Krunz bought a horse for £1, rode it back to Mareeba and turned it loose.
Mareeba and Atherton were quaint country towns with few facilities and little social activity, but they were Utopia compared with Iron Range. Bill Moran, a photo interpreter attached to S-2 in the group, arrived in mid-November:
It always seemed to be raining ... mildew seeped into everything, the food was bully beef in every which way to cook. The coffee (?) was something else and what dehydrated foods we had were impossible to eat. Not far from us, the Aussie outfits had erected a bakery, in which they made bread ... but not for us ... the aroma from the bakery was mouth-watering.
There were other Australians that were keenly observed by the Americans — the local Aboriginal people, who were often seen in close proximity to the base. The Aboriginals were an enigma to the Americans. Always aloof, the indigenous Australians impressed the visitors with their self-reliance and control of the elements.
Kangaroos, emus, bats, colourful birds, possums and the like were a constant source of fascination for the Americans, but other species were less appreciated. Few Yanks saw the feared crocodile — an animal not unlike the alligator found in the glades back home — but there was plenty of other wildlife to be wary of.
Most Yanks would have preferred to contend with the Japanese than suffer a confrontation with what seemed to be an endless variety of snakes, spiders and lizards. Most of the 90th Bomb Group members wrapped up in 'mummy'-like coverings at bedtime. A visit in the night by a creeping, slithering visitor was the stuff of nightmares. The most feared predator was the Varanidae (aka goanna), a veteran of the stone age, an essentially placid creature but visually terrifying. James McMurria recalled a- close encounter with one:
Once on a short trek into the jungle for relaxation I saw a living object slither from the mud around a pond and then into the water. Someone shot it with a handgun and fished it out with a long bamboo pole. It was horrible looking fish like the one whose picture you see in the dictionary with an unpronounceable name, not quite evolved from its prehistoric state. No one dared to touch it.
He also recalled other encounters:
The wallabies we shot had the saddest eyes of all lonesome creatures in this lonely place, except for the eyes of the combat crews of the 321st Squadron.
Walter Higgins never forgot the profusion of bird life on display.
It was fantastic— thousands of green parrots, white cockatoos, jackass birds and whatever. There was also the ever present kookaburra [sic]. We used to hear them all the time. I never knew an American during the war that could spell their name correctly.
The nearest beach was five miles from the Range. The American strategy for fishing was often basic — using an outrigger canoe and blasting the fish with hand grenades. Bill Moran remembers that 'The Aboriginals on the beach with their fires generally got to retrieve and eat most of the fish'.
By December 1942 the Allies were beginning to mount campaigns to gain the initiative in the south-east Pacific. In mid November the Allies had begun offensives on the Japanese beachheads in Buna and Gona, but they had been repulsed and suffered heavy casualties. American forces were also engaged in desperate land, sea and air actions on and near the island of Guadalcanal in the Solomons. General MacArthur had temporarily moved his headquarters from Brisbane to Port Moresby. He was determined to secure the beachheads. MacArthur replaced General Edwin F. Harding, the field commander of the American 32nd Division, with General Robert Eichelberger, who had been posted in Australia with the US 41st Division.'Go out there, Bob, and take Buna or don't come back alive,' MacArthur was reported to have said.
Eichelberger and the others knew that the Japanese were capable of landing reinforcements during the night. The day Eichelberger flew to Dobodura to take charge of all United States troops in the Buna area, the 90th Bomb Group was placed on alert. Two days earlier Colonel Arthur H. Rogers had arrived at Iron Range to undertake his role as Deputy Group Commander and Group Operations Officer. The aircraft had barely touched down from its flight from Christmas Island when Rogers was informed of a sighting of four Japanese destroyers en route to eastern New Guinea from Rabaul. Rogers and Koon quickly made plans to launch an attack on the Japanese ships.
At 0800 on December 1st, Rogers called a briefing for the group's squadron leaders. The operations room was a tin shack. The flight designations were crudely written on a large blackboard in the rear of the room. The men of the 90th thought that it resembled a bookie operation: the track, the rider, the horse and the race •were the crew, the plane, the target and the time. Written on the board were the aircraft and the formations. No one referred to the aircraft by their serial numbers; instead the pilot's name was scratched on the board next to the name of his craft. Like the form of horses, the physical condition of the aircraft was written on another board. The engineers had the responsibility of updating the information. Richardson, Seafood Mama — 'faulty hydraulics'; Smith, Naughty Blue Eyes —'Nose wheel broke of. When Hav Smith saw what was written beside his plane's name, he strode towards the board, saying, 'God damn! Where did the slide rule department get an education?' and he changed the 'of to 'off'. It was the last time anyone laughed that day.
'The Japs could be going to reinforce their positions,' said Rogers.' We're going to stop them.'
All of the squadrons were to take part and twenty-four aircraft would be involved — six per squadron. The formation would be in a triangle of a five-plane 'V, with one plane to close the triangle. The course would take them over the Owen Stanley Mountains to the Bismarck Sea and they expected to encounter the Japs south of Gasmata. If they got into any trouble they had the option of returning through Port Moresby.
For the men of the 90th Bomb Group, the strips at Port Morseby became almost as familiar as Iron Range.
Walter Higgins recalled:
It was an important stop either going or returning/mm missions. We used to approach Port Moresby by circling over an old German hulk that had been on the reefs at Moresby since the first war. We then went to our landing strip. The 90th used the Ward strip. On occasion we would use the Jackson strip. The area was often hot with the Japs attacking the facilities.
In the tin shack at Iron Range the airmen conducted a'time-tick': a routine of synchronising their watches to the official times. Crosson was keen to get under way.
After more specific briefings from intelligence, armament and weather officers, the men were given their individual assignments and then dispersed in order to brief their crews. This was to be one of the most ambitious missions undertaken since the group arrived in Australia. All of the squadrons were to take part. Few of the 90th Bomb Group's 1696 men at Iron Range were not involved in some capacity. Arthur Speltz found time to write a short letter to his mother and his sister Peggy:
I had a big Thanksgiving dinner — turkey, potatoes, carrots, pickles, fruit salad and ice cream. We invited the base priest for dinner but he was going turkey and alligator hunting. Bill and I went to Mass and Communion on Sunday. Not too much to do here but rest and sit in our club. We built a new club and got a radio. We can pick up Tokyo. They give us quite a program and to hear it you would think they were winning the war.
At 1200, Crosson, Speltz and the other crew members climbed into the Dodge truck to be ferried to the area where Little Eva awaited. Crew chiefs had already loaded the ordnance and gasoline. The two pilots, together "with James Hilton and two crew chiefs, began a walk-around inspection of the aircraft. Crosson, always methodical, instructed Hilton to climb on the wings to check that the gas caps were secure. It was a Davis wing, an ideal heavy-duty structure. The fuel gauges were also checked. The visual inspection complete, the Little Eva's men were told to board. The procedure was to enter through the bomb bay, which was no easy task with a full kit. As well as a parachute, most wore a steel-reinforced vest as protection against flak splinters and a bulky flight suit to protect against the zero temperatures at high altitude. All carried a steel helmet and an oxygen mask that was never comfortable:' It felt like a clammy hand clutching the lower part of your face,' said one airman.
Crosson and Speltz strapped themselves into the pilots seats — dual controls side by side — flanked by instrument and windscreen panels, compass and control wheel housings. Seated behind the pilots, opposite the emergency escape hatch, sat the radio operator, Staff Sergeant Grady Gaston. Lieutenant John Dyer, the navigator, was positioned in front of the pilots, segregated in his swivel seat by the forward mainframe bulkhead. The astrodome, mounted in the top section, provided a full 380 degrees observation. Forward of Dyer was the domain of Dale Grimes, the ship's bombardier. Flight Engineer Hilton's station was behind the fuselage mainframe bulkhead. He was in charge of all things mechanical. In the advent of him becoming indisposed, McKeon, the assistant engineer, would fill his role. McKeon also manned one of the manually operated .50 inch waist guns. This station was situated in the middle of the ship, beyond a catwalk through the bomb bay leading to the after fuselage — a robust section of the aircraft containing an aluminum alloy structure with five main bulkheads. Assistant radio operator Loy Wilson manned the other waist weapon. Charles Workman operated the two-gun dorsal turret. John Geydos manned the .50 calibre twin gun in the 'blister'-shaped, electronically operated tail turret; known throughout the force as 'Tail End Charlie', this was a lonely, dangerous station.
The operation started at 1330. The 319th Squadron was the first into the air. Colonel Rogers and Major Phillip Kuhl, who were flying with Lieutenant John R. Arant in Pretty Baby, left the runway first. The Liberators of Lieutenants Robertson, Rice, Jones, Weber and Currie soon followed the Group Commander. Major Harry J. Bullis followed with six ships from the 400th Squadron. Crosson began checking his flight controls until he was satisfied they worked freely. His crew checked the bomb load, radio, navigational instruments. All was well. Crosson and Speltz opened the cowl flaps and set the throttle at a third. He set the mixture controls to full rich. With the gasoline pump on, the starter was energised and, when it reached sufficient power, the pilots started the engines. Number three engine was first — it contained the hydraulic source. Number one, number two and number four engines roared to life in sequence. The crews enjoyed the sound of the Pratt & Whitney R-l 830-43 s twelve hundred horsepower; they were exhaust-driven, supercharged and reliable. Most pilots believed them to be superior to the B-17 s Wright engines. With the engines in harmony, Crosson signalled the crew chiefs to remove the front and rear -wheel chocks and pressed the throttle forward. Little Eva began moving towards the take-off position.
Crosson ordered the bomb bay doors closed, trailed the engine flaps and adjusted the hydraulically operated Fowler wing-flaps to ten degrees. He ran the engines up one more time and checked his magnetos. The r.p.m. was good. Crosson and Speltz watched as the 321st began to move in formation. Major Cecil L. Faulkner was in the lead, followed by the aircraft of Lieutenants James J. Crawford, Walter E. Higgins, James A. McMurria, George M. Rose and Crosson. The ships were moving thirty seconds apart, taxiing down the runway like a gaggle of geese going to a pond'.
When Rose started his take-off, Crosson focused his eyes on the tower to await the green light. 'Wait for it, wait for it' —'Okay, it's us,' he said. With twenty-degree flaps and maximum mercury, Crosson released the brakes and Little Eva began its journey. Crosson eased back the pressure on the nose gear and watched his airspeed — 80,90, 100,110 mph. The revs were 2800. The ship raced along the rough Gordon tarmac. The engines roared, the aircraft shuddered, and there was a period of calm as Crosson throttled back and 60 000 pounds of aircraft became airborne. The men took a breath and braced themselves. No matter how many missions anyone flew, it was always a relief to get off the ground. At 400 feet Crosson reduced the power to 25 inches of mercury and the r.p.m. to 2550. At 600 feet the r.p.m. was 2350. The main wheels were retracted into the wells on the underside of the wings, the nose wheel backwards into the front fuselage. The wheels and flaps were taken up and the aircraft began to climb into formation. The crew could see the ships of the 400th and 319th up ahead. Those of the 320th were preparing to leave Iron Range. Geydos in the rear turret watched as the last two ships took off and the base, the area and then the continent disappeared over the horizon.
The group gathered in formation without incident. Crosson asked for a report from the crew on the intercom. All was well. Dyer checked his course settings and Grimes released the string triggers on the eight 500 Ib bombs. It would take about four hours to reach the Gasmata area. The weather was overcast and cloudy. Ahead for the twenty-four Liberators of the 90th Bomb Group was the deep purple of the Coral Sea and then the grey-green mass of the Owen Stanley Mountains. Beyond that lay danger and destiny.