THEY'RE AMERICANS— THEY'RE OUR ALLIES

Dave Homewood · **Posted:** Tue Apr 02, 2013 4:16 pm

I just came across this interesting article in an old Auckland, New Zealand newspaper from 1944 with some great stories of our US Allies.

Auckland Star, Volume LXXV, Issue 135, 9 June 1944, Page 4

THEY'RE AMERICANS— THEY'RE OUR ALLIES
(By E. K. GREEN)

'THEY hung from a single strap in the overburdened tram. Swung from it rather in the jerky rhythm of the Upper Queen Street climb— one American soldier, one American sailor. And as they swung they sang, untunefully, of Alabama.

They were inwardly warmed... lit, shall I say? Happy, anyway. What of it? One had known the hellish nightmare of the trail to Munda; the other had watched through anxious nights over black, threatening seas.

On a seat below where they sang a girl, jolted by their swaying bodies, caught my eye grinned. I grinned back, and the sailor caught my eye. And then, a moment later, he swung from my strap. Perforce, I swung in unison. He wanted me to understand wanted it desperately. To him I was New Zealand. He was an American, he told me... 17 years old but his mother had given her consent to his enlistment.

Unburdened His Soul
He was an American, and he wanted to fight for America. But he was fighting for more than America. He numbered them off solemnly, like a child saying his nightly "God blesses..." He was fighting for France, for Poland, for Czechoslovakia, for Greece - You know the sad list. And he was fighting for Australia and New Zealand, too.

His brother was fighting, too. His brother was in England, a crew member of a Flying Fortress. He hadn't heard from him for a long time and he was worried.

And then he told me of his ship, of long passages up to Bougainville, of the freight they carried —nothing to "shush" about, just general stuff. Others about us were grinning— grinning at a kid unburdening his soul, and at me giving the right, encouraging answers. Perhaps I was grinning too, a bit embarrassed at being picked as a Father Confessor. But I understood.

His name was Bob. I hope we may meet in a peactime world. It'll need kids with ideals even though they talk about them and don't shut things up inside as we do.

Noises in the Night
Then there was that quiet sergeant who asked me to "vet" a story he'd written (a young book, really) about happenings up on New Georgia. It was a frank story, a bit too frank, I fancy, to make the wartime grade. But I was glad I read it. It dealt with the jungle and civilised men who went into it without much conditioning. Noises, scares in the black night, men who prayed—and some who cried. And there were heroes in plenty, too. But there was one thing that book had above all else. It was the understanding of a man who'd been through it. He'd put it out of his mind with words. Others find relaxation in other ways.

Courage and endurance? There have been plenty of tales told, but I'll list two more —stories about airmen, Americans. The first is that of Lieutenant Harry P. John, pilot of a Fortress which developed engine trouble just as his squadron was going in to raid Rabaul. As a straggler it was attacked by a whole flock of Zeros in a running fight of 40 minutes' duration, which opened with the blowing out of the instrument panel, the killing of the navigator, the wounding of both pilots and front gunner. As the fight developed the Fortress was riddled with 30mm. shells and machine-gun bullets. Half the tail was shot away, a second of the four engines put out of commission, every system of control damaged, jammed or broken, and every one of the crew more or less seriously wounded. One died later. Yet that whole team fought as a team and a glorious team at that. They shot down four Zeros—with another six probables—and got away, making an almost miraculous bellylanding on a fighter strip at Torokina, Bougainville.

He Ate Raw Seagull!
Second Lieutenant Kenneth McCloud, U.S. Army fighter pilot, who was shot down over Rabaul, after collecting two Japanese. fighters, is another case in point. He landed in St. George Channel, between New Britain and New Ireland, dodged Japanese. machine-gunning while in his rubber raft, but was missed by rescue craft. His only provisions were three bars of chocolate'and about half a pint of water. He could have landed in Japanese. territory—but he set sail for Bougainville, holding up a strip of parachute silk as a sail, steering by a sun and stars.

For nine days in all he was afloat, lashed for two days of that time by a bad storm. He put one corner of a triangle of silk in his mouth, held the other corners apart and so collected water to stave off thirst. Sharks took his fishing gear when he attempted to use it.

Eventually he ate raw seagull. He caught two of them by lying perfectly still on his frail craft, his face covered—waiting until one came to rest on his leg and then sliding his hand down to grab it. The second one he cut into pieces and broiled in the sun about the sides of his rubber raft.

Bougainville was in sight, one day's sailing off, when he was rescued.

Have you met up with any Seabees? Now, there's a bunch of fellows who rank "all man" in any country. With their handmaidens, bulldozers, graders, earth-shifters and what have you—those U.S.N. Construction Battalions have created airstrips and roads out of the savage jungle in so few days you hardly believe it when you hear the records quoted. And you don't hear those records from them, either.

There was Joe, for instance. He ran a supply boat up a river on Vella Lavella when that show was on. I met him for the first and last time on a tram. He started talking about the New Zealanders he met there, and he was still pursuing the subject with enthusiasm when I got off 20 minutes later. The Dominion needs no ambassador in any territory where Joe is located. And, from what I've heard, the Seabees need no publicity bureau while there are Kiwis to tell a tale.

Kids—And "Foreigners"
Youngsters seem to have a special place in the hearts of Americans. If there's a seven to twelve-year-old in Auckland who, by now, hasn't a "Yankee buddy" it's not the fault of the Americans. The name "Yank," to most, is synonymous with ice cream, candy and chewing gum. Around about midday at any American camp in the vicinity of Auckland is the testing time. It's also "chow time." Some of the youngsters are regulars in the line that stretches from the kitchen door to a replete stomach. And if the average adult faced the odd half to three-quarter pound dish of ice cream that these youngsters dispatch he'd be sick for a week.

"If British people would not regard us as British, but as the foreigners we are, with our own customs, our own habits, and our own traditions, we'd get along fine," said an American officer to me this week, and then he added a further comment: "When we looked at a fellow in the uniform of our own country we see him as Bill Smith or Butch Kraus. What he does is only the sort of thing you expect from Bill or Butch. But when we see a chap in the uniform of another country, doggone it, we say, 'Look at the darned Yank, or New Zealander, or Frenchman' as the case may be. He ain't just Bill Smith any longer he's a whole darned nation!"

Dave Homewood · **Posted:** Tue Apr 02, 2013 4:17 pm

I find that story of Harry P. John's bomber very interesting. I just had a Google and it seems it wasn't a Fortress he was flying, but a Liberator:

I found this:

B-24D "Blessed Event"
Crew:

Pilot Lt. Harry P. John, 825 South Park Ave., Crowley, Louisiana
Co-Pilot Lt. Raymond E. Green, RFD #3, Sayre, Oklahoma
Navigator Lt. Louis R. George, Line Ferry Rd., Texarkana, Arkansas (Killed)
Bombardier Lt. Lester NMI Kornblum, 119 Bank St., New York, New York
Engineer Sgt. Chas. E. Derri, Star Route, Westminister, South Carolina
Radioman S/Sgt Thomas G. Craven, 161 First Ave., E.N. Kalispell, Montana (Fatally wounded)
Ass't Radio S/Sgt Dennis T. Ryan, Route #2, Palisades, Minnesota
Tail gunner Sgt. Eugene R. Baldridge, 522 Fletcher Ave., Apt. #1, Indianapolis, Indiana
Nose gunner S/Sgt William N. Barlow, Jr., Route #2 Box 302, Redlands, California
Ball gunner S/Sgt John E. Lemon, 647 Franklin Ave., Kent, Ohio

Dave Homewood · **Posted:** Tue Apr 02, 2013 4:24 pm

And this article:
http://www.villeplattetoday.com/pages/f ... id=8496284

Twins found double trouble in World War II
Evangeline Today.Com
3 years ago | 26 views | 0 | 1 | | By Jim Bradshaw

As twins, Harry and Harris John had a special bond. Growing up in Crowley, they sometimes got into a spot of trouble together. But it was during World War II that they found themselves in real trouble, half a world apart.

First Lt. Harry P. John was at the controls of the B-24 Liberator nicknamed Blessed Event on Saturday, Jan. 1, 1944. His mission was to bomb a Japanese air base at Rabaul, on the northern tip of the South Pacific island of New Britain, now part of Papua, New Guinea.

His trouble began before the plane even got to the target.

At about the same time, Sgt. Harris John found himself in similar trouble in a B-24. His Liberator was shot from the sky and he was forced to parachute into the heart of Germany.

The Blessed Event was five minutes from its South Pacific target when the No. 3 engine gave out. The plane began to fall behind the other American aircraft that provided it protection.

Within seconds, a swarm of enemy Zeros were on it, blasting away at the limping aircraft, ripping gaping holes in its fuselage, badly wounding crewmen with every hit.

One crew member was killed early in the attack, the others were wounded as they fought the attacking planes and worked to keep the battered airplane flying.

Harry John and his co-pilot Lt. Raymond Green of Sayre, Okla., were wounded by the first shots. Lt. Lester Kornblum of New York City, the bombardier, and nose gunner Sgt. William Barlow of Redlands, Calif., were also injured early in the fight.

Half the tail was blown away. A hole the size of a washtub was ripped from the waist of the plane. John’s controls were fouled. The plane was turned into a tangle of metal, but Lt. John somehow kept it airborne.

Wave after wave of enemy fighter planes attacked the lumbering bomber. According to one account, more than 100 Japanese planes were involved in the attack. Another crewman was killed in the second wave of attacks.

A gunner was knocked from his turret but crawled back into position and kept firing. Yet another was wounded so badly that he later died; he stuck to his gun during the fight.

It lasted for more than 40 minutes and, according to an official War Department report, “It is unlikely that any crew in any theater of war will ever encounter more severe handicaps and hazards than those experienced by Lt. Harry P. John’s crew. In spite of everything, the crew continued to function to the full limit of the capacity of each man.”

There was more trouble to come when the plane finally crawled into sight of the American base at Bougainville Island. The landing gear was inoperable. The wheels wouldn’t go down.

Harry John brought the bomber in on its belly.

When the screech of metal and flying sparks ended, the co-pilot didn’t bother to open a door to get out. He just stepped through a hole in the side of the plane.

The crew found out later that they’d given as good as they’d got. Three enemy fighters were definitely shot down. Another five were probably downed. The Blessed Event crew had been too busy to keep a good count.

Meanwhile, in Europe, Harris John found trouble of a different sort.

He was a gunner on a bomber that went down as a fiery ball over Stuttgart, Germany, during one of a series of raids on the industrial heart of the nation.

He was one of the many airmen flying night after night from bases in England into the heart of German ack-ack fire, trying to knock out the enemy’s war-making capacity.

He was able to parachute safely to the ground but was immediately taken prisoner and placed in Stalag 4, a camp for Air Corps NCOs described at war’s end by military intelligence as “a bad camp.”

Hundreds of men were crowded into barely heated, partially finished huts. Each was given a pile of wood shavings for a bed and, according to one cynical report, “fleas and lice outnumbered the men by 100-to-one.”

Harris remained in this hellhole for 18 months before he was liberated by British troops, leaving his prison with scars as fully real as the physical ones his twin brother brought home from the Pacific.

Read more: EvangelineToday.com - Twins found double trouble in World War II

Dave Homewood · **Posted:** Tue Apr 02, 2013 4:29 pm

That is one heck of a story, twins in dire action at the same time on opposite sides of the globe, both in B-24's. This could make a great documentary, or better still a feature film.

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