CATF MEMBERS AWARDED DFC'S
Awards of the Distinguished Flying Cross to Colonel Robert L. Scott, Jr., who has shot down 11 confirmed Japanese planes, and Captain Burrall Barnum were announced by the Tenth Air Force this week.
Colonel Scott's DFC was awarded for his directing with brilliant success for fighter element of an extremely important bombing mission over enemy-held territory in China, last Oct. 25. Captain Barnum (then First Lieutenant) was cited for single-handedly attacking waves of enemy aircraft approaching Hengyang last Sept. 6.
In order to give outlying posts a chance to get pictures of their Christmas activities in to the Roundup the editor have held out all Christmas art already in.
It is hoped that there will be sufficient pictures in time for next week's issue to go for a page.
For you fellows up in China, American radio programs are now being broadcast over station XGOY, Chungking.
The time is 8-45 to 9-00 p.m., Monday through Friday, and Sundays 9-30 to 10-00 p.m.
Here's the dial information: 6135 Kilocycles, 49-meter wave band.
Docks, Arsenal, Airport Bombed
By TOBY WIANT
Associated Press War Correspondent
The largest force of United States heavy bombers ever to attack a single target area in the CBI Theater successfully completed one of the longest missions in this war's history Saturday night and Sunday morning when they rained bombs on the naval dockyard, main railroad station, arsenal and Donmuang airport in the Bangkok area.
From a grandstand seat in one bomber I saw thousands of pounds of high explosives blast targets with devastating effect.
Several fires were started and one of five bombs which scored direct hits on the arsenal illuminated the whole countryside far as the attacking bombers high above. All bombers returned safely to their bases.
A few searchlights swung their beams frantically over the Bangkok skies but were unable to locate the American bombers.
The exact number of bombers used on the mission must remain a secret as well as the exact mileage covered but I can say the total distance was longer than a single trip from New York to San Francisco.
This was the second United States heavy bomber raid on Bangkok, the first having occurred Thanksgiving Day. Then a smaller force knocked out the electrical system, several damaged oil pipelines and the refinery. From what I could see this raid must have been even more successful.
The raid was a good warning of what the Japs can expect when the United Nations take over airports closer to the Jap mainland. When that will be, nobody can say, of course, but the day is certainly coming. Young American airmen such as those who participated on that raid are fairly itching to go further a field.
I was in one of the bombers assigned to pound the naval dockyard located in the heart of the city along the Menam Chao Phya River. It was my first visit to Bangkok and I thoroughly enjoyed what we did to improve the scenery. Ours was probably the most experienced crew in the group. There were nine in all, representing nine States.
They were Capt. Wesley Werner, pilot; Lt. K. W. Trout, co-pilot; Lt. F. N. Thompson, navigator; Sgt. H. C. Darby, bombardier; Sgt. W. O. Frost, engineer; Sgt. J. E. Craigie, radioman; Sgt. B. L. Bennett, tail gunner; Sgt. A. Scolovine, bottom gunner, and Sgt. F. M. Salley, side gunner.
|Activity in our own theater last year was largely aerial warfare. Here, at a base in China, twin-engine bombers are seen being made ready for one of the many raids that the Tenth Air Force carried out during 1942. From bases such as this, our planes continue to launch effective aerial blows against Japanese-held territory.|
A GREASE MONKEY'S LAMENT
Crashing through the timbers
A tankman unlimbers.
He knocks fence poles asunder
And plows the corn under.
He goes into a steep climb
And spins around on a dime
A king in his realm!
Is the tankman at the helm.
Coughing, spitting, roaring, clanking about;
There is no stopping the lout.
What now, little man?
Do you think that you
Can cause so much destruction
With a monkey wrench and a little instruction?
The infantryman goes into battle
Where the machine guns rattle.
Down he flops and lying prone,
Straight as a die sends each bullet home.
The far flung hand grenade
Is followed closely by the thrusting bayonet blade.
He is a pack totin,' rootin,' shootin' son o'gun.
A one man army on the run.
A man for the Ages!
He will fill histories' pages →
O, Woe! Grease monkey, must you be a dolt
With nut and bolt?
Could you set the world afire
With screwdriver and pliers?
The airman (the handsome lug)
Has got the bug
For aerial acrobatics
And dive bomber tactics.
He is a devil reincarnated;
But more elevated.
With eyes piercing skyward
"Keep 'em flying" is his byword.
On the enemy's toil, a burst of fire;
A trail of smoke...
We owe so much to so few
Churchill said of the bloke.
Alas, grease monkey
For you there is no glamour
Must you always be a fizzle
With hammer and chisel?
I am open to suggestion:
How can we "mechanic 'em"
And still panic 'em?
That is the question.
-Sgt. ALBERT GLYNN
ODE TO INDIA
The Indian's Heaven, the white man's Hell
Land of brothel, beast and smell
For eight months now, within your borders
I've sweated out my home-bound orders.
I've walked and walked around your cities
Heard the beggars sing your ditties;
No mommy, no poppy, give baksheesh, sahib
In his eye a tear, in his voice a sob.
I've seen your cripples, along the street
Heard your fakirs, with story so sweet.
I've drunk your rum and Juniper Gin
Been carried out of bars I've been in.
I've sweated with heat and shivered with cold,
You've a wonderful climate, so I've been told.
But, India, India, I'd give every pice,
To be far away from your curry and rice.
Where the whiskey is good for three bucks a quart,
(If you want a drink, it's two-bits a snort).
Where you buy steaks that are three inches thick,
(The meat's good too, it won't make you sick).
- M/Sgt. E. F. PERKINS
WOLF, WOLF |
If he parks his little flivver,
Down beside the moonlit river,
And you feel him all a quiver,
Baby - He's a wolf!
If he says you're gorgeous lookin,
And your dark eyes set him cookin,
But your eyes ain't where he's lookin,
Baby - He's a wolf!
When he says that you're an eyeful,
But his hands begin to trifle,
And his heart pumps like a rifle,
Baby - He's a wolf!
If by chance when you are kissin,
You can feel his heart a missin,
And you talk but he won't listin,
Baby - He's a wolf!
If his arms are strong like sineu,
And he stirs the gypsy in you,
So you want him close again you,
Baby - You're a wolf!
- (Submitted (but not written by) Lt. E. C. Weatherly, Sgt. Jack Storey and Pvt. Vance Burnham)
MAN WANTED |
I guess I'll have to advertise
For something I need
I pray each night before I sleep
But no one seems to heed
I've got the sun to keep me warm
And give me coats of tan
But what I need's a coat of arms
From almost any man!
I found a lake to paddle on
And air to stimulate
But what's the good of privacy
With fishes for a date?
I guess I'd better hurry
And place a certain ad:
MAN WANTED - WITH EXPERIENCE
AND WANTED REALLY BAD.
- Donald Pittman
TO THOSE WE LOVE
If, perchance, in the sigh of a breeze
You hear familiar melodies.
Or if a star-fall glances by
With a bit of twinkle in its merry eye.
Or a moonbeam touches your silken hair →
Then please remember one who's there. |
For all of the continents, all of the sea
Never will separate you from me.
And the stars that flame in a vaultless sky
And breezes drifting happily by.
And the moon in her silver silent flight
Will bind us forever together at night.
- Wetherill Wood, A.N.C.
He used to ride behind a plow
And he wishes, by heck, he was back there now.
Or whatever he's doing or wherever he's been.
He's a smoothie-at oiling Hospital Routine
He hollers and bellers, he bellers and roars:
"Grab them mops, men! Hit them floors."
Bu he keeps his ward at the peak of perfection.
He's always just gone on a secret mission
When patients need a that or a this-un.
But when the Head Nurse feels like "blowing her top."
He "takes" like a soldier, deserve it or not.
In communiqués he rates not a line
He's the Wardman - thank Heaven -
on your ward-and mine.
- Elizabeth Shaunty, A.N.C.
A SOLDIER'S SONG OF INDIA |
India, land of milk and honey,
God and silver, rice and curry,
Land of changes and of wonders,
Land of lightning and of thunders.
Land of desert, tanks and fountains,
Suspension bridges, jungles, mountains,
Land of beasts and reptiles evil,
Land whose heat would kill the Devil.
Land of Mosques and wooden Gods,
Land where the stately palm tree nods,
Land where the heat maintains his seat,
Land of fever and prickly heat.
Land where the lordly bower tree waves,
Land where there's loads on new made graves,
Land of jackies and of Dhobies,
Land of punkhas and of coolies.
And of spite and hateful scorn
Land where clothes are hardly worn,
Land of thieves and dark deceit,
Which Satan holds beneath his feet.
Land where strong men fast are wasting,
By eating fruits of splendid tasting,
Land where every charm combines,
To make a soldier's life divine?
Tropic heat and savage creatures,
Combined with Military teachers,
Martial Law each day renewing,
Wonder what the heck is brewing? →
Now evening throws its shades of gray,
Across the sun's declining rays.
Where breezes sweet and soft do sigh,
Among the mangoes swinging high.
I wander forth to take the air,
At India's lovelies to stand and stare,
From filthy huts of mud and smoke,
Come beauties who a sigh evoke.
If I ask a kiss they rightly frown,
Although their skin is rather brown,
They say if our lips once break their caste,
Our life in this world would not long last.
My head and eyes I turn, (a sigh)
To where my native land doth lie,
Where floats no dust across the plain,
Or houses sink in monsoon rain.
I see in mirage, Beauty's face,
The loveliest form of all our race,
No ornaments there to debase
Such milk white arms and smiling face.
Upon a form I lay my head,
By some misnamed a feather bed,
I groan, I turn, I curse and swear,
But hopes of rest are not found there.
I try to sleep to ease my pain,
To rest my weary limbs, in vain,
Consuming thoughts, I might as well,
Attempt to sleep as rest in Hell. →
Women scolding, children squalling,
Whilst bugs around my legs are crawling,
Drunken men of Devils dreaming,
Wake from sleep with terror, screaming.
Mosquitoes in my ears are singing,
And sand flies at my feet are stinging,
But yet in spite of scenes like those,
I chance to drop into a doze.
My turn of duty is the next,
Enough to make the Saints all vexed,
The gun it fires, my name they call,
I wish the Devil had them all.
As from my bed I jump, I swear,
May Heaven or Hell hear a soldier's prayer,
It is my first, it is sincere,
Restore me to my native sphere.
Across the ocean, thinking again,
If ever I cross that raging main,
To see this wretched land again,
May on my head this curse remain.
In steamboat, plane or a balloon,
Or riding sideways on the moon,
On eagle's back or vessel's deck,
May the Devil break my blinking neck.
- Sgt. G. Ilea