Merry Christmas

Hoping this brightens the memories!

I know, it's in England and the Navy, but it's still a Liberator.

FLIGHTS of FANTASY

Before you read, let me note, there are some minor date and name inconsistencies.  These are of no consequence as they are true and correct in spirit and I will soon make side notes of corrections as needed.

Please enjoy this rare view into the life of a B-24 bomber pilot, 1st Lt. P.W. "Bill" Barker.

Lt. Barker wasn't just any B-24 pilot. He was a pilot who likely knew the crew of the Pistol Pakin Mamma and [according to this memoir] was a friend of my great-uncle (Robert A. Dempster, Jr.).  

 

Lt. Barker co-piloted (under Lt. Runge) during the search mission of the Pistol Pakin Mamma on September 11, 1944.   Bill Barker's accounts run parallel to the accounts recorded in the Rene Brabender mission logs, Logs of the Lost [posted Feb. 17, 2011], of the many missions carried out jointly between the 30th & 11th BG's (bombardment groups) of the island hopping  7th Army Air Force.  

 

It is with my sincere gratitude to the Barker family that I present this portion of P. W. Barker's memoir -  Flights of Fantasy

Brant Dempster

One of the crews Barker flew with.

Back row - L to R - John Runge, P.W. "Bill" Barker, John Malloy, Bill Simms

Front row - Jerry George, Otis Andrews, Jerone Raqinski, Bill Wilson, Hal Tipson, Tom Densan

PREFACE

What follows is an excerpt from my father’s (P. W. “Bill” Barker) memoir entitled “Flights of Fantasy”, which he copyrighted in 1994.  My brother and I now own the copyright, and hereby grant permission, with appropriate attribution, for its limited, non-commercial use on the website “Liberator Log”.  This excerpt has been edited for style, syntax and punctuation, and the removal of personal anecdotes.  Text that appears in italics was directly quoted from my father’s combat diary that he wrote in long hand from April 1944 through November 1944.

EXCERPT FROM “FLIGHTS OF FANTASY”

“It may be that our later selves or else our unborn sons will search for meaning in the dust of long deserted guns.”    Donald Bain

Going to the combat zone on detached service?  Am I the first pilot to fly B-24 missions without having first completed a formal course of training in bomber operations?  Probably, I thought, telling myself this assignment was a demotion.  Christ, going as a copilot is like going to war in a taxicab, however, personal feelings will not prevail, I concluded, so get on with it.

I left Bellows and drove to Wheeler Field to join the 819th Bomb Squadron (BS), one of three squadrons in the 11th Bomb Group (BG).  Earlier, I flew the B-24 some while I was a test pilot at the Hawaiian Air Depot, so I had a good idea of what I was getting into.  In early April, they let me make some B-24 landings then announced that I had a good command of the B-24, whatever that might mean.  Otherwise I had no scheduled duties.  I elected to hang around the maintenance facilities to learn more about the B-24, called the Liberator, or more affectionately, the Lib and sometimes dubbed a Boxcar.  A version of this Consolidated Aircraft Corporation aircraft served as the first flying White House for President Roosevelt.

I used some time to learn about the survival equipment aboard the B-24 that included two large life rafts.  It also made good sense to me to report to the Orderly Room and Squadron Operations just about every day, but most of the time I had nothing to do.

On short notice, I learned that three B-24-Js and crews were going to APO 241, Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands.  I was to go along as a casual copilot, casual meaning I was not assigned to a crew.

The B-24 in which I was a passenger was but one of 14,000   built during WWII.  We departed Hickam before daylight and headed for Johnston Island, a refueling stop on the way to Kwajalein.  Johnston had a radio beacon to which we homed.  We arrived close to our estimated time of arrival.

While on Johnston we marveled at the antics of the gooney birds.  The renowned DC-3 (C-47) aircraft is the namesake of these strange birds that fly but have difficulty getting airborne or landing.  We watched them run along on the ground, staggering back and forth before finally spreading wings just before becoming airborne.  Then for a landing, forgetting to put their feet down, or not getting them working fast enough to land.  The result was often a somersault after striking the ground, followed by a violent flapping of wings and a hearty back and forth shaking of the whole body.  There were hundreds, if not thousands of goonies on Johnson Island.  I wonder if the goonies are still there today, along with the Army's $240,000,000 chemical weapons incinerator.

From Johnston Island we continued a southwesterly course, cruising at 8,000 feet in CAVU (ceiling and visibility unlimited) weather.  I watched the Navigator make observations of the sun, the only useful celestial aid in daytime aerial navigation.  He recorded the results of his observations, drawing them on his navigation chart as speed lines which he used to calculate our speed over the surface of the water.  Thus, the Navigator estimated how far we had flown, and using drift meter readings, he could tell if we were drifting from the planned course.   Being off course had to be avoided if our destination was to be sighted at or before our ETA.  Failure to make landfall before fuel exhaustion is a sentence to ditching, an unplanned landing on water, probably resulting in injury or death to all on board.  Aircrews often practiced preparing for ditching and climbing into a life raft, but B-24 pilots never got to practice water landings.

The Navigator announced the international dateline over the interphone when we crossed the 180 degree meridian.  We talked about today becoming tomorrow, but there was nothing like the King Neptune ceremony conducted on ships crossing the equator at sea.

The vast Pacific Ocean has thousands of flyspeck islands that can be more difficult to find than the proverbial needle in a haystack.  Failure to sight an island destination with fuel tanks running dry is one of the situations guaranteed to produce white knuckles.  On this occasion there were no white knuckles.  Instead, Kwajalein appeared in the windshield right on time causing all of us to stub out our nervous smokes and tease the navigator with jovial taunts about correctly guessing course corrections along the way.  Such was his reward for steering us to a safe landing.

Kwajalein

The radar on Kwajalein was  on the air so when we came under its surveillance, we knew we were on a safe approach to the Atoll.  After landing on  Kwajalein Island, we were greeted by the Commander of the 11th Bomb Group while we limbered muscles not used for eight hours.  A six-by truck hauled us a short distance to the 26^th Squadron billets - canvas tents with all sides rolled up.

Kwajalein Atoll, one  of  many in the Pacific, is billed as the largest in the  world.  The Atoll is one of several that make up the Marshall Islands.  Kwajalein Island is  but one  among  many  smaller islands surrounding the lagoon that composes the atoll.  It was taken by U.S.  Marines and  Army units in February of 1944,  and Navy Seabees quickly built a coral airstrip to  accommodate B-24  aircraft.

In the spring of 1944 it was equator-hot as the atoll is less than 10 degrees north of the equator.  The constant breezes blowing across the island reminded me of the rush of air from a hot oven when the door is opened.  The breezes evaporated ever present perspiration that often reduced it to salty crystals.   Dry skin itched and provoked scratching.  Salt water showers exaggerated the discomfort but liberal use of anything oily helped to soothe this plague.  There were no mosquitos, so mosquito repellant often served this purpose.

Provisions at the  mess tent seemed equally life threatening.  Canned beef stew was a rarely appearing delicacy.  Mostly, our meat diet was canned spam.  There were many variations imagined by the Mess Sergeant -  plain, fried, stewed, baked, breaded; but, nevertheless, spam.  Bread was always dry, if not stale, but there  was plenty of peanut butter and jelly to  overwhelm its  lack  of  taste.

Breakfast was my favorite meal.  Not because of the infrequent appearance of powdered eggs.  It was the daily presence of pancakes, a butter substitute and plenty of syrup.  Powdered milk served as a substitute for the real thing, but it was sure a welcome addition to the potent coffee available 24 hours a day.  Circus water was likewise available for those teen-age GI’s who relished sweetened water served in as many colors as Jacob's coat.  Canned fruit was breakfast dessert.  Later, I discovered that “lunches” we carried on combat missions consisted unerringly of bread, peanut butter, jelly, canned orange or pineapple juice, and occasionally there was a five-pound can of spam for the crew of eight.  These munchies were complemented by ever present coffee.  Thanks again to the Seabees, we had a ration of fresh water and ice from their water stills and ice plant.

At times, regular food service operations were not feasible, so C- or D-rations were issued.  C-rations consisted of canned, pre-cooked foods.  Two cans  made a meal.  One contained stew or hash, or meat and beans, while a second can contained crackers, sugar, powdered fruit juice or coffee.  A tiny can opener gadget (P-38) came with the C-ration pack which, for convenience, we kept on our dog-tag chains.  The D-ration, a concentrated chocolate bar, was meant to stave off hunger.

Laundry facilities were makeshift.  A Seabee invention, the windmill washing machine, was amusing to behold.  Wind turned a propeller that caused a wheel to turn, which in turn caused an up and down motion of an attached pole with a small block of wood that churned water and soap in a 55-gallon steel drum.  Clothes dried quickly when hung in the daily breezes.

My squadron-mates were veterans of pre-invasion bombardment of Tarawa and Makin, and other targets in the Gilbert Islands that were taken by Marines in bloody battles that cost 2,100 lives of American youth.  Thus, they were of a fraternity in which I was not yet a member.  I refused to be a loner even though in the first few days in the squadron I was forced to pretty much shift for myself.  Uninvited, I thrust myself into "tent meetings" of some of the crews and hastened the time when they accepted me as one of their kind.  During such sessions, I learned that "milk runs" were to be coveted because such missions meant very little, if any, enemy resistance.

One day, I listened to a bull session about fear.  There were plenty of fear-producing situations, I gathered.  A captain claimed, "I've got 17 missions under my belt and I was scared on every one of them.  I ain't ashamed of that. "

A lieutenant sitting on a cot next to the captain offered, "My crew only has six missions.  I've been scared, too.  Hell, I was scared many times while learning to fly.  If I don't get scared, I ain't doing my job.”

Another captain guessed, "Maybe it depends on the definition of fear.  I figure you're really scared if you piss your pants or something like that”.

“Yeah, irrational behavior is what's bad about being scared.  I'm a psychology major,”   another lieutenant drawled taking a long drag on a fresh lit cigarette, "I think fear is a perfectly normal reaction of threats to life and limb.  It's what you do when you're scared.  Fear confessed is no disgrace.  Failure to control  fear  is  what' s  not acceptable.  We all dread making a mistake attributable to reaction to fear."

By God, I thought, I'm glad to hear other guys tell about being afraid in combat.  Wonder how I'll react?  Well, if the wages of sin increase we will all be rich.

With the Marshall Islands secured, Admiral Nimitz decided to neutralize and by-pass the powerful Jap fortress in the Truk Islands and made the Marianas Islands the next objective in the island-hopping Pacific Campaign.  Accordingly, the total heavy bombardment effort of the Seventh Bomber Command, that included the 11th and 30th Bomb Groups, was devoted to the neutralization of the Truk Islands.

The bombing missions against Truk initially encountered searchlight detection and accurate anti­aircraft fire.  The most serious threat to B-24s came from Jap fighters.  During the first missions against Truk, the Japs used several types of fighters including Zeroes, Hamps, Tojos and Zekes.  Their tactics included air bombing with phosphorous bombs to trouble the B-24 Boxcars.  Repeated night raids reduced the searchlight, flak, and fighter threats.  The success of these raids was partially due to the dropping of ”window”,  or metal foil ribbons, to mislead and confuse Jap radar prior to and during bombing runs.

Finally on 14 May 1944, I flew my first combat mission during the campaign to isolate Truk.  The Group Commander invited me to go along as an observer on a mission to bomb Jaluit, a small island on the southwest end of the Ralik Chain of the Marshalls not far from Kwaj.  Our B-24 was equipped with radar.  Radar bombing was a recent development in the Seventh Air Force, so milk runs were scheduled to give crews practice with the new equipment.  Here is some of what I recorded in my diary after the mission:

"Ferdie"

“Airplane -"Ferdie"- Takeoff 0715Y, Land 1045Y, bombing altitude 7,500 feet over target for 20 minutes.  All that was visible to me was a countless number of bomb craters and masses of wreckage absolutely no sign of life except two bursts of large caliber ack-ack, plus one tracer of unknown size. Possibly 50% of bombs were on target, ours were strung up the beach with one fire started.  Was impressed with the sound of the exploding bombs, an indescribable whrrrump with great billows of black smoke and dust.  The island was completely shattered; only possible survivors must have been in heavily reinforced foxholes.  My impression: if this is all I have to fear I’m safe.  Have yet to sweat out heavy and intense anti-aircraft fire and fighter interception.  My goal of 30 mission s looks terribly far ahead.”

Flak denotes anti-aircraft fire.  Ack-ack means the same thing.  There were many sizes of projectiles, depending on the weapon that fired them.  At higher altitudes, say above 15,000 feet, flak appeared as black puffs of smoke.  The shrapnel accompanying the smoke was not visible, and normally  was not heard inside our aircraft.  It is often said that nothing could be done about flak except to look at it.  A single aircraft could make violent turns, climbs and descents attempting to avoid flak, but such evasive actions were limited when several aircraft were flying in formation.  In either case, the bomber had to fly straight and level toward the target long enough for the bombardier and his bomb sight to line up on the target to determine the bomb release point.  The bomb run commenced at a geographical point called initial point, and ended with bomb release and a pre-planned withdrawal.

It  was not until 22  May that I flew another combat mission, this time with Colonel Anderson, Commander of the 30th Bomb Group, and Major Lund his Operations Officer.  The target was Wotje, an atoll on the  northwest  end of the  Ratak Chain of the Marshalls, fewer than 200 miles from Kwaj.  The radar equipped aircraft was a recent arrival in  the  Group.  The mission was expected to be a  milk run, much like my first one.

“Very little opposition.  I  experienced no fear, but great anxiety for what I was about to see.  The main island of the atoll was a mass of destruction, riddled like a colander.  Not a sign of life and the triangle-shaped airfield was hardly discernible due to numerous bomb craters and previous damage from bomb blast.  The target had about 8/10s cloud cover,  but  we  maneuvered around and finally made two practice runs from 5,700  feet.  On our first actual run 20  bombs were released and each one was  on target thanks to radar.  Two  bursts  of  flak were reported, but I didn’t see them.”

As we approached Kwaj the Colonel surprised me with, "Wanna make the landing?”  "Yes Sir!" I never had difficulty landing any aircraft so  I made  a  good landing on this occasion.  After landing the Colonel said, "You'll make someone a good copilot.  "  “Christ, how about first pilot" I muttered to myself.

While Truk continued to be the target of primary importance, some strikes were made on Ponape in the Caroline Islands, west of the Marshalls.  Some other missions went  against targets on Wake Island, and Guam and Saipan in the Mariana s Islands.

On 28 May I flew as an observer with Lt. Allan and his crew, during which I experienced my first case of white knuckles.  The target was Ponape about 500 miles west southwest of Kwaj.  The bomb load was 40 hundred-pound general purpose bombs to be dropped from 15,000 feet.
(Note: The crew of the Pistol Pakin Mamma is also on this mission today.  They are flying in their "new plane" the "Pistol Pakin Mamma" with Lt. Victor Petroff as first pilot.)

“Flew with Lt. Allan (#3 A Flight).   
(Note: 1st Lt. Verne S. Allen on roster - April 1944)  Took off and assembled and proceeded to target.  A tropical weather front lay between  Kwaj and Ponape.  We were cruising at 8,000 feet and entered the front at this altitude.  It was the worst weather I have ever flown  in up to this  date.  The interior of the clouds lit up the ship and gave it a ghostly appearance, the whiteness dazzled my eyes.  The ship rocked, pitched, twisted, and groaned on through the relentless turbulence.  I grew more tense and  for  the  first time in my life I was really and truly scared.  I had an aching feeling in my stomach along with a feeling of complete helplessness, but outside the fury of the storm continued.  The sound of rushing air and the rain pounding on the hull of the aircraft sounded like an air hammer on a tin roof.  I was in the bombardier compartment taking advantage of two heaters there.  I tried to busy myself reading “Look Homeward Angel” but found I had aimlessly thumbed three chapters of which I  remembered  nothing.  Finally after what seemed an eternity of pain and terror we broke thru the clouds and began our  climb to bombing altitude.  We spotted Ponape and maneuvered for the bomb run.  Lead rocked his wings and B and C Flights turned on their respective runs.  Our target was the seaplane installation on Langor Island about a mile off Ponape.  As we started our run, small white bursts of ack-ack were observed far below.  We didn't worry about these but suddenly huge black bursts  appeared directly ahead and floated by us like weird gremlins.  Bursts appeared above and below.  Excitement grew to a climax as the bombardier sang out, “Bombs away."  Simultaneously, we banked and dove but not before a huge black  puff appeared just outside the pilot's  window.

As we circled just off the target to assemble all flights we got a good picture of the other flights in action and the  damage done by our own bombs which were strung at about 20 feet intervals.  We destroyed some barracks and  one fire was started (oil storage).  I didn't observe damage done by other ships.  One airplane had to  make a second bomb run – he was lost in a shroud of black puffs, but emerged unscathed.  There were countless puffs both black and white smoke appearing like small clouds now that they were spent and wasted as far as we were concerned. 

We could see tiny orange flashes of the ack-ack guns far below and then in a breathless moment

we breathed relief as the missile burst a safe distance from us.  We returned to Kwaj without mishap.  The penetration of the front was not as frightening as before.  It’s funny – but I can’t seem to grasp the full realization of war.  We no doubt killed men, but I never think of it in those terms.  Regardless of realization it is true, so along with my comrades, I sweat my remaining raids.  I find that I have yet to experience fear over the target – due perhaps to my inability to realize war.  I do not hesitate to admit my fear of weather.  God controls my destiny and I have faith in Him and in all the prayers that are being said for me.”

On 30 May I was transferred from the 11th Bomb Group to the 30th Bomb Group and assigned to the 38th Squadron.  The transfer caused me to change tents.  I stuffed my four cotton khaki uniforms, underwear and socks, two flight caps, some handkerchiefs, and a pair of oxford shoes into my Government Issue B-4 bag, which today would qualify as a hang-up bag.  I hung mine on the tent center pole along with my class-A cotton garrison cap.  The latter, dubbed "fifty-mission" cap, because it was worn without a grommet and became more wrinkled and soiled as one's number of missions mounted.  I also took my A-3 bag which was issued to carry flight gear flight suits and boots, A-2 jacket, (a men's wear fad in 1990 known as a bomber jacket) heavy leather, sheepskin lined jacket and pants, woolen electric heated shirt and pants (plugged into electrical outlets at each crew station) an oxygen mask, gloves, a flak vest, and a flak helmet.  A straps-and-buckle, brown leather brief case, for carrying maps and mission briefing notes and logs and my diary, completed my baggage.

The Squadron Commander, Louis Lamb, greeted me, "Barker, I’m glad to have you in our squadron.  We know you are a good pilot and will have your own crew when you get some mission s under your belt, but for the time being you are assigned as copilot on Second Lieutenant John Runge's crew.  The crew is fresh from the States and needs a strong copilot replacement.  I know it's awkward since you're a First Lieutenant, but I think you understand and can handle it.  Anyway, rank among lieutenants is like virtue among whores.  Besides, you'll get to fly more missions which is what you said you wanted. "

I took Major Lamb at his word.  He was unsmiling during the one-sided conversation, but somehow I got the feeling that I was welcome and accepted as a contributing member of his squadron.

"Wake up, lieutenant," a  voice from the four a.m. darkness accompanied the shaking of my cot, then moved on to other cots with the same message.  I pulled on a flight suit, snatched a towel from the tent center pole, and stumbled to the latrine for morning toilet that did not include a shave.  Then the crew assembled at a table in the mess tent for breakfast.

I skipped the reconstituted eggs and milk, dark brown toast and unmeltable butter, and went for hot cakes, syrup and coffee.  There wasn't much small talk, we all wondered about the upcoming mission details.  None of us guessed the target for the day.

Wake Island

Afterwards, it was still dark when six B-24 crews assembled in the briefing tent.  A blue line on a large map of the Central Pacific indicated we were going to hit Wake Island. 

Wake Island

(Note: May 31, 1944 - Plane "Come Closer" #42-72973 - First pilot 2nd Lt. J.A. Runge. Also: the mission reports show #42-72989 "Pistol Pakin Mamma" with Lt. Petroff on this mission. 
The mission briefing included a weather forecast for our route, target and bombing altitude and other standard bits of information about radio frequencies, ordnance load, and formation tactics over the target.  Since alternate landing strips were non-existent, all briefings customarily included a review of emergency ditching procedures in case one or more of us got shot up or ran out of gas.  Everyone sighed with relief when the briefing officer guessed there would be no Jap fighter aircraft to contend with.  The date posted on the briefing sheets, called "flimsies," handed to us included the date 31 May.  I usually memorized the important things to remember, as did most other crew members.  We synchronized our watches, the Chaplain prayed, and the Group Commander's, "good luck, gentlemen” ended the briefing.

On the way out of the briefing tent, we all drew escape kits that included silk maps and a compass small enough to swallow should we be captured.  Then we threw our flight bags on a GI truck and climbed on for the ride to the flight line.  We stored our gear aboard our assigned aircraft and made sure the ground crew had delivered our flight rations and first aid kits.  Earlier, medical kits were left aboard the aircraft between mission s, but too often someone stole the morphine out of them, so the crews began locking them up.

We are all on board at engine start time.  The flight engineer switches up the putt-putt motor for ground power supply.  Then one by one, the props turn, the engines belch smoke and roar to life.  The bomb bay doors grind closed, and we taxi into single file with five other libs on this mission.  The lead plane rolls exactly at 0730.  We are second and follow at 0731.

After takeoff the six Libs circled the field once to gather the formation into two three-ship flights before heading for Wake Island 600 miles north of Kwaj.  Wake had been by-passed and was being kept neutralized by frequent aerial attacks.  In our bomb bay were three 2,000 pound airburst bombs set to release from 13,500 feet.  Bombing from that altitude meant we would not be donning heated clothing, and that we would be on oxygen for less than an hour.

“The trip to the target was uneventful.  The last raid on Wake resulted in the loss of one B-24 so we expected the worst.  I seemed to wonder more about my fate than on previous missions.  The flak at first was below us, but they got our altitude and blazed away.  Bursts directly ahead just outside my window caused me to throw up my arms for protection  a futile reflex action.  I remember laughing at myself.  In all several bursts, appearing like shattered skeet clay pigeons, came startlingly close and we  had a  small hit on the vertical stabilizer.  All three bombs were on target.  We did mild evasive action in formation before and after the bomb run.  Returned to Base safe and sound.  This marked my first mission as  a  crew  member.  Copilots rarely do much and I'm no exception; did a little flying as well as read all the meters , adjust power settings and raise and lower landing gear and flaps for takeoff and landing.”

Eniwetok Atoll is  about 400 miles northwest of Kwajalein.  It was secured by Army troops.  Then Navy Seabees  quickly  built a crushed coral airstrip from which B-24s could strike Jap air and naval

Eniwetok Atoll

bases at Truk,  a heavily fortified Jap stronghold 700 miles northwest of Kwaj that was sometimes referred to as the Gibraltar of the Pacific.

From March through early June of 1944, B-24s of the Seventh Air Force, still based on  Kwajalein, staged through Eniwetok for nightly assaults on Truk.  The missions I flew took off from Kwaj, flew to Eniwetok and took on a full load of fuel that enabled us to fly the 1,400-mile, 10-hour round trip.  Many of the Truk missions were launched from Eniwetok after dark.

Night time takeoffs from Eniwetok demanded utmost pilot skill.  The entire island was blacked out in deference to the possible Jap submarine threat.  We used no lights for take off  except  for  one lone, tiny, hooded blue light two miles away at the far end of the takeoff runway.  The light remained in view during takeoff if the aircraft continued straight down the runway.

The pilot stared at the distant light, kept the aircraft on track, while the copilot monitored everything inside the cockpit and reported "max power set," followed by airspeed readings and acknowledging and complying with pilot commands like, "gear up. "  I flew two such missions to Truk on the nights of 4 and 5 June.

“This was my first night mission, in fact my first night flight for over a year.  Our target was the airfield on Moen Island In the Truk Atoll.  We staged from Eniwetok, took off at 2330 and joined formation as number 2 in B Flight.  We reached the reef at approximately 0345 and turned on bomb run, diving to release altitude and gaining airspeed to 185mph.  Out of the night came, "The tail turret is on fire the ship is going to blow up,  get me out of here, salvo the bombs.  Immediately, Lt . Sims salvoed the bombs.  They  burst with a big flash lighting up the night sky.  In the meantime, I had whipped off my oxygen mask and started to the rear of the plane to fight the fire.  The navigator seemed nonchalant and I began to think my nerves had gotten the best of me and I misunderstood the interphone, so I sat back down and looked out the window.

The back of the plane was lit up as if a search light was on us.  The belly turret gunner put the fire out with a fire extinguisher and helped the tail turret gunner out of his damaged turret.  Having salvoed the bombs, we dived for a course home.  Searchlights were stabbing the night and bomb flashes could be seen.  As we turned for home we looked for protective clouds.  I noticed a single-engine ship just off our wing.  He didn't attack, just did silly maneuvers.  As we rounded a cloud, a big ship joined our wing, but I think it was one of our own.  We dived into the cloud and lost  him.  The return flight was uneventful.  This was my first mission to the mighty bastion of Truk.  I was worried.  To be shot down over Truk is curtains, period.”

On 28 June, I volunteered to fly copilot with Lt. Gene Sinclair [sic] (Lt. Eugene C. St.Clair, flying  unnamed B-24 #42-100282) and crew.  Their regular copilot was grounded.  During the mission briefing, I realized this would be the largest raid I had experienced.  Two squadrons, each with nine aircraft, were going to bomb targets at Truk. (target was S. Moen airfield, Truk Islands. 6 B-24 J's. Each plane carried 6 x 1000 lb. bombs)

“We took off at the crack of dawn and proceeded to target.  The weather was sour looking on the way out, but we managed to dodge most of it.  The big Liberators struggled up to 20,000 feet with engines throbbing in labor. All hands were alert.  Fighter interception was expected.  I was to see my first Zero.  Our bomb run from outside the reef to Moen Island, was nine minutes long. [A bomber is most vulnerable during the straight and level flight just before bomb release.  It is a time when everyone has white knuckles].  If the Japs couldn't get our altitude and course in that length of time they could never hit us.  The long bomb run caused more than usual anxiety.  Little black puffs seemed to surround us but none of them was effective.  "Bombs away" and then a diving turn off target joining other flights and a second squadron.  Just before the second squadron joined us a voice came over the interphone, “Bandits high at twelve o'clock.”

I got my first glimpse of an enemy fighter, a graceful and speedy looking craft.  There were two of them, looking very beautiful in the morning sky.  Suddenly one banked steeply and dove at  our formation.  As he came on our level he rolled over with his belly to us and flipped a phosphorous bomb.  The bomb burst about 50 yards ahead of us doing no damage.  A beautiful picture their bombs make, a white smoke pall with hundreds of streamers protruding like tentacles on an octopus.  In the meantime the fighter remaining above had built up courage enough to  attack.  He came diving in with all guns blazing.  He too rolled over and flipped a bomb, but missed his mark.  Our gunners fired at their would-be killer, but all their lead was slightly behind the Zero, possibly some hits, but no visible damage to him, neither did he hit us.  The Zeroes then fiddled around the formation and made some half-hearted passes but never came in close.

The interception on a similar mission on 7 July began with C Flight's bomb run.
(Plane - Come Closer  #42-72973 - Pilot Lt. Runge ) The Japs dropped two bombs that missed all aircraft, then made several attacks and damaged two of our Libs.  One of the Zeroes caught up to A Flight and proceeded to attack from three o'clock high.  Again, they didn't hit us and our gunners returned the compliment.  The return from the first mission was uneventful, but on the second we ran into a weather front and had a rough ride home.  I am more scared of the weather than anything the Japs have to offer.”

My next three missions were similar to previous Truk missions.  Target continued to be Moen Airstrip and anti-aircraft guns located there.  One was a daylight raid and the other a night mission.  Encountered no flak but saw five searchlights.  Practically all Truk missions required 9 to 10 hours flying time.  Most of the time the bomb load was either six 1,000-pound General Purpose (GP) bombs, or twelve 500-pound GPs.  Bomb release altitudes varied for target or tactical reasons.  We were more accurate bombing with radar at any altitude, but we usually remained at 14,000 feet or higher to avoid small arms AA.  Lower altitude missions were easier on crew comforts because long periods of time at higher altitudes required continuous and fatiguing use of oxygen.

Meanwhile, back on the ground, when work was done and the mini-issues of Time and Newsweek had been closely read, there were other means of whiling away the hours between missions.  I spent lots of time playing cards.  The most popular gambling game was one called Hearts.  At a nickel a heart, one could lose as much as 65 cents per deal; or win 65 cents from each of the other players in the game if the winner captured all 13 hearts; or varying amounts depending upon how many hearts each of 'the players had when all hearts were played.  I was lucky at this particular game and seldom lost any money.  Sometimes, I won as much as $50 in an afternoon.  Along with being lucky enough to be alive, my luck with cards continued.

Anytime was “short-snorter" time.  Everyone had a “short-snorter” -  paper money autographed by friends and strangers alike.  "Short-snorters" were popular conversation pieces in aircraft cockpits, dining halls, hotel bars, shared taxis, and tents everywhere.  My keepsake “short-snorter” is  a one-dollar bill that I separated into two halves during a poker game on Saipan.  Even though a dollar bill is paper thin, one can be separated into two razor-thin bills; one with the face side of the original and the other with the back side that makes a blank uncolored side on each of  the two halves.  My

Back side of "Bill" Barker's short snorter - missions

"short-snorter" lists the targets I bombed in addition to the autographs of many friends.  I claim it is one of a kind.  How the “short-snorter " came to be a  WWII fad escapes my memory, but it was a fad like all fads: it suddenly appeared and just as suddenly, disappeared.

Navy Seabees occupied another island in the Kwajalein Atoll and we got in the habit of going over there in an Army amphibious vehicle to visit the well-provisioned canteen.  The habit was short lived; the Navy caught on and invited us off their island.  We were forever envious of the "good life" the Navy lived with all their home-like creature comforts.

One day we got the word the Marines were vacating Majuro, a nearby island they had captured and then used to rest up for other assaults.  A B-24 flew over there, landed, and the crew liberated a couple hundred cases of beer abandoned by the unfortunate Marines.  A couple of hours at altitude in the bomb bay of a B-24 did not get the beer ice cold, but that didn’t deter the guzzling that occurred when the cool cans were passed among those in the crowd that gathered in response to the Control Tower rumor that a plane-load of beer was inbound.  The one-can-to-a-man ration wasn’t  enough  to  produce  a  "buzz,” but  the  treat broke the tedium of round-the-clock labor.

Beer and liquor were scarce except for the shots of espiritus frumenti – a  foul-tasting 100 proof bourbon the Flight Surgeon prescribed for medicinal purposes after each bombing mission.  Some months each officer was rationed one fifth of booze that most of us shared with enlisted crew members and the aircraft crew chief. There was no village pub to visit and no officers club - a quiet time was had by all.

The Marshallese people that survived the pre-invasion bombardment of their islands lived on islands not entirely occupied by our military units.  The 38th BS “adopted" a Marshallese young man named Ato Raponi who was best described as a "house boy.”  We took him to Saipan with us and he worked for the squadron until the squadron returned to Hawaii in March of 1945.  Ato was flown home to his native Island of Nanumea by a 38th BS crew.  The last I heard in 1986, he was living there with his family.

During my first few combat missions, I apparently became superstitious because I wrote this in a letter to Mom and Dad on 22 July:

“I always wear the same boots and  socks, the same flying suit, the silly little ball cap, and I have a little  flute I  play when I'm  not too  busy.”

I did launder my clothing from time to time else I would have smelled like a fertilizer salesman.

During the remainder of July, I participated in four more strikes against Truk, marking my tenth time over that target.

“Fighters continue to intercept.  They number from five to twelve and are not aggressive.  I had occasion to look down the barrels of six machine guns, but we were not hit.  They scored hits on one ship he blew up and three crew members bailed out.  The fighters strafed the parachutes.  Another ship had the copilot and navigator wounded.  The navigator had seven pieces of flak in his fanny.  One mission found us floundering around in a snow storm at 20,000 feet!  The nose gunner made snow balls.  One mission saw all ships hit but ours!  The most accurate I've ever seen Jap flak, a Jap Betty apparently reported our altitude.  Most excitement came from fighters especially on mission #13 when they attacked in pairs.  Our firing at long range discouraged them so no attacks were pressed on our flight.  However, they shot up one Lib, and we got one of them.  It wasn't a flamer just a spin from 16,000 feet!  The pilot bailed out and everyone tried to strafe him, attempted revenge for strafing our unfortunate crews.  We suffered no losses or damage.   The next mission arrived over Truk at dusk, completely surprising the Japs.  Flak was practically nil.”

Most of us were surprised early one morning when we were told to be in a formation of airmen scheduled to receive awards.  In mid-morning some 50 of us assembled on a portion of the aircraft parking ramp.  We looked less than tidy in our wrinkled khaki.  We needed haircuts but our shoes were shined.  There was no band but Old Glory and Unit Colors wafted in a gentle breeze as a jeep, sprouting the flag of a Two-Star General, stopped in front of our formation.  When he stepped out of the jeep I recognized General Robert W. Douglas, the Commander of Seventh Air Force who was my boss when I was assigned to Seventh Fighter Command Headquarters.

I grinned and stiffened when he approached me.  As he pinned an Air Medal on my shirt, he smiled and said, "Well, Barker, I see you're getting what you said you wanted.  Two Air Medals today, others and a Distinguished Flying Cross in the offing.  How do you like flying bombers ?"

Lt. Barker's first Distinguished Flying Cross - Kwajalein - July 1944

"It's not as much fun as flying fighters, Sir, but I'm contributing to the war effort, getting scared, and surviving."

"Congratulations," he said as he nodded his head before moving on to the next in line.

Seventh Air Force B-24s moved to Saipan the second week of August to be within striking distance of the Bonin Islands, 800 miles further north toward Japan.  Two of the islands, Iwo Jima and Chichi Jima were Jap strongholds posing aerial threats to continued progress toward assaults on the Jap homeland.

“A new target at last!  From our new Saipan Base (Aslito), took off at 8  a.m. arriving at target (Iwo Jima) about noon.  The island was small (someone said 250 acres with a little mountain on one end [Suribachi, famed for the dramatic raising of the U.S.  Flag by U.S. Marines].  We unloaded our bombs smack on target amid a storm of flak like never before.  There were numerous aircraft on the  ground.  We destroyed a number of them there, and only five Zeroes took off to intercept.  This time they were even less aggressive than the little bastards at Truk.”

Upon completion of 15 combat missions, crew members were entitled to Rest and Recreation (R&R) leaves in Hawaii.  Accordingly, on 11 August I flew as a passenger on a CB-24 to Honolulu.

The Chambermaid's Crash landing Saipan Isl., Sept. 11, 1944. 
Pistol Pakin Mamma was lost this day also over Marcus Island.

During September 1944,  the 30th Bomb Group flew the first four-squadron combat mission s in its history.  On 3  September 41 airplanes struck Iwo Jima in a daylight raid, dropping 92 tons of bombs with 74% in the target area.  During the month of September, the Group shot down 12 Jap fighters and destroyed eight  on the ground.  Our losses  were six Libs destroyed, three crews missing in action, and two wounded.  One crew ditched (Dottie Anne) among a surface-borne naval task force and spent several days at sea as guests aboard a U.S. Navy destroyer.  One of the Libs was rammed by a Jap fighter,  a forerunner of the kamikaze attacks occurring later when U.S. Forces  were operating closer to the Japanese homeland.  Another severely crippled Lib  (The Chambermaid) crash landed on home base with wounded aboard.  Except for the  wounded, the crew survived practically unscathed, but the  aircraft was completely destroyed.

I participated in the 3 September maximum effort raid on Iwo with a crew headed by Bob Straley (Straley piloted "Stormy Weather"), a guy skinnier and shorter than me.  He was a feisty little bastard propped up with cushions so his feet could reach the rudder pedals.

(Note: Pistol Pakin Mamma was on this September 3, mission. It was the "crews" 25th mission on that day.)

“Carried 500 pound GPs.  Take off around 0800, land approx. 1800.  No unusual excitement to target.  At target there was a black could of flak, but ineffective.  We enjoyed the fruits of excellent bombing.  The exciting thing of this mission Lt. Dodd (another pilot in the 38th with whom I had flown) lost #1 engine as we neared target and turned for Base.  As we were returning we received his radio call that he was losing altitude fast and preparing to ditch.  We spread out and proceeded to overtake him.  Hoped to locate  him by homing but no soap.  In the meantime, he reached a  surface borne task force and bailed out.  My good friends, McBride, Swenson and Miller described their reactions to the emergency.  Interesting to note their thoughts - themselves, wives and  family.  The engineer   was lost by drowning – unable to get free from 'chute in water.  All had this difficulty. Were immediately rescued by destroyers – spent two days afloat with the Navy.  P.S. Larges t single raid by 30th BG. Four squadrons – 41 planes dropping over 100 tons on Iwo Jima.
(Note: The ditching of "Dottie Anne"  T/Sgt Richard L. Williams - Engineer/top turret gunner drowned in his chute.)

Next morning, 4 September 1944, I was copilot on a reconnaissance mission searching for enemy shipping around the islands of Yap and Wolea.  These islands, on the western and northern approaches to the Palaus, at the western end of the Caroline Islands chain, were invaded at Peleliu Island where Marine Corps units met heavy resistance.  It took two months to destroy the Japanese stronghold there.  We sighted no shipping.  Our bombs missed a target of opportunity, an ammo dump at Yap.  The crew that day had a Chinese Bombardier, Willie Wong, and a tail gunner, Corporal Kee Chiong.

Another mission to Iwo on 6 September encountered a flak-blackened sky, none of it effective.  My diary remarks on the good weather and complains about poor flight rations -- juices, bread, cheese and water cooled by altitude.

My twentieth mission was another visit to Iwo.

“I sweated furiously on the eve of this mission for some unknown reason.  The previous flights to Iwo for me had  been "easy."  After dodging through some foul weather, we reached Minima Rock and leveled off at 19,000!  We had just turned on the bomb run, losing altitude to 18,000, when someone gave out with “five Zekes, low, at one o'clock!”    I was startled to have interception that soon.  In a moment the five fighters were attacking viciously from the hindquarter both sides of our formation.  In the meantime bomb doors opened and we steadied for the release.  But the fighters had other ideas- one had begun a pass from two o'clock high, as he neared the formation he rolled over on his back and poured a stream of lead into our formation - our gunners were "right on” and the Zeke began to smoke in a sea of incendiary bullets.  He broke away in a vertical dive, trailing smoke and later broke into three pieces all enveloped by flame and finally crashed into the sea.

On the other side an attack was being pressed by the Japs.  From above he went into a vertical dive and concentrated on A Flight.  #3 aircraft was hit and severely damaged along with three of the crew.  This unfortunate Nip met an untimely death when a hail of bullets from our fifties exploded him like a clay pigeon.  And another was shot down from a pass on the rear of our formation.  These Sons of Tojo were really  eager, coming in close enough to be measured in feet.  Our bombs were unleashed in a black storm of flak.  80% on target good considering!  #3 aircraft in A Flight lost engine controls and instruments.  We slowed to 140mph and escorted the wounded Lib back to Base.  He made a crash landing (Lt. Core) and completely demolished the aircraft.  This was doubly risky after dark.  Only one wheel and minimum control.  Miraculously all escaped alive and unharmed except those already wounded.  Lot of blood lost.

We flew through the edge of a  typhoon,  luckily not too rough.  Allison and the 342nd ran ahead after bombs away and paid the price of not sticking together.  Three men on one of the aircraft were killed outright .  Three other ships lost engines and one crash landed at Base.  It is highly probable this could have been prevented had the leader practiced mutual support .  This marked a more vicious resistance.  The Zekes attacked determinedly and came in to point blank range.  They lose but so do we!  Here's hoping our raids are larger for bet ter chances of survival.”

Iwo was scheduled for invasion and capture to deny the Japanese an airbase near the Marianas.  We intended to use the airbase there as a fighter base.  Long range P-51s later moved in there and provided escort for B-29s attacking Japan.

Another mission to Iwo on 14 September turned out to be a milk run.  The weather was good and nothing unexpected happened.  Flak was heavy but inaccurate, only one airplane was slightly damaged.  Then another mission on 19 September:

“A new target for a change.  Other squadrons had ventured to the Bonins proper before but this was our first foray in this vicinity.  The Navy did a good job up there.  The seaplane base and airfield has no airplanes and the flak is meager and inaccurate.  Shipping was priority target.  We went in at 19,000 feet and left one of four vessels burning.  If the vessels had been out of the harbor we would have used a masthead attack! No damage to our planes.  Flew past Iwo on the way but no interference.  Pretty well neutralized north of Saipan now.”

A very good friend of mine, Roy [sic] Dempster (Robert Dempster) and his crew took off on a search for enemy shipping in the vicinity of Marcus Island, about 700 miles northeast of Saipan.  They "got it," that is they never returned from a search mission.  On 25 September my diary records:

The Search Plan - To Marcus from Saipan

“The first grey streak of dawn found 12 Libs roaring into the sunrise.  Theirs was a mission of mercy.  The day before Dempster had flown to Marcus for recon, and for unknown reasons failed to return.  We had organized a parallel search to cover a 15-mile lane from Base to Marcus.  Two hours on course heard a report from Navy Scout, "Survivors in ocean .”   We homed on his M.O.s and arrived on scene in an hour.  Crew reported four men in water.  We flew low and slow to drop raft  noting a school of sharks near victims.  Turning and making another pass revealed disappearance of survivors.  Sharks!  Navy amphib did not land soon enough and after 24 hours in the sea, the boys were in no condition to swim to and board a raft.  What had been this crew’s fate?  The typhoon that was lurking on their course?   Enemy action ?  Pilotage ?  God only knows.”

(Note:  September 11, 1944, Robert A. Dempster, Jr. and crew of the Pistol Pakin Mamma were hit by enemy fire and exploded in midair off Marcus Island.  An account of the incident is given by Lt. Richard M. Smith, Navigator and sole survivor of the Pistol Pakin Mamma crew - A letter for the lost)

On 30 Sept and 1 October the Squadron Operations Officer, Bob Valentine, flew with me on a local flight to determine my fitness to be an Aircraft Commander.  He was satisfied with my handling of the aircraft and recommended the Squadron Commander, Louie Lamb, certify me a fully qualified B-24 Aircrew Commander.

Next day I took off with a minimum crew to slow time two new engines on a B-24.  The navigator suggested we fly down to Guam and take a look at all the Navy activity there.  We did, and after a circuit of the island flew over the airfield.  The runway looked long and smooth but when we landed our landing gear rolled across a narrow, open ditch.  "Christ, Barker, you've damaged the landing gear!" I told myself.

I sent the Flight Engineer out to inspect the gear and he reported no apparent damage.  After landing back on Saipan we logged two landings in the Form One, and told the Crew Chief about the jolt we felt when we crossed a ditch across the runway at Guam.  As far as I know this was the only B-24 to land on Guam during WWII.  The incident cost the Crew Chief extra work.  He jacked the Lib up and checked and rechecked landing gear retraction.

I was among 300 members of the 30^th BG stricken with dengue fever, a sometimes fatal tropical disease. My fever  rose     to 104 degrees as I lay on a cot of pain for over a week.  My entire body ached and my physical strength declined along with my morale.  I didn't need any prodding to take my quinine and handfuls of aspirin.  At times I thought I was going to die, but my thoughts of Flo, and of loved ones way back in Kentucky      moved me to survive.  I often fondled my St. Christopher     medal and prayed for relief.  It can't be my time, I kept telling myself.  Sure enough it wasn't.  Two weeks later I was back in good health.

During October, B-29 Super Fortresses and P-51 Mustangs began arriving on Saipan and Tinian.  These new arrivals on Saipan and Tinian began preparation s to assault the Japanese Homeland.  The B-24 mission was usurped.  I guessed the B-24s  and crews, along with supporting elements would soon return to Hawaii or the States for retraining in another aircraft.  Pursuant to my guess I passed the word that I was ready to return to an assignment in Hawaii.

Orders   assigning me to Headquarters Army Air Forces Pacific Ocean Area (AAFPOA) were received at 30th Bomb Group in early November.  I flew my last flight with the  38th Bomb Squadron on 6 November 1944.  The flight was logged as a training flight, less than two hours duration.  Two days later I boarded a CB-24 bound for Hawaii.  We landed at Kwajalein for fuel and overnight crew rest.  Next morning we continued on to Johnston Island and spent the night there before continuing to Hickam, arriving there on the morning of 10 November.

POST SCRIPT

On his August 1944 R&R to Honolulu, my mother and father got engaged, and were married on November 26, 1944 after his return from his combat tour with the 38^th Bomb Squadron.  My mother, my grandparents and my mother’s grandparents were direct descendants of British and Portuguese immigrants to the then Sandwich Islands, which later became the Territory of Hawaii.  My mother and her family witnessed the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.  But that’s another story.

The reference to Lt. Sims salvoing bombs on early June 1944 night missions most likely occurred on the aircraft named “Come Closer” which most likely was flown by John Runge.  My father’s crew picture shows him as well as John Runge and Bill Sims.  The navigator was most likely John Malloy.

On my father’s 20^th mission to Iwo Jima, he references escorting Lt. Core’s damaged aircraft back to Saipan.  This aircraft was lost on crash landing (most likely “The Chambermaid”).  The bombing conditions during this raid were apparently very dangerous, with both extreme flak and lots of Zeros.

I have attached my father’s crew picture and pictures of his “short-snorters”.  I can make out signatures of the following individuals:  Paul W. Barker (my father), John Stowe Barker, Dave Zimmerman, Ross P. Holland, John A. Runge, Richard E. McBride, Frederick C. Dodd, Les Goldberg, Jerry Miatech, W. E. “Bill” Rule, Vic Sorrell, George P. Wehr, Bob Farmer and Howard G. Miller.  Help in identifying other signatures would be greatly appreciated.

My father’s combat diary identifies the following named aircraft that were part of the 38^th BS complement and on which he flew missions:  “Dottie Anne”, “Come Closer”, and “Fools Paradise”.