 Soldiers of the press! Folder to shoulder with the men on the fighting fronts of the world go the correspondence of the United Press. You will find them peering down from the bellies of bombers over New Guinea or Kiel, scanning swirling actions in Egypt from the scant cover of foxholes or from baking, bruising tanks. You will find them on the bridges and sky controls of cruisers and carriers off Midway and Wake and Malta, or sharing a lookouts watch aboard a convoy ship, heading blindly through the Arctic dark for Momansk. With the troops they accompany, these correspondents face every peril of war, gunfire, capture and pestilence, hardship, tension and tedium. Theirs is a vital wartime task to observe and report to you developments on the battle fronts. Report them clearly, completely, quickly. Among the hundreds of United Press correspondents fulfilling this important mission is Henry T. Gorell. Our story of his recent adventures is the story behind a communique issued by United States heavy bombardment Air Force base somewhere in the Middle East. In an attack on enemy shipping in Navarino Bay, planes of the U.S. Army Air Force damaged two large supply-laden cargo vessels, causing violent explosions attended by fires. That was the terse account of that action contained in the official announcement. But to United Press correspondent Henry Gorell, there was much more to the story than that. For Gorell rode in one of those bombers over Navarino Bay. Yes, I was in one of those big four-motored consolidated B-24s and saw them give the Germans a taste of America's fighting power. And I can tell you that every American has a right to be proud of the men and machines of war we're turning against our enemies. But that's getting ahead of my story. You see, I've been covering the war since it began. I've seen German planes and tanks and infantry roll across Poland, the Low Countries, France, Eastern Europe. I accompanied the British Expeditionary Force that attempted to go to the aid of Greece, and I retreated with them to Egypt under a hail of bombs from Nazi Stukas. More recently, I've been stationed at a United States heavy bombardment Air Force base in the Middle East. Can't tell you just where. The one thing I'd been hoping for was an opportunity to go along when American bombers and American bombs blasted some of the swagger out of Hitler's supermen. Well, my chance came unexpectedly late one afternoon. I was in my quarters pounding away on my typewriter when... Okay, come in, come in. Are you Henry Gorell of the United Press? Oh, hi there, soldier. Yes, I'm Gorell. What can I do for you? Major Parms compliments, sir. He asked me to deliver this message to you and to tell you what's urgent. Well, thanks. Just a minute. Let's see if there's reply. Arrangements completed. Correspondents accompany mass bombing force attack mission. Man, this is what I've been waiting for. Report to briefing room at 4.50. Hey, that gives me just about 20 minutes. Tell the major I'll be there with bells. Yes, sir. Oh, Ed, they finally set it up for some correspondence to go along on a mass bombing raid. Look, I got a story in the mail here. It's complete. See that it gets to the censor's office pronto, will you? Sure thing. Good luck, Hank. And, Joe, you left the fork over those wool socks you borrowed. When I reached the operations office, I found the briefing room packed with young alert American flyers. Enough of them to indicate that the show was going to be a big one. Their faces were grimly serious. They were listening to a lieutenant to his pointing out their objectives on a huge map. I recognized the outlines of the coast of Greece. The lieutenant said, Target is a concentration of enemy shipping in Navarino Bay. In here. Intelligence informs us that Germans have considerable anti-aircraft strength concentrated in the areas marked in red. Here and here. Now, you'll undoubtedly encounter a considerable flag. The enemy also has a force of fighter craft in the area, so you'll have to be on the lookout for pursuits. The order in which you'll take off and go over the target is listed on the blackboard outside the operations room. While the bomber crews assembled additional data on weather, the types of anti-aircraft and pursuits to be encountered, I inspected that blackboard. It was a screwy-looking list. The planes affectionately named the Jersey Jerks, Snow White, The Witch, and a half a dozen tough dwarfs. The Witch was scheduled to take off last. Her pilot was Lieutenant Glade Jorgensen. I knew him slightly. A blond, husky, square-jawed trombone player from American Fork, Utah. As the crews began moving out of the briefing line to the line of Jeeps waiting outside, I singled him out. Hello, Lieutenant. I think perhaps you remember me, Henry Gorell of the United Press. I'd like to make this trip with your crew. Gorell? Oh, sure, I remember you. You went with that British convoy to Malta a while back. So you want to go over with me, eh? Right. Look, have you had a good view of the blackboard there? Yeah, I did. Where to be last over the target, you know? The Jerries will have everything they can throw at us in action by the time we go in. Yes, I know, but I'd still like to make the hop in your plane. It may be a bit more dangerous, but it's a sense to provide the best view of the show. Like that, huh? Like that. Okay, I suppose you know your business. You'll fly with the witch, then. Swell. Well, you may as well come along with me and get acquainted with the rest of the crew. I meet them. Nine and all. Every man trained in teamwork like members of a champion football squad. There's Norman Frost, the former Miami Bell Boy, third gunner on our B-24. Second Lieutenant Peter Elvlehockeys of Newark, New Jersey, our navigator. Second Lieutenant Robert T. Goldberg of Blooming Prairie, Minnesota. Bombardier, Second Lieutenant Henry M. Spanger of Mount Airy, North Carolina. Staff Sergeant Joseph T. Byrne from La Crosse, Wisconsin, our radio operator and a gunner. Tail gunner, staff sergeant, Donald S. Allen of New York. Marvin Breeding, armored gunner from Dallas, Texas, and technical sergeant Joseph E. Farmer of St. Charles, Virginia. We pile into the waiting jeeps, which jolt us out to where the big bombers are on the field. I spot the witch, looking anything but warlike in her coat of salmon pink camouflage. Her name is lettered boldly in her sides. Ground crews already have her motors turning over. I can feel a tightening sensation in my throat and stomach. I'm handed a cumbersome, heavy flying suit, life jacket, parachute, an oxygen mask, and we're about ready to take off. Duchess, the little dog mascot of the Jersey Jerks, is going to have to stay behind. It's not a flying since they found her in Lakeland, Florida, but there are no oxygen masks for dogs. It's our turn now, and we scramble aboard. Well, Gorell, we must be getting near the coast of Greece. Can you feel a start to climb? Jorgensen must be going up to our bombing level. We're putting on altitude all right. My ears, just Bob. You better get your life jacket adjusted and put on your helmet. By the way, the earphones inside the helmet are connected with the earphone. What's going on? That's well. This way goes on. That's it. And here's your speaker. Well, I'll have to be getting back to my station now. Bye. Go, President, accounted for, Gorell. We're climbing several hundred feet a minute. Altitude now 10,000 feet. Put on your oxygen masks. Now, look, I can see Greece. Those peninsulas look like jagged fingers. You're right. Gunners. Better fire a few practice bursts. We're getting in close. Okay, top, sir. Tail too, sir. Those pencil stubs are the German ships. There goes the flak. See those white puff balls ahead. It won't be long now. Cain to Jorgensen. Pursuits approaching. I say them, sir. Three of them are not stopped at quarter. Now we've lost them. The Jersey Jerks having a go at them. Get set, men. Snow White has dropped our bombs. We're going in now. Navigated to Bombardier. Target coming up. Shall I open the doors to the Bombay? Okay, Pete. Open them. Your ship, Hank, and make them count. We'll be on target in about 7-0 seconds. Leveler off. Steady now. Three points starboard. Hold us steady. There. Bombs away. On the target. Boy, look at those explosions. There come a couple of pursuits coming up from about 15,000 feet. Let them have it, boys. We're losing altitude. I'll try and shake them. Here comes another one on our tail. For God's sakes, open fire. Sir, I'm sure I did. Got him, sir. Fine, business. Hold tight. I'll come back as soon as I can and help you. May as well chuck your oxygen, Mass. As our oxygen tank's been hit. I make my way back to the gunner's turret. I have to take off my parachute harness, life jacket, and sheepskin coat to negotiate the narrow catwalk in the Bombay. It's frost, our second gunner, who's been hit. Our waste gunner already is bending over him. Together we unlace his shoe, cut his trouser leg, and rip off his sock. It's a knee wound. We apply a tourniquet. My fingers are numb with cold. We're still at high altitude. My first-aid kits flaked with frost, and the iodine swab's so frozen I have to breathe on it to thaw it out. After we've made the second gunner comfortable, breeding the waste gunner turns to me and says, Would you mind looking at my leg, sir? I think I've been hit, too. I take a quick look at it. He has a flesh wound in his ankle, but he's kept quiet until we're sure the second gunner's all right. The sun's been setting as we work, and I suddenly look out to realize it is dark. It's a reassuring feeling. Jorgensen's trying to get up speed. He tells us two superchargers have been shot away. The automatic steering gear is out. The self-sealing gas tank's been hit, and an aileron's been knocked off. Engineer thinks we also may have a flat tire. Where I sit, I count 25 cannon and bullet holes inside the plane. The crew adds up its score. We got another German plane in addition to the ship down by Frost. Technical Sergeant Farmer turns up. He's been hit by shrapnel, but luckily suffered only a scratch under his right eye. Everyone begins to relax. Jorgensen tells us we're getting close to our base. Everybody smiles. Our radio is barking out into the dark. Wounded aboard. Have medical aid ready. Wounded aboard. Have medical aid ready. Search lights finally catches. We flash the recognition signal, and the gun batteries below hold their fire. Our wheels touch ground. Everyone is tense. But our tire isn't flat after all. A welcome feeling. An ambulance is on hand. Doctors look at Frost knee and say he'll be all right soon. I'm back with a story of the first mass bombing raid by American planes on which American correspondents were permitted to accompany our planes. Everyone is tired. Everyone's glad to be back. And everyone has work to do. The crew pile into jeeps to return to operations headquarters to make out their reports. Mentally, I start putting the lead from my story into shape. Yes, the official communique said merely in an attack on enemy shipping in Navarino Bay, planes of the U.S. Army Air Force damaged two large supply-laden cargo vessels causing violent explosions attended by fires. But to correspondent Henry T. Gorell, it was the story of the heroism of a former bellboy from Miami who kept firing in spite of a severe wound until the attacking German pursuit plunged earthward. A story of American-built planes that took all the Nazis could give and came home safely. By braving enemy gunfire, by accompanying our troops, our ships, and our planes into battle at the risk of their lives and freedom, Gorell and other correspondents of the United Press enable American radio listeners and newspaper readers to know the facts, the truth of important war actions, clearly, completely, quickly. They bring you the stories behind the headlines, so listen for United Press news on the air. Look for it in your local newspaper. It is your guarantee of the world's best coverage of the world's biggest news.