 Here's the thought, to the thought of men. June 1942, New York Harbor. Men of the Eighth Air Force, 10,000 strong, prepared to board a single converted luxury liner for England, just as their fathers did a generation before in the AEF Aero Squadrons. This time, the 97th Bomb Group ground crews, two fighter groups and their service units were embarking for England. On her maiden troopship run across the Atlantic, the Queen Elizabeth carried the vanguard of American air power for the new fight against aggression. In England, at High Wycombe, we used a girl's boarding school as headquarters. Here, 30 miles from Piccadilly, began the buildup, which eventually made the Eighth Air Force larger than the entire U.S. Army had been only three years before. As the summer of 1942 rushed by, the work of Generals Duncan, Acre, and Spots and the rest of us, made the idea a reality. We learned about the air war from the RAF, reaching a degree of cooperation never before equal by the military forces of two great nations. However, for smashing target Germany, there was disagreement on tactics. The AAF came over prepared for daylight precision bombing, although the British now practice night area bombing. Having suffered unbearably happy losses in daylight operations. Accordingly, the British bomber command picked their targets, trained their crews, fed them lots of carrots, and designed their planes for deadly night attacks. The success of the Wellington's and Lancaster's in attacks against Cologne and the Ruhr during the summer nights of 1942 offered grim evidence of what such tactics could accomplish. These free men were dedicating their lives to attempt the destruction of the economic fabric of an enemy nation, in order to save our way of life. Our first test in tactics came August 17th. It was a critical day for the eight bomber command when we loaded up for the first U.S. raid from England in U.S. planes in daylight. General Ira Acre had told us that the target was the great marshaling yard near Rouen in Nazi occupied France. There were still plenty of skeptics who predicted dismal results from the first attempt at a daylight mission. General Spotz and Acre had to prove them wrong. Armoural had worn pretty thin from repeated dry runs and public impatience for American action in the European theater. Each guy acted nonchalant, but we were fully aware of the long-range strategic planning that hinged on this particular mission. Maybe we didn't know any better, but we had plenty of confidence, confidence in our weapons, confidence in our buddies and the way they did their job. We didn't think of ourselves as heroes, just hot rocks. But heroes are not. The flying privates, sergeants and generals were putting their lives on the line, knowing full well what the odds were. At the controls of one of the lead ships was the old man himself, General Acre, flying a B-17 which someone aptly named Yankee Doodle. As the bombers pulled up their gear, American fliers and 12 American machines assembled over the British countryside, ready to test an American idea in France. High altitude, precision bombing. As England disappeared behind us, we took up battle stations. Our bombardiers and gunners knew that the fate of the mission and the lives of the crew depended on them. We took turns manning the guns, expecting opposition. One of the crew pointed out the city of Rouen where Joan of Arc had died for the liberation of France. Now, airplanes named Baby Doll, Peggy D and Yankee Doodle were spoiling the fight for the same thing. German warning centers caught by surprise didn't report the fortresses until they were well on their way to the target. We made a direct run for a point about three miles north of Rouen and then a slight turn to the right for the bombing approach. All of us flying this first U.S. bomber raid wondered why the sky was clear of enemy fighters and flak. Visibility was excellent. Something you don't get for night bombing. All 12 planes dropped a total of 37,000 pounds of bombs. Then we met flak. Daylight gave the jerry's better targets too. They pumped any aircraft shells smack up to our altitudes. Two of our planes collected some flak. Then 40 German fighters made the picture complete. These were no tow targets. These babies throw lead back at you. When we finally shook off the enemy attack, I took a reading. Our group was intact. The mission was far more successful than many of us had dared hope. Even British bomber command, Air Chief Marshal Harris, sent General Laker enthusiastic congratulations. Yankee Doodle, he said, certainly went to town and can stick another well-deserved feather in his cap. One month later, halfway around the world, events in New Guinea took charge of plans. The Japanese drive toward Port Morsby, one of the few bases we still held north of Australia, threatened to push the Allies into the sea. To stop the enemy, General MacArthur quickly reset the stage for an Allied offensive. He relied on General George Kenny, new commander of Allied air, who is reorganizing the fifth Air Force with fresh spirit and ideas. The urgency of the situation led him to a daring experiment in air tactics. Moving an army by air had worked in the Carolina maneuvers. Why not in New Guinea? MacArthur had ordered troops rushed into battle. One regimen took 36 hours to go by water. A battalion took five weeks by foot, but 60 planes carried an entire Australian infantry battalion in one day. In a little more than an hour, fresh and rested troops arrived in combat zones, ready for immediate duty in the Popoan campaign. With the troops came equipment. By mid-November, 10,000 American and Australian troops had been carried over the mountains. To support the men, air transport brought in supplies at the rate of two million pounds a week. They eventually brought in enough men, rations, ammunition, artillery and equipment to feed and protect themselves, do battle with the enemy and build airfields. Specially designed airborne equipment such as pint-sized bulldozers and graters helped us lay out six airstrips in the Kunai flats. Without native labor paid at local union rates, the work of building grass strips could never have been accomplished. Around Dabadura, they scraped out one-ways less than 16 miles from the front. Construction completed, fighter units moved in fast to protect the operation. And so the Southwest Pacific Air Forces directed by veteran air leader George Kenny and fighter commander Ennis Whitehead had forged a tactical weapon which helped stem the tide of Japanese aggression in the Papuan Campaign. The one-air plane we fighter pilots in New Guinea wanted was the P-38. We had begged Washington to spare us a few of these high-flying speedy lightings. When we finally got them, the ground crews had a big job on their hands. Fuel tanks, superchargers, armament, all required major adjustment or repair. Enemy mechanics on neighboring fields had fewer planes than the Allies, but numbers in the South Pacific didn't tell everything. Back in October, General Kenny had warned the Pentagon, the Jap is two days from the factory to the combat zone, and he may swarm all over me. On December 27th, the Jap tried. About 1130 hours, they gave us the alert. Fort Moresby had received the word that our radio station at Dabadura had picked up a plot of enemy aircraft approaching the Boona area. We pilots had waited a long time for this moment, and with the help of our crew chief, we got going in our hurry. It had taken more than three months to get the P-38s ready for combat. Our maintenance boys had worked hard, and now we were about to put the lightings to the test. As part of the 39th Fighter Squadron, we had flown some patrol and escort missions. However, this was to be our first important combat operation. Well, brand new P-38s were being dispatched to intercept an invading force of unknown strength. Both sides were in for a surprise. At 1210 hours, we sighted the Japs. They were out in force. Separating into three flights of four each, we got on top at 10,000 feet. The zeroes didn't appreciate the view. Our lead flight peeled off to dive in and break up the formation. With his throttle wide open, this P-38 jockey latched onto a Jap. Then the first lightning struck. One of the eager beavers in action that day was a moon-faced lieutenant by the name of Richard Faw. This was the first of Fawng's 40 victories. Captain Thomas Lynch was also there, and that was a good thing, because the enemy force included more than 28 zeroes and bombers. Tommy Lynch got two more that day, making him the 39 squadron's first ace. When the score was finally added up, our 12 lightnings had shot down 11 enemy fighters and bombers. Thus, the P-38 made a dramatic debut in the Southwest Pacific. The tide was turning, but one battle didn't win a war. There were still brutal weeks and months and years of war ahead. Later chapters will show that the enemy had not yet seen, felt nor imagine the awful might of the air power to be unleashed by the United States Air Force.