 A few months ago, wherever industry rolled out the materials of war, a plea for help went up. Above the clamor of heavy cranes, the call came clear. Along a thousand docks where idle ships awaited cargoes held up by labor shortage, the call persisted. At Ford's Willow Run near Detroit, manpower shortage had early become a problem. From its overworked, trackless trains to its assembly line, the need for workers had risen sharply. At Willow Run, the world's largest plant producing a single item, the B-24, had a goal of one bomber an hour. A goal impossible to reach with manpower alone. Today, with that elusive goal achieved, Ford pays tribute to the women whose help made it possible. To American women everywhere whose baller on the industrial front has sped the day of victory. The staunch were our modern women as they answered their country's call. And in the uniform of the WAC and other services, released thousands of men for duty at the front. Other uniforms awaited other women. And from the deep blue of the Navy's waves to the pale blue of gas station attendants, they were worn proudly in the service of their country. Some still window shopped, not hearing the first call. Others played golf, idled golden hours away when every moment was precious. Even domestic duties lost their importance. The call came clear. Wake up, Miss America. Wake up, Mrs. America. Friendly planes may not always cast their moving shadow on you, but planes loaded with evil men and death. That was the call for help, which was still echoing in the Detroit area when women began to respond. Convinced they could do factory work or anything within their strength that men could do for Uncle Sam. They wore a new badge, a badge not only of courage but of achievement. These women who had never worked outside their own homes before. As the demand for men was as limitless as global boundaries, this punch-pressed stalwart was but one of thousands needed at the front. And that's where he is right now, released with others by American women workers. Gradually, the reluctance of husbands to their wives' defense plant jobs relaxed. As such labor became a patriotic privilege, the hardest job of all was learning. But with expert instruction, intricacies of that most complicated of mechanisms, the airplane engine, were readily understood by women. It happened that a woman's delicate touch enabled her even to excel men in certain precision operations. Not peeping toms, but riveters, learning how and where to put the 700,000 rivets that go into a single liberator bomber. Some were done by hand, as were the conductor's punch. Others were fastened by a bucker, as she is called. They were as fast as men, if not faster. For rivets are but the buttons of a bomber to hold it together against a speed of nearly 350 miles an hour. Hundreds of students came, knowing that although their schools were essential to culture, there would be no culture if our democracy were destroyed. The sound of their riveting was like the sound of gunfire. A finished bomber is the sum of more than a million different parts. Willow run, unique among war plants, made every part. Here the lady of the clothes line became an expert on hydraulic lines. It's a long jump from beauty operator to crane operator, but when a brother is over there, sister can make that jump and buy plenty of funds from the man's wage she earns. A jigsaw was no puzzle to a woman who knew her sewing machine. Cutting the plexiglass for a bombardier's enclosure was as easy as cutting Susie's new apron. On a template with steam to make a flawless bubble of the plastic crystal, they shaped it in six minutes with a prayer for the boy who would sit in the nose of that plane. And now the six minutes are up and the transparent enclosure is as fit for the bombardier's clear eyes as it is stout to buffet the terrific winds a farmer creates in his flight. More than 40% of fuselage workers at Willow Run were women, American women, building strong bodies for the planes that would carry their men into foreign skies, shield them on foreign shores. Dietitians supervised the meals which were served the women at cost and which compared with the best of urban restaurant fare. Lunchrooms and food wagons were conveniently placed all over the 87 acre plant. For mental digestion, the training school library provided relaxation and books for study. To man these planes might have caused compulsory national service, but then American women continued like these to fill up the ranks. Under the supervision of experts, women installed the wiring which women assembled. While the boys at the front sang a new version of the old song, the girl I left behind has the job I left behind and she can have it too till Johnny comes marching home again. Jigs like these worked as willingly for women as for men. Indeed, with women operators, they cut the 200,000 man hours formerly required to build a bomber. Every one of these giants of the sky was 25% the product of women's industry. While these mighty 1,250 horsepower engines were equally the product of fair and confident hands. A new kind of sewing bee for the ladies, a new kind of club that has been felt in Berlin and Tokyo, sections are lowered into position by cranes for the operation of which women were needed. While below, women's hands guide pendant tons as fearlessly as men could do it. The entire tail section is positioned and so nicely fitted that the finished plane will lift not only its own weight and its crew, but several tons of lethal eggs to drop with deadly accuracy on the fold. Liberators now ready for the final touch and flight to fields of combat. Ready for the tests and direct delivery to the army. On the liberty-loving hands of American men and women, these ships carry a nation's hopes and an enemy's fears. Made in a free nation, they fly in free skies, while from endless assembly lines, evermore and more liberating eagles take to the air till the global skies are darkened by their mighty wings. Miss and Mrs. America helped fashion these Balkans of freedom. Brother, husband, sweetheart, son may march up hostile shores under a canopy of liberators. Listen, the wings overhead. Mark, your sisters are singing. It is the song of women, American women on the warpath.