 In 2,000 years the ruins of an ancient city have lain scattered on this hill. The ruins of a civilization unrecorded in the history of time. North Africa stands as a symbol of the darkest places in the story of man. She was once his birthplace and his only world. Here primitive man wandered over the trackless wastes. And down through the centuries of progress and civilization this land has stood resplendent with stoicism to receive the conqueror. Here battle cries filled the air. And now they are lost in space, lost with the legions who shouted them. A thousand years before the birth of Christ the Pharaoh Niko ordered the Phoenicians to circumnavigate the continent. Out of these years of exploration sprang the ancient city of Carthage. In Africa's other ancient cities stands the architecture of all the ages and all its conquerors. Where the most modern buildings rub shoulders with Moorish and Oriental temples. Here as in the days of Christ the same toiling people live out their simple lives. Their marketplaces are crowded, mean and miserable. Their lives bear witness to the faith that comes to all concord nations. Here are the fusions of every race creed and colored. The stoicism and hopelessness of men who once were noble and free. In ancient Rome a cenotaph stood up and cried. Carthage must be destroyed. Not a stone must be left standing upon another stone. Today a new conqueror comes to Carthage. With a weapon so deadly it could blast the ageless ruins of the city into unrecognizable rubble in the fraction of a moment. Yes Carthage has known many conquerors. Soldiers whose boots have pounded ancient flagstones. But these must be the strangest group of warriors that ever came to Africa. They're yanks. And they're seeing a world they once knew only from geography class and travelogues. They're going to have plenty to show and tell the folks back home. Yes, whom? Only a few years ago they were high school kids. Or divinity students. Or gas station attendants. Boys who never dreamed they'd ever set foot where Roman armies once burned and looted and pillaged. Out of the misery and terror that befell its people all that remains are straggling bunches of wildflowers. Tribute to a mite that can never rise again. It's no use. Yanks are born tourists. And they just can't quit. Even in the middle of a war. For the first time these boys from Iowa, Kansas, New Jersey, California came face to face with Bedouins, Moors, and Senegalese. They found that the African natives were not really so different after all, despite their strange clothes and foreign customers. Almost without realizing it, these soldiers spread an air of friendliness and goodwill that has left an everlasting impression. Remember the way our boys massacred the French language after the last war? Well, they're learning Arabic in this one. And you can imagine what they'll do to that. The boys from Coney Island, Santa Monica, from the shores of every lake and stream in the land, head naturally for the beach. A magnificent Mediterranean. And it would be as good as home if there was only an old grapefruit or banana peel floating around somewhere. Remember when all this belonged to Mussolini? Malenostrum, he called it then. Ah, sea. Scattered all over Africa are the remnants of another proud army of conquerors. Rommel's Africa Corps and the German Luftwaffe. A world that thousands of young Germans will never know. A world which, in their barbaric desires, they could never achieve. And above the countless graves of these young Germans standing in mocking tribute are the mute evidences of their own disaster. Plains, tanks, trucks, guns, ammunition. Silent, immobile, impudent. They rest like the men beneath them, never again to threaten decency in human life. All over Africa, captured Axis airfields and bases were reconstructed and rebuilt by these same young Americans. A job that must be accomplished quickly and decisively. The same spirit of imagination and initiative that built America is employed on the desert sands of this far away country. New quarters must be built because the enemy knows the position of the ones they left behind. Left behind were the pooch whose grandmother came over from Bavaria and started her own super race. Yes, it's pretty tough going. And there wasn't a man over there who didn't think constantly of his own room at home. But clean sheets and hot and cold running water. They didn't know it before, but it can get colder on the desert than almost anywhere in the world. And hotter. And when it came to eating, it wasn't exactly the Ritz. It wasn't even the local lunch wagon on Main Street. It's true there were no ration points to worry about and no standing in line for food. Well, not much. And every night after a hearty meal you could sit down in a big, easy chair next to the radio. You could light up your pipe and read the evening paper and listen to Bing Cosby or information please while the little woman did the dishes and cleaned up. These men didn't just fight the Germans in the Tatyans. They fought dust and germs and wind and sun and cold 24 hours a day. This particular bunch called themselves the Earthquakers and were part of the 12th Medium Bombardment Group of R9th Air Force. For weeks they flew missions over hundreds of miles of African desert and mountains and chased Rommel until they ran them into the ground at Tunisia. As the campaign stretched out, this group along with many others found themselves constantly replacing their ranks. New strength to finish up what had been started by our enemies. Just American guys from all over. From farms, ranches and factories. From a place called the USA that they hadn't seen in months and wonder when they're going to see again. The men seemed almost easier to replace than the valuable planes and equipment that would finally finish the axis in Africa. Every available part, every nut and bolt, every piece of equipment that could possibly be salvaged was painstakingly removed from ships that couldn't no longer fly. You know, our planes and men were not invulnerable in Africa and many a proud ship staggered back to its base only to be dismantled and used again. Piece by piece as it was needed. Not enough can be said for the men of the ground crews. The men who kept them flying every day and every night. Whether it was a rudder torn off by a flag, a landing gear shot away by a 37mm cannon or an engine that had caught fire and burnt to a crisp. The men in the ground crews fixed and patched and repaired and performed miracles so they could fly again. No smooth running assembly line. No spare parts department. Nothing except what could be salvaged, not once but ten times. The planes were North American Billy Mitchell's B-25s and the name Earthquakers fits them like a glove. They're the same kind the Air Force used to bomb Tokyo and in North Africa they shook the land from one end to the other. Shook it, jarred it, jolted it, hammered it, smashed it, leveled it, pounded it and quaked it until Rommel and the Africa Corps just couldn't take it anymore. Here is the situation at this stage of the campaign. It gives a better understanding of the task facing the Earthquakers. Toward the beginning of the end, the enemy still held Tunis and Bezerta. Allied strategy decided to force the Germans and Italians up toward this narrow peninsula into annihilation or surrender. American and French forces began to push hard from the west and southwest. The Earthquakers and part of the 8th Army under General Montgomery were driving from the east and southeast. One of the many objectives to be destroyed was the Nazi airfield at Elmoo in the city of Spatz. From Medineen, almost 100 miles away, the Earthquakers made their plans. Cautious, laborious plans since bombing and destroying enemy airfields and bases are not accomplished 1, 2, 3. Countless briefings and interrogations were held. Areas were mapped out down to feet and inches so the targets might be clearly determined. These are no longer young Americans at play on the SAC theme tour. They're soldiers, part of the Army Air Forces. Before you can ride camels and donkeys, you've got to move in and take over. That is, if the camels and donkeys happen to be in enemy territory. Day after day, they flew combat missions with systematic plans for destruction. This was what they had been trained for. This was what they had known they were meant to do. And now, the bombs and bullets were headed where they belong, headed for enemy air drones and tank corps and German Panzer divisions. A steady, monotonous, relentless job, devoid of comfort and filled with danger. They went on day after day with machine-like regularity. Yes, there were losses, plenty of them. Some ships never made it back to base, and some got there with the fuselage torn almost in half. For the landing here, Bologna, for the men waiting on the ground, there's the constant fear that the next landing may be a crash landing. Ambulance crews are on the alert. The pilot with both legs shot away, but he's still trying to bring that plane in. He did it in his lifetime. In Fideoron and Bob Teesman, Remissione and Plecatorum, and Expector Resorexionus or Viscum. It's a time for battle and a time for prayer. Last Easter Sunday, our boys were fighting on the sands of Africa. Thousands of miles from their homes, from those they love, and those who love them. These are the conquerors of Africa, the men who followed in the footsteps of the Roman legions and the savage huns of another era. Yet they want no loot, no stolen world, but a free world for all men. They have made no conquest. Without conquest, they have won the hearts and minds of men. They want no Superman, but a race of all peoples, united in a common aim. This is their prayer. Peace with Victor.