In the middle of November, 1943, the P.O.M. inspectors gave the approval that sent the 450th Heavy Bomb Group to the staging area in Harrington, Kansas. On November 20th, 1943, the first formation of B-24's circled the field and dipped their wings in a silent adieu to Alamogordo, New Mexico, where they had spent five months in training. Line of loved ones, wives and families saw the formation disappear in the clear New Mexican skies, and for seven days the bombers continued to leave until all 62 planes with their 868 officers and enlisted men had cleared the field.

The processing at the Herrington Air Base was fast and efficient. Briefings, materials to draw, and forms to fill out took up all the way from three to ten days. Finally, when the weather cleared, the 450th continued on the next leg of a journey that would take them across three continents. The stay at Herrington, however, was pleasant despite the cold weather. The "sanctuary" afforded unlimited opportunities to make money, and kept the men safe from the jurisdiction of their women was in the Officers Mess at Herrington that we enjoyed the last Kansas City corn-fed steaks!

Morrison Field at West Palm Beach was green, sunshiny and beautiful after the semi-arid wastelands of the West. The combat crews were now under the jurisdiction of the A.T.C. who insisted on restricting all personnel below field grade to the base. Passes were taken up, except those "lost enroute", but stories are told of some who partook freely of Southern hospitality and found the spars very charming.

The anticipation of an undisclosed assignment overseas filled the men with an urge to keep moving. The constant cry was: "let's get going!" From Florida, the ships fanned out over the Lesser Antilles, some going directly to Trinidad, others to Atkinson Field, and the majority to Borinquen at the tip of Puerto Rico. "La Perla De Oscidente", as the Puerto Ricans euphuistically called their island, gave the impression of a Winter resort.

The Officers Club by the seaside, with its spacious parlors, open terraces, and patios gave us a glimpse of Spanish culture. The dance that ensued in the evening provided an atmosphere of Caribbean gaiety that did not last long enough. The chatty Senoritas at the P.X., thoroughly schooled in the language of the Air Corps, surprised us with their "roger", "Okeh", and "good deal, Joe." All in all, Borinquen Field was a pleasant place in which to vegetate in quiet somnolence.

It was "adios" in the morning in Puerto Rico and "cheerio" that evening in British Guianan's Atkinson Field. The air was heavy with moisture; the jungle was thick and the mosquitoes threatening. It was a queer sensation to drive on the "wrong" side of the road! More briefing late in the evening, and an early take-off without incident took us to Belem.

Brazil, the land of rubber, copra, coffee, and a teeming jungle. Roofs and tall tropical trees surrounded by thick undergrowth was the setting of the airfield at Belem. The weather was hotter, but not unbearable. Ordinary food supplemented the bushels of Brazilian nuts, fresh pineapple, and oranges were the daily menu. The abundance of coffee became evident at the table. It was a dark, strong, and odorous coffee such as only coffee drinkers enjoy. What a field day for them!

Natal, our next stop, was a spot well known on the map. It was the jumping off place for the combat theatre, and the convergence of all combat crews from America. The solid jungle, the Great Amazon, and the vastness of the South American continent was an overpowering spectacle of nature. Once leaving Natal, carefree boys became serious men on their way to the front, and the presence of other Allied uniforms added a note of interest to the growing restlessness of the crews.

The P.X. did a landslide business selling Brazilian leather boots and Swiss watches. By the time we were ready to leave, the majority of the Echelon was attired in Brazilian foot gear and were sporting Longines, Omegas and other well-known brands of expensive watches brought at less than half price in Natal.

The hop from Natal to Dakar was not nearly so eventful as it had been anticipated. West Africa was not unlike the semi-arid parts of America except for the peculiarly twisted trees that dotted the irregular terrain. The usual conveniences of American Army Camps were modified and reduced to bare essentials. No personal service to coddle the officers, but sufficient facilities for those who were willing to help themselves.

Around the 10th of December, a group of high-ranking Portuguese officers presaged the arrival of a more important visitor at Camp the following day. Late in the afternoon, the M.P.'s cleared the road to the airfield for a caravan of swiftly moving cars, heavily guarded. The unmistakable smile of the Commander-in-Chief, cigarette holder and all, showed through the rear window of the lead car as he waved a greeting to the line of men at attention.

The stay in Dakar was broken by daily dips in the ocean and occasional fishing sorties in narrow, wooden canoes piloted by tall, dark Senegalese natives, chattering in the Qloff dialect.

Chateaudun was a brief stay for all of us except for Lt. Kordich and his crew who are now buried in Constantine. The ship failed to make the treacherous mountain pass and ran into the mountainside. Sergeant Lubin was the only survivor, now returned to the States with a fractured jaw.

Tunis was not on the itinerary, but neither was the Mediterranean front that forced us to land in this historical city. Three days were well spent there. The pilot-marked harbor and the twisted wreckages of JU-87's, JU-52's and Savioa Marchetti's evinced a struggle that prefaced the Allied victory not long before. Accommodations were good at Tunis, and the city was large enough to afford a certain amount of sightseeing. There were French merchants with a a willing disposition and polite insistence that they were selling at a bargain. High School boys became cicerones to the men with wings and showed them the town. The night clubs did a thriving business with their indescribable concoctions of inferior wartime wines and liquors, and the "girls" were not entirely absent despite close surveillance by the French Gendarmerie. A touch of international intrigue surrounded the omnipresence of "Michele", the French blonde who always seemed present at night clubs where "wined eloquence" over-powered some of the officers. She managed them to their hotel, and returned to be charming to any other officer who became a bit too garrulous for security.

Michele took good care of many a high rank and "louies", but politely refused all invitations to "ride home". An M.P. in a Jeep called for here and escorted her home, much to our disappointment. She waved an Army Pass, and simply said "so sorry, C'est La Gjerre!"

At Tunis, the 450th took off on the last leg of the journey across the Mediterranean. We were finally going to our future "home." The Italian landscape was green, hilly, and picturesque from the air. Olive groves, fruit and almond trees dotted the countryside, and villages seem squeezed into the higher peaks. It did not look like a war zone: it was more like a watercolor painting. Sicily was easily spanned. We were flying over lands where other conquerors had made their way by chariot. History once more repeated itself over Italy. Hannibal had conquered years ago, and now the Yanks came in his footsteps. Mt. Etna continued to spout smoke as a reminder of imperishable natural. The Bay of Tranto indicated that our final destination was close at hand: Manduria, a village of the 11th century was not far off.

As the first flight of the Air Echelon taxied into the landing field at Manduria, a formation of the 98th circled the field preparatory to landing after a bombing mission. A plane dived low and dropped flares. Ambulances rushed from the field and arrived just as the plane came to a stop. With methodical indifference, the orderlies carried the wounded and the dead in stretchers as the Neophytes of the 450th looked on.

It was a jolt that made them all realize the "tour" was over. A gunner looked at a rear turret, blown-out and blood-stained. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, and drew his jacket tighter. It was December 20, 1943, a drizzling winter afternoon in Southern Italy, and the 450th was arriving "home".