Background of news –
By Harold Kellock, editorial research reports
But Harding College head warns of dictation by government
By Daniel M. Kidney, Scripps-Howard staff writer
The ‘sarge’ in Sicily also has his say about some film ‘heroines’
By Kaspar Monahan
By Erskine Johnson
Emphasis put on Pacific fighting without aid of general
By Henry J. Taylor, North American Newspaper Alliance
Lasting effects are physical and mental
By Dr. Thomas D. Masters
Grandma can choose her work and just about ‘write her own ticket’ these war times
By Ruth Millett
Company spokesman denies method is inefficient or dangerous
By Ernie Pyle
Somewhere in Sicily, Italy – (by wireless)
The awarding of bravery medals is a rather dry and formal thing and I never heretofore bothered to cover any of these festivities, but the other night, I learned that three old friends of mine were in a group to be decorated, so I went down to have supper with them and see the show.
My three friends are Lt. Col. Harry Goslee, 3008 Neil Ave., Columbus, Ohio; Maj. John Hurley, 66 Rockaway Ave., San Francisco, California, and Maj. Mitchell Mabardy, of Assonet, Massachusetts. Goslee is headquarters commandant of a certain outfit, and Majs. Hurley and Mabardy are provost marshals in charge of military police.
They were camped under big beech trees on the Sicilian hillside just back of the battlefront. I went down about 5:30 and found my friends sitting on folding chairs under a tree outside their tent, looking through field glasses at fighting far ahead.
Any soldier will verify that one of the outstanding traits of war are those incongruous interludes of quiet that pop up now and then in the midst of the worst horror. This evening was one of them. Our troops were in a bitter fight for the town of Troina, standing up like a great rock pinnacle on a hilltop a few miles ahead.
That afternoon, our High Command had called for an all-out air and artillery bombardment of the city. When it came, it was terrific. Planes by the score roared over and dropped their deadly loads, and as they left our artillery put down the most devastating barrage we’ve ever used against a single point, even outdoing any shooting we did in Tunisia.
City seems to fly apart
Up there in Troina a complete holocaust took place. Through our glasses the old city seemed to fly apart. Great clouds of dust and black smoke rose into the sky until the whole horizon was leaded and fogged. Our biggest bombs exploded with such roars that we felt the concussion clear back where we were, and our artillery in a great semi-circle crashed and roared like some gigantic inhuman beast that had broken loose and was out to destroy the world.
Germans by the hundreds were dying up there at the end of our binocular vision, and all over the mountainous horizon the world seemed to be ending. And yet we sat there in easy chairs under a tree sipping cool drinks, relaxed and peaceful at the end of the day’s work. Sitting there looking at it as though we were spectators at a play. It just didn’t seem possible that it could be true. After a while we walked up to the officers’ mess in a big tent under a tree and ate captured German steak which tasted very good indeed.
Then after supper the six men and three officers who were to receive awards lined up outside the tent. They were nine legitimate heroes all right. I know, for I was in the vicinity when they did their deed.
Fire provides target
It was the night before my birthday and the German bombers kept us awake all night with their flares and their bombings, and for a while it looked as though I might never get to be 43 years old. What happened in this special case was that one of our generator motors caught fire during the night and it had to happen at a very inopportune moment. When the next wave of bombers came over, the Germans naturally used the fire as a target.
The three officers and six MPs dashed to the fire to put it out. They stuck right at their work as the Germans dived on them. They stayed while the bombs blasted around them and shrapnel flew. I was sleeping about a quarter of a mile away, and the last stick of bombs almost seemed to blow me out of the bedroll – so you can visualize what those men went through. The nine of them were awarded the Silver Star a few days afterwards.
The nine lined up in a row with Col. Goslee at the end. The commanding general came out of his tent. Col. Goslee called the nine to attention. They stood like ramrods while the citations were read off. There was no audience except myself and two Army Signal Corps photographers taking pictures of the ceremony.
Besides the three officers, the six who received medals were Sgt. Edward Gough, 2252 E 72nd St., Brooklyn, New York; Sgt. Charles Mitchell, 3246 3rd Ave., Brooklyn, New York; Sgt. Homer Moore, of Nicholls, Georgia; Sgt. Earl Sechrist, of Windsor, Pennsylvania; Pfc. Barney Swint, of Douglasville, Texas, and Pfc. Harold Tripp, of Worthington, Minnesota.
Both comical and pathetic
I believe the men went through more torture receiving the awards than in earning them, they were all so tense and scared. It was either comical or pathetic, whichever way it happened to strike you. Col. Goslee stared rigidly ahead in a thunderstruck manner. His left hand hung relaxed, but I noticed his right fist was clamped so tightly his fingers were turning blue.
The men were like uncomfortable stone statues. As the general approached, each man’s Adam’s apple would go up and down two or three times in a throat so constricted I thought he was going to choke.
The moment the last man was congratulated, the general left and the whole group broke up in relief and the men went separate ways.
As a spectacle it was sort of dull, but to each man it was one of those little pinnacles of triumph that will stand out until the day he dies. You often hear soldiers say:
I don’t want any medals. I just want to see the Statue of Liberty again.
But just the same you don’t hear of anybody forgetting to come around, all nervous and shined up fit to kill, on the evening he is to be decorated.
Logging for Army planes a job even Paul Bunyan would enjoy tackling
By Morley Cassidy, North American Newspaper Alliance
Völkischer Beobachter (August 27, 1943)
Langstreckenbomber nach dem Kriege nur mehr für die USA.
Von unserer Stockholmer Schriftleitung
Eigener Bericht des „Völkischen Beobachters“
The Pittsburgh Press (August 27, 1943)
Some German subs try to fight it out with attacking planes
Drive to wreck Nazi airpower pushed
By Walter Cronkite, United Press staff writer