En-route to joining the great conflict in Europe, the squadron members became guest tenants at the Bangor Army Air Base. They sat there in limbo while powers on high ironed out details for the pending Bolero movement. The mother B-17s and crews who were to lead them on the big hop gathered at Presque isle at the ready.

One lap of the projected route of the movement called for a hop from Labrador to Greenland and this led to a problem in navigation. The magnetic north pole was centered somewhere under the ease side of Hudson's Bay. It was disheartening to know that the ball compasses in the 38s would deviate markedly from North as shown on the compass rose on the aeronautical chart carried in each plane.

Not to worry, though. The peashooter pilots (not labeled fighter pilots until after July 1) were assured that navigators aboard the B-17s had foolproof way of knowing which was really was North. Not to worry.

Fine, but what if they ran into a cloud bank or fog over the Davis Straight? And, what if any of them suffered a dislodged umbilical cord? How would he stay on course to Blooie West in Greenland, or back to Goose Bay in Labrador? That thought gave considerable cause for worry. But, again the message was not to worry. Simply snuggle up to the mother ship every fifteen minutes or so, duplicate his course, ask for a current heading, then reset the gyrocompass. Flying a reciprocal course would at least put a lost lamb somewhere in the vicinity of Goose.

Not to worry? How about that little glitch known as precession?

The magnetic ball compass and the gyrocompass in each plane were in no way interconnected; the gyro could care less in which way a plane was heading. It just sat there, doing its business. Once it was set, the plane could turn under it, but it would continuously point in the same direction. The gyroscope at the heart of the contraption rode on two bearings--one at the top, and one on the bottom, and herein lay a problem. Friction on those bearings caused the gyro to rotate (precess) ever so slightly, thus throwing its accuracy off. How much? That varied from plane to plane and could only be predicted by a trial and error process.

When the question of precession was raised, word came back that each pilot should make test runs in his assigned plane and chart the amount of precession in a given amount of time on differing headings. Muldoon, the squadron's pilot-engineering officer, had an idea for simplifying the process. He suggested that each pilot, when he lined up on the runway for takeoff, with his nose pointed straight down the runway, set his compass at 0 degrees and his dash clock at 12:00. Once airborne, pick up an easterly heading and stay with it for one hour, then make a 180 degree turn, come home and land. Disengage the gyro on landing, taxi in and take a reading. Presto. The number of degrees off of zero, divided by two would be the amount of precession per hour. Violent movements or bumpy air might change the readings, everyone could expect to be flying straight and level in smooth air.

That was a confidence builder, but the resolution was strong to tuck in tightly to the mother ship (the ration was four little friends to each mother) should weather close in.

Distance to be covered between Goose Bay in Labrador and Blooie West in Greenland was only a little over 800 miles. Put another way, at the prescribed 185 IAS, that meant a little over four and a half-hours flying time. The P-38-Fs, starting out with full drop tanks, could handle that easily, even if it were necessary to alter course along the way because of weather cells. But, supposing Blooie was socked in when mothers and hens got there? A return trip to Goose would up the total to over sixteen hundred miles, over eight hours in the air with nothing but icy water waiting patiently below. This thought gave Muldoon pause. A quick calculation told him that, with settings at auto-lean, 1800 RPM, and28 inches of mercury, the engines would be breathing fumes in their last minutes aloft. His solution: put the manual aside and do some experimenting. He got three volunteers to accompany him on test runs to see if fuel consumption rates couldn't be improved.

Pulling back on RPMs and compensating with increased manifold pressures seemed the most logical way to go. The Allisons voiced their disapproval with roughness when asked to go below the magic 1800 RPMs, but Muldoon discovered that cutting back further was acceptable to them. He found that, at 1650 RPMs and manifold pressure boosted to around 32 inches, 185 IAS could be maintained. Muldoon and his mini covey of volunteers gave the system a try. The procedure was to top off all tanks and take off on main. Once airborne, log the time, switch both engines to reserve tanks, then put in at least two hours of boredom. Before landing, time was re-logged and fuel selection returned to main. On landing, the amount of fuel needed to top off each reserve tank was noted. This wasn't a scientific evaluation but it did give a fairly accurate evaluation of what was happening. The consensus was that Muldoon's system yielded a consistent twenty-five gallons per hour per engine--considerably below the factory-recommendation settings. The engines didn't show any signs of rebellion. The pilots now knew that they would have enough range to get back to Goose if Blooie were socked in, and without getting their feet wet.

The flight from Greenland to Iceland was a bit hairy. Mothers and chicks had to weave around mini storm cells. The blue-ray water beneath didn't offer anything in the way of landmarks, but again, not to worry. The chicks by now had developed a sense of confidence that told them that if they stayed close to their mothers' wings no harm would come to them. And it didn't--to anybody in the 71st.

The 71st's first nesting site was at Hull. The control tower there was top heavy with brass, on hand to welcome the squadron's arrival in the United Kingdom. Probably not recorded was the welcome provided by the Krauts, a welcome resulting in the first bloodshed in the squadron. It happened like this….

The pilots were quartered in Quonset huts about a half-mile west of the airfield. All were tired. All sacked out early, but their rest was interrupted by the mournful wailing of air raid sirens across the river in Humber-on-Hull. That signaled the fact that the 71st was in the war zone at last. Flak guns began booming and the sharper crack of exploding shells above provided a sort of symphony of sound. The next sound to join the cacophony was the beat of un-synchronized props--typical of the German JU-88 they had been told. about. That got everyone's attention and the pilots poured out onto the road to see what was going on.

Before long, there came the whistle of a falling bomb, just like on the sound track of a movie. Most of the fellows hit the dirt on the road, but Sammy Sears opted to play it safe. He took a dive into the waiting ditch. The bomb didn't explode, it was a dud, and the cluster of observes reformed. All but Sammy. He rejoined a few moments later, scratched and with blood spots decorating his pajamas. He was the squadron's first war casualty. One of the guys asked Sammy if someone shouldn't go for a stretcher party, and Big Ugh thought that Sammy should go to the adjutant in the morning and put in for a Purple Heart. Sammy's impassioned words weren't directed against the Krauts. They were against his squadron mates as he went back to bed.

The squadron went into an operational mode after it moved south to Ibsley Station, with occasional fighter sweeps across the Channel. All wee uneventful. The Krauts sometimes went up to look over the new kids on the block, but were content to observe but not tangle. However, the squadron did suffer two fatalities during this period. Dickie Bird Wells was killed when an engine failed on take-off, and Sleeper Martin dropped out of formation over France. Nobody saw him leave the formation, and he was never heard from again.

The squadron went off ops at Halloween time--appropriately trick-or-treat time. Dust screens were installed on carburetor air intakes, and winter flying gear was made ready for distribution. Hangar flying couldn't reach a consensus. Some thought that Norway was in the offing, others that it was a case of Africa, here we come. Orders, when they finally came, were for a westward move--but not to the US of A. Aircraft were to be flown to the British Naval Air Station at Land's End. Strict radio silence was to be observed. Prescribed altitude was at 1,500 feet, low enough to be below radar range, but high enough not to pique interest among the populace. In other words, no buzzing!

Security was tight at Land's End. US Army personnel were assigned to their own compound. There was to be no communication with anyone outside that compound. No one was permitted off the base. No outgoing of incoming phone calls were permitted. The place was immediately dubbed Fort Leavenworth.

On the second day there, all three squadrons of the Group were called in for a joint briefing. Something big was, indeed afoot.

Attention was called and a briefing officer faced the group. He was melodramatic in addressing his audience. What he was about to tell was top secret. No one was to discuss it or even mention it once he left the room. The gist was this: The British and US were about to invade North Africa. The operation was code named Torch. If all went well, it would be the beginning of the end. That got everyone's attention.

Curtains at the back of the stage were drawn and a huge map was revealed. This wasn't melodrama; this was reality, for a red line of pinned-up yard told the story. It went westward from Land's End and into the Atlantic, then turned WSW to skirt Portugal, then bent in through the Straight of Gibraltar and ended in western Algeria. Attention turned from interest to apprehension when his pointer settled on a point in the ocean and he said, "Gentlemen, you are to rendezvous with a group of B-17s here. They will be flying at an airspeed of one eight zero. Total distance covered will be approximately 1,640 miles. Time in the air, approximately eight hours. You will be flying below radar range. There must be absolute radio silence throughout. Colonel Stone will explain further. That is all, gentlemen." Those words were spoken over half a century ago, but it is unlikely that anyone in that room has forgotten them.

Colonel Stone had little to add except for times of take-off and to emphasize that .timing was critical. There would be no circling at rendezvous--it was a case of meet and go. He'd see everyone in Africa.

The pilots were all like monks in a monastery who had taken a vow of silence. For eight long hours they sat still, wordlessly, and watched the whitecaps appearing and disappearing below. The airplanes were spread out, not bunched four 38s per mother as they had been on the Bolero movement. Fortunately, the weather behaved itself and gave the flock little to be concerned about as they migrated southward. Once Gib passed by on the left, it was relaxation time. Thanks to the Muldoon system, the squadron arrived with fuel to spare. Like the man says, "Not to worry!"

Tafaroui, the squadron's new albeit temporary home, was a French airfield adjacent to a salt flat and, by the time the squadron arrived, loaded to overflowing with all sorts of airplanes. The barracks, reserved for fliers, came complete with bedbugs and fleas. Except for the barracks (pup tents would have been preferable), the layout wasn't unlike a Boy Scout camporee, tents everywhere, chow lines, standup eating tables, lister bags from which to milk canteen fill-ups, and a fair amount of mud. A signal outfit showed up with a pole hole digger and a line of latrines was the final addition. Those guys earned their merit badges in short order. The contrast between the Southern California-type climate in Algiers and the thick frost at Land's End added to the festive camp air.

Arabs, dressed in rags, appeared from nowhere with baskets of tangerines to sell. Anything that in any way resembled an orange was a welcome sight. The Arabs weren't too happy about exchanging their fruit for American or British coins but a few deals were struck and tangerines were eaten in quantity. Bomber command didn't have a target selection section set up, but they wanted to make their presence felt, so sent loads out to make life difficult for Germans who might be trying to organize military operations in the vicinity of Tunis. The 71st was one of the squadrons sent out to escort them. It was a long haul out, and a long haul back, much of it at altitude. Quantities of tangerines in stomachs, eating off of partially cleaned mess kits, and lowered external air pressure at altitude, played hell with digestive systems. Underpants had to double as diapers because makeshift latrines at home were usually too many hours away. A most embarrassing development, especially considering the fact that there were no laundry facilities available at Tafaroui, and not even a place there for pilots to wash their own dirty linen.

However, all's well that ends well. A good old-fashioned PX was set up almost simultaneously with the squadron's arrival and, miracle of miracles, it was well stocked with under shorts and undershirts! They did a land office business. But there was a problem of what to do with discarded ripening shorts. Then Tony Sgroi came up with a bright idea. Perhaps the Arab fruit vendors would be in the market for them. It so happened that they were, soil and all. The ratio between soiled shorts and tangerines was tilted strongly in favor of the underwear, especially when Arabs began bidding against each other. The enlisted men were invited to share in the morale-boosting largess at no charge. When an egg merchant appeared on the scene he was welcomed warmly and Tony took full advantage. The squadron contingent at the Boy Scout cammporee was a well-fed group for almost a week. Then came moving time.

The next stop was at Nouvion where enterprising Arabs failed to discover the squadron. GI fare in the form of C rations, powdered potatoes, powdered eggs, canned milk, and chipped beef became the standard. No more fresh eggs, no more tangerines. But there was a do-it-yourself cold water wash room adjacent to the barracks where dirty clothing could be washed. Also, the elimination of tangerines from the diet and more effective mess kit cleaning largely ended the need for diapers. Things were looking up.

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