DAWN
PATROL
by a C.A.P. flier (Lt. Boyce
Stradley)
4:30 a. m. We
are checking in with the Flight Operations
Officer for our daily duty. As we get into
our flight gear, Mae West, flying suits and
what have you, you can hear the hum of the
motors as they are warming up on the line.
It is scarcely
5:00 a. m., and we are in the air. There is
a dim glow of dawn over the Atlantic. We are
off with a load of T. N. T. for Mr. Hitler,s
subs. The beach goes by with nothing but
water ahead. As the sun peeps out from
behind the ocean we find ourselves many
miles out to sea. Say, what is that speck on
the horizon? We altar our course in that
direction, as we draw near we see a ship. It
could be an oil tanker, merchant freighter
or a troop transport. Yes, your boy could be
aboard. We radio the base a code and they
know what is taking place. We circle around
covering a wide area, searching for the
periscope of that deadly tin fish, so that
your boy might return Home safely and that
precious shipment might get through.
After searching
for four or five hours, we can see our
planes coming to relieve us as our gas is
running low. In returning we find a large
spot of oil on the water. What is it doing
there? Could one of our ships have been
torpedoed? There might be survivors around,
or an enemy sub could have been surfaced
there the night before. We make a note of
that position so it might be investigated.
At 10:20 we
land, that being five hours and twenty
minutes in the air. No, we are not off for
the rest of the day. We are relief crew for
the flight that took off at 9:00.
You might
wonder what branch of service we are in and
what type of bomber we fly. No it is not the
Army or the Navy, nor do we fly PBY's or
A-20's or B-17's. We are the Civil Air
Patrol, composed of civilians trying to do
their part. The pilots are the cow pasture
pilots you used to know. The airplanes are
of civilian type, with horsepower ranging
from 90 to 250. Our instruments are not of
the best but we accomplish our missions.
Let's ask God to
be with us through this hell and terror, so
we can see your boy on the streets of dear
old Gastonia again.
The above is a reprint from the Gaston
Gazette in 1943
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