"Advertising is the rattling of a stick inside a swill bucket."
by Mark Knapp
The wispy clouds slid by his cockpit as Tim climbed to cruising
altitude. 'Pepe,' as his buddies called him in reference to a
trip to Tijuana during training, could only think about the
three-day leave coming his way at the end of this mission. As
long as Pete, his navigator and relief pilot, found the bomber
group, and Tim kept himself alert during the time they were near
the target, everything would be cake.
Today the B-29s they were scheduled to meet were hitting
Okayama, a relatively minor city along the coast of the main
Japanese island, Honshu.
It had been hit before, and there hadn't been much of importance
there to start with, but nowadays the Forts were running out of
targets, and everything was fair game. Except, of course, the
Imperial Palace in Tokyo, but the rest of that city had been
burned out by May of last year, so that wasn't an issue. Tim
wondered why it ever had been. Certainly nobody had been too
concerned about sparing Hitler's life, and in the history of
warfare capitals and leaders were always fair game. He supposed
it had to do with the Japanese myth that the emperor was
descended from gods, or some such story. He didn't much care.
Not that Tim was insensitive to such feelings, or quite as
bigoted as some of the other pilots about the Japs. He simply
wasn't concerned with abstract religious theories at the moment.
His spiritual thoughts were running along a more immediate,
practical line, since they were nearing the coast of Shikoku and
could expect a little flak, at the least. As they say, 'there are
no atheists in foxholes.' He wasn't all that worried; the flak
had been pretty light lately, and he hadn't seen an enemy
fighter, or plane of any kind, since early January, when a few
Franks had made a feeble attempt at intercepting the bomber
formations during a raid on Osaka. One of the other Twin Mustang
flights had veered off to wax them, and he hadn't even gotten
close enough to see the red balls on their wings.
Japan was running out of pilots, or planes, or both, it seemed
Here he was, winging toward the enemy's home soil, and they
couldn't even make a serious attempt to stop him. Maybe they were
saving up for the big event, the invasion of Honshu, which was
due sometime soon. Rumors said early in March, which put it three
weeks away, and that seemed about right.
He had seen the ships assembling off Kyushu, when he flew over
on his way North from Okinawa. Hundreds, maybe thousands of
vessels, from aircraft carriers and battleships to LSDs, LSTs,
and the other smaller landing craft.
Some of the sailors were already cruising off the coast, in
battlewagons and carriers, doing their part in the softening up
of Japan proper.
The formation of 29s came into view to their left, headed in the
same direction as his own fighter squadron. Their silvery,
tubular shapes glinted in the sunlight, making them easy to find
and join up on. That same visibility should have been a major
drawback in evading enemy fighters, but since there weren't many
of those around anymore the planes had been left unpainted to
save weight. His P-82 was bare for the same reason. Its twin
fuselages, each based on a P-51, were joined by the wing and a
tailplane, with the guns mounted in the center wing and a drop
tank under it and under each outer wing. The two engines droned
Tim buzzed Pete on the intercom. "How soon do we hit the
island?" "About ten minutes, Pepe," Pete answered. "We make
landfall at Cape Ashizuri, then steer 036 to the north coast of
Shikoku." From there they would begin the run on Okayama.
Pete was on top of things, and that reassured Tim. Navigation
was never his strong suit, and he enjoyed the ability to just fly
the plane and not worry about checking off waypoints. In the P-
51, the pilot had to do everything. Usually there was a 29 or
some other plane to act as pathfinder, leading the fighters
toward their target, but you still had to keep track of what was
going on. It was easy enough to get separated in a dogfight, or
swoop down to strafe some target of opportunity - those few still
left -and when you looked up again, you had to figure out how to
rejoin the formation, or, if things really got screwy, find your
way back to base. The 45th Fighter Squadron, along with the other
units in the 21st Fighter Group, had transitioned to the P-82Bs
almost as soon as they became available last fall. They hadn't
completed training on the shiny new birds in time to take part in
Olympic, the invasion of Kyushu, but now, along with the other 82
squadrons and those still equipped with the good old 51, they
were flying escort missions for the big B-29 Superfortresses on
strikes against whatever targets were still intact enough to hit.
Okayama was one of those. The 29s would dump incendiary bombs on
it, burning out the flimsy wood and paper buildings that filled
most Japanese cities...or had filled them, before the war. Now
almost every town of any real size was rubble. At least the
fighter pilots got to break off once in a while, and search the
countryside for targets of opportunity, meaning anything of any
size that might conceivably have a military purpose: trucks,
large buildings, boats, whatever. Tim got a thrill out of
shooting up boats and trains. There weren't many of either left,
but he always kept an eye out for them. A steam locomotive
spouting a cloud of white after a few .50 caliber rounds pierced
it was an amazing thing to see. There weren't many large ships
around anymore; they had almost all been sent to the bottom, and
besides, they were usually covered with anti-aircraft guns that
could ruin a nice strafing pass. But small boats, especially if
they were carrying any ammunition, made a nice big fireball if
you hit the fuel tanks. The waters were pretty empty nowadays,
though, after the Navy and the 29s finished laying mines all
along the coast. The idea was to cut off food to the soldiers and
civilians, forcing them to surrender sooner. It hadn't worked
yet, but surely it would help. Japan lived by the sea. The place
was just a whole bunch of mountains right by the water. There
were a few flat places, but no one was far from the ocean. And
almost everything moved by water, so stopping that source of
supply had to make things rough on them.
"There's the Cape," said Pete. And now Tim could see the rocky
outcropping below and ahead of them. He answered, "Got it. Turn
to 036?" "Right-o," came the reply. "Then about twenty minutes
to the north shore, and five or ten more to the target."
Now it was time to pay attention. One of the nice things about
long-range escort missions was that they gave you time to think,
compose letters in your head, whatever you wanted. Of course that
could also be a drawback, if you worried about what could happen.
There was still danger, even though most of the Japanese planes
were gone or hiding. And besides, that was the only redeeming
feature of a long, tiring, boring trip. There was no way to
really stretch out, though at least in a Twin the other pilot
could relieve you for a spell, letting you take your hands off
And speaking of relief, the tube wasn't exactly pleasant to use.
On the other hand, the pit toilets on Okinawa were no joy either.
And, Tim noted, he at least had a fairly warm, dry place to do
his job, unlike the dogfaces on the ground.
Tim started scanning the skies with more frequency. He'd hate to
be jumped right before a leave. The 29s were closing up
formation, and his squadron did the same. Tim's wingman, Buddy
Taprowski, pulled up on his left. The flight was in a finger four
formation, laid out like the fingers of somebody's left hand. The
flight leader, Major Seymour Bartlett, was in the same position
as the middle finger of the 'hand.' And what a good place for
him, Tim thought, nursing a slight feeling of insubordination.
Major Bartlett's wingman, Terry Jones, was to his right rear .
Tim was to the Major's left and back, with 'Tapper' off his own
left rear. Pete, Tim's copilot, had been Tapper's wingman before
they transitioned to the 82s. Then he was promoted, or demoted
depending on your point of view, to riding shotgun in Tim's bird.
He hadn't seemed thrilled about it, but whoever said the Army Air
Force was fair? Tim and Pete had argued about what to name the
plane, and what the picture on her nose would be. The first time
he ever saw a Twin Mustang, Tim had been struck with inspiration:
his plane would be "Double Exposure," with two scantily-clad
women flying in close formation.
Not very original, perhaps, but appropriate. Pete, on the other
hand, a die-hard ass man, had wanted to redo the artwork from his
old plane, "Tail Wind," which featured a gorgeous woman in a
short skirt bending over, the skirt blowing up almost over her
head. In the end, Tim had decided that since Pete had lost his
plane, he should at least have his own picture. But Tim still
wanted his own choice. Well, the answer was staring them right in
the face: put one on each fuselage! There was plenty of room on a
They had started a trend; several other planes in the 45th now
"Approaching north coast," Pete reported. They had the 29s to
follow now, but Tim appreciated the update. After two turns to
line up on target, and hopefully confuse the defenders a little,
the bomb run would begin. The Twin Mustangs began to separate
into individual flights again, in order to cover all approaches
to the seventy-odd bombers. They would spread out all around the
formation (except directly below, of course) to make sure no Jap
fighters could get close.
The wispy clouds a few thousand feet above them softened the
sun's light a little, but it was still a gorgeous day, and
perfect for flying. The Twin Mustang was soaring along steadily,
not getting buffeted much by the predicted turbulence. The
weather guys almost never got it right. When they forecast clear
skies, a storm rolled in. When they called for overcast and rain,
you got this: a thin layer of cirrus, and smooth, dry skies. They
were lucky if they predicted a sunset correctly...
A glint off to his left caught Tim's eye. The 29s were low to
his right, and nothing should be out on the other side. He buzzed
Pete. "Hey, see something at about ten o'clock?" Tim banked the
plane a little to let him see better. "Yeah, I got something.
Looks like...fighters, single engine. Maybe Jacks," Pete
answered. The planes were climbing, on an intercepting course
that carried them toward the front of the bomber group.
Tim called on the open frequency, so all in the formation could
hear, "Bandits, eleven o'clock low. Ten or twelve, possibly
Jacks." The Jack was a tubby, single-seat fighter, pretty well
armed with four 20 millimeter cannon. The Twin Mustangs had six
.50 cal machine guns, about average for American birds, and in
fact the same number as on P-51s. But since on the Twins they
were grouped closely in the center section, they did a good job
of chewing up whatever they hit.
"B and C flights, intercept." The squadron CO, Colonel Chuck
Frantz, assigned Tim's flight of four, and another providing top
cover, to get the Jacks before they got to the bombers. All the
82s punched off their drop tanks, to gain more speed and
maneuverability. Banking left and accelerating, Tim stayed with
Bartlett as the formation headed toward the Japs. Closing, he
could see there were about a dozen dark green planes, struggling
to climb fast enough to reach the B-29s in time. Two of their
pilots must have noticed the approaching Americans, as they
peeled off and dove for the deck. "Forget them," said Bartlett.
"Stay on the main formation. C flight, hold back and let us make
a pass, then get whatever's left." Tim made sure his guns were
armed, chute tightened, everything ready to go.
"Hold on to your hat, Pete," he said.
"Roger that," the right-seater replied. The flight was closing
at an angle with the Jacks, and Tim waited until they were well
within range to open up on the plane he'd picked out of the
gaggle of enemy fighters.
Bartlett shouted, "Get 'em!" Tim fired, and saw his tracers
converge on the rear fuselage of the Jack in his sights. It
performed a neat little outside loop, nosing over and whipping
around quickly before the tail section detached and the plane
tumbled down end over end. Tim thought he must have chewed up the
control lines. He pulled left and tried to line up on another
one. Somebody else in the flight hit a Jack in the fuel tanks,
because it exploded into flames and debris. "Wooo-wheee!" shouted
Terry Jones. The other pilots had scored, too, because two more
planes were smoking and spiraling toward the ocean below.
The Japanese formation was scattered now; the four they had lost
and the two runaways left six Jacks, now turning and banking and
trying to avoid the silver Twins roaring into their midst. Tim
saw one veering down and right, and pulled hard to get his guns
on the diving Jack. He heard Pete grunt over the intercom, as the
sudden g-forces pushed him against the wall of the cockpit. At
least Tim knew when such a move was coming. Poor Pete had to ride
it out, never knowing what Tim might do next. Oh well, they
weren't up here for Pete's pleasure, or for that matter Tim's.
The Jack was weaving left and right, looking for a way out, any
Tim didn't think the Japanese were getting much training
anymore, because they didn't seem to have much spirit or skill
when it came to dogfighting.
At least that made his odds better, he mused. He touched the gun
button on his stick. The .50s roared, and he saw the tracers go
high and right. He nudged the stick ever so slightly left, and
the Jack helped out by starting a climb again. Tim's next burst
walked back along the engine cowling and across the canopy. The
engine started smoking, and the plane rolled over and headed for
the deck, out of control with the death of its pilot.
Tim didn't think much about that particular bit of information.
He had killed two men today: this one, and the other Jack's pilot
because there had been no chute. Before the war, he would have
told anyone asking that killing was wrong, no matter what the
reason. Now, reality had altered his views somewhat. He didn't
enjoy killing others, but the cold hard truth was that in a war,
you had to kill or be killed. He didn't envy the grunts their
jobs in this case either, as they often were face to face with
those they fought, and killed them directly, not to mention
seeing the bodies, enemy and friendly, after the fight. In a
plane, you rarely saw your adversary's face. It made things more
abstract, and, Tim thought, more tolerable. He had shot down
seven planes before today, and not all of them had gotten a
chance to jump clear before they went down. So he had sent, say,
five or six men to their graves now. He wondered what his mother
or grandmother would think of that, not to mention Sarah, his
girlfriend. She hadn't been thrilled when he'd enlisted in the
A.A.F., but she had accepted it as inevitable, in light of the
war and Tim's love of flying.
Well, now he was one plane short of being a double ace, and
she'd get to read about him in the hometown paper. Not that
making ace was that hard anymore. As the war approached its end,
the enemy was running out of fuel, planes, pilots...everything
needed to put up a good fight. That meant easy pickings most of
the time, though there were still a few good pilots out there on
the other side. And even a brand new flyer got lucky once in a
"B flight, form up on me." Bartlett's voice brought Tim back,
and he pulled up to join the flight leader. C flight was going
after the four Jacks left after Tim's second hit and the one
Tapper splashed. Bartlett had only gotten one, total, and that
meant he would probably be jealous of Tim for awhile. He wanted
to go after the two that had gotten away, but Bartlett wouldn't
go for that, and they ought to be rejoining the bombers anyway.
And that is what they did, coming in on the left of the big
formation just in time to see flak starting to blossom ahead, as
the planes neared the target. Black and brown puffs, like angry
clouds, burst here and there, in front of and below them. Then
they seemed to climb, reaching for the American formation, trying
to pierce holes in it. Tim caught a glimpse of a silver P-82
chasing a valiantly twisting Jack down to the left. One of C
flight, trying for another rising sun painted under his canopy.
The flak was close now, only slightly below them as they came up
on Okayama. He saw the first bombs fall away from the lead 29,
then the rest of the planes pickled their loads. About seventy B-
29s, something like ten tons of bombs in each... around a million
and a half pounds of bombs, maybe a little less, was falling
toward the city below. Many were incendiary, to ignite fires.
Some were high explosive, designed to shatter solid structures,
and help spread the fires started by the other bombs. As they
hit, Tim noticed the shock waves torturing the air, but couldn't
see much more from his height. He knew that, down below, horrible
forces were blasting everything in the city. The fires would
ignite and spread, heating the air and making a firestorm that
would burn everything before it.
Meanwhile, the flak had found their altitude. Tim felt the shock
waves of these explosives, and tightened his grip on the stick to
offset the shudders. The anti-aircraft shells were pretty sparse,
and none came very close to his flight. But he saw one of the 29s
start to smoke from an engine, and then another took a hit in the
fuselage, blasting metal into space. At least they had already
dropped their loads. In his P-51, Tim had seen a Superfortress
get hit just before reaching the target, and its bombs had
detonated instantly. The plane disintegrated, seeming to stop
dead in the air as most of the fuselage and wings disappeared,
the tail and other extremities plunging down toward the ground.
There were no chutes. No time.
Another Fort took a hit in the wing, but by this time the
formation was already clear of the target and turning toward the
sea. They would head back the way they came, parting from their
Twin Mustang escorts when they were clear of the Japanese coast
and heading southeast to their bases in the Marianas. Tim relaxed
a little. Then he heard the call.
"Bandits, three o'clock high." He didn't recognize the voice.
Colonel Frantz ordered three of the other flights after the new
threat, and though Tim was able to follow the fight sporadically
on the radio, he never saw the Japanese planes. As the formation
cleared the southern coast of Shikoku, the flights that had taken
part rejoined the main force, and Tim saw that they were one
This wasn't the time to ask about that; he'd find out on the
ground, from one of the other guys.
"Fuel looks good," Pete reported. "Hey, what are you going to do
"Just bum around the base." On a leave, Pete would have headed
for the Officer's Club, or wangled a flight to Hawaii or Manila
if he had the time. Tim planned to take it easy, maybe write some
letters, maybe even take a trip to see whatever sights were left
on the island. The fighting had been fierce once the troops had
gotten inland, but there were still some fairly pristine areas.
The towns were rubble, mostly, but he'd heard there were some
castles or something along the southern coast.
There was about an hour left until they reached base. Tim's mind
wandered, wondering what Okinawa, and Japan, had been like before
the war. Were they peaceful? Was there any sign of the violence
coming so soon? Pete interrupted. "Hey, Tim, heard anything more
about the Tokyobuster?"
Tim had heard of a superbomb that was supposed to stop the war
in a week, but apparently it had fizzled. There wasn't much talk
about it anymore; one rumor was that a big test had failed, and
they only had enough TNT or whatever for one bomb. There were
stories the generals might use poison gas, especially since the
Japs had used grenades with cyanide gas in them during the
fighting on Kyushu, but nobody talked much about that either. He
wondered why. How the heck could anybody hold back something like
that, something that could take out a hundred of the enemy for
each American soldier? It was cruel, but so was firebombing; for
that matter, so was a bullet or bayonet in the gut. After the
fights on Iwo, Okinawa, and Kyushu, everything was fair. Tim had
heard about the Japs who ran at tanks with bombs on the end of
poles, usually dying without accomplishing anything but
occasionally blowing a tread off.
When the tanks stopped, other crazies (the Jap with the pole
blew his fool self up hitting the tank) would rush out and try to
skewer the crew. Others slapped bomb packs on the armor, or wore
the packs and threw themselves underneath the tank. Some of the
tankers had cobbled up special armor: wood planks to keep the
magnetic packs off, sandbags to reduce the effect of an
explosion, nails or other spikes to keep the enemy from climbing
on top. Some said they'd seen kids and women carrying the bombs,
or rushing the infantry with sharp sticks.
Of course, they were crazy and violent in the air, too. The
kamikazes had sunk dozens of ships, and other fighters rammed B-
29s occasionally. There were even rocket planes, launched from
ramps or dropped from Jap bombers, that were just piloted bombs,
sparking and smoking as they headed toward the Navy boys. And
they had motorboats with bombs in them, that tried to ram ships,
and little submarines that did the same thing or snuck up and
launched torpedoes. The Japanese were a very strange people. They
didn't seem to think about dying. It was just their duty, to the
emperor or the country or their gods or who knew what.
On Okinawa, more than a hundred thousand Japs had died, and less
than ten thousand were captured. A lot of those were caught while
wounded or unconscious; few gave up on purpose. On Iwo Jima, Tim
had heard, only 22 Japs actually surrendered, out of six thousand
killed and a few others captured. U.S. losses were pretty high,
too, and no one looked forward to what would happen on the main
Japanese island of Honshu. Kyushu had been bad, though no one was
talking numbers. The Army and Marines were still fighting there;
they had only taken the southern part of the island, enough to
use for bases for the next assault, on the big island. They
weren't getting much action, but they were ready for it. He'd
heard stories that whole towns had been wiped out when they
rushed the troops, carrying their spears and grenades.
He had to hand it to the Japs, they were persistent and
patriotic. The Japanese were as good at defending their homeland
as people in the U.S. would be, only less well armed and more
suicidal. And the strangest thing was, once subdued, they
They were like misbehaving children, in a way. A kid would do
anything it could get away with, but once discovered and
punished, it usually gave in. By and large, the Japs in the
occupied areas accepted the Americans now, after they knew they
were beaten. Tim hoped his friends and neighbors wouldn't be so
meek in the same situation, that they would have always kept
fighting. Of course, he was glad that the Japs didn't.
He told Pete, "I wish they would find some damn thing to wake
the Japs up and get them to give up before we have to kick every
single one of their asses."
Pete replied that he couldn't wait to do some kicking of his
own. "You know, it's awful boring sitting over here, Tim. All I
do is plot our course and watch for bad guys.
Maybe I oughta see about getting into a 51 unit up on Kyushu."
"Well, you might get your own ass kicked by some granny with a
tomato stake," Tim answered.
"Hah, hah," Pete threw back. "You're so droll."
"Tell you what," said Tim. "Next mission, if we see anything
promising, you can take over for a while. Maybe you can get a
couple more notches in your belt."
"Sounds great," said Pete. "Hey, we're coming up on Oki now.
Let's start the landing checklist."
When they finished the checklist, Tim waited for Bartlett and
his wingman to turn final, then rolled onto the base leg. Coming
around behind the two planes, now spread out for landing, he
slowed to 135 knots. The gear and flaps were already down, and
Tim let the Twin drift past the threshold at just over 130. The
mains touched about two hundred feet beyond the end of the
runway, and he brought the stick back until the tailwheel thudded
onto the ground. Taxiing off onto the steel plate ramp, he and
Pete opened their canopies. The air was cool, for Okinawa, about
seventy degrees, and the clouds had lifted.
Tim's pass was for three days. That wasn't enough time to go
very far; if he could find space on a flight to Hawaii, he'd only
have a day there, and all the flights were full right now with
supplies coming in, and wounded soldiers and sailors going out.
It happened that Pete had a day free from flying, though he was
scheduled to ride shotgun with a transfer pilot the next day. So
in the morning the two pilots borrowed a jeep from the motor pool
and headed off to 'see the sights.' Luckily the weather was good,
for this time of year: warm, and cloudy but not raining. Okinawa
was a large island, very rocky and with coral reefs around it.
Tim always enjoyed seeing the reefs, those that hadn't been
chewed up and littered with debris during the amphibious
landings. They were different colors in different places: white,
pink, orange, and many other shades. The airstrips where the 45th
and other squadrons were based had been built in the central and
southern parts of the island, because the north end was hilly.
There had been towns in the south, but most were destroyed by
months of fighting.
Still, there were a few landmarks left. With Tim driving, the
pair followed a road out of what was once the largest town on
Okinawa, Naha, along the coast for about five miles to Urasoe
Castle, a jumble of old walls that had been falling apart long
before last April. They got out and walked around for a few
minutes, but weren't very impressed. So they hopped back in the
Jeep and drove farther, after a few miles coming to another
castle, this one better preserved. There were some natives
lolling along the roadside, and they came up to Tim and Pete,
offering coral jewelry, and clothes and scarves made of bingata,
a dyed fabric common in the area. Having seen similar wares
before, the pilots smiled and shook their heads. It was almost
surreal; here they'd been fighting these people a few months
back, and now the place felt like one more tropical tourist
haven. At least, it felt that way away from the shattered towns
and metal-strewn coast. There had been desultory efforts at
cleaning up the worst wreckage, and of course burial details and
ordnance experts had cleared the bodies and unexploded shells
away, but though the coast hadn't seen the heavy fighting (which
took place farther inland,) most of the beaches were no good for
Pete asked one of the locals what this place was called, and he
replied "Nakagusuku Castle," in heavily accented English. "Show
round? Show round?" he asked.
"No, thanks, we'll walk around ourselves," Pete smiled.
Disappointed, the man went back to working bits of coral into a
Ambling toward the walls of the fortress, Tim asked Pete when he
was due for a leave. "Next month, I think. I'm gonna try to get
to Manila, see what's new there." He had been based there before
the landings on Okinawa, and though the city had seen its share
of fighting, he never stopped talking about the wonders of the
Tim had always wondered what he liked about it, and decided to
ask. "Got a girl there or something?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, yeah," Pete replied. "Name's Maria.
She used to do our laundry, and we'd go down to the bay or walk
into the country. Cute girl. Helluva ride, too. She's probably
hooked up with some other guy by now, though. Hey, how's your
Tim had a brief moment of anxiety, wondering if Sarah might be
thinking about 'hooking up' with anyone else. "She's okay, I
guess. Got a letter from her last week.
She's working in a plant, making parts for trucks. Not what she
had in mind to be doing when she grew up, she says, but she seems
to like it."
"When are you two going to get hitched?"
"Well, when I get home we're going to set the date. Prob'ly
three or four months later, so we can get everything organized."
Tim had known Sarah since they were freshmen in high school;
she'd moved from another town, and he remembered the first time
he saw the lovely new girl in her blue dress.
Pete looked at the ground. "Man, I wish I knew when we will be
going home. Wonder how much longer the Japs can hold on."
"Can't take too long, I figure," Tim answered. "We've cut off
their food supplies, they don't have gas or other supplies for
their planes, almost all their ships are sunk...they're beat,
they just don't know it yet, or won't admit it."
They walked along for a while in silence, then headed back to
On the drive back Pete talked about going up with another pilot
the next day, on a CAP mission to provide air cover to the fleet
"I'm just going to hang around base, write some letters, and
probably talk to Skipper about that trim problem," said Tim.
Their plane had been pulling to the left slightly, and Tim had
had to dial in a little trim to compensate. It wasn't much, but
if something was bent it ought to be looked at by the crew chief,
"Yeah, he ought to have a chance," said Pete. "Hell, there's
nothing else wrong with the thing, and I'll be going up with one
of the new guys in a bird they ferried in. You can remind him to
paint on some more rising suns for the planes you got yesterday."
Tim smiled at that.
The text of the articles is identical to the originals like they appeared in old ST NEWS issues. Please take into consideration that the author(s) was (were) a lot younger and less responsible back then. So bad jokes, bad English, youthful arrogance, insults, bravura, over-crediting and tastelessness should be taken with at least a grain of salt. Any contact and/or payment information, as well as deadlines/release dates of any kind should be regarded as outdated. Due to the fact that these pages are not actually contained in an Atari executable here, references to scroll texts, featured demo screens and hidden articles may also be irrelevant.