Vincent dePaul Lupiano - Operation Tidal Wave: The Bloodiest Air Battle in the History of War

Words and Music by JAMES OTTO, LEE THOMAS MILLER and JAMEY JOHNSON

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I N C OLOR A CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Words and Music by Jamey Johnson, Lee Miller and James Otto

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Copyright 2021 Vincent dePaul Lupiano

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Lupiano, Vincent dePaul, author.

Title: Operation Tidal Wave : the bloodiest air battle in the history of war / Vincent Lupiano.

Other titles: Bloodiest air battle in the history of war

Description: Guilford, Connecticut : Lyons Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: The story of the bloodiest air battle in the history of war, when 1,700 American airmen set out to bomb the oil refineries surrounding the city of Ploieti, Romania, on August 1, 1943.Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020010418 (print) | LCCN 2020010419 (ebook) | ISBN 9781493053728 (hardback) | ISBN 9781493053735 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: Ploieti, Battles of, Ploieti, Romania, 1943-1944. | Bombing, AerialRomaniaPloietiHistory20th century. | World War, 1939-1945Aerial operations, American.

Classification: LCC D766.42.P56 L87 2021 (print) | LCC D766.42.P56 (ebook) | DDC 940.54/21982dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020010418

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020010419

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/ NISO Z39.48-1992.

Dedicated to the air and ground crews who endured Black Sunday: the men of the 43rd, 44th, 93rd, 98th, and 376th Bomb Groups, who suffered hellfire and loss of life on that brutal date, August 1, 1943.

Greater love hath no man than thisthat a man lay down his life for his friends. You served and died not in vain; Our nation holds you dear and owes you much.

Dedicated to Maj. Robert Warren Sternfels, pilot, The Sandman No finer man, no finer pilot

For my children, Elizabeth Alexandra Lupiano-Nocar and Paul Scheer LupianoThere when there mattered I love you

For my parents, Judge Vincent A. Lupiano and Roselle C. Lupianofor teaching me the craft and giving me an exceptional leg up

And my dear sister, Paula Lupiano Conwayfor enduring

SOME SAY NOTHING GOOD HAPPENS IN BARS AFTER MIDNIGHT.

On a late May evening, many years ago, I sat at a mahogany bar in the lounge of the Deepdene Manor Hotel in Hamilton, Bermuda, with my fiance, Nancy Elizabeth Scheer. She was beguiling, as always. The midnight hour had drifted by, and what we faced was on the far side of our lives. The occasion on this clement evening was a life-changing moment that, sadly, is seldom experienced, or that presents itself with such velocity that the moment has no chance to thrive and plummets away.

Here and there were divans of dark oak and settees with pink linen tablecloths bearing flickering votive candles. The half-shadows on the walls reflected close friends and family sitting in small groups, chatting. And the air floating through the windows off Bermuda Harbor was enchantingAfrican violets and fresh-cut Bermuda grass. The renowned Bermuda Dark n Stormy rum drinks were arriving on the linen tablecloths in multiples. The blue enameled seashell ashtrays had been emptied several times, and the air was dense with skeins of cigarette smoke, jolted every few moments with an outburst of laughter. Distant music played from years gone by.

If this was a black-and-white photograph, we would appear so young, so ingenuous and fresh, without artifice. We are fledglings. We are in love. We are holding the world in oh-so-hopeful hands.

Earlier that day, Nancy and I had flown down here from JFK International Airport in New York City aboard a Pan American Airlines Clipper, a now-long-gone Boeing 707 bearing the iconic Pan American blue and white meatball logo. It had left us here in a patch of civility, with expectations of embarking on a significant event the following dayour marriage. (I cannot look at that Pan Am logo without feeling a swell of sentiment and fond remembrance.)

From where Nancy and I sat, the candles half-light could not dim the animated chatter at the opposite end of the bar: On the right of a small group, sitting on a barstool, was my uncle, Francis Sarubbi, handsome, with a smile that brightened the room. When he was born, my grandmother had told my mother, This is your brother, and that would be his nickname forever. At this moment, Brother was forty-seven, and had already packed a large quantity of lifes pain under his laughter, having served and seen combat in the US Marine Corps, in the Pacific Theater. In looking back, I sense that he had never had enough time to hammer out the horrors he had seen on those enemy-held islands. He was an artillery officer and had endured Guadalcanal, the Battle of Guam, and the Battle of Iwo Jima. At the unheard-of age of twenty-three, he was promoted to captain in the 3rd Marine Division, the Fighting Third. There was still a lot of blood and sadness lingering in his memories, and he packed it up tightly and took it with him to an early death, just six years later.

To his right, tossing back his umpteenth Dark n Stormy, was Robert Warren Sternfels. He was also forty-seven years old, and, similarly, an incomprehensibly young twenty-four when he was promoted to the rank of major in the US Army Air Force. (It usually takes about ten years to make major in the US armed services after you join upthese guys did it in three.)