Fighting Lady, The (1944)

[bunniefuu]

Far aloft, over the Atlantic Seaboard,

one find morning in 1943,

an imposing force of Naval air power

proceeds to an important rendezvous.

This force is the aircraft

compliment of a new carrier.

Fighters, diver bombers, torpedo bombers.

With the air group

commander leading everyone

they are flying out to

sea to join the ship

which will be their floating

home and fighting base.

She is one of the many carries

which the American people

have built since Pearl Harbor

to destroy the enemy in his

own part of the world far away.

And there now is our

base, powerful, serene.

In honor of all American

aircraft carriers,

let us call her the Fighting Lady.

Against a good solid wind

with her tail-hooks down,

our planes come into the broad flight deck

of their new home.

In case the plane's hook fails

to catch the arresting gear,

there's a series of stout wire barriers.

Number one man on the flight deck just now

is the LSO, the landing signal officer,

always a flyer himself,

like all aviators, he'd

much rather be flying.

Come on in and sit down.

The plane is out of the

groove and he waves it off.

Come around another time, pilot,

and we'll take you aboard.

When planes land they taxi

quickly forward out of the way,

later, they'll have to

be shifted to the stern,

and rearranged in proper

position for take off.

This is called respotting the deck.

Here is our skipper, Jocko,

a veteran Navy flyer, Annapolis 1917.

He is not impressed by

our earnest efforts,

Nor are the flight deck control officers.

The skipper calls all-hands together

and gives us a piece of his mind.

We'll never be ready for combat

unless you flight deck crews

learn right now to work as a team.

Don't you men realize that before long

we'll be in dangerous waters?

That's too slow, bear ahead!

Watch out, keep that wing clear!

Get it over to starboard,

way over to starboard!

Come on, get the lead outta your pants.

Now this is the way your deck should look

when you're ready for action.

Our ship, our Fighting Lady,

is enormous, wonderful and strange to us.

From stem to stern,

the entire ship is a honeycomb

of watertight and

flame-proof compartments.

Far below the waterline are engine rooms,

fire rooms, fuel tanks,

magazines packed with enough

assorted high expl*sives

to blow us all to kingdom come.

The hangar deck is like a gigantic tunnel,

nearly two city blocks long,

and wide enough to house

four freight trains abreast.

It'll take us a week, a month maybe,

to learn our way around.

These new surroundings

are as mysterious to us

as they are cold and impersonal.

Our Fighting Lady is like

a huge, floating cave,

noisy and uncomfortable.

Elevators as big as a tennis court

carry us topside to the flight deck.

The great super-structure

rising a midships

is called the island.

This is truly the ship's nerve center,

its fighting brain.

85% of us who make up the

Fighting Lady's family,

are volunteers in this w*r,

and never been to sea before.

We learned our jobs theoretically

in intensive training ashore.

A very short while ago

we were high school boys

and college kids, or bank clerks,

or farm hands, or factory workers.

Now we are blue jackets or marines,

all members of a naval combat team

nearly three thousand strong.

In our multitude of new

tasks and duties as a team,

we're very green with

curiosity and comradeship,

and the instinct of

self-preservation are great features.

Some of us have to master

the delicate and complicated instruments

which control the fire of

our five inch batteries,

the g*ns that must

defend the Fighting Lady

when enemy dive bombers

and torpedo planes attack.

We train and train to learn our stuff,

and earn our E for efficiency.

The Fighting Lady's destination

is still a closely guarded secret.

No one can hide the fact

that we are entering tropical waters.

Our ship seems more friendly

and comfortable now,

we green-horns feel that a suntan

will at least make us look

like fighting sailors.

Even our mascot, Scrappy,

has been at sea longer than most of us.

Some of the mystery that has

been hanging over us is lifted

when we enter the Panama Canal.

There's a lot of

unprofessional nervousness

about whether or not we're too big

to get through the locks.

By using lines instead of

fenders we do get through,

as the naval constructors

knew all along we would.

Come on, hop aboard,

we're going places.

For two cents I would,

you know anybody who wants to swap?

Now we stand down into the Pacific,

and life aboard settles

down into monotony.

Here are our aircraft

pilots, officers all.

The ships company call

them the "Glamor Boys",

they are the men who fly

and fight our planes.

All the efforts of all the

rest of us are concentrated

on putting these people into the air

and getting them back again.

Most of us are hiding

a certain amount of

nervousness and anxiety,

for many of us are Johnny-come-lately's.

Reserve officers who only

recently learned to fly

at Corpus Christi in Jacksonville.

Others among us are specialists

who trained at Quonset

Point, Rhode Island.

Reserves are called by the regulars,

in a friendly way, "90 Day Wonders".

In return, the Annapolis regulars

are called the "Trade School Boys".

But whether Quonset or Annapolis,

all are bound together in the fraternity,

close fellowship, of Navy men.

Among the ships

non-commissioned personnel,

almost three thousand blue

jackets and one hundred marines,

the hottest shots of the air crewmen,

ariel gunners and radiomen.

These boys and the plane

captains are the partners

of the Glamor Boys in the air.

By non-flying blue jackets

they are called "zoom

pigeons" or "airedales".

Because they receive 50%

extra pay for flying,

they're sometimes referred

to as the "Bankroll Boys".

Everybody aboard ship

backs up the flying group,

this requires the efforts

of all manner of people.

Many of the jobs are far from glamorous.

All the little tasks and services

you find along Main Street,

must be performed by some

members of our carrier's crew.

Although the Fighting Lady

is a powerful ship of w*r,

she is also a sizable American community,

who's population must be supplied

with all the necessities,

and some of the comforts of home.

Doc Sorensen, the pharmacist mate

is just like a village druggist.

And next door is our

hospital called Sick Bay.

There's only a few patients now,

but soon it is to be

filled with our wounded.

Men like these that

perform the humble jobs

that make life aboard a

carrier more bearable,

the barbers and the cobblers,

are seldom mentioned in communiques,

they all have a place

in our fighting team.

Weeks pass, now we are

far out into the Pacific,

which is a very

considerable body of water.

Monotony shuts down on

us between our duties.

Guessing where we're bound

is still our chief pastime.

Will we put into Pearl?

Are we going to Iron Bottom Bay?

Or maybe even to the Aleutians.

All such gossip and rumor

are called scuttlebutt,

or drinking fountain conversation.

Throughout the ship,

men get together in little groups

to take refuge from the heavy burden

of waiting for something to happen.

And then one day out of nowhere

comes a fast fleet tanker,

and we are refueled at sea.

This tells us something,

this tells us that we

are not going to Pearl,

or any other land base

for a long, long time.

Besides our skipper, we

have an admiral aboard,

a sea-dog who's been a naval

flyer for nearly 20 years.

Until now, only these officers have known

where we are to go.

But now Jocko, our captain,

confers with the air group commander

and reveals the plan.

The Fighting Lady has been

ordered to make a strike.

She will pass through waters

where no carrier task force

has ventured since the

bloody battle of Midway.

Remember, this is 1943,

long before we took the Marshall Islands.

Weather studies are made,

and though this is a daily routine,

somehow the whole ship senses

that something is about to happen.

Even before the news is

broadcast to all of us,

there's a new tension and

atmosphere of expectancy.

And then we are told.

We have traveled over

7,000 miles from Panama,

so that tomorrow,

August 30th, 1943,

we can strike the Jap

base at Marcus Island,

deep within the enemy's ring of defenses.

The evening before our first strike,

the air group commander

briefs all his pilots

with maps and a model of our target.

We are sticking out our necks

to within a thousand miles of Tokyo

to divert the Jap's attention

from other American activities

far south and east of Marcus.

Those of us who have never

before been in battle,

that's most of us,

ask a lot of questions of

those who have seen action.

Rear seat gunners.

Don't break off until you're

practically on the same course,

right astern of the enemy.

Then push over fast.

Outwardly, we try to seem

composed and cheerful,

but a lots going on inside our minds.

We question our most inner-selves.

What'll it be like?

How will we take it?

Will we do all right?

This is the night when a lot of boys

write one more letter home.

Among those playing

acey-ducey in the wardroom,

is a chubby, 23 year old,

from Eureka Springs, Arkansas,

Lieutenant E.T. Stover,

nicknamed "Smokey".

That's he sitting on the far right.

Having flown 50 missions at Guadalcanal,

Smokey has been ordered to take a rest.

He'd much rather be flying.

Before dark on the eve of battle,

our planes are loaded with bombs and gas,

so that each plane will

be in precise position

for a speedy take off,

we spot and respot our deck.

Now all is perfect,

we will strike at dawn.

And now GQ, general quarters.

Every man on the ship goes

to his battle stations,

a special place on the fighting team.

George the barber, will pass ammunition.

Leo the baker, will be a sky lookout.

Frank the tailor is assigned

to a first-aid station.

Pilots are in their ready-rooms.

Each squadron, the fighters, the b*mber,

torpedo b*mber, assemble separately.

The flyers get into their flight gear

and receive last-minute

data and instructions.

On the flight deck,

our first battle dawn awaits us.

Our whole ship is on hair-trigger.

The Fighting Lady is hardly 100 miles

from the first target of her career.

These last few minutes

before the order for our first action

are the toughest time of all.

A wise man once said,

"w*r is mostly waiting.".

We learn now what that can mean.

At last the word comes.

Pilots man your planes.

Radio room three, Roger.

Pilots man your planes.

The fighters take off first

to form cover aloft for

for the other squadrons.

Then the bombers, heavy

laden with destruction.

The sun is risen now,

and our escorts are alert

for enemy submarines.

But the Fighting Lady steams

boldly toward our target,

to lessen the distance for

our planes when they return.

The radio plotting room is

the electric eye and ear

by which the Fighting

Lady detects and keeps tab

on all planes and ships

for miles around us.

Smokey, the fighting ace from Arkansas,

has been put in charge of

this room for our big day.

Hunched among his assistants,

Smokey is like a super quarterback

on a super football team.

He is in constant touch

with our entire air group.

As our first fighters

race in towards Marcus

Island, they stay low,

hoping to escape detection

by the enemy's radar.

Then they climb suddenly and dive,

a surprise strafing attack

on the enemy's airstrips.

These red ba*ls floating

up at us so lazily

are anti-aircraft fire.

But there's three times as much of it

coming up at us as we can see,

because only one shell

in three is a tracer.

What look like fiery pollywogs are tracers

from our own wing g*ns,

the ack-ack is much heavier than expected,

but through it we go

to knock out enemy bombers on the ground.

All through these battle pictures,

realize that we are looking straight down

our own g*n barrels.

These pictures are taken automatically

by the same mechanism

that operates the g*ns.

Pictures even shake to the g*ns recoil.

Our eye is now the very eye

of our fighting airplane.

The enemy's picket boats

and supply ships off shore

are thoroughly strafed.

No longer will these

craft bring rise and sake

and munitions to Marcus.

Our bombers flying higher,

see the island beginning to burn.

A moment ago, it looked

like a little jade trinket

in a cobalt sea.

As the fighters and bombers

swing victoriously away

from Marcus Island,

towering columns of smoke

show the thorough job

our boys have done.

Back aboard ship,

Smokey is tracking the flyers with care

to make sure none is missing,

and that no enemy planes

are trying to follow them

out to our Fighting Lady.

As our planes come aboard

there begins an operation

almost as exciting

as the attack itself.

A ballet after battle.

The plane directors as dancing masters.

Whirling propellors fill

the scene with danger,

but now our crews are trained and adept.

The landing signal officer

performs a eloquent adagio

on the Fighting Lady's stern.

A warning to the rest of the cast

to stay off stage until the limping member

can be lead out of the way.

The pilots go below to to report

to their combat intelligence officers.

They have hot news, good news.

They tell what they saw and did,

how many rounds of ammunition they fired,

how many bombs tehey

dropped, what they hit.

What they noticed at the target

that was new or different,

or that may need hitting again.

As the reports are added up,

and our combat photographers

develop their pictures,

the story becomes better and better.

Every single Jap b*mber on

Marcus has been destroyed.

80% of the shore installations

blasted or set afire.

Hangers, radio stations,

gas dumps, ammunition dumps.

Marcus is now a lovely mess.

In the radio plot, Smokey's worried.

There are planes still up there

and he's wondering about them.

They're ours though,

delayed by battle damage.

Landing a shot-up plane

on the battle carrier

is a crucial test of how well-trained,

how alert, steady,

a naval flyer is.

The Fighting Lady now has met her enemy.

In the wardroom, the

pilots who this morning

felt new and nervous,

now talk like veterans.

We have been baptized by fire

and have survived nicely.

We of the Fighting Lady are growing up.

The admiral of our taskforce

knows the over-all strategy

of the whole Pacific campaign.

To smash straight through

Japan's outer network of islands,

recapture the Philippines, and

land on the mainland of Asia.

Thus we will deny Japan supplies

from Maylaya and the Dutch East Indies,

and leave her far-flung

island garrisons marooned.

Then we will reach out and

really help our ally China.

Months after Marcus, this

campaign is well started.

Our carrier task forces

have been in many battles.

And now, early in 1944,

the Fighting Lady's target is Kwajalein,

in the Marshall Islands.

These are Jap Zeros,

fighter screen being pierced by our planes

and planes from eight other carriers,

a preparatory to strafing

Kwajalein and bombing it apart.

Our fighter pilots improve with practice,

with the confidence that

comes from experience.

They estimate their range

by watching their tracers,

they hold their fire

until their wing g*n

b*ll*ts converge 300 yards.

They sh**t in bursts

instead of in steady streams

which heat up the g*ns

and spend ammunition.

We soon have Kwajalein

burning very satisfactorily.

After our bombing attacks

and heavy shelling buy our surface ships,

as*ault craft filled with

marines and army hit the beaches,

and very soon after

that, Kwajalein is ours.

Right after Kwajalein,

word comes to our admiral

that at Truk, Japan's huge

and secret naval fortress

1,400 miles to the west,

there apparently are some heavy units

of the Japanese battle fleet.

Perhaps we can surprise them?

Again, the Fighting Lady's squadron,

and squadrons from other carriers,

take off for combat.

A lot of mouths are dry

at the thought of our

target is mighty Truk.

A lot of rear-seat gunner look

back at the Fighting Lady,

wondering when and if,

they will ever return to it.

All that we know about Truk,

we know from a few photographs

taken by some nervy marines

on reconnaissance just 18 days ago.

We hear that it is a complex

of heavily fortified islands

surrounded by airstrips,

with naval anchorages at

certain spots among the islands.

For the next two days,

more than 1,000 of our

carrier based planes

are going to sweep in on Truc in relays.

The planes appear to

float gently off our bow,

actually their airspeed

is a good 70 knots.

Diving in on Truk,

we again turn on our g*ns and

their synchronized cameras.

Truks defenders are aloft

and we smack them hard.

The hearts that were in men's mouths

before this strike began,

now settle back into place

and are singing once more.

There's something really

grand, something historic,

about diving in here on this place

which Japan has been building

and guarding jealously

from all the Japanese eyes for 20 years.

They dive right in low

and take a good look

at fighter strips, b*mber

bases, seaplane ramps.

In an almost vertical dive,

the the pilot may black-out

or go blind for a moment,

when he pulls up and out at the bottom,

but the camera won't black-out.

It cannot see the landing of our own b*mb,

for we'll be up and away

before that reaches the target,

but it records the hits of

other planes ahead of us.

We'd hope to find the Jap fleet here,

but most of it's gone.

Some lingering ships,

including some of their

fast-fleet tankers,

we find hiding in sheltered coves.

The vessels which we are now strafing

are other fleet auxiliaries, rice boats,

transports, ammunition ships.

With bursts of 50 caliber incendiaries

and armor-piercing slugs,

we set them on fire, rip them open,

often wide enough to sink.

Strafing ships filled with TNT

is not very healthy for

pilots who dive too low,

but it's hard to tell who's carrying what

until the big bang comes.

Returning to the deck

at 130 miles an hour,

with a flap shot away,

all the pilot can hope

to save is his own skin.

Here comes our new air group commander,

he's had a bit of trouble.

His windshield is blotted with blood,

and he has to feel his way aboard.

Strafing at low altitude,

he took a 40 millimeter

anti-aircraft burst

right in the face.

More than 200 wounds,

and his plane a sieve.

He'll live to fly again.

Some planes will not return,

but others come back and

land, somehow, anyhow.

Considering the toughness of Truk,

our losses are astonishingly light.

No time is lost getting casualties below.

It's a long way from Truk

to our secret rendezvous

in the Marshall Islands,

someday it can be told just where this is.

Actually it is a magnificent

new fleet anchorage,

an advanced naval base

that we have taken from

the Japs and made secure.

Now, for the first time,

we who have been operating as separate,

relatively small task forces,

see assembled the enormous

mass of naval power.

Over one million tons of

American fighting steel.

New carriers, new battleships,

new cruisers and fleet

auxiliaries in an amount

which Japan could never conceive,

let alone produce.

That we are able to maintain supply lines

over the vast distances of the Pacific,

is one of the miracles of this w*r.

In the comforting

presence of so much power,

we relax and refresh our

battle-strained nerves.

Our ships post office now

does really big business.

Letters for us at last, from home.

Letters from us to friends and families.

Our censors know our collective mood,

our central hopes and thoughts.

The stuff is really

getting out here now.

I can't tell you much

about it, but oh boy.

And the more we get,

well, the sooner I'll be seeing you.

All hands are called together.

Our old skipper, Jocko,

has been promoted admiral.

Our new one's name is Dixy.

Men, as soon as I finish talking,

we're getting underway.

Our Fighting Lady is now a part

of what is designated Task Force 58.

As you know, our final destination

is a place called Tokyo.

We'll have to fight hard to get there,

but when we drop our hooks at Yokohama,

I'm going to throw a party,

all hands are cordially invited.

Our task forces

are built compactly now

around carriers like ourselves,

with speedy new battlewagons at our side.

A carrier's skipper never

leaves the bridge at sea,

because carriers and their planes

are the first to strike the enemy,

or to be struck by him.

Our aircraft pilots

are constantly on call.

For despite the massive

power spread out around us,

these are still dangerous waters.

Our pilots know this all too well,

but it doesn't worry them

now because they're seasoned,

they know how.

A lot of new faces among us,

but most of these men too,

have been in action.

At places like Willandia, Milne,

Jalia, Halall,

Rabaul, Wake, Mayloelam.

Our rear-seat gunners and

radiomen are old hands now.

Some of their faces are different too,

because there have been replacements.

A lot of them have been

made commissioned officers.

There's a saying in the navy

that you never learn to love a carrier

until she gets hurt.

Well, perhaps we don't really

love our Fighting Lady,

but but we've become mighty fond of her.

And almost comfortable, almost at home.

Occasionally our ship-board movies

bring us that one thing we crave the most,

one touch of something utterly American.

One deep breath of home.

Like Jocko, our new skipper Dixy,

is an old hell-diving navy pilot.

In their battle caps,

he and Admiral Mitscher

look like big league baseball managers.

Northwest we steam,

and never before in history,

has an ocean borne such

a weigh of naval power.

Not a Jutland, not at

Japan's proud post Tsushima,

was there anywhere near the

force with which we now assert

that this is our ocean.

This is our air.

And we're seeking the Japanese

battle fleet to prove it.

With our cruisers,

our biggest new battlewagons present,

we are strong enough to

hope, really to hope,

that we may provoke the Japanese fleet

into accepting a fight.

We're joined by plodding Coast

Guard and navy transports,

The marines again?

So another amphibious as*ault is cooking?

Uh oh, our patrols have

spotted an enemy search plane

and are after her.

She's a big bird.

A 20 ton, four motored Kawanishi seaplane.

The kind we call Emilys.

This Emily's a tough old girl.

Right now she's screaming for help,

and telling Tokyo by radio, where we are.

Hellcats are closing in on her.

So long, Emily.

Now that the enemy knows where we are,

and we know he knows,

our brass hats get together

on final arrangements

for what may turn into another Midway.

Our objective, first of many

in our drive through to

the Philippines and China,

will be the Marianas.

In battles just ahead of us,

we are to make good use

of a multitude weapons,

special devices and techniques,

which have been evolved

through the 30 years

since the U.S. Navy first took to the air.

Not only did our naval flyers

create the aircraft carrier itself,

but it was they that

devised the torpedo plane,

and invented and perfected dive bombing.

Disposed about our flight deck

so that planes can be quickly armed,

are all manner of death-dealing objects.

500, 1,000, and 2,000 pound bombs.

We have torpedoes and incendiaries,

and the kind of anti-personnel bombs

we call "daisy cutters".

Some of our bombs are armor-piercing,

some for fragmentation,

others have delayed action fuses

to prolong the effect of our bombardment

for hours after we have delivered it.

Here are the new rockets

that pack the same wallop

as a three-inch shell.

They weigh a little,

and because there isn't much recoil,

they can be fired from planes.

On the eve of battle,

we are told to scrub up

to lessen the danger of

infection in case we are wounded.

As well as our bodies,

most of us prepare our souls.

Always on the eve of battle,

defined services are held in relays,

so that every one of our Fighting Lady's

3,000 sons, has a chance to attend.

As the eve before battle lengthens,

there is the usual waiting.

Again we're reminded that

w*r is mostly waiting.

Because all cooks and bakers

must soon be at their battle stations,

they work all night long

preparing a hearty meal of steak and eggs

for our 3 a.m. battle breakfast.

We are being attacked.

We are being attacked by

Japanese torpedo planes

skimming in after us, wing to water.

All they want is one

hit on our flight deck.

We have nearly 90 planes

fueled and loaded with bombs,

ready for the take off.

Each patch of flame is a burning Jap.

In this surprise attack,

19 Japs are polished off

by our ships batteries.

Not a single carrier is hit.

We have been fortunate,

so now commences another major moment

in the Fighting Lady's career.

Flight quarters sounds.

In this modern warfare,

the young plane captains

are to their pilots,

what squires were to

armored knights of old.

In this operation, typical

of many more to come,

a lot of other Fighting

Lady's will be involved.

Nearly 2,000 carrier based planes,

all of them attacking in

air groups, like our own.

From now on, we tighten our

belts and steady our hands,

as our navy makes

progressively bigger attacks

nearer and nearer the heart of Japan.

As his post in radio plot,

and tracking down enemy planes,

cursing the luck that

keeps him out of the air,

Smokey chaffs at being

grounded on a day like this.

Especially when targets are juicy ones.

All the Jap air bases

and military installations

in the Mariana's,

and a special prize package, Guam.

The island that we did not fortify,

but the Japs did.

Now comes word that the Japs

have sent strong air

re-enforcements to Tinian,

which flanks Guam.

Again, our synchronized cameras record,

as no human eye and memory could record,

just what our g*ns and

bombs do to the enemy.

These pictures enable our air

combat intelligence officers

to assess the damage as

we swoop down upon Tinian.

While our planes return for

more fuel and ammunition,

the surface vessels take over.

A prodigious naval barrage

to prepare the beaches

our as*ault forces are going to hit.

Not only our newest,

but some of our oldest and

proudest battleships are here.

The Colorado, The Tennessee,

and the USS Pennsylvania,

flagship of World w*r I.

Winging home to the Fighting Lady,

several of our planes crippled,

make a game attempt to land.

Now is when the landing

signal officer must

judge not only the speed,

but estimate the battle

damage of planes like these.

And flight deck emergency

crews, fire fighters,

rescue details and medical corpsmen,

exhibit almost incredible courage.

The pilot of a torpedo

plane has been unable

to release his load of incendiaries,

burning thermite is spilling

out at incandescent heat.

In the planes tanks

remain about 75 gallons

of high-octane gas.

The men who brave this

danger to save pilot and crew

deserve every citation they get.

In the ready rooms,

intelligence officers

question battle-weary pilots.

What did you see?

Any Jap carriers in sight?

Are you sure they were

carrier based planes?

Then from radio plot

comes uncomfortable news,

torpedo planes and diver bombers

from enemy aircraft

carriers are approaching.

All hands, man your battle stations.

To our engine rooms go

orders for flank speed,

which is a few knots

faster than full speed,

in case need to take evasive action.

All boilers are lighted

to let the Fighting Lady

out-do herself if necessary.

The engine room people turn on the heat,

and the propellor shafts turn

like fate in their alleys.

The Fighting Lady leaps

through the sea, on her guard.

Skipper Dixy gears himself for action,

and so does wise old Scrappy.

And now here they come.

A Jap Jill, torpedo b*mber,

miraculously keeps coming

through our wall of flack.

He's approaching us fast,

with a life that must be charmed.

Our gunners throw everything they've got,

but still she comes.

If he ever releases that torpedo...

He missed us.

Either the pilot was already dead,

or his release gear jammed.

Smokey, the pride of Arkansas

hears about that one,

he almost takes off.

Now our reconnaissance has

spotted the Japanese task forces.

This is the moment we've been

fighting and praying for.

Every plane that can fly,

and every qualified pilot

is ordered into the air.

At last, Smokey gets

his chance to fly again.

Pilots man your planes,

pilots man your planes.

Philippine trade wind

is tearing down our flight deck,

our planes scream forward to rise into it.

Our entire air group thunders out

behind the group commandant.

Now our fighters run into

a swarm of Jap fighters,

mostly Zeroes sent up

to intercept our attack

on the Japanese fleet.

A mad ariel scramble begins,

which the boys to this day,

still call the Mariana's turkey sh**t.

369 Jap planes are shot

down in this single day,

to our loss of 22.

Japanese plane makers have sacrificed

strength and firepower for agility,

their planes disintegrate

quickly when you hit them.

They have no armor plate, as ours have,

nor are their gas tanks self-sealing.

These little monkeys are fancy flyers,

they think aerobatics can win dogfights,

whereas we believe in smooth

flying and careful sh**ting.

And now at last,

through a late afternoon

haze from high altitude,

our air combat group sights

the Imperial Japanese Battle Fleet.

These are the first pictures ever taken

of a great enemy naval

formation like this.

There it is,

that imperial fleet.

Sprawling about below us

in violent evasive action.

Us looking down on them,

in the seas they think they own.

Some of these Japanese

ships are scampering away

at better than 40 knots.

When you bore straight down on them,

they twist, squirm.

We engage a big destroyer at the bow,

hoping to sh**t out his bridge.

And he shoots back plenty.

Let's go down after that cruiser,

he answers us emphatically

from a forward turret.

Now a 25,000 ton Jap carrier

of the Hiyo Taiho class

is going to get it.

Watch 5:00 in the camera,

the lower right hand corner of the screen.

This big flat-top gets it

where the turkey got the ax.

When you touch off some of these babies,

just watch this one.

And now we come home from the

Battle of the Philippine Sea.

17 Jap warships have been

sunk or severely damaged.

Several of our returning

planes have been badly shot up.

A dive b*mber comes in out of gas.

He pulls off to starboard,

but noses-over because

his wheels are down.

This pilot has 73 holes in his plane,

and his leg almost shot away.

To clear the deck for

other planes, number 30,

badly damaged, is jettisoned.

Given the deep six.

Watch carefully, this man's

controls are all but shot away.

He steps out of it, smiling.

And now it is time to paint up the scores.

On this fine morning, just a

year after being commissioned,

the Fighting Lady is beginning

to look like a stamp album.

She has done her share,

amassing Task Force 58's grand total

of 757 Jap aircraft destroyed,

in a two-week turkey sh**t.

But there's another score to add up,

our own casualties.

Quite a few faces are no longer

with us on the Fighting Lady

among them, Lieutenant Commander Upson,

skipper of our torpedo squadron.

Lieutenant Pappy Convit,

Lieutenant John Mehan,

and that fighting as gentleman,

Lieutenant Smokey Stover,

yeah, Smokey's missing too.

Salute them, under their country's flag,

for they were brave, they were gallant.

Others will come forward

to take their places,

but the battles we have

fought on the seas,

and in the sky,

are only the beginning.

Still hungry for battle

will steam our carrier,

serene, powerful, unafraid.

She and her planes will come

home again someday, God grant,

but not until the bitter, glorious end.

For she is, and we salute

her, the Fighting Lady.