All language subtitles for The.Fighting.Lady.1944.1080p.WEBRip.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

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- 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 explosives

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 war,

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 guns 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 war,

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 bomber,

torpedo bomber, 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,

"War 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 balls 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 guns,

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 gun barrels.

These pictures are taken automatically

by the same mechanism
that operates the guns.

Pictures even shake to the guns 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 bomber 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 gun
bullets converge 300 yards.

They shoot in bursts
instead of in steady streams

which heat up the guns
and spend ammunition.

We soon have Kwajalein
burning very satisfactorily.

After our bombing attacks

and heavy shelling buy our surface ships,

assault 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 guns 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, bomber
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 bomb,

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 war.

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 assault 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
war 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 guns 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 assault 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 War 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 bomber,

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 shoot.

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 shooting.

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 shoot 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 bomber 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 shoot.

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.