At 3:00 A.M. on June 19, 1944, one of the largest naval battles in world history—The
Battle of the Philippine Sea—was underway.
The two fleets, the American 5th Fleet and the Japanese Mobile Force, had drifted into
air combat range of each other but neither had yet located its opponent.
The previous evening, a U.S. submarine—the Cavalla—had stumbled into the Japanese carrier
task force, but since then, it had lost contact.
While awaiting Cavalla to reacquire its target, the American carrier task force—Task Force
58—began sending search planes in a wide arc west of the Marianas Islands.
They launched at 2 A.M., and after hours in the air, most of them found nothing.
Finally, at 8:30, a sighting report issued by a PBM Mariner seaplane belatedly reached
the cabin of VADM Raymond Spruance on his flagship, USS Indianapolis.
The report was over seven hours old and it placed the Japanese fleet beyond the range
of the American carriers.
Everyone assigned to Task Force 58 knew that, in a carrier versus carrier battle, the side
that struck first usually won.
The Americans, it seems, had missed their crucial chance to strike that first blow.
They had sighted the enemy fleet several times over the past 24 hours, but failed to react
to the sighting reports with sufficient speed.
On the other side, the Japanese fleet suffered no such problems.
They knew exactly where to look to find their foes.
VADM Jisaburō Ozawa ordered his land-based aircraft to launch from the Marianas Islands.
He expected these pilots could easily spot the American fleet in the Philippine Sea and
radio its position.
That is exactly what happened.
Prior to dawn, fifty Japanese planes launched from an airfield on Guam.
At 5:50, 160 miles west of Saipan, a Mitsubishi A6M Zero located Task Force 58.
After sending his sighting report, this brave pilot attacked on his own.
The gun crews of the destroyer USS Yarnall brought him down.
No Americans were hurt, but the real damage had been done.
Ozawa had been given the precise location of the U.S. carrier fleet.
Immediately, the Japanese scrambled all their remaining Guam-based aircraft.
At 7:30, the American radar operators picked up a cloud of blips hovering over the island.
Realizing that Task Force 58 was in trouble, its aggressive commander, VADM Marc Mitscher,
dispatched his carrier-based fighter planes to Guam to interdict the Japanese before their
airstrike got underway.
Thirty F6F Hellcats rushed to the scene.
In a swirling hour-long battle, the Japanese suffered heavily, losing 35 planes shot down.
The Americans lost only one aircraft.
Meanwhile, Ozawa’s carrier-based aircraft were on their way.
Ozawa sent out four waves of composite strikes—a mix of dive bombers, fighters, fighter-bombers,
and torpedo bombers—intermixing groups from different carriers.
Altogether, Ozawa’s fleet launched 373 of its 402 available aircraft.
The Japanese hinged everything on delivering this knockout blow.
At 10:07 A.M., when they were forty-five miles out, American radar picked up the first wave
of Japanese aircraft.
With little deliberation, VADM Mitscher ordered every available fighter plane to get into
the air and contribute to the defense of the task force.
Inside the carrier islands, the Fighter Director Officers assessed the radar reports and sent
messages to the fighter pilots who were just then getting aloft, telling them where to
go in order to batter the incoming Japanese planes.
Ozawa’s first wave did not get far.
In only a few minutes, the Americans shot down 42 of 69 enemy aircraft.
Only one Japanese dive bomber managed to penetrate the American fighter screen and get a hit
on an American ship.
A 500-pound bomb struck USS South Dakota, causing minor damage and killing 24 men.
The second Japanese wave, which consisted of 129 aircraft, arrived after 11:00 AM.
Fighter control directors vectored more and more aircraft into the area.
Twenty-five-year-old LT Alexander Vraciu led a division of F6F Hellcats from USS Lexington.
Barely airborne, his Hellcat began showing signs of trouble.
His engine began spitting oil onto the windshield and it refused to operate at full power.
Additionally, the deck crew had forgotten to lock the safety pins on his Hellcat’s
folding wings, which meant he could not risk putting his plane into a tight turn.
Nevertheless, from an altitude of 20,000 feet, Vraciu charged into the fray.
"At approximately 10:20, our group was launched.
I heard the fighter director officer saying, “Vector 250, climb to Angels 25, pronto!”
It was a running rendezvous on the climb.
Spot-gazing intently, I suddenly picked out a large, rambling mass of at least fifty
enemy planes 2,000 feet below, portside and closing.
My adrenalin flow hit ‘high C.’ I remember thinking, ‘This could develop into a once-in-a-lifetime
fighter pilot’s dream.’
Giving a slight rock to my wings, I began a run on the nearest inboard straggler,
a Judy dive-bomber.
I streaked underneath the formation, getting a good look at their planes for the
first time.
They were Judys, Jills, and Zeros.
I radioed an amplified report.
After pulling up and over, I picked out another Judy on the edge of the formation.
It was doing some wild maneuvering, and the rear gunner was squirting away as I came down
from the stern.
I worked in close and gave him a burst.
He caught fire quickly and headed down to the sea, trailing a long plume of smoke."
Calling over the radio, Vraciu gleefully declared, “Scratch one Judy!”
With little ado, he changed direction and surged back into the Japanese formation.
He narrated the next few harrowing minutes: "I pulled up again and found two more Judys
flying as loose wingmen.
I came in from the rear, sending one down burning.
Dipping my Hellcat’s wing, I slid over on the one slightly ahead and got it on the same
pass.
It caught fire, also, and I could see the rear gunner still peppering away at me as
he disappeared in an increasingly sharp arc downward.
For a split-second, I almost felt sorry for the little bastard.
That made three down, and now we were getting close to our fleet.
The sky appeared to be full of smoke and pieces of planes, and we were trying to
ride herd on the remaining attacking planes to keep them from scattering.
Another “meatball” broke formation up ahead, and I slid over onto his tail, again
working in close. I gave him a short burst, but it was enough; it went right into
the sweet spot at the root of his wing tanks.
The pilot or control cables must have been hit, because the burning plane twisted crazily,
out of control.
In spite of our efforts, the Jills were now beginning to descend to begin their torpedo
runs, and the remaining Judys were at the point of peeling off to go down with their
bombs.
I headed for a group of three Judys in a long column.
By the time I had reached the tail-ender, we were almost over our outer screen of ships,
but still fairly high.
The first Judy was about to begin his dive, and, as he started to nose over, I noticed
black puffs beside him in the sky.
Our 5-inchers were beginning to open up.
Foolishly, maybe, I overtook the nearest one.
It seemed that I barely touched the trigger, and his engine started coming to pieces.
The Judy started smoking, then torching alternately, off and on, as it disappeared below.
The next one was about one-fifth of the way down in his dive—appearing to be trying
for one of the destroyers—before I caught up with him.
This time a short burst produced astonishing results.
He blew up with a tremendous explosion right in front of my face.
I must have hit his bomb, I guess.
I have seen planes blow up before, but never like this!
I yanked the stick up sharply to avoid the scattered pieces and flying hot stuff, then
radioed, 'Splash number six!'"
Everywhere, other American pilots experienced tremendous luck and shot down the Japanese
planes with impunity.
Of 129 attacking aircraft, 98 were lost.
As Vraciu leveled out his Hellcat, he beheld the grim aftermath:
"Looking around at that point, only Hellcats seemed to be remaining in the sky.
Glancing backward to where we had begun, in a pattern thirty-five miles long, there were
flaming oil slicks in the water and smoke still hanging in the air.
It didn’t seem like just eight minutes—it seemed longer.
But that’s all it was—an eight-minute opportunity for the flight of a lifetime."
In total, Vraciu used only 360 rounds of ammunition to claim his six kills before landing back
aboard USS Lexington.
When Vraciu returned to the carrier, he spotted VADM Mitscher looking down from the island,
and he proudly held up six fingers, presenting his score.
Seeing Mitscher’s smiling approval, a photographer captured the moment, producing the most famous
photograph from the battle.
Years later, an interviewer commented: “I’ve seen that picture.
You look like a very happy man, holding up six fingers.”
Vraciu replied, “Yes.
I think everybody ended up with a lot of self-satisfaction that day.”
But the Japanese weren’t finished.
At 1 PM, as some of the American planes began returning for more fuel and ammunition, a
third wave—another 47 planes—came in and made an ineffective attack against USS Enterprise.
Seven planes went down in flames and the other forty turned tail for home.
As they retreated, these Japanese pilots bumped into the fourth wave, which had been struggling
to find the American fleet because its leader had been given improper rendezvous coordinates.
Some of the third wave planes joined up and led the fourth wave back to the American fleet.
But before they could find it, the pilots in the fourth wave began to complain about
their dwindling fuel gauges, so the flight broke up, and in small contingents, the pilots
began heading for Guam.
Before reaching their destination, American Hellcat pilots from four different carriers
intercepted them.
Once again, Japanese planes began falling fast out of the skies.
Out of 82 planes in the fourth wave, only nine made it to safety.
The colossal air battle finally subsided at dusk.
The result had been rather one-sided.
The Japanese lost a total of 303 aircraft—220 from Ozawa’s fleet, 60 land-based planes,
and 23 seaplanes.
By contrast, the Americans lost only 23 planes shot down and 6 others by accident.
Only 27 American aviators had been killed during the entire day, while the Japanese
counted their losses in the hundreds.
In Fighting Squadron Sixteen’s ready room on USS Lexington, one pilot remarked that
the operation had been “just like an old-time turkey shoot!”
In that instant, June 19, 1944, received its moniker—“The Great Marianas Turkey Shoot.”
Why did the Americans outperform their adversaries so spectacularly?
Certainly, the accuracy of American radar and the quick-thinking of the U.S. Fighter
Director Officers had much to do with it, as did the capabilities of the Grumman F6F
Hellcat, the Navy’s primary fighter-interceptor.
However, the determination, the marksmanship, and the piloting skills of the American fighter
pilots proved to be the truly decisive factors.
Alex Vraciu got six kills on his own.
But he was just one ace among many that day.
The Japanese pilots stood no chance.
Task Force 58 had stacked its deck with Aces.
It was an unbeatable hand.