During that frenetic interception, however, Lt. j.g. Alexander Vraciu of Lexington outperformed McCampbell, weaving his way through the enemy formation to pick off six enemy aircraft. Vraciu downed his initial quarry from a distance of only 200 feet and quickly reacted to avoid damage from the dive bomber’s debris. He then crept toward a pair of dive bombers and shot down the trailing Judy before splashing the lead plane. Every minute brought the action continuously closer to Lexington, which meant that not only was the carrier in danger, but Vraciu and other American pilots would have to fly directly into their own ships’ anti-aircraft fire to chase attacking enemy planes.

Vraciu scanned the skies, which by now were dotted with speeding Hellcats, plunging enemy planes, and hundreds of lethal bursts of anti-aircraft fire. He warned Lexington: ‘Don’t see how we can possibly shoos ‘em all down. Too many!’ But he nevertheless chased after, and downed, a fourth dive bomber. Three other Judys zoomed into view as they began their final runs on ships below, and Vraciu followed them. He quickly downed the first but was forced into a perilous vertical dive to stop the second before it dropped its bomb on a destroyer. With anti-aircraft fire intensifying, Vraciu caught up to the enemy plane and destroyed it, then pulled out of his dive to avoid crashing into the water. Battleship anti-aircraft fire downed the final enemy dive bomber.

Vraciu headed back to Lexington, where he was almost killed by his own ship’s fire. Shouting into his radio that he was an American, Vraciu finally landed. As he walked away from his plane, a tired Vraciu glanced toward Admiral Mitscher on the bridge and held up six fingers to indicate his success.

Other pilots experienced spectacular missions. Lieutenant William B. Lamb of Princeton attacked a group of 12 enemy dive bombers even though only one of his six guns operated correctly. As other Hellcats joined in, Lamb knocked down three planes. Lieutenant junior grade P.C. Thomas of Bataan almost latched onto more than he could handle when he charged at one enemy plane. The Japanese pilot, obviously one of the few savvy Japanese aviators in the sky, so beautifully executed a series of maneuvers to avoid Thomas that the American flier later said, ‘It was like trying to catch a flea on a hot griddle.’ He destroyed the enemy plane after other Hellcats ringed the enemy pilot on three sides and forced him to fly a straight course. Essex pilot Ensign C.W. Plant got on the wrong side of another skilled enemy pilot, who bounced a stream of bullets off Plant’s armor plate before being destroyed by an assisting Hellcat. When Plant returned to Essex, amazed service personnel counted 150 bullet holes in his fighter.

Only 20 Japanese planes in that unfortunate second raid broke through the aerial intercept to approach Mitscher’s ships, but they broke against a heavy anti-aircraft screen. A handful of dive bombers eluded all defenses and attacked scattered targets. Four singled out the carrier Wasp, but adept maneuvering by its skipper, Captain C.A.F. Sprague, avoided serious damage. Ozawa’s second raid achieved little in expending itself. Ninety-seven of the 128 planes fell to watery graves in 30 intense minutes of action.

At least the survivors of the second raid could claim they located the American ships, something most pilots in Ozawa’s third raid could not say. In the third raid, 47 planes lifted off between 10 and 10:15 a.m., but over half lost their bearings and turned back to their carriers without firing a shot. Twenty planes did spot Mitscher and forced a brief attack on Rear Adm. William K. Harrill’s three carriers of Task Group 58.4, but inflicted only minor damage while losing seven planes.

The fourth raid accomplished little more. As in the third raid, 49 of the 82 planes that launched by 11:30 a.m. failed to locate Task Force 58 and flew on to the Japanese airstrip at Guam, where waiting Hellcats shot down 30 as they attempted to land. Some pilots broke through the American intercept to deliver their loads, none of which caused serious damage.

Captain Sprague’s Wasp received most of the fourth raid’s attention. Wasp Hellcats intercepted a large group of enemy planes at about 2:20 p.m. and shot down three, but another eight or nine planes attacked the carrier, which was steaming at 22 knots and executing a 15-degree left turn. Sprague quickly ordered a hard right to avoid one bomb dropped by a dive bomber that crashed into the sea barely seconds after its bomb exploded. Fragments from the bomb and disintegrating dive bomber bounced off Wasp’s hull and across the carrier, knocking over Marine Captain R.C. Rosacker and three others as they manned a 20mm gun. Rosacker and his crew quickly jumped back up and continued firing at enemy targets. Two other near-misses sprayed more fragments about Wasp, wounding one sailor, while an incendiary cluster showered the ship with phosphorus.

By the time that final raid ended, Ozawa had thrown 374 planes at his enemy. Less than 100 returned to their carriers. When added to the 50 land-based craft lost by Admiral Kakuta, the Japanese had sustained an incredible defeat. While losing only 22 fighters and 60 men, Spruance had removed Japanese carriers as a factor in the war.

While Ozawa’s four air raids futilely charged the American surface fleet, American submarines inflicted major damage on his fleet. Despite Japanese pilot Komatsu’s heroic action of purposely crashing into a torpedo headed directly at Taiho, Commander James W. Blanchard of the submarine Albacore had aimed five other torpedoes at the same target, one of which found its quarry. Since Taiho used highly volatile unrefined oil from Tarakan, the crew tried to pump the oil overboard before sparks ignited. One inexperienced officer opened the ventilating ducts to remove the fumes; instead, this further spread the dangerous gases throughout the carrier. At 3:32 p.m., a spark ignited the fumes, causing an eruption that blew out both sides of the ship’s hanger, warped the deck and ripped holes in the carrier’s bottom. After being evacuated with his staff aboard the destroyer Wakatsuki, and subsequently re-establishing command aboard the heavy cruiser Haguro, Ozawa watched the carrier explode and capsize, taking 1,650 men to their graves.

Commander Herman J. Kossler of the submarine Cavalla added to Ozawa’s woes. First sighting Shokaku at 11:52 a.m., Kossler moved into position and fired a spread of six torpedoes, four of which hit. For four hours the frantic crew tried to save Shokaku, but additional explosions doomed the carrier, which finally sank shortly before Taiho did. Another 1,263 men died with their carrier.

While devastation plagued Ozawa, Spruance turned his carriers north to recover jubilant, yet tired and shot-up pilots returning from the day’s slaughter. Although aviators urged him to chase Ozawa and complete the destruction, Spruance held off turning west because he did not know for sure what carriers Ozawa retained, nor where they were. He would not send weary crews against an enemy of undetermined strength, especially when they most likely would have to battle at night. And he was not prepared to abandon Saipan and leave it open to that flank attack he still considered a possibility.

At 8 p.m., Spruance ordered his carriers to head west during the night. Mitscher hoped he could lessen the distance separating Task Force 58 from Ozawa for a daylight attack.

Pilots scoured the air on June 20 trying to spot Ozawa. Finally, at 4 p.m., an Enterprise search plane located the enemy force in four groups 275 miles from Mitscher–just about the maximum range for American fighters. With a scant three hours of daylight left, the pilots would have to fly out, make at most two runs on the enemy, then return to their carriers before darkness or low fuel forced them into the sea. When Mitscher asked his operations officer, Commander W.J. Widhelm, if his pilots could successfully make the hazardous flight, Widhelm bluntly replied, ‘It is going to be tight.’

Mitscher accepted the risk, and at 4:10 the order went out to launch planes. Pilots rushed from ready rooms, where chalk board messages exhorted them to ‘Get the carriers!’ and within 20 minutes more than 200 fighters, dive bombers and torpedo planes were speeding toward Ozawa. Each aviator hoped luck went along, for the amount of fuel did not give them much room for error. One gunner hopped into his Douglas SBD on Lexington and saw the crew give him a thumbs-up signal. ‘Thumbs up, hell!’ he thought. ‘What they mean is ‘So long, sucker!” Lieutenant Commander Robert A. Winston of Cabot doubted whether any of his squadron’s planes would return.

Their unease heightened when Mitscher notified the fliers shortly after takeoff of an error in the original sighting. The Japanese fleet was actually 60 miles farther away than was first thought. As the planes neared Ozawa, pilots saw their fuel gauges dip below the halfway point, meaning they would go into battle with the certainty of ditching into the sea on the way back. With so little daylight left, Ozawa only had to hold out for 20 minutes to escape into friendly darkness. Thus a sense of urgency propelled the American fliers at their foe in uncoordinated attacks at whatever target entered their sight.

Although Mitscher’s aviators had but 20 minutes to inflict their damage, they made the most of it. Sixty-five Japanese planes were shot out of the sky, and four Grumman TBM Avengers from light carrier Belleau Wood sank the light carrier Hiyo, while bombs tore into and sank three tankers, heavily damaged the carriers Zuikaku and Junyo, battleship Haruna and heavy cruiser Maya. The total cost to Mitscher was 18 planes. At the end of the day, a dejected officer penned in Ozawa’s flag log what remained of the 430 aircraft Ozawa had possessed the morning of June 19, ‘Surviving carrier air power: 35 operational aircraft.’

Now the American pilots had to worry about getting back to their carriers, 250 miles away. Most started home shortly before total darkness closed in, transforming the moonless night into a blackened shroud that eradicated the horizon. Weary pilots faced a two-hour flight in battle-scarred aircraft, to carriers that–if they reached them–would be almost indistinguishable from their surroundings. One by one, planes sputtered out of fuel and swooned in guided descents to the sea. A string of phosphorescent marks, telltale signs of splashdowns, dotted the water as Mitscher’s planes neared their destination.

Meanwhile, Mitscher prepared a homecoming welcome. He first spread out his task groups so that 15 miles separated each group, thereby giving the carriers ample maneuvering room to land planes or pick up downed fliers. He then ordered a daring move that could have cost him a carrier or two if any enemy submarine had lurked in the area. He ordered his ships to turn on every light so the aviators could make safer attempts at landing. All types of carrier lights flashed into brilliance–truck lights, red and green running lights, signal lights. Five-inch guns on destroyers and cruisers shot star shells into the blackened heavens, while carriers beamed searchlights straight upward as beckoning beacons for the bleary-eyed pilots.

The effect was electric. Lieutenant Commander Winston recalled the incredulity with which most men on board Cabot at first reacted. ‘They stood open-mouthed for the sheer audacity of asking the Japs to come and get us. Then a spontaneous cheer went up. To hell with the Japs around us. Our pilots were not expendable.’ From above, one ecstatic pilot stared at the lights and was reminded of a Hollywood premier, the Chinese New Year, and a Fourth of July celebration combined.

For two hectic hours, aircraft sputtered to uneasy landings near or on board anything that floated. Normal air landing procedure was abandoned, as some pilots dangerously low on fuel cut into other pilots’ approaches or ignored wave-offs. Almost half of the planes landed on ships other than their own, resulting in carriers retrieving planes from as many as eight different ships.

Many made it down safely. Ensign Adam Berg circled a ship for 11 minutes, using up almost all his fuel before realizing what he thought was a carrier was, in fact, only a destroyer. Without enough fuel to hunt elsewhere, Berg stalled his plane into the sea a short distance from the destroyer and was picked up within 15 minutes. Two pilots simultaneously landed on Enterprise without sustaining any damage, one latching onto a forward wire while the other hooked onto a rear wire.

Other pilots landed and erupted with anger. Commander Blitch of Wasp stomped out of his plane after landing on board Lexington, drained a hefty amount of brandy, then proceeded to blast the entire operation.

Most aircraft returned in one piece. About 80 planes were lost because of low fuel or landing accidents. Fortunately, most of their crews were rescued. Altogether, about 50 aviators were either lost at sea or died in landing attempts.

The Battle of the Philippine Sea wound to a conclusion in the next three days. On July 21, Spruance dispatched Lee’s battleships and cruisers after Ozawa’s retreating force, but Lee only succeeded in rescuing downed American aviators from the previous day’s combat. Two days later, Spruance sent most of Task Force 58 back to Eniwetok for repairs and resupply.

Thus ended one of the U.S. Navy’s most complete victories of the Pacific War. Ozawa had steamed out of Tawi Tawi on June 13, intent on destroying Spruance’s carriers. He sank none. His opponent, while still fulfilling his primary duty of protecting the Saipan beachhead, so shredded Ozawa’s air power that the Japanese carriers could only act as decoys for the war’s remainder. Spruance’s planes combined with two American submarines to sink three enemy carriers and other supporting vessels. Spruance gambled by sitting off Saipan and allowing Ozawa to come to him, but the gamble paid off handsomely.

The next month, Admirals Ernest J. King and Chester Nimitz, commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet, visited Spruance at Saipan. Reacting to the bitter criticism Spruance was still receiving from aviators angry that he had not been more aggressive, Admiral King, the irascible chief of naval operations, pointedly told his commander, ‘Spruance, you did a damn fine job there. No matter what other people tell you, your decision was correct.’

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This article was written by John F. Wukovits and originally appeared in the March 1999 issue of World War II magazine. For more great articles subscribe to World War II magazine today!

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