June 19th, 1944.
The Philippine Sea.
The air raid sirens on the USS Lexington are screaming.
The radar room is picking up the largest incoming air strike of World War II.
450 Japanese aircraft are inbound.
Their target is the American carrier fleet.
On the flight deck, Lieutenant Junior Grade Alexander Vcu is strapping into his F6F Hellcat.
He is already an ace.
He is aggressive.
He is deadly.
But today his plane is failing him.
As the engine roars to life, VCU realizes something is wrong.
The Pratt and Whitney double wasp engine is shuttering.
The supercharger, the device that allows the plane to fight at high altitude, is stuck in low blower.
It won’t shift.
Without it, his plane is sluggish, underpowered, and unable to climb quickly.
Worse, the engine is spitting oil.
A thick black film is starting to coat the windshield.
By every regulation in the Navy, VCU should abort.
A fighter pilot with a bad engine and a blinded windshield is a dead man.
He looks at the deck crew.
He looks at the sky.
He doesn’t cut the engine.
He jams the throttle forward.
He is taking a crippled plane into the biggest dog fight in history.
Normally when your engine fails in combat, you run.
But Alex Vceu didn’t run.
He used his disadvantage to force himself into a position so dangerous, so close to the enemy that he couldn’t miss.
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We tell the stories of the pilots who refused to quit.
Now, let’s get to the cockpit.
The summer of 1944 is the turning point of the Pacific War.
The United States Navy is assaulting the Marana Islands, Saipan, Tinyan, Guam.
If the Americans take these islands, there be 29 bombers will be within range of Tokyo.
The Empire of Japan knows this.
They have assembled a massive fleet, the Mobile Fleet, to stop the invasion.
They launch everything they have.
dive bombers, torpedo bombers, and zero fighters.
The American response is the F6F Hellcat.
The Hellcat is a beast.
It’s faster than the Zero, better armored, and armed with 650 caliber machine guns, but a plane is only as good as its engine.
And Vu’s engine is fighting him every inch of the way.
Vu claws his way into the air.
His squadron, Fighter Squadron 16, VF-16, is climbing to 24,000 ft to intercept the incoming raid.
VCU struggles to keep up.
His supercharger issue means he is lagging behind.
He has to push the engine to its limit just to stay in formation.
The oil on his windshield is getting worse.
He has to wipe the glass with a rag while flying or lean out to the side to see.
He is half blind and underpowered.
Vector 270, Angels 25, large bogey inbound.
The radio crackles with the voice of the fighter director.
The Americans are positioning themselves to block the Japanese path.
Veru is frustrated.
He wants to be at the front, but his limping plane is holding him back.
He doesn’t know it yet, but this handicap is about to put him in the perfect position.
Vcu scans the horizon through the oil smears.
Then he sees them.
It looks like a swarm of bees.
A massive formation of Japanese Judy dive bombers Yakasuka D4Y.
There are at least 50 of them flying in loose formation.
They are below the main American fighter screen.
Because VCU’s engine wouldn’t let him climb as high as the others, he is the only one perfectly positioned to hit the bombers.
The rest of the American fighters are diving from above, engaging the zero escorts.
Veru is alone with the bombers.
He checks his guns.
He checks his sight.
He can barely see the reticle through the oil.
He makes a decision.
I can’t shoot from distance, he thinks.
So, I’m going to get right in their face.
Race you divies.
He picks out a straggler on the edge of the formation.
Usually a pilot opens fire at 1,000 ft.
VCU holds his fire 800 feet, 600 feet, 500 ft.
He is closing at over 300 mph.
The rear gunner of the Judy spots him.
Tracers zip past VCU’s canopy.
Vu ignores them.
He keeps coming.
He needs to be so close that the oil on his windshield doesn’t matter.
He needs to see the rivets on the enemy plane.
He is turning his Hellcat into a shotgun.
At 400 ft, Rayu squeezes the trigger.
The 650 caliber guns roar.
The sound vibrates through the entire airframe.
Because he is so close, the convergence of the bullets is devastating.
He doesn’t just damage the enemy plane, he shreds it.
The Judy dive bomber explodes.
VCU flies right through the debris cloud.
He has to yank the stick to avoid hitting the pieces of the plane he just destroyed.
“Splash one,” he mutters, but he doesn’t turn away.
He maintains his momentum.
He slides his Hellcat directly behind the next bomber in line.
The Japanese formation is disciplined, but they are panicstricken.
They see the Hellcat tearing through their ranks.
Veru is operating on instinct.
His engine is still running rough, coughing and sputtering, but in a dive, gravity is doing the work.
He lines up the second bomber again.
He waits.
The rear gunner is firing desperately.
VCU can see the muzzle flashes.
He closes to point blank range.
A short burst, maybe two seconds.
The Judy catches fire and noses over, plummeting toward the ocean.
Two down.
This is where VCU separates himself from other pilots.
Most pilots spray bullets hoping for a hit.
VCU is counting.
He knows he has limited ammo.
He knows he has a bad engine.
He can’t afford a long dog fight.
He is conserving everything.
He spots a third bomber.
This one tries to maneuver.
Banking left.
VCU cuts inside the turn.
The Hellcat groans under the G-force.
He pulls the trigger.
The bullets saw the wing off the Japanese plane.
Three kills.
He has been in combat for less than 3 minutes.
As he pulls up from the third kill, VCU realizes the danger of his tactic.
He is so close to the exploding planes that he risks flying into the fireballs.
Debris pings off his cowling.
Oil is still streaming back from his engine.
He wipes his goggles.
He looks up.
Another group of Judies is right in front of him.
They are sitting ducks.
They are loaded with heavy bombs intended for the American fleet, which makes them slow and vulnerable.
VCU is the wolf in the flock.
He targets a fourth plane.
The pilot tries to dive to escape.
VCU follows him down.
The Hellcat shakes violently as it picks up speed.
He fires.
The Judy explodes into a massive fireball.
Scratch four.
By now, the sky is filled with parachutes and burning wreckage.
Other American pilots are engaging the Zeros above, but they stop to watch the show below.
From the battleships down on the surface, sailors are watching through binoculars.
They see a single dark blue Hellcat weaving through the enemy formation, leaving a trail of smoke and fire behind it.
It looks like a video game.
VCU is in a trance.
He doesn’t feel the heat.
He doesn’t hear the engine sputtering.
He sees a fifth bomber.
He closes in.
The Japanese pilot tries to weave.
Veru anticipates the move.
He fires a deflection shot.
The enemy plane disintegrates.
Five kills.
An ace in a day in under 6 minutes.
VCU checks his ammo.
He is running low.
He checks his fuel.
He has enough to get home, but barely.
His engine is getting hotter.
The oil pressure is fluctuating.
He should go home.
He has done enough, but he sees one more Judy.
It is flying slightly apart from the others trying to sneak through toward the fleet.
VCU pushes the throttle.
The engine protests, but gives him the power.
He closes the gap.
This time, he gets so close he can see the pilot’s face turning to look at him.
He is arguably too close.
If the bomber explodes, it will take VCU with it.
VCU doesn’t care.
He fires his last sustained burst.
The rounds smash into the engine block of the Judy.
The plane shutters and enters a violent spin.
It crashes into the sea, sending up a geyser of white water.
Six.
Six enemy aircraft destroyed in 8 minutes.
Veru pulls up.
The sky around him is empty of bombers.
The survivors have scattered or been shot down by others.
He takes a breath.
His heart is hammering against his ribs.
He looks at his ammo counter.
He has used only 360 rounds of ammunition.
That is an average of 60 bullets per plane.
It is a level of marksmanship that is almost mathematically impossible.
It confirms his tactic.
By letting the enemy get too close, he made it impossible to miss.
Now the adrenaline fades and the reality returns.
He is alone over the ocean.
His engine is still damaged.
His windshield is a mess.
He turns back toward the Lexington.
The flight back is tense.
Every vibration feels like the engine is about to seize.
He radios the carrier.
Consumer one inbound.
Request landing instructions.
The carrier welcomes him back.
They have been monitoring the radio chatter.
They know someone out there has been doing heavy work.
Veru drops his landing gear.
He prays it locks.
He lines up on the deck.
He has to look out the side of the canopy to see the landing signal officer, LSO, because the front is so oily.
He cuts the throttle.
The Hellcat drops.
The tail hook catches the wire.
He is down.
VCU taxis to the parking spot.
The engine finally dies, coughing its last breath.
He slides the canopy back.
He is soaked in sweat.
His face is marked with goggle rings.
The plane is a wreck.
The paint is scorched from the proximity of the explosions.
There is oil everywhere.
The deck crew runs up to him.
How did it go, Lieutenant? Vu looks at them.
He is too tired to shout.
He simply holds up his hand.
He extends six fingers.
A Navy photographer snaps the picture.
It becomes one of the most iconic images of World War II.
Alex vase youu standing on the wing of his hellcat looking exhausted but fierce holding up six fingers.
The grin on his face says everything.
I got six of them.
The news spreads through the ship like wildfire.
The Turkey shoot was a massacre.
The Americans shot down over 300 Japanese planes that day.
The Japanese naval air power was effectively destroyed and Alex Vcu was the tip of the spear.
In the ready room, the intelligence officers are stunned.
You used 360 rounds, they ask.
I wanted to make sure, Vu replies.
And your engine, it was stuck in low blower.
I couldn’t climb.
They realized the truth.
If his engine had been working perfectly, VCU might have climbed high to fight the Zeros and missed the bombers entirely.
The mechanical failure put him in the right place at the right time.
It was fate.
After that day, Alex Vu became the leading Navy ace at the time with 19 confirmed kills.
He was a celebrity.
The press loved him.
He was the son of Romanian immigrants, a self-made man who fought with a calculated ferocity.
But the war wasn’t done with him.
A few months later, in December 1944, Vu was shot down over the Philippines.
His plane was hit by anti-aircraft fire.
He billayed out into the jungle.
For 5 weeks, he was missing in action.
The Navy assumed he was dead, but Recu wasn’t dead.
He linked up with Filipino guerrillas.
He took command of a group of 180 guerilla fighters.
He spent a month fighting the Japanese on the ground using a pistol and a captured sword.
He eventually marched back into American lines carrying a Japanese sword as a trophy.
He was unkillable.
Veru survived the war.
He retired as a commander.
He lived a long, quiet life in California.
Unlike some aces who sought the spotlight, Vu was humble.
He always gave credit to the plane and the training.
But historians know the truth.
The great Mariana’s turkey shoot was won by men like Vu who refused to let a malfunction stop the mission.
When asked about the engine trouble that day, Vu would smile.
He knew that sometimes a disadvantage is just a disguised opportunity.
The story of Alex Vu teaches us something about combat and life.
Conditions will never be perfect.
Your equipment will break.
The odds will be against you.
You will be blinded by oil and smoke.
You can turn back.
No one would blame you.
Or you can do what race you did.
You can close the distance.
You can get so close to the problem that you can’t miss.
The engine hit didn’t stop him.
It just made him more dangerous.
Let’s look at the numbers of the turkey shoot again.
Losses.
USA 29 aircraft.
Japan.
378 aircraft in the air.
It is the most lopsided air battle in history.
And right in the middle of it, flying a broken plane, was a 25-year-old kid from Indiana who decided that 360 bullets were enough to change history.
Alexander Vu passed away in 2015.
He was one of the last titans of the golden age of aviation.
The photo of him holding up six fingers remains the ultimate symbol of the carrier pilot.
Cocky, maybe, crazy, probably, but on June 19th, 1944, he was simply the best.
That was the story of the oil soaked ace Alex Vceu.
Did you know about the engine trouble he faced or just the kills? Let us know in the comments.
And if you enjoyed this deep dive, check out our video on the F4U Corsair, the whistling death.
Thanks for watching and keep your powder dry.
