Thunderbolt (1947) - full transcript

This picture was
photographed in combat zones

by cameramen of the
Mediterranean Allied Air Forces

and by pilots of the 12th Air Force,

who, during missions against the enemy,
operated automatic cameras in their planes.

Behind the pilot,
shooting forward and back.

Under the wing.

In the wing, timed with the guns.

In the wheel well.

In the instrument panel,
photographing the pilot himself.

The commanding general of the United
States Army Air Force, General Carl Spaatz,

has asked me to tell you
something about this picture.



I don't think I could any better than
just to read from his telegram to me.

Thunderbolt was made
in 1944 - "ancient history."

It was made about one fighter
bomber group in the Italian campaign.

It happens to be an American group,

but the same story could well be
told of the Royal Air Force groups

which participated so gallantly
in the same air offensive.

Matter of fact, the story belongs
to all men who fought for freedom

and did it a long way from home.

Signed, Spaatz.

Thank you.

To the Italian man in the
street, or what's left of the street,

this is the fulfillment of a promise -

the promise of the Fascists to build a 20th
century Roman Empire, conceived in tyranny,

and dedicated to the proposition that some
men were meant to be slaves of other men.



Special victims were the children.

They saw things not
meant for children's eyes.

From the air, Italy is more remote.

The airman never sees the face of
the people, only the face of the country.

From the air, you look
down at the mountains.

Look down, and wonder how our
men on the ground ever got through.

Mountains and rivers.

The Volturno - lot of
American blood in that one.

Natural barriers - made
other campaigns tough too.

Exhausted Hannibal's
elephants, Caesar's legions.

For the airman, the ground war is remote.

The only war you really
understand is the air war.

You can see a pattern to it.

Lots of the country, never been touched.

Little towns that walk the ridges like
tightrope artists, to keep from falling off.

This one didn't matter.

When something did
matter, that was another story.

This is how we changed
the face of Italy from the air.

They boasted Italian trains
ran on time - not these.

This is what we did to the face of Italy.

There's a story behind why
we did it, and how we did it.

The story starts on an island
60 miles off Italy's coast.

The island of Corsica.

Corsica. Rugged, primitive,
mountainous, malarial.

Here, they still remember a local boy
who put Corsica on the map 150 years ago.

This island part of France was
liberated by the French in September '43.

But you can still find a few Germans,

left by the way side where they
fell, in the shadow of our air drones.

Alto Air Base, Sunday morning.

Here, Sunday is like Monday

and Monday is like every
other day in the week.

A working day.

The engines wake you at dawn.

In your sack, you can hear the
crew chiefs pre-flighting their planes.

Getting them ready for the day's missions.

This is how you live when
you're an airplane driver.

Fighting an air war, 20 minutes
from the Germans in Italy.

You're used to it. You've been washing
out of your helmet since July of '42.

From the Holy Land to Africa,

across the desert, Egypt in El Alamein,

to Libya and Tunisia. 1,300 miles.

You moved when the infantry moved.

Sicily, and Italy, 58 moves in two years.

Now, Corsica. This is
the best year you ever had!

Call it, "The Country Club."

When you talk about air
power, this is what you mean -

you mean "Spanky" Manda.

Major Francis S. Manda
of Mentmore, New Mexico.

Sqaudron Operations
Officer. Not a desk job.

Got over 170 missions, working for 200.

He's 22.

You mean Captain Howard Hickok
of Ames, Iowa. He's a flight leader.

Just had 30 days in the states.
Time to get married, then come back.

He's 23.

Or, in his Italian general's trailer,
Gil Wymond, Louisville, Kentucky.

Hardly looks old enough to
vote, but he's boss of a squadron.

He signs his letters "Gilbert O. Wymond, Lt.
Col., Air Corps, Commanding. 'The Old Man'."

He's 24.

Sunday morning, for the 57th Fighter Group,

pre-squadrons a thousand men,
another day begins at Alto Air Base.

You could close your eyes and see
it this way, spread out like a diagram.

Been home sweet home for some time.

Good steel-mat runway, 150 by 6,000 feet.

Tower call sign is "Breakneck."
Lots of jokes about that.

We share the field with
a French fighter group.

Don't speak the same language, but we fly
the same airplanes against the same enemy.

Each lost a man yesterday.

We get along.

Group Commander Lt. Col.
Archie J. Knight, West Point, 1940.

He's 27.

First mission today is a 65 squadron show.

Briefing, right after breakfast.

Informal, short, to the point.

Park yourself on a bomb
crate, and get your escape kit.

Enemy money, instructions to get
you back through the lines, just in case.

The S2 tells you about your target.

He doesn't have to draw it
for you, you do this every day.

Sometimes, two or three times a day.

Gil Wymond will lead the
show, so he lays out the job.

That's a nurse's hat, his
girl's. Wears it for luck.

Need all you can get.

The brass upstairs plans the war.

They want something
done, you pick up the phone.

You do it.

Don't always know why they send
you out on a mission, don't always care.

But, you know there's a reason. A good one.

Today, the missions are
going out because in Italy

our armies have been
stopped cold at the Gustav Line.

Of course, the narrowest and most
mountainous part of the peninsula.

U.S. 5th Army, British 8th
Army, stopped for five months.

At Anzio, 100,000 men sweating it out.

We couldn't move. Stalemate.

March 13th, we bombed
Cassino, our immediate objective.

Good job of bombing, didn't work.

Our infantry didn't advance.

It was the wrong use of air power.

Wrong because we were not taking advantage
of the airplane's greatest asset -

its ability to get behind the enemy.

That's what the air planners
wanted to do - get behind him.

Lt. Gen. Ira C. Eaker, commanding
all the air in the Mediterranean.

British, French, and American.

Maj. Gen. John K. Cannon, "Uncle
Joe", commanding the 12th Air Force.

And Brig. Gen. Gordon P.
Saville, 12th Tactical Air Command.

The brass upstairs who run the air war.

They said, "Let's not hit him here,"

"Let's hit him here."

"Let's isolate the battlefield."

"Let's weaken the entire German front."

By depriving it of supplies:

fuel, food, ammunition, reinforcements.

They called the plan Operation Strangle.

This is what we want to do with airplanes.

How? Lot of railroads in Italy.

This is the enemy. Keep the
trains from getting through.

Lot of rivers in Italy, and
over 700 major bridges.

We figured if a train came
to one, and it wasn't there,

be kind of tough to get across.

Medium bombers got
many of the important ones.

But bridges are long, narrow
targets. Difficult to hit and destroy.

Took a lot of trips, bombs, planes, men.

We started to use a special weapon -

a fighter bomber, the P-47 Thunderbolt.

One engine. One man. One bomb on each wing.

Extra fuel tanks for range.

65's crew chiefs taxi
from the dispersal points.

To the end of the runway.

Line up the squadron.

All the pilots have to do is climb in.

And take 'em away.

If you're a crew chief,
you've got your own P-47.

Sometimes you think of it
as your personal airplane.

The pilots, that fellow
you lend it to every day.

You let him fly around in it, and
you expect him to bring it back...

in good condition.

No bullet holes, or flak holes.

After you've been lending your
airplane to one pilot for a long time,

you get attached to him, too.

If you're a pilot, no matter what your
rank, or how many hours you've had,

what counts here is the
combat flying you've done.

Unless you've plenty, you're a
beginner. You're called a "sprog."

And you remain a sprog until
you're wise to the tricks of the trade.

After you've put a few missions
behind you, you become a "sport."

Then, with plenty of
action, 50 or 60 missions,

if you're still around, you're promoted.

You become an "old sport." A veteran.

The big shots, like Gil
Wymond, are called "wheels."

No one knows exactly why.

This fellow's a wheel
too, says so on his plane.

Maj. Richard O. Hunziker,
of Tucson, Arizona.

Got 179 missions.

Your crew chief can't go along, so you
always like to tell him what you're gonna do.

"Got a triple-threat mission today,"

"each section's going after a bridge."

"I'll come in on a course
of about 40 degrees."

"Same old thing. Go out there
and dodge around and yak yak..."

"dive bomb out of a left-hand turnabout,
then carry the bombs right on down."

"We're flying top cover on the
other two sections while they bomb,"

"and then we go in ourselves."

"Weather's supposed to be CAVU,
so maybe we'll have a good show."

All set to go,

but you don't. You wait.

You wait for five minutes.

That's the way it's planned.

Time to settle down. Relax.

You'll be busy later.

So if you've got any thinking
to do - and who hasn't?

Now is the time to do it.

"Here, hold this 'til I get back."

Takeoff is always rough.
Thunderbolt's a heavy airplane.

Besides, you've decorated
it like a Christmas tree.

Belly tank, rockets, guns,

500 pound bombs, cameras.

"Hello Breakneck, coleader here. We clear
to take the runway for a takeoff? Over."

"Roger, coleader from Breakneck.
You're clear number 1 to take off."

"Roger, Breakneck, thank you."

The mile of steel runway will
shrink to nothing under you.

Halfway down, by the
tower, you'll be committed.

That means you can't
slam on the brakes and stop.

Once you're committed, you usually go up.

First pair - Wymond and Gustafson.

First pair off. Second pair
taxis out - Goss and Burgess.

Made it okay.

Manda and Richardson.

Smith and Atwood.

C'mon, get her up.

Hickok and Morrow.

Last pair - Welbes and Hunziker.

The squadron is airborne.

Over Corsica, then out to sea on the deck.

Sixty miles east to Italy.

Flying from Corsica,
you go only sixty miles

and you're 150 miles
behind the German front.

Turn again, on that castle.

Now you're heading
north, into the mountains.

Leader section, red section, black section.

Formation flying, a
game of follow the leader.

The squadron leader, he
navigates, makes the decisions.

Doesn't tell you what to do, does it?

You follow, wing tip to wing tip.

He turns, you turn.

He climbs, you climb.

Climbing still, to 10,000,
through the clouds.

Getting close. Start
looking for the target.

Stuck down there in one of
those ravines. All look alike.

Wingman, he's back. Keep
the formation spread out.

There's a checkpoint, that
road. Follow it down to the river.

Your first bridge should be
down there... somewhere.

There it is, pass over it.

Come back and attack
from the opposite direction -

one of the tricks you've learned.

Leader section goes into
loose-string formation -

one plane behind the other.

Then, Wymond peels off.

The rest of the section
follows at 2-second intervals.

Last man goes in. No bomb sight in a P-47.

Pilot does his own aiming.

Bomb bursts from the planes
ahead. Couple of misses.

Direct hit. Hope your aim is good.

Drop your bombs.

Pull out.

They black you out for a second,
blood drains from your head.

But you're young, it comes back fast.

You're all right now.

Leader section re-forms. Top cover.

Watches red section bomb. A miss.

Another miss.

A hit.

Black section goes down.

Straddle the target.
Concussion should do the trick.

No more bombs. Still got
plenty of gas, plenty of ammo.

Go on the prowl.

Ease down on the deck.

See what you can find.

Railroad tracks.

Following tracks.

Not a bad way to find a train.

You spot one, kick her over.

Give it a few squirts, might kill somebody.

Bust the locomotive first.
Train can't move now.

Let's see what's in those boxcars.

Twelve of you, you'll all criss-cross in.

Everybody takes a few passes.

Try the cars one at a time.

Might be something
interesting in them. Usually is.

Got a burn nicely now.

Take another pass, for luck.

Strafing spreads the squadron over the sky.

Every man his own general.

Looks like we're out of trains.

Lighthouse out there...
wonder if I've got any ammo left?

Yep.

Radio station... blow out a few tubes.

Somebody in that field,
don't know who they are...

No friends of mine!

CRA vehicles parked in that farmyard.

More in back. Must be a headquarters.

Houses around look kind of suspicious...

might be something in
them. Nothing in that one.

Nothing in that one.

Could be wrong.

Nothing in -

Ah. What do you know.

Back at Alto, no one is
sweating out 65 Squadron.

66 is taking off.

No one will sweat them out
either. There are too many missions.

Nine for the day.

When you don't fly,
you've got things to do.

Try to make some sort of life for yourself.

In trying, you've improvised
an American community.

Step off the field, you're in Corsica.

Step back on, you're in America.

This is part of the war too,
the endless detail of living.

The dust is a problem. Dust is
good for the laundry business.

Hand laundry. Branches everywhere.

Community laundry. Three day service.

And, for the rugged individualist,

water supply,

pump,

heating unit,

washing machine.

The sergeant used to
sell these in New Orleans.

He's keeping his hand in.

The barber shop.

And, for the next customer,
always something to read.

Never more than a year old.

Bus line. Lunch time special.

And, for the intellectually minded,
it's time for the more serious things,

like practicing your yo-yo.

If there's anything you
want, don't ask for it. Build it.

Build as though you'll be here forever,

knowing you may get
orders to move tomorrow.

66 found this canyon,
made it their living area.

Nobody said they couldn't.

Nobody says you can't
have a house, build it.

Nobody says your squadron
can't have a beach club, build one.

Nobody says you can't dam up
a river, make a swimming hole.

This American community has everything.

When you come off your shift and
somebody else is carrying the ball,

you try to relax. Enjoy yourself.

In danger a couple hours a day.

Rest of the time, you're out of it.

Beach club's a busy place.

So is the Mediterranean.

Mussolini once called it
"Mare Nostrum", Our Sea.

But that was yesterday.

The yachtsman. An old wing tank and
a few odds and ends make quite a boat.

The crew chiefs scrounge
parts. Scrounge is polite for steal.

Scrounge them from wrecked
Jerry planes, banged-up Italian cars.

Old parachutes for sails.

They use only the best quality junk.

Sometimes when you can get
a PX ration of beer, you drink it.

Then, you look like this.

Alto's the best deal you ever had.

"The Country Club",
lot of laugh, lot of sun.

Your American community has everything...

Except the things you really want.

There are times you'd rather be
flying, than waiting around killing time.

Guess when you're flying, you don't have that
feeling of the day, the week, the month slipping by.

Slipping by and leaving you standing still.

These are your years, years to get started.

Find yourself, your job, profession.

Get married, kids, home of your own.

These are the years that count.

So, you have your picks.

To give and receive affection.

In return for affection?

C-rations, bug powder.

As always, in affairs of the heart,

some have peculiar tastes.

66 Squadron heading out.

65 Squadron heading home.

A meeting in the air comes and goes fast.

65 leader section, one plane light.

When you re-formed
after strafing, you noticed it.

Nobody saw it happen.

Maybe he spun in, maybe he bailed out.

You'll think about it later.

Now you're waiting for
that first sight of home.

That's Sirago Air Base.

That's Bavenco.

You're on your own street. Alto's
first turn to the left, three fields down.

Keep your formation tight.

When you fly over those other
outfits, you want to look good.

Show them how it's done.

Alto. Home.

You come in low, and peel up.

You peel up to reduce speed. Space
the planes 20 seconds apart for landing.

Second and third flights
go on past the field.

They'll circle back when
the first flight is down.

Drop your gear.

Second flight peels up.
Third flight'll circle again.

This is all the flying
the ground crews see.

You like to give them a kick.

Sometimes you're tired, land them rough.

It's embarrassing.

The colonel's not happy
about the flak holes.

New airplane, his crew
chief will be mighty sore.

And how will you explain this away?

Then, after the interrogation, you relax.

Grab off some doughnuts and coffee.

Jive with the Red Cross
girl who meets every mission

and fly the show all
over again on the ground.

Wymond goes back to
work at being a colonel,

'Missing in Action' report to sign.

A telegram from the war
department has to start somewhere.

By mid-April, every rail
line in Italy was blocked.

We drew a line of
interdiction across the country.

No train could move south of it.

South of it, the railroad system was dead.

But the German had to
keep the supplies moving.

Still had highways. He took to the roads.

So we took to the roads.

This is what the Germans fear most -

you don't blame them.

This is the way Rommel got it.

He isn't the only one.

When you clobber a highway,
you burn plenty of ammo.

Cyclic rate of fire - 800 rounds a minute.

You've got eight guns,
106 bullets a second.

Rockets.

Those aren't just trucks and Germans.

You're stopping ammunition
before it's fired on the 5th Army front.

And you're doing it 200
miles behind that front.

In the weeks that followed, from Corsica to
Italy was like a trip to the corner drug store.

You could do it in your sleep.

We averaged 8-9
missions a day, at the 57th.

The French flew about as many.

Lafayette Escadrille.

The 324 from the 86th over in Italy.

The 79th next door.

It was good to look up
and watch them go by.

But there were other things.

There were those pillars of smoke.

Never knew when you'd see one.

That's a wreck. A P-47's
cooking, and there's a man in it.

With a hit like this,
there's nothing to do.

Let him burn, and stay
clear of the exploding ammo.

Keep on landing. You have to.

No place to park up there.

Why did it happen? Engine cut out for
a second, 200 yards from the runway.

200 yards from home.

Flight damage might have caused it.

You'll never know for sure.

All you know is the sum
of a war is expensive.

You wish that people back
home could at least see it.

We kept up the pressure.

And by the beginning of May,
the roads were practically closed.

If one man on a motorcycle
appeared on a highway by day,

he was a dead pigeon.

The German took to the sea.

Two months after we started...

the strangle was on.

The Germans had barely
enough supplies for two weeks.

That's when our ground forces attacked.

Allied troops took Cassino.

We linked up with a beachhead at Anzio.

And in three weeks, we're in Rome.

The men on the ground pushed north.

And as they moved up, they saw
what had been done to help them -

10,000 enemy vehicles destroyed or damaged.

In every town they
took, no marshalling yard.

How many German tanks went out of business because
of the gasoline these trains never carried?

They advanced, and they saw the bridges.

How many German shells were never fired
because they couldn't get across the rivers?

The ground forces
exploited their breakthrough.

In plain language, they
shot and killed Germans.

And they ate up the country.

Almost 250 miles in one non-stop offensive.

The ground forces won a battle,
but they still had a war to fight.

And you were still flying missions.

Up from first light to last light.

Only the coming of darkness would stop you.

Only the coming of darkness would
bring the last missions home to Alto.

Then the long work day would end.

Some men hit the sack early.

And some spent another
quiet evening at the club.

Col. Wymond's Country
Club for Airplane Drivers.