During the first two years of the war nobody had a very good idea of what life on the battle-fronts was like,--least of all the Hollywood cellulords. So they turned out a flock of films with closely contrived plots about fifth columnists and secret bomb sights and Madeleine Carroll. Some of them were good and some bad, but none had more than a vague notion of mechanized warfare. Now that we are beginning to build up a photographic record of this second World War, Hollywood is giving forth with a new kind of fight film. "Eagle Squadron" is one of the first of this second crop.

The plot is strictly for pancakes: American boy in Yankee Division learns that British aren't really cold and unemotional when they grin and bear it; war plus Diana Barrymore teach Robert Stack that there is something bigger than individual emotionalism. Yes, the plot is corn syrup, but it doesn't matter at all. It doesn't matter because, for the first time, we see fleets of Spitfires fighting German Messerschmidts; we see two thousand horse power bombers with three ton bombs tucked away in their bellies; we see a frightening, new version of "Hell's Angels." All this runs throughout the picture. Then, to top it off,--the lemon peel on the cocktail of filmdom--there is a Commando raid on a German airfield. Instead of cowboys, you have grim-faced soldiers dressed in black from head to foot; instead of wild western ponics and twirling six-shooters, you have tanks, motorcycles, hand grenades, sub-machine guns.

This new type of war film is drama that speaks for itself. Whenever the script tries to compete with the action photography there is a momentary embarrassment that is meant to send tingles up and down your spine. You'll squirm through some of the dialogue, but it will be well worth it to see the action.

"You're Telling Me," featuring unfunny Hugh Herbert, is better finessed. I'm telling you.