A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  He rolled his legs out of the bunk, plopped bare feet on the cold deck, and cradled his head in the hands, running fingers through thick, sandy hair. “Sorry, Rafferty. Feels like I just fell asleep.” Commander Mike Donovan reached to his desk and switched on the light. The clock read 0541. He’d been asleep for six hours. Yet he felt like a zombie.

  “Mr. Jenkins says to tell you we have,” Rafferty held up a crumpled slip of paper and read, “re-orientated the formation to a bent-line screen and have increased speed to twenty-two knots.” Rafferty studied Donovan for a moment to make sure it had sunk in. “We will be taking our refueling station in ten minutes, sir-uh Captain.”

  Usually an officer would report such an evolution. But many of the McDermott’s officer’s were dead. They had been up on the bridge just over four weeks ago when the five-hundred-kilogram bomb smacked into the destroyer. Among those killed was the captain, Mario Rossi, a hotheaded, gum-chewing, lovable little Italian. Donovan and Rossi had crossed swords many times, but they respected each another deeply. Mario was gone, along with the operations officer, communications officer, gunnery officer, fire control officer, CIC officer, and twenty-six enlisted. The whole area was a jumble of bent steel, wood, cork, and rotting flesh. In Majuro Lagoon, they’d only been able to pull out three of the fifteen bodies trapped in the pilothouse and director. Since then, Donovan had been running the ship from secondary conn between the forty-millimeter gun tubs amidships on the 01 level. And now, they were headed home for the States via Pearl Harbor with three other destroyers, the carrier Alliance, battleship Tennessee and light cruiser St. Louis.

  He looked up. Rafferty had called him Captain. “Okay, Rafferty. Thanks.” He tried to grin. “Give the officer of the deck my compliments. Tell him I’ll be up soon.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rafferty started for the hatchway.

  “Rafferty?”

  “Sir?” He turned.

  Donovan managed to broaden his grin. “Can we highline okay?”

  Boatswain’s mate first class Rafferty’s mouth turned up at the mention of familiar territory. Highlining was his bailiwick. “Equipment is all there, Captain. But they still can’t repair the forward fueling trunks. So we’ll highline forward and take fuel aft. Is that okay, sir?”

  “Looks like we have to do it that way. All right, thanks.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rafferty lumbered through the curtain, drawing it shut quietly. Thirty-two letters to write. Damn. Have to get started before we reach Pearl. Despite their arguments, Rossi had been like his big brother; the other officers, his little brothers. Most of the enlisted he knew-they were brothers, also. Donovan reminded himself that was why he picked destroyers. They were small, fast, maneuverable, hard-hitting ships crewed by over three hundred officers and men. Living in tight quarters, they knew one another intimately. Secrets flashed about the ship in milliseconds. Weaknesses became impurities. Inevitably, impurities were purged by shipmates, sometimes painfully, and suddenly like reknit bones, impurities became strong-points. An amazing process, thought Donovan. Everybody knew everybody. And on destroyers, demarcations between officers and enlisted were vague. But then, he reflected, you can get to know someone too well, officer or enlisted. Like now, with Rafferty, it was almost an algebraic equivalent: knowing Rafferty, becoming friends with Rafferty will equal pain. Because eventually, Rafferty will die. And that hurts. Of course, Donovan mused, if it’s me that dies, it doesn’t matter. No pain for me, maybe some for Rafferty.

  When are you going to learn your lesson, Donovan? Getting to know your men makes it tougher when you see them die. Now you’re nodding and smiling at Rafferty as if he were sitting across from you at Thanksgiving dinner. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

  He thought he’d learned his lesson after the Tampa went down more than two years ago. That time, he had to write forty-seven letters and meet personally seven family members. Several wrote back, most of the letters complimentary. Two were not and that hurt. Forget them. It’s over. Let the dead bury the dead. But then he remembered that he’d soon be in San Francisco to take command of a new destroyer. How you going to be a good CO if you can’t sleep? Nightmares. Shit.

  He looked again at the papers in his in-basket. A three-page set of orders had arrived while they sat at anchor in Majuro Lagoon: orders to report to the commander of the Mare Island Naval Shipyard in San Francisco Bay to assume duties as the commanding officer of the USS Matthew, (DD 548), a naval officer’s dream.Captain.

  Donovan stood to his five-eleven height, walked to his wash-basin and ran water over his neck and wrists. At 180 pounds, he wasn’t muscle-bound but he had a well-defined build. A scar from that night aboard the Tampa ran across his right shoulder blade. Taking twenty-two stitches, it hadn’t healed well and on occasion, it still itched and burned, especially on sleepless nights.

  Dabbing a towel to his face, he could feel course and speed changes in the way the McDermott pitched into the troughs, the way her deck vibrated. The McDermott’s engineering plant was doing all right; not bad for a destroyer with mangled topsides. It was a twinengine Betty bomber that came out of the sun one morning. She must have taken off from one of the nearby Guam airfields they figured. After a mind-numbing blast, the ship caught fire and flames burned out the pilot house, radio central, CIC, and the wardroom. For a while, one end of the ship was cut off from the other as the McDermott burned like a Viking funeral pyre. Donovan was worried they would lose her. And her chief engineer, Fred Jenkins, was shaking his head while they frantically worked the fire. But they had finally doused it after nine exhausting hours. When it was over, at least thirty-two men were dead; four more were horribly burned, but they pulled through after transferring to a hospital ship in Majuro Lagoon.

  That damn ache gnawed at his belly as he bent to tie his shoes. A tingle at first, but he’d been feeling it more and more. Dammit. Of all the things going on, now there was something else to worry about.

  * * * * *

  “Capn’onnabridge”, howled Rafferty in his southern accent. It took several weeks for one to get used to Rafferty’s accent. Once accomplished, one knew this meant “Captain is on the bridge.”

  But the bridge was wiped out. So Donovan climbed to the 01 level and walked up to the secondary conning platform. They were well into dawn, but stars still bore through the blackness overhead, and a full moon was setting off their starboard quarter. Easily distinguished were the hulking silhouettes of the three other destroyers charging toward the Hawaiian Islands in a bent-line screen with the fleet aircraft carrier Alliance (CV 35) plowing three thousand yards behind. Stationed one thousand yards on either beam of Alliance were the battleship Tennessee, (BB 43) and light cruiser St. Louis, (CL 49). It was a ragtag formation of wounded ducks headed for repairs. The Tennessee had been hit by a shore battery in the opening days of the invasion of Tinian; the St. Louis lost her number three propeller and shaft later the same day, thus limiting the formation’s speed to the St. Louis’s best of twenty-two knots.

  Their speed brought a strong blast of relative wind over the starboard bow and ruffled their hair and clothes. But it wasn’t enough to blot the occasional odor of burned paint, wood, and human flesh that drifted back from the wrecked pilot-house.

  Lieutenant Frederick Jenkins, his thin frame tucked in a light windbreaker, was outlined against a starry morning sky. Since Donovan had been elevated to Skipper, Jenkins was promoted to executive officer but, for now he was officer of the deck during this watch.

  “Morning, Captain,” said Jenkins.

  Damn, it flowed over their lips so easily. Captain. “Morning, Fred. All set?”

  Jenkins gave a rundown on the ship’s status, then pointed to a searchlight jury rigged to the torpedo director platform on the forward stack. A signalman clicked it furiously. “Morning flight ops are imminent.”

  “Probably means we’re number one to refuel,” said Donovan.

  “I hope so.” Jenkins glanced at Donovan, his brow knit.

  “Yes, I’
ve decided.”

  “Sir?”

  “Please announce at morning quarters that we’ll have burial at sea for the three men in the locker.” During their underway time en-route to Pearl, they’d cut a lot of junk away and tossed it over the side, uncovering three corpses in the process.

  Jenkins sighed. They’d agonized with the decision of taking the three dead to Hawaii for burial. Right now, the corpses, sewn in canvas bags, were stored in the meat locker below the mess desk.

  “I think it’s the right thing, Captain.”

  “Let’s make it right for them. Officers in clean working khakis. Six-man honor guard in summer whites. The whole crew will be in clean dungarees except those on watch, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like to heave to, but we can’t of course.”

  “Nossir.”

  They looked up to watch two F6F Hellcats take off from the Alliance in the early dawn. Beginning their morning combat air patrol, the single-seat fighters winged toward them and growled overhead fifty feet off the deck. Then they pulled up sharply, their exhaust stacks belching flame as they clawed for altitude.

  Too bad we can’t have a choir for the ceremony,” said Jenkins.

  “Ummm.”

  “I ever tell you I sang in the naval academy choir, XO, er I mean, Captain?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Craziest thing I ever did. Really enjoyed it . But then my grades went to hell. So I had to quit.” He turned to Donovan. “You ever do anything like that, Skipper?”

  “No. Don’t think I ever did. Well, maybe just once...”

  * * * * *

  In 1936, the first week in November was eagerly anticipated at the University of Southern California. It was the height of football season and it was homecoming week, which was celebrated with the annual Trojan Festival. That was capped off Thursday night with songs and production numbers performed on Bovard Auditorium’s large stage.That year the program consisted of fifteen living groups, and the Delta Phi Theta fraternity was scheduled second from the last to perform. It had turned cold, and the men shuffled nervously around the back-stage door, waiting to be called. To break the tension, Mike Donovan had hauled a keg down in his car.

  John Sabovik’s younger brother, Alexander Sabovik, now a freshman pledge for Delta Phi Theta, was the one who carried it in and stashed it in the bushes. Unlike Mike Donovan or John Sabovik, who’d missed the cut for USC football, Alexander Sabovik was one of the most promising members of the team and had played varsity second string right away. At six-four, 255 pounds, Alexander was nicknamed “Tiny.” And when John and Mike were unable to extricate themselves from predicaments, young Tiny was always nearby to take care of business. Never angry, he merely used his vast muscle to pin an opponent against a fence or wall until things calmed down. And he did it while flashing his toothless grin -- he’d lost two front teeth in football -- and talking to someone else, in most cases a sheet-white John or Mike Donovan who was picking himself off the ground.

  With the keg in place, Tiny became the pledge-class hero and the brothers were liberally imbued with the stuff by show time. Upon their cue, the forty-six brothers of Delta Phi Theta, wearing matching blazers, ties, and dark slacks, lined up on stage in three ranks. In the front rank were fourteen seniors, including Mike Donovan, Owen Reynolds, and John Sabovik. Tiny’s hulking mass was evident in the third rank. After a pause, house president John stepped out and led them in a deep, rhythmic piece called “Delta Phi Drums.” Practice after practice, John had screamed at them for their meandering harmonics. But tonight their voices were beautifully reengineered by Donovan’s keg. As the piece ended, the audience roared and stomped and clapped their approval.

  John turned, gave a deep bow, and stepped back to blend into center rank between Donovan and Reynolds. On Sabovik’s cue, the Delta Phis bowed. As they rose, Mike Donovan looked over the judges seated in the front row: two professors and three senior students. One of the student judges was a drama major, a knockout redhead named Katherine O’Neil. She caught Mike’s eye and gave a sultry smile.

  “Psst.” Donovan elbowed John Sabovik.

  Looking quickly from side to side, Katherine winked and shot a subtle thumbs up. “Holy cow,” whispered Sabovik. “We got it made.”“I’d say so,” said Donovan. How could it be otherwise? Kitty O’Neil and John Sabovik were pinned. In fact, Sabovik had borrowed Donovan’s fraternity pin to do the job. He’d lost his own. And he hadn’t bothered to reimburse Donovan for it.

  Fifteen minutes later, the program was over and the Delta Phis were summoned on stage along with two other fraternities for the trophy presentation. The lights came down and a hush fell over the crowd as Professor Rhedd, head of the Speech Department, solemnly mounted the steps to the stage. Paper thin with a wisp of a mustache, Rhedd was flanked in a tight spotlight by Katherine O’Neil and Lee Ann Bates, another bombshell student judge from the Drama Department. One glance at Katherine’s face told Donovan what he wanted to know. They had won. My God, he thought, Kitty might be a man-killer, but she would be terrible at poker.

  In a voice cultured by years of practicing with a pencil clamped between his teeth, Professor Rhedd announced the third-place winner and then the second-place. The crowd cheered as Rhedd tried to announce Delta Phi’s Theta’s first place. Gamely, he did his best to shout over them while retaining a semblance of his stage voice. Finally he gave up and nodded to Katherine O’Neil, who handed the trophy to a grinning John Sabovik.

  The roar crescendoed as the brothers of Delta Phi Theta lifted Sabovik to their shoulders. Suddenly the crowd roared even louder. Sabovik responded, shaking the gleaming Troy Week trophy over his head. The crowd roared again, many pointing as a victorious John Sabovik waved the trophy in the air with one hand and pumped a fist with the other.

  Katherine O’Neil looked back. Then she threw her hands over her eyes, her face turning red. Rhedd and LeeAnn Bates looked back.

  “Oh, dear,” said Professor Rhedd, covering his mouth.

  The crowd cheered louder.

  Donovan stepped out of ranks and looked. “Shit!”

  Owen Reynolds peeked around and started laughing.

  Then Tiny looked and broke into his toothless grin.

  Perched on his brothers’ shoulders, John Sabovik’s fly was wide open for the whole world to see. The more they cheered and roared, the more he waved the trophy and pumped his fist.

  * * * * *

  In retrospect, it was the best thing ever to happen to Sabovik. Two days later, a thoroughly embarrassed Katherine O’Neil returned John Sabovik’s fraternity pin, which he promptly misplaced.

  After graduation that spring, Katherine O’Neil marched out to Hollywood, where she’d been vowing to go since completing puberty in the seventh grade. She went on a slash-and-burn path leading across a number of casting couches. Plying her skills, she carved out a modest career playing leads in B-westerns and horror movies.

  John Sabovik kept forgetting to return Mike Donovan’s fraternity pin. Careers were on their minds, and, with the economy in such terrible shape, both signed up for an officer candidate program in the U.S. Navy; they were commissioned ensigns by latter 1937.

  Claiming seasickness, Owen Reynolds joined the army.

  Tiny graduated three years later, in 1940, having made All-American. Instead of going pro, Tiny joined the Beverly Hills office of Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Bean, becoming a retail stockbroker. Right away, Tiny’s boss sent him to Dr. Sideman, a Beverly Hills dentist to the stars, who fixed Tiny up with a beautiful set of false front teeth. Tiny’s USC football career led to a number of contacts in the movie studios, and by the time the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, he’d already made over a half million dollars.

  * * * * *

  The wind freshened, whipping at everyone’s clothes. For sunrise, the ship was at general quarters. Men in the gun tubs and the conning platform walked in place, stamping their feet, looking east into the golden dawn and th
e promise of Hawaii and, beyond that, home.

  Donovan looked aft to the Alliance. Her signal light winked at them. “Here we go,” he said. Then he stood up in the gun-tub platform, taking the full force of the wind. Definitely, a feel of land, and relief, and relaxation began to grip them. The Marianas business had just about pitched him over. But after burial-at-sea ceremonies this afternoon, he’d be done with it. The pain gnawed in his belly and he massaged it a bit, wondering if he could ever get rid of the stench that drifted from the McDermott’s bridge or, worse, from the nightmare of the Tampa that now beckoned from six hundred fathoms down in Iron Bottom Sound.

  CHAPTER TWO

  22 July 1944

  Imperial Japanese Navy heavy cruiser Atago

  Lingga Roads, Java Sea

  An oppressive haze hung over Lingga Roads, a vast equatorial anchorage in the Java Sea. The decadent temptations of Singapore lay forty kilometers to the north, where today the sweltering heat had soared to forty degrees Celsius. This evening it was only twenty-nine, the humidity still oppressive. Chain-lightning sparkled on the eastern horizon, as a quarter moon glimmered on thirty-two anchored warships. Hulking among them were the largest warships ever built, the battleships Yamato and Musashi, pride of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Their eighteen-inch guns were capable of hurling a thirty-two hundred pound projectile twenty-three miles, but tonight the ships were completely darkened, asleep, and tucked well inside anti-submarine nets. Even so, little sub chasers scurried about Lingga’s porous entrances, making sure American submarines couldn’t creep in.

  Near the center of the fleet lay the flagship Atago, a cruiser of 9,850 tons, her silhouette discernible from no more than three hundred. Water gently slapped her boot topping. She looked at rest, like a coyote sleeping in its lair, its snout tucked under a paw.