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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Get outta my way,” roared McCormick as he raced the engine and honked the horn.

  At length, a group of men parted and they drew up before a gangway leading to the USS Baltimore which had moored forty minutes previously, carrying the president from San Diego. One of the newest heavy cruisers, she was the lead ship of her class displacing 13,600 tons. Mounting nine, eight-inch guns, she was painted a menacing dark gray. A soft breeze ruffled her rigging where a number of brilliant official multi-starred flags fluttered from her halyards including the flag of the commander in chief.

  Reynolds grabbed his briefcase and looked out, seeing hundreds of men crowded on the pier. Opening the door, he said, “Thanks, McCormick. I may need you later, so stick around. Park the car nearby if you can,” he waved to an ocean of neatly parked official light gray four-door Plymouths, “and go aboard and have some chow. I hear the navy bean soup is great.”

  “I hate navy bean soup. But don’t worry, Colonel. I’ll find you when you’re ready.” McCormick popped the clutch and roared off, men jumping out of the way. Thirty seconds later, he was parking just a hundred feet away in a yellow-striped area beside a fire hydrant.

  Reynolds walked up the gangway, remembering to salute the fantail and quarterdeck. The quarterdeck brass was brilliantly polished, the decks and bulkheads clean and free of rust. Wearing the same rumpled khakis he had worn since Hollandia, Reynolds felt like MacArthur’s “common bum” as he walked among flag and senior naval officers. Milling about, smoking cigarettes, and chatting casually were commanders, captains, two-star admirals in starched dress-white uniforms with rows of ribbons. Scattered among them were senior Marine and army officers also in dress uniform. Their demeanor told him the meeting was in progress, the senior flag officers most likely in the wardroom having an audience with the president. Wistfully Reynolds looked toward the head of the pier, hoping against hope that the general’s car would heave into view and put him out of his misery.

  The officer of the deck or OOD, was a lieutenant in whites with two rows of ribbons and two battle stars. A polished brass and leather telescope was tucked under his left arm. Beside the lieutenant stood the junior officer of the deck, a stocky chief bosun’s mate, with four rows of ribbons and six battle stars. “Help you, sir?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Looking for a Lieutenant Lamar.”

  “Over there, sir.” The OOD pointed to a flag lieutenant, resplendent in whites and aiguillette, engaged in conversation with a two-star admiral, two captains, and a commander. The admiral’s hands were jammed on his hips, and the two captains rolled their eyes at each other.

  “Thanks.”

  Reynolds walked over. “Lieutenant Lamar? My name’s Reynolds. I come from General MacArthur and would like to extend our--”

  “Where the hell is he?” the admiral hissed. “The president and fifteen flag officers are up there right now fidgeting and farting, waiting for your general. The meeting was supposed to begin at 1500, wasn’t it?”

  Reynolds drew up before the admiral. Overweight, his face was red and puffed with the tropical humidity. And one banal row of ribbons told Reynolds this man was a backwater administrative goldbrick. Evenly, Reynolds said, “That’s why I’m here, sir. Headwinds. Our plane was delayed and the general had to change.”

  The admiral looked him up and down. “Well, you got here, didn’t you? Couldn’t the general have the courtesy to do the same?”

  “Well, you see Admiral, it was a long flight and--”

  “And why aren’t you in uniform? This is the first time we’ve put on dress whites since the Japs hit Pearl Harbor. Seems to me the army could do the same.”

  “Well, Admiral. As I said, we just got in and--”

  Their ears picked up at a long mournful wailing sound. Then again. Sirens! Of course. Many sirens. They mixed with one another, the tones growing louder.

  “What the hell?” cursed the admiral.

  As one, the group jostled to the rail and looked forward to the direction of the commotion.

  “I’ll be damned,” muttered the admiral as the crowd on the pier parted. A pair of motorcycles rounded a bend and hove into view, their sirens screaming. Then two more rounded the curve, their sirens equally strident.

  MacArthur’s Buick thundered right behind, its red four-starred, fender-mounted flags fluttering in the breeze. The driver was hunched over the wheel, throwing the gear lever up into second to keep pace with the shrieking motorcycles. MacArthur sat alone in the backseat, corncob pipe clamped between his teeth, his Philippine marshal’s hat flapping loosely. Smartly, the motorcycles drew to a stop, the Buick right behind, exactly before the gangway, sirens winding down.

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch. You gotta give it to Dug-out-Doug for showmanship,” said a navy captain beside Reynolds.

  MacArthur hated the name. Slowly Reynolds turned his head and gave the man a steely glance worthy of a cadet just before the annual Army-Navy football game. Dug-out-Doug, indeed. Then he looked back at MacArthur with pride. Wearing his leather flight jacket and loose khakis, MacArthur looked like a fighting general, not like the pansies around here with all their damned shiny ribbons. And Reynolds suddenly felt better about his own smelly jungle-rot khakis

  The driver ran around and ripped open the door. As if on cue, the crowd began cheering. Like a bullfighter, MacArthur stood and turned slowly in each direction, waving, grinning, and nodding. The roar grew louder as he continued waving.

  “Attention to quarters,” growled the chief. “Everyone against the bulkhead, dammit, er please.” Eight side buoys fell into place on either side of the gangway, the OOD at the head, the grizzled chief at his side. Behind them hovered Lamar.

  MacArthur stepped out of the car and mounted the gangway. Halfway up he stopped, turned, and waved again to the sailors and Marines ashore. Again they roared and clapped and whistled. The general milked that one for a long time and then turned and headed toward the quarterdeck, snapping off the obligatory salutes.

  A bell rang and the ship’s PA announced,AGeneral of the Army, arriving.” With perfect tones, the bosun’s mate of the watch blew his whistle. MacArthur stepped aboard, saluting the side buoys and OOD. Lamar stepped out from behind, saluted, and accepted the general’s outstretched hand. Soon the crowd pressed in, and it seemed everyone wanted to shake hands with MacArthur. Presently, they began walking forward with Lamar leading the way, MacArthur half a step behind. Passing close to Reynolds, the general gave a nod and clapped him on the shoulder.

  Reynolds’s eyes glistened; he hadn’t felt a prouder moment.

  Someone else clapped Reynolds on the shoulder. A stocky lieutenant commander with wiry blond hair stood beside him, a lopsided grin on his face. “Owen, my guess would’ve been the general left you in New Guinea manning a machine gun.”

  “John. I’ll be damned. How the hell are you?” They saluted and shook hands.

  “Never better, Owen. You traveling with the general?”

  Reynolds made a show of looking in both directions then put a finger to his lips and said quietly, “Shhh. Military secret. Nobody’s supposed to know the general is in town.”

  They grinned. Reynolds was surprised at John Sabovik’s appearance. He looked sallow and thinner than when they’d been fraternity brothers at USC. They’d all gone into the service at graduation; Reynolds hadn’t kept up with Sabovik after that. He did learn that Sabovik was aboard the cruiser USS Tampa when she was sunk off Guadalcanal in 1942. A quick look at the two row of ribbons on Sabovik’s chest revealed two battle stars and a Purple Heart. Reynolds had his own Purple Heart and battle stars, but the custom in the services was not to wear ribbons on working uniforms. “God, it’s good to see you, John. You look great,” Reynolds lied. “Last I heard you were on the Tampa.”

  A shadow crossed Sabovik’s face. “That’s right.”

  “Where’d you go after that?”

  “I was gunnery liaison to the commandant, Twelfth Naval District, in San Francisco. So
up until six months ago, I was counting shell casings in San Francisco. “

  “You’re keeping me in suspense.”

  “Figured I’d been sitting on my ass long enough. So I finagled my way out of the shell-casing business. Transferred to ONI.” The Office of Naval Intelligence.

  “You what?”

  “Gone to school. Everything. Just got out of training at Quantico. Now I’m a spook, so look out.”

  “That’s a career move. You staying in the navy?” Reynolds was surprised. Sabovik hadn’t seemed the type to make the navy a career.

  He gave a thin smile and said, “Just got my first assignment.” He jabbed Reynolds on the chest. “And I got the goods on you, buddy, so watch it.”

  “Well, that’s one for the book. I never thought you’d be such a dedicated citizen.” He stuck out his hand, and they shook.AQuantico, huh? Bunch of Marines running around, right? They teach you how to march?”

  “Speaking of marching, you should have been here half an hour ago.” Sabovik waved a hand toward the pier. “A three-star admiral stood out there and lined up ten other admirals in a formation. He was setting them up to march aboard and present them to the president.” He nodded to sailors on the pier. “See all those guys out there?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, everybody’s watching when this three-star calls ‘right face!’ Two admirals did a left face and screwed everything up. Almost bumped into each other. Sailors and Marines out there laughed their butts off.” Sabovik gave a low exhale. “But then, I guess they can use a little comic relief. Some won’t be coming back.”

  “I’ll say.” Reynolds shook his head, then said quietly. “Sorry to hear about Tiny.”

  Sabovik looked away. “Yeah, we lost a great one, there.” His eyes glistened as he turned back to Reynolds. “You know, at the outbreak of the war, he was dating that campus slut I was pinned to?”

  “You’re kidding. Katherine O’Neil?”

  “Can you believe that? She made Tiny think he got her pregnant. Wanted him to marry her.”

  “I thought she was a movie star.”

  “Didn’t matter. She just wanted to get back at me. By this time, Tiny had made a few bucks pushing stocks. So he hired this Beverly Hills detective and the guy took all sorts of photos of Katherine O’Neil shacking with other guys.”

  “That shut her up?”

  Sabovik looked into the distance. “He even made her pay the detective’s expenses: 750 bucks. You know, for such a dumb jock, Tiny really had his head on right.”

  “Amazing.” Reynolds asked, “What’s the latest on Mike?”

  “Mike who?”

  Reynolds smiled. “Mike, Mike, you know.”

  Sabovik’s normally blue eyes turned coal black. “Owen. I don’t know anyone named Mike.”

  An exasperated Reynolds said, “Mike, dammit. Mike Donovan.”

  Sabovik braced his hands on a stanchion. “Owen, please.”

  Reynolds started to speak, but someone shouted, “Photo session up forward.”

  With Sabovik, he was swept along as men pressed toward the ship’s bow. There four chairs had been placed beneath one of the Baltimore’s eight-inch gun turrets. Reynolds and Sabovik squeezed among the officers seeing MacArthur, Roosevelt, and Nimitz in chairs. Seated with them was Admiral William D. Leahy, Roosevelt’s chief of staff. All smiled for three navy photographers, their flashbulbs popping in the midday sun.

  Reynolds gasped, “The president looks like hell.”

  “I’ll say,” Sabovik agreed. Dark bags ran under Roosevelt’s eyes. His face was thin, and his white suit draped about him like a tent. He was seated as if he’d taken his chair like everyone else. In fact, the president had polio and was confined to a wheelchair, now tucked out of sight. He was sensitive about it, and his aides did everything they could to mask the affliction.

  “Is it just you, Owen?” asked Sabovik.

  “What?” Just then, MacArthur noticed Reynolds and gave a little wave. Reynolds waved back.

  “Why isn’t General Sutherland here?” Sabovik asked. Lieutenant General Richard Sutherland was MacArthur’s chief of staff.

  President Roosevelt, his cigarette holder at a jaunty angle, looked over to MacArthur. His expression changed visibly and his face grew red as he stifled a grin. MacArthur’s fly was wide open. And the general was distracted, speaking to Vice Admiral Pye off to his right. Reynolds and Sabovik exchanged glances remembering another time when someone’s fly had been open. A very funny time.

  Roosevelt beckoned to a photographer and whispered loudly, ‘Do you see what I see? Hurry, get that shot.” He nodded to MacArthur’s crotch.

  The man fussed with his camera, screwing in a flashbulb. ‘Trying, sir.” The other two photographers were changing film.

  Roosevelt giggled. “Quick.”

  “Right.” The flashbulb set, the young photographer dropped to his knee and aimed the camera.

  MacArthur looked up and casually crossed one leg over the other, giving the president a sour look. But he made no attempt to zip up.

  The flash popped.

  “Damn,” said a grinning Roosevelt.

  “Would have been the shot of the century,” said Sabovik.

  Reynolds felt a cold rush. There would have been hell to pay if that shot had been taken. And the general would have expected Reynolds to go up there and confiscate the man’s film. “What’d you say, John?”

  “General Sutherland, why isn’t he here?”

  “We’re traveling light. And they needed someone back in Hollandia to mind the store. So I was elected. Now let me ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “Good question.” Sabovik looked around. “You hear about Port Chicago?”

  Even though it was classified TOP SECRET, Sabovik had seen dispatches. In fact, he’d briefed the general on it just before they took off for their flight to Hawaii. “Of course. That in your bailiwick?”

  “Yes, I’m here to brief CinCPac and the president.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  Sabovik scratched his head and lowered his voice. “We’re trying to put it together. Five days ago, a Liberty ship exploded while loading ammo at ten thirty at night. All we know is that there was a big bang on the pier. That was bad enough but then six seconds later, the ship blew sky-high. It was an enormous explosion. They felt the shock in San Francisco, all right. Even as far away as in Boulder City, Nevada. Vaporized another Liberty moored across the pier. And she hadn’t even loaded yet.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Place looks like a wasteland. Whole damn pier is gone, poof, just disappeared. Buildings smashed flat. Boxcars and trucks thrown hundreds of yards. Ships vaporized. They found a 150-foot section of the Bryan’s keel 1,000 feet away, facing the opposite direction. All that remains of anything else is melted chunks of metal, nothing larger than a suitcase.

  “And get this. A C-47 was flying over at the time at about nine-thousand feet. The flight crew saw the flash of the explosion in the overcast below.”

  “Yes?”

  “They didn’t know what was down there. Only that the place lit up brighter than day. And then suddenly, white-hot chunks, the size of automobiles, were whizzing up out of the clouds past them like giant Roman candles.”

  There was a prolonged silence as Reynolds tried to digest it all. “How many...”

  “Killed? As far as we know, well over three hundred.”

  “Any idea what caused it?”

  “Well, let’s just say that I’m on a team investigating the disaster. My angle is sabotage.”

  “You think the Japs did it?”

  Sabovik shook his head. “Don’t know. And after seeing Port Chicago, I have no idea how we’re going to figure anything out. I mean, it’s like a five-hundred-foot-tall giant jumped up and down on everything. It’s all smashed. Nothing recognizable within a thousand yards. Right now I’m just following orders.”
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  Looking off to his right, MacArthur once more spoke to Vice Admiral Pye. Both of his feet were again planted on the deck, his open fly exposed.

  Casually, Roosevelt waved at the photographer and smiled mischievously. “Quick, quick, get that shot.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  27 July, 1944

  Commanding Officer’s Quarters No. 5

  U.S. Army Fort Schafter

  Oahu, Territory of Hawaii

  Fighting a time lag extending over four time zones, Owen Reynolds crawled out of bed early the next morning, a Wednesday. He’d barely wolfed breakfast when a White House staffer called over to ruin his day. Reynolds immediately forgot the man’s name, only that he had a squeaky voice and reminded Owen that the agenda called for the president, accompanied by admirals Nimitz and Leahy, and General MacArthur, to tour military installations that morning. The expectation was to wind it up with a parade through Honolulu as if they were grand marshals in the Pasadena Rose Parade.

  “Late last night, we discovered the army has provided the president with an enclosed, olive-drab limousine. Not good,” Squeaky Voice went on to remonstrate. “The president prefers visibility. He wants an open touring car. What can we do about it?”

  “I’ll look into it.” Owen smashed down the phone and counted to ten. Then he started making calls. He discovered there were only two open touring cars available on Oahu. One was a sedate seven-passenger car owned by the madam of Honolulu’s largest whorehouse. The other, belonging to Honolulu’s fire chief, was a smaller, bright red five-passenger Buick.

  Owen Reynolds and Squeaky Voice collectively decided that discretion dictated the President use the red Buick. Thus the morning tour began with Admiral Leahy climbing in front beside the driver. Stuffed in the Buick’s backseat were three of the most powerful men on the planet: Admiral Chester Nimitz, General Douglas MacArthur, and the president of the United States, who waved and grinned to the crowd while puffing mightily on a cigarette jammed in a silver holder.