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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Things went generally well but the day couldn’t end fast enough as far as Reynolds was concerned. He just wasn’t used to being an aide-Bthat was General Sutherland’s job. But they got through the day without incident, leaving Reynolds free for the evening party. Reynolds looked forward to his first stiff bourbon in six months while someone else worried about whether General Whackety-Whack preferred scotch or gin. The party was to begin with a cocktail hour attended by a number of senior officers from around town--stand-ins--really. After the stand-ins were “…excused,” there would be a dinner with just ten flag officers. Then the flag officers were to be “excused,” the evening capped by a strategy meeting among FDR, Leahy, Nimitz and MacArthur. Beside a recording secretary, no one else was invited.

  * * * * *

  The cream-colored stucco mansion was on Kalakaua Avenue overlooking Waikiki’s rolling surf. Belonging to Christopher R. Holmes, a millionaire friend of FDR’s, it was perfectly laid out to view the golden sunset that greeted Owen Reynolds as he mounted the steps and walked through the ornate front entrance. Voices and laughter beckoned from the living room, but he paused for a moment before a six-foot gold-framed mirror, removed his garrison cap, straightened his tie, and checked the rest of his summer khaki uniform. Satisfied, he stepped in, finding the smoke-filled room jammed with uniforms from all the branches. Large French doors opened on to a patio where more uniforms gathered. A number of women were in attendance, some in uniform, others in evening wear; all were surrounded by officers vying for attention.

  Roosevelt sat in a large armchair by the fireplace, chatting and grinning at three Marine fighter pilots and a redheaded navy nurse. All fidgeted in the presence of their commander-in-chief except one Marine, who handed his drink to another and began dogfighting with his hands, cheeks puffing with exploding noises as he went. The president’s guffaw ranged across the room as Reynolds continued the quest for his bourbon.

  “Looking for the bar?” It was John Sabovik. “Army guys never did learn how to find a fueling station.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Come on. Orientation exercise.”

  Looking at Sabovik’sdrink, Reynolds said drily,ALooks like I have some catching up.”

  They pulled up before the crowd at the bar and Reynolds asked, “Done your brief on the explosion yet?”

  “Ummm, late this afternoon.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “They were as shocked as everyone else. The president especially. He got red in the face. For a while there, I thought he was going to shoot the messenger. He was pretty levelheaded with me. MacArthur and Nimitz, too. But collectively, they are really pissed.”

  “I don’t blame them.”

  “They’re giving the investigation top priority. Right there on the spot, they put me in charge of the West Coast investigation team. And they’re giving it the whole works. FBI, everybody.”

  “Wow. Congratulations. Pretty good for the new guy on the block.”

  “I know, scares the hell out of me, I tell you.”

  “But West Coast? You think this is a nationwide plot? Japs? Nazis?”

  They reached the bar, and Sabovik stood aside. “Have to consider that possibility.” He let Reynolds pass. “After all, we have to--”

  Reynolds was puzzled. Sabovik’s face was growing red. “What is it, John?”

  Sabovik’s lips pressed together and turned white.

  Reynolds spun. A man stood there, a drink in his hand. A navy commander, he had two rows of battle ribbons and his smile was...fading as quickly as John’s. Then it hit him. “Mike. Sonofabitch, Mike Donovan, how the hell are you?” Reynolds thrust out a hand.

  Mike Donovan’s dark blue eyes darted from Reynolds to Sabovik. Quickly his expression matched that of Sabovik. “Owen,” Donovan said softly, still looking at Sabovik.

  Reynolds felt as if he were standing on Guadalcanal’s Bloody Ridge between a BAR-armed Marine and a Japanese charging with a samurai sword. Strange, he thought, since the three of them were very close. “Mike? What the hell?”

  Sabovik spun and disappeared into the crowd.

  Donovan looked unfocused for a moment, then said evenly, “Owen, good to see you.” They shook.

  “Mike...I don’t understand.” Reynolds waved at the crowd where Sabovik had gone.

  Donovan gave a polite cough and said, “You look thin as hell, Owen. Doesn’t the Army feed you?”

  “New Guinea. Being at the end of the food chain means you eat scraps, even if you are on the general’s staff.”

  “General’s staff. I thought you went infantry.”

  “I did, then I got shot up on Bougainville. Took a bullet right in my butt.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Whose staff are you on?”

  Just then a hand reached from a curtain and tapped Reynolds on the shoulder. Douglas MacArthur leaned in from the dining room and said, “Sorry to interrupt, Owen. Would you please be so good as to run the slide projector for me tonight?”

  “Glad to, General,” said Reynolds. “Oh, please say hello to a friend of mine, Mike Donovan.”

  MacArthur reached out and shook warmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Commander.” Noting Donovan’s battle stars, he added, “Whose navy are you in?”

  “Yours, I believe, General. I’m en route to San Francisco to take command of the USS Matthew, a new destroyer. After a shakedown, we’re to join Admiral Kinkaid and the Seventh Fleet in New Guinea.”

  “Well then, welcome, son.”

  “Thank you, sir. My pleasure.”

  MacArthur paused, and Reynolds knew it was time to fill in details. “Mike and I grew up in Southern California. He went to Van Nuys High and I went to North Hollywood High. Our football teams were archenemies.” He winked at Donovan.

  Donovan grinned. “I was the quarterback for Van Nuys. Score was tied for the big game at seven-seven with two minutes to go. We were on their thirty. I threw a pass. Owen intercepted it and ran it all the way back. I’ll never forgive him.”

  “I see. Who won the game?” asked MacArthur.

  Reynolds smiled. Donovan shrugged.

  The corners of MacArthur’s mouth turned up. “Still playing it over in your minds, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” both responded.

  “Ummm. And then you”--he nodded to Reynolds—“went to USC and you, Commander, went to...”

  “...USC,” said Donovan. “We were too small to play varsity football, but we did play intramural. This time, as friends. We were in the same fraternity.”

  “Perfect. It’s the stuff great officers are made of.“ MacArthur stuck out his hand. “Welcome to SOWESPAC, son. Please let me know if I can do anything for you.” The general walked away.

  “You’re working for him?” asked Donovan.

  “Indirectly. I work for General Willoughby, his intelligence aide.”

  Donovan nodded to the ribbons on Reynold’s chest, the Purple Heart among them. “That happened on Bougainville?”

  “Well, let’s just say I won’t be playing football for a while.”

  “Come on, dammit.”

  Reynolds shrugged. “Jap ambush. Got my head down but I couldn’t get my butt down far enough.”

  “You really were shot in the ass?”

  “You have two choices when flat on the ground and fired upon. Either your head or your ass. You can’t get both down at the same time. Which would you pick?”

  Donovan grinned. “It’s not what you say. It’s the way you say it.”

  “It only hurts when I laugh,” said Reynolds. “You’d be surprised at everything your ass muscles do for you. I can’t run and sometimes I have trouble standing. That means I can’t go back to the infantry. So instead of getting out, I went to intelligence school. Now I’m a staffer and that’s it.”

  “Not bad. Combat experience helps, I’ll bet.”

  “It really does.”

  “But you could have gotten a medical discharge, right?”

  Reynolds shrugged. “They offered me one. But then I t
hought about Tiny.”

  Donovan looked down.

  Why the hell should I sit around on my dead butt when Tiny is... is”--he waved toward the Pacific—“...still out there?”

  Donovan gazed in the distance.

  “Sorry, it must have been rough for you and John, being on the same ship and all.”

  “It was.”

  “Is that what’s at the bottom of this?”

  “Owen, I’m famished. You want to go have dinner?”

  Reynolds was mystified. “Mike, is there anything I can do?”

  Donovan met his gaze. “Let me buy your dinner. You name the place.”

  Reynolds downed his bourbon. “All right, dammit. But I’ve got a better idea. Remember, I have to run the slides for General MacArthur?”

  * * * * *

  President Roosevelt, generals MacArthur and Richardson, admirals Leahy and Nimitz and six other admirals were inside dining on a specialty dish prepared by Admiral Nimitz’s cook. Alone on the veranda were Owen Reynolds and Mike Donovan, watching the luminescent surf crash seventy-five feet away. They sat at a table, under an umbrella that stirred with the soft evening breeze.

  “Troy Week,”sniffed Reynolds.AHow’d we ever make it through all that nonsense?” They’d been reliving their days at USC.

  “Beats me,” sighed Donovan pushing away a plate. “Ummm, that was great Owen.” He sipped wine. “What do you call it?”

  “Mahi, mahi.”

  “Never had it before.” He relished the fact that they’d been served the same meal as the president.

  Donovan sounded glum, and Reynolds wondered why. There was no moon and the night was dark. With the house blacked out, it was hard to read his face.

  A curtain rustled. A white-coated Navarro stepped out and walked over to Reynolds. In a heavily accented Filipino voice, he said, “General MacArthur sends his respects, Colonel, and asks if you can be ready in five minutes?”

  Reynolds replied, “Tell the general the equipment is all set, Navarro, and so am I. Also, please add our thanks for the fine meal.”

  “I will do that, sahr.” Navarro turned and left.

  Reynolds sipped and said, “Damn, this wine is good. A taste of home, I’d forgotten what it was like.”

  “Few and far between,” agreed Donovan, smacking his lips.

  “So, you still haven’t told me what happened,” asked Reynolds.

  A wave pounded as Donovan looked into the anthracite sky. “It happened on the Tampa.”

  “When?”

  “The night she was blown out from under us. Tiny’s birthday, November 30, 1942. Right off Guadalcanal, Lunga Point.”

  Donovan looked up. “John Sabovik has vowed to kill me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  27 July, 1944

  Holmes Residence

  Honolulu T.I.

  A ship’s horn hooted mournfully in the distance as a wave cracked, shooting a white-luminescent water column fifteen feet in the air. Stars raged overhead in a clear, moonless sky as the odor of drying reef, salt, and decaying kelp drifted across the lawn. An exhausted Donovan sipped lemon-flavored ice water and lowered the cut-crystal glass, hoping Reynolds couldn’t see the moisture gathered under his eyes. At length, he risked putting up his hand and wiped it away. Another wave pounded and he managed, “We thought we knew it all. Everything gleaming, the Tampa just out of overhaul with a bunch of new stuff: fire control radar, TBS, CIC. In fact, we didn’t know our ass’ from a hot rock...”

  “So the Japs came in swinging hard.”

  “Surprised the hell out of us and kicked our butts.”

  “How?”

  “Torpedoes.” Donovan shook his head. “We were so stupid. We were firing smokeless gunpowder, you know, the stuff used for daytime shooting. Every time we fired, we lit up the night like it was Hollywood and Vine.”He sniffed.AHell, what a target we were. A kid could have hit us with a slingshot at twenty thousand yards. So His Imperial Majesty sends two torpedoes into us. One opened up a fuel bunker and sprayed fuel oil all over the place. Now we’re lit up like a bon fire. With that, the Nips poured the six- and eight-inch into us. Tiny was in the number three turret. They were firing pretty good when a powder case cooked off inside. That was it... they were incinerated... “

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “Yes.” Donovan gulped more water.

  “Mike, dammit. This is ripping you up. How can you command a ship?”

  “Um. Compared to this, commanding a ship is easy, believe it or not. This has stayed with me.”

  “Why? What’s different?”

  Donovan waved a hand in the dark.

  Reynolds leaned over and slapped Donovan on the knee. “Mike, dammit, you know better. It’s not your fault.”

  The living room curtain rustled and Navarro stepped outside, his white coat as luminescent as the waves. “They’re ready, sahr,” he said in his Philippine accent.

  “On my way, Navarro.” Reynolds stood and said to Donovan, “Lend a hand?”

  “In there? With the president and...”

  “You bet. Come on. You’ll meet Art Lamar, Nimitz’s aide.”

  “Lamar? I’m supposed to see him tomorrow. All right. I’ll try anything once. Just don’t blame me if we’re busted.” Donovan rose, and they walked toward the house.

  Reynolds said, “What I’m trying to tell you, Mike, is to let it go.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” Donovan said. “But I have to live with it. It was me who gave the order for Tiny to be in that gun turret. John wanted him in operations. I wanted him in the gunnery department. We played a sort of tug-of-war, friendly competition. The captain bought my story and... Tiny ended up in the aft gun turret.”

  “Did you pull the trigger for the round that hit the mount?”

  “Come on, Owen.”

  “Of course not. Some Jap did. So go take it out on them, not yourself, dammit.” Reynolds, swept aside the curtain. It was a light lock; he stepped through another curtain into the living room, now dimly lit. A Secret Service agent wearing a .45 caliber pistol in a shoulder holster was seated behind a card table, stamping documents. He ran his eyes over them for a moment, then went back to his stamping.

  Donovan shook his head. “I know, I know. It’s just that John--”

  “--Did he really say that that he wanted to kill you? I mean that doesn’t sound like John.”

  “You’re telling me. But he did say that. It was two days later, aboard a hospital ship anchored in Tulagi. He walked up to me and said, ‘don’t get too comfortable, Mike. Because I’m going to kill you for what you did to Tiny.’ Then he walked off. That’s the last time we spoke. He flew out the next day. All the letters I sent have been returned unopened.”

  “Damn, I better talk to him.”

  “You know where to find him?”

  “Not until yesterday. He told me he’s in the intelligence business now, working for ONI.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Don’t know.” Reynolds stroked his chin. “But then I’m in the intelligence business, too. And I work for a guy who knows how to break barriers and get answers.” He pitched a thumb over his shoulder toward the room where General MacArthur was meeting.

  They eased past two Marine guards and walked into a darkened butler’s pantry. Three carts were lined up, one with a sixteen-millimeter movie projector, another with the loudspeaker, and the third with a slide projector, film, and paraphernalia stacked on the shelves beneath. Lieutenant Lamar was there with a flashlight.

  “All set, Art?” said Reynolds.

  Fussing with extension cords, Lamar looked up.

  “Say hello to Mike Donovan,” said Reynolds.

  Lamar flashed a quick smile and whispered, “Of the USS Matthew?” They shook.

  “McDermott now, Matthew later. I believe we meet tomorrow afternoon,” said Donovan.

  “Yes, sir.” Lamar gave Reynolds a quick glance and said in a low voice, “Right, Colonel. Cognac has
been poured; they’re just starting. Are your slides organized the way you want them?”

  “Yes. And the gouge over on that table is for you.”

  “Okay.” Lamar opened the door.

  Voice drifted in. Roosevelt was saying, “

  “Well, Douglas, where do we go from here?”

  “Leyte, Mr. President,” MacArthur replied, “We land right here in Leyte Gulf. Once secured, we can easily take Luzon and Manila.” They heard a cracking sound, like a pointer slapping a blackboard.

  Reynolds elbowed Donovan and whispered. “We keep our heads down, got it? Like flies on a wall.”

  “Got it.” Donovan stepped behind the cart with the slide projector.

  Lamar hunched over the cart with the loudspeaker. “Psst! Go,” he whispered.

  They shoved the carts into a large room where one wall was dominated by a large

  world map. Roosevelt smoked a cigarette. Admirals Nimitz and Leahy were seated comfortably in rattan chairs. MacArthur stood before the map directing a long wooden pointer toward the Philippines. A chief petty officer sat in a corner with a stenography machine.

  “But Douglas,” Roosevelt said through a cloud of his smoke. “To take Luzon would demand heavier losses than we can stand.”

  MacArthur shot back, “Mr. President, my losses would not be heavy, any more than they have been in the past. The days of frontal attack should be over. Modern infantry weapons are too deadly, and frontal assault is only for mediocre commanders. Good commanders do not turn in heavy losses.”

  Reynolds lined his cart alongside the others and stooped to fuss with an extension cord. It was obvious Lamar and Donovan were as fascinated as he was with the general’s presentation.

  MacArthur continued, “Besides, we can’t bypass Luzon, Mr. President. Our flank would be exposed as we press the attack north to the Japanese Home Islands.”

  “Ummm,” Roosevelt said. A poker-faced Nimitz sipped coffee and nodded.

  MacArthur’s voice rose a bit as he lowered the pointer and looked directly at Roosevelt. “Mr. President, promises must be kept. If we blockaded a bypassed Philippines, the Japanese would steal their food and subject the population to misery and starvation.” He doubled a fist and said, “Consigning the Filipinos to the bayonets of an enraged army of occupation would be a blot on American honor. In the postwar, all Asian eyes will be on the emerging Philippine Republic. If her people thought she had been sold out, the reputation of the United States would be sullied with a stain that could never be removed.”