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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Silence reigned as MacArthur reached for a water glass and drank. Reynolds, Donovan and Lamar stood watching, completely taken by MacArthur’s eloquence... and his audacity.

  The general delivered his coup de grâce. “I daresay the American people would be so aroused that they would register most complete resentment against you at the polls this fall.”

  Nimitz looked up and shot them a steely look at Lamar and Reynolds.

  “Come on,” whispered Reynolds. They filed out into the living room where Lamar sat and rummaged through file folders.

  Donovan grabbed his cover and said, “Whew. Your boss is one hell of a speaker. I thought for a moment there it was Laurence Olivier playing Hamlet.”

  Reynolds grinned. “He does have his way, doesn’t he?” Then he said, “We have a driver outside. His name is Sergeant McCormick. He’ll take you anywhere you want. Don’t worry about the car, I’ll return with the general.” Reynolds stuck out a hand. “Good luck with your new ship. And oh yeah, thanks for the help in there.”

  They shook. “And thank you for the mahi mahi,” said Donovan. “It was delicious.”

  With a nod, Reynolds said, “Enjoy your time stateside. And remember what I said.”

  Donovan’s face went dark for a moment. “Don’t worry about me, Owen. You just stay away from Japs. You’ve done your share. Don’t forget to write, will you?”

  They looked at each other and laughed. Neither had written since the war broke out.

  “Psst! Colonel. They’re ready.” It was Lamar.

  “Right.” Reynolds winked. “Don’t forget what I said, Mike.”

  Donovan thumped his chest. “Got it right here.” He turned and walked out, looking for Sergeant McCormick.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  28 July, 1944

  CinCPac quarters

  Makalapa, Territory of Hawaii

  Admiral Nimitz’s living quarters were situated a short distance from his headquarters halfway up Makalapa, an extinct volcano overlooking Pearl Harbor. It was a beautiful day, the spectacular view taking in Pearl Harbor to the right and Honolulu to the left. For lunch, Nimitz’s cook had scored one of his many triumphs: prime rib with a horseradish that could, as reported by Vice Admiral Charles H. McMorris, Nimitz’s chief of staff, peel paint. President Roosevelt sat at the table’s head. Admiral Nimitz was to the President’s right, General MacArthur to his left. The rest of the combined staffs completed a seating for twelve. As tradition dictated, Lieutenant Lamar, the junior officer, sat at the end of the table opposite the president. Lieutenant Colonel Owen Reynolds sat at the end on Lamar’s left. The rest of the diners were either admirals or captains.

  Admiral Halsey was in vintage form. He’d just returned from emergency leave on the mainland to visit his wife, Fanny. And now, he dominated the table talk. Quite at ease with his commander in chief, Halsey launched into some of the most raucous, off-color stories Reynolds had ever heard. They lasted through the main course and well into dessert.

  To Reynold’s left was Captain Tom Anderson, Nimitz’s housemate and fleet surgeon, who was explaining how light exercise cured the admiral of the shakes and even amnesia. “It began with pistol shooting prescribed by Gendreau,” said Anderson, referring to his predecessor, Captain Elphege Alfred M. Gendreau, killed a few months earlier in the Munda operation in the Solomons. “Look at the admiral now,” said Anderson between bites of lemon sherbet. “Exercise is the best nostrum for tension. He takes long walks, swims, and--”

  For some reason, Reynolds turned toward the head of the table. MacArthur looked straight at him and gave a slight nod. I’m ready.

  Protocol dictated that Reynolds ask the president for permission to leave the table. But the president at the moment was eating sherbet and listening closely to another of Halsey’s jokes. Interrupt Halsey and you’ll be not just court-martialed, but castrated. So Reynolds turned to Anderson and said, “Excuse me, Captain? I’m being called.”

  “Of course.”

  Reynolds rose and stepped into the hall to look for his briefcase. But the hall and living room were crowded, and it was impossible to move amid the jumble of aides, stewards, Marines, and Secret Service agents.

  He found Navarro. “The general’s ready. Get the car.”

  “Yes, sahr,” said Navarro, walking out the door.

  Reynolds was surprised to see an expectant looking Mike Donovan sitting in a corner. He walked over. “Mike, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  Donovan shrugged. “Meeting, remember? They bumped it up from four o’clock with a note saying the admiral would like to see me at one pm, instead. So I thought I’d better get my butt over here.”

  “Why Nimitz? Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. They tell me the admiral likes to meet his skippers. You know, Texas style.” Donovan lowered his voice to a bass falsetto and said, “Kick him and see what he smells like.” Nimitz was from Texas and spoke with a slight drawl.

  “Well, it’s a good time. It’s breaking up in there. And the general’s taking off immediately. So maybe you’ll get in soon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have to go, Mike. Good luck.”

  “And to you, Owen.”

  Reynolds found his briefcase and walked back into the dining room to stand directly behind MacArthur. Halsey had launched into another joke, one quite graphic that had the whole table roaring. Reynolds pulled out two large envelopes and handed them over MacArthur’s shoulder.

  MacArthur accepted them without looking and then slid his chair back just as Halsey finished his joke. It became quiet. All eyes were fixed on MacArthur as he said, “Please excuse me, Mr. President. I must be on my way.” He reached to shake Roosevelt’s hand. ‘Thank you for a most pleasant visit.”

  Roosevelt shook warmly and replied, “Douglas, I enjoyed every moment. But Chester here was really your host. I hope you two see things differently now.”

  MacArthur said, “Please be assured, Chester and I see eye to eye, Mr. President. We understand each other perfectly.” He reached across and shook with Nimitz. “Thank you for your wonderful hospitality.”

  Chairs scraped as everyone stood, except the president.

  “Not at all. Hurry back,” said Nimitz.

  “Right after we meet in Tokyo,” said MacArthur.

  “I’ll drink to that,” growled Halsey.

  Men around the table nodded and smiled. MacArthur said to Nimitz and the president, “I have something for you.” He nodded to Reynolds and then began walking around the table shaking hands.

  That was Reynolds cue. “Mr. President, this is for you.” He handed over a large flat envelope. “And this one’s for you, Admiral.” He passed another flat envelope to Nimitz.

  Both opened their envelopes to find an eight-by-ten glossy photo of General Douglas MacArthur.

  FDR called out, “Thank you for that nice inscription, Douglas.” He added, ”And please tell your boys out there that Eleanor’s and my thoughts and hopes and prayers are with every one of them.”

  MacArthur replied from across the room, “It will be my pleasure to do that, Mr. President.” He nodded to everyone. “Good luck to you all.”

  He started to turn when FDR called, “And Douglas.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I like the Tokyo idea. Don’t let up until you get there. And Godspeed to you all.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  * * * * *

  MacArthur, Reynolds, and Navarro rode in a command car to Hickam Field. Two motorcycles were in front, no sirens this time. Another command car, loaded with luggage, trailed behind. It was silent as MacArthur fidgeted and muttered to himself during the twenty-minute ride. Once inside the gate, they drove slowly past soldiers standing in formation, MacArthur saluting as they passed. “Magnificent. Just look at these magnificent men,” he said.

  Soon they were alongside his B-17, the two port engines already turning over. They dismounted. MacArthur strode over to General Richardson
and his staff, who stood at parade rest off to the right. While MacArthur dispensed farewells and banalities, Reynolds cursed and sweated as he helped Navarro hand bags, crates, and equipment up to a flight sergeant in the B-17's yawning bomb bay.

  Soon everyone was aboard except MacArthur. That was the way the general liked it: last one in. The pilot started the other two engines and still they waited. Finally the waist hatch burst open and Navarro reached to help MacArthur inside. A glance outside told Reynolds that General Richardson was holding the hatch against the wind blast from the starboard engines.

  The plane began taxiing as soon as the hatch was shut. That was how they’d orchestrated it, General Richardson be damned. Reynolds hoped he’d had time to grab his hat and jump out of the way of the B-17's stabilizer.

  MacArthur fell into the seat beside Reynolds, his eyes gleaming. He pounded Reynolds on the knee and shouted, “We’ve sold it!”

  * * * * *

  Donovan wasn’t supposed to be there when the president was wheeled out the back door. But they let him stay, and Donovan made a show of averting his eyes. Soon they were gone, leaving the first floor a mess. To make things worse, workmen walked in and started pounding and prying boards in the back hall and doorways, the noise incredible.

  Lamar walked in and had to shout. “All set, Commander?”

  Donovan made a show of screwing a finger in his ear. “Right,” he yelled.

  Lamar led Donovan out the front door toward the headquarters building. Once outside, Lamar said, “Took ten SeaBees to rip up the hallways, doorjambs, and downstairs toilet, to make room for the president’s wheel chair. Painted it all late last night and dried it with blowtorches. Now the process is being reversed and they’re putting the place back together.” He opened a door for Donovan.

  Nodding to a Marine Sargent, they walked into the air-conditioned comfort of CinCPac headquarters. ‘Here we are, Commander. Zero Zero has only five minutes.”

  “Zero Zero is the admiral?”

  “His fleet designator. Then he’s off to join the president at Aiea.” Aiea was a major naval hospital.

  Donovan raised his eyebrows.

  “The president wants to see the wounded coming in from Guam. And here, he intends to be pushed in his wheelchair through the wards, showing he knows what it’s like to have dead legs and that he has risen above his affliction.”

  Lamar knocked on a door, stuck in his head, and said something. Then he came out. “Okay, Commander. He’ll see you now. He’s on the phone, but go right on in. He’s almost finished.”

  “Thanks.” Donovan walked in. Nimitz, the phone cradled on his shoulder, looked up and waved to a pair of split-bamboo chairs before his desk. Donovan sat, looking around an airy office. The window drapes matched the chair’s flowered cushions. The admiral’s desk was a busy clutter of papers, a machine-gun model, and a metal bumblebee stamped with CAN DO, the motto of the Seabees. Next to the phone was a framed picture of Douglas MacArthur, the one Owen Reynolds had passed out about an hour ago. Maps were fastened to the walls, and a barometer was attached to a pipe behind the admiral’s desk.

  Reynolds eyes flicked to the opposite wall where he spotted a sign:

  1. IS THE PROPOSED OPERATION LIKELY TO SUCCEED?

  2. WHAT MIGHT BE THE CONSEQUENCES OF FAILURE?

  3. IS IT IN THE REALM OF PRACTICABILITY OF MATERIALS AND SUPPLIES?

  Nimitz said very little except,Auh-huh, uh-huh.” But something behind the desk had his attention; he kept reaching down. Finally Nimitz drawled, “Okay, let me know when we’re ready. Very well.” He hung up and stood, saying, “Welcome, Commander. Thanks for taking the time to see me.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Admiral.” Donovan stood and they shook. That’s when he saw a gray tail thumping the rattan floor mat beneath the desk.

  “Meet my buddy Makalapa.” Nimitz reached under the desk and dragged out a gray, sleepy-looking schnauzer. “Spruance gave him to me. What do you think, Donovan? Should I keep him?” Nimitz scratched the dog’s ears. Makalapa gave a wide yawn, then waddled beneath the desk and plopped down.

  Donovan said, “I’d be the last one to make Admiral Spruance angry, Admiral. Looks like you’re stuck.”

  Nimitz gave a thin smile. “Turns out, I’ve become attached to the damn thing anyway. Goes everywhere with me. On walks; he even swims with me. Cries like hell when I kick him off the bed at night.”

  “I’d put that in his fitness report, Admiral.”

  Nimitz laughed this time. “I like to know my skippers. Makes me feel close to the fleet. But remember this, even if you are going to MacArthur’s navy. You’re still mine.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So you’re on your way to the West Coast and your first command. What is it?”

  “Destroyer, Admiral. USS Matthew, a Fletcher-class coming out of Bethlehem Steel in San Francisco.”

  A shadow crossed Nimitz’s face. “Ahh, I heard about that. Too bad.” He was recalling that the Matthew, after completing her fitting out, had worked up with a fleet training group with a rigorous set of battle problems and had been declared ready for deployment overseas. Then her skipper was killed in an auto wreck.

  Donovan looked away. “Tom Drake was a good man. We were ensigns together on the Mugford.”

  “Indeed, he was,” said Nimitz. “But then you have a fine record, too. I’m sure you’ll do a bang-up job.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He ran a hand over his forehead, realizing he was sweating.

  Nimitz looked in the distance for a moment. “The Mugford. Arleigh Burke once commanded her.”

  “Yes, sir. But we just missed him. We detached just before he stepped aboard.”

  “But then you served in the Little Beavers.” Little Beaver of the radio show Red Ryder was the logo for Destroyer Squadron 23, made famous by Commodore Arleigh Burke in the Solomons campaign.

  Donovan caught a gleam in Nimitz’s eye. The admiral had done his homework and knew far more about Donovan than he’d suspected. “Yes, sir. When I first reported aboard the McDermott I was the gun boss. We had quite a time.”

  “Ever hear Burke comment on something being importantly stupid.”

  “All the time, Admiral.”

  “He ever talk about the Vincennes?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Arleigh was being kind.” Nimitz’s jaw muscles rippled for a moment. “There were many importantly stupid things we did at the battle of Savo Island.” In August 1942, the Japanese had mauled a disorganized American fleet one night in a torpedo-and-gunfire action off Guadalcanal, sinking three American heavy cruisers, Vincennes, Astoria, and Quincy, and the Australian cruiser Canberra, all within half an hour. Astoundingly, the Japanese suffered no ship losses.

  “Well, the one importantly stupid example that really takes the cake is when the Japs were beginning to register hits on the Vincennes at Savo Island. Her skipper was convinced he was under friendly fire. So he ordered their largest searchlight trained on the flag. Naturally, the Japs really poured it in. The Vincennes was gone within ten minutes.”

  Donovan took out a handkerchief and dabbed his brow. “Hadn’t heard that one, Admiral.”

  “It hasn’t been widely disseminated. But I’m sure years from now, when we’re all old and sitting around the cracker barrel, the naval warfare schools will feature things like that.”

  The lesson was obvious. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now the shoe is on the other foot. Many Japs in decision-making roles are young and untrained. We’re seeing more and more examples of importantly stupid things they’re doing. But the Japs aren’t done with us yet. They have plenty of fight left.”

  “I’ll say, Admiral.”

  There was an awkward silence, both realizing what had happened to the McDermott.

  “You going to take some time off?” asked Nimitz.

  “Actually, I have thirty days coming up. But I’m kind of anxious to see my ship, sir.”

  Nimitz’s eyes
glistened for a moment. “The young line officer in me says, Go right now. See your ship. But that’s been tempered by nearly forty years in the service. That voice says, Go, take your leave. We need you fresh and rested when you take command.” He fixed Donovan with the same steely glance he’d offered the night before in the Holmes residence.

  “I believe I’ll take my leave, Admiral.”

  “Good. And to get things going, we’re detaching you from the McDermott now and flying you to the mainland.”

  Donovan was at a loss for words. Home. He hadn’t been there in more than two years. And now, instead of riding the slow boat, he’d be home in a matter of days, hours maybe. Yet he hated leaving the McDermott, his home away from home for so long. His thoughts flashed to his crew, his officers. They’d been through so much together. I--”

  Nimitz bored in. “Where is your family?”

  “San Fernando Valley, Admiral. Uh... California. My dad owns a drugstore there.”

  “Excellent. I’ll make sure Art gets you on the soonest air transport to CONUS.” Nimitz smiled and looked out toward Pearl Harbor for a moment. “The Matthew. Richard Kruger is her exec?”

  “Yes, sir. So I’ve heard.”

  “And he’s in temporary command?”

  “Yes, sir. Apparently they’ve holding her dockside until I report aboard.”

  “Kruger is a good man. He should keep them in good shape for you.”

  Donovan was surprised. Nimitz seemed familiar with the Matthew’s executive officer. “You know him, sir?”

  Nimitz steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Richard served under me when I had the Augusta.” Nimitz had been skipper of the cruiser Augusta in the mid-1930s. “He’s a mustang. Up from chief machinist mate. Really knows his stuff. Made him our MPA. Did a great job. Trouble was, he knew more than my chief engineer, a full commander. Dick ran the poor fellow’s tail off.” Staring into the distance, he said, “Hmm, only ten years, but it seems so long ago.”