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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “I didn’t see you.” Donovan walked over, wondering what she was doing. Looking around, he asked, “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

  She fumbled a Lucky Strike from a pack and worked at a book of matches. Clamping the cigarette between stained teeth, she tried to light it, but the fan’s blast kept blowing it out. “Damn,” she swore softly.

  “Here.” Donovan took the match and lit it between cupped hands while she bent to ignite the cigarette and puff.

  “Guess I’ll never make a sailor, Commander.”

  “Takes practice.” He handed her matches back.

  Taking a big drag, the woman exhaled and looked at the Matthew. “Husband’s over there, finishing up some work. He’s the exec.” She looked up with glistening eyes and patted the wheels on her chair. “Tough to get around in this thing. I been in it six months. But we’re going out to dinner tonight. First time in quite a while.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Well, I just want you to know that my Richie is working his ass off for you, Captain.”

  She had figured it out. “How did you know?”

  “I seen it in your eyes. Your mettle. The way you sort of snuck up on her without wanting anyone to know. I seen plenty of skippers, and you can tell right away which ones care and which ones don’t give a damn.”

  “How can you tell, ah, Mrs. Kruger?” He tipped her a salute and they shook.

  “Vicky.”

  “Okay, Vicky.”

  Just then the Matthew’s loudspeakers clicked on and a metallic voice announced, “First call, first call to colors.”

  Vicky continued, “Well, the ass-kissers just walk up the gangway and expect everybody to bow down and grovel. Now, bullshitters do the same thing, except instead of making everybody grovel, they try to make `em laugh.” She looked in the distance. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen too many bullshitters since the war started.”

  Donovan laughed.

  Vicky pointed up to him and took another drag, all in one motion. “Now, guys like you. You appreciate good horseflesh. You don’t want to startle them at first. Just watch ‘em flick their tails to see how they swat the flies off.”

  Then she nodded to the other side of the shed. “Don’t let them kids steer you wrong. She’s a good ship.”

  “I can see that.”

  “But you spotted that list, didn’t you?”

  Donovan was astounded at this rough-cut woman. “You sure know your stuff.”

  “That’s what Richie’s doing right now. Transferring fuel. Maybe pumping a bilge or two. Going to take another hour or so. Then we can go out. And your ship will be straight up and down, like a plumb bob.”

  “He’s down in the hole?” Donovan referred to the main engine room.

  “In his coveralls. Chief engineer is on leave,” she replied.

  “Once a snipe, always a snipe.” Donovan looked at her. “You are one hell of a Navy wife. How long have you been married?”

  “Six months.”

  He stepped back. He hadn’t expected that.

  “It’s a long story.”

  Donovan checked his watch: a little after eight. The sun, he knew, would soon be at the horizon. The wind hadn’t dropped, and it was getting colder. “I’ve got to get back. Enjoyed talking to you, Vicky.”

  “You’re not going aboard?”

  “No, you caught me fair and square. I was in the area and I couldn’t resist sneaking a look. And I like what I see. You can tell Richie that.”

  The Matthew’s loudspeaker squealed again, the metallic voice announcing, “On deck. Attention to colors.”

  Donovan faced the Matthew’s fantail and drew to attention, his right hand snapping to a salute. A pair of gulls squawked at each other, water lapped at the pier pilings as two white hats on the destroyer fantail slowly lowered the national ensign. From the corner of his eye, Donovan saw a man on the fo’c’sle haul down the union jack.

  “Two. Carry on,” echoed the loudspeaker.

  Donovan relaxed as Vicky took a final drag on her cigarette and expertly flicked it over the pier into the water. “He’ll be disappointed,” she said. “After all. He’s flying the absentee for you.” She nodded toward the pennant flying from the port halyard.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Kruger.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Donovan leaned over and gave her his best Irish grin. “This will be our little secret, okay?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Her chin was raised and Donovan realized this woman was not used to being upbraided. He would have to go gently. “Regulations state that if the captain is gone for more than seventy-two hours, then the absentee pennant is flown for the executive officer’s absence.”

  “Oh. That means it shouldn’t be up there at all.”

  “Right. But don’t worry, Vicky. I’m not going to jump on him for that. At least not right away.”

  The look in her eye told Donovan that Mrs. Kruger would do the jumping for him.

  “Also, I’m not going to jump on him over the fact that the man on the fo’c’sle hauling down the jack was uncovered.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Richie Kruger would hear about that as well. Welcome to this woman’s Navy, thought Donovan.

  “Nor that the forward stack cover is loose and hanging down. A good wind will carry it away.” Donovan was about to mention the sweepers on the fantail, were leaning on their brooms and shooting the breeze. But he figured that wasn’t her problem.

  She fumbled for another cigarette. Donovan took the pack and helped her light it, saying, “I know many a skipper who would make a big deal out of all that. And maybe I will. But what I’m really interested in is if this ship can fight. That’s what I need to know. Can she lick the Japs?”

  She took a long drag and said, “I think Richie can help you with that.”

  “That’s what Chester said. He also told me to go on leave, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “What? Who’s Chester?”

  “Chester. Admiral Nimitz. Your Richie knows him. They served on the Augusta together. Please tell him that, and give him Chester’s compliments. Mine, too. I enjoyed talking to you, Mrs. Kruger. Enjoy your dinner this evening.” Donovan saluted her and walked away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  2 August, 1944

  321 Elm Street

  Rocklin, California

  “Let me get you some coffee, Mike. Please, sit anywhere.”

  Carmen Rossi’s petite frame whisked into the kitchen. Furnished with large, old pieces, the living room was small and rectangular, a fireplace at one end and an upright piano at the other. A gold star hung prominently in a window by the front door, white lace curtains drawn behind it. A clock ticked near an unlit staircase. Cluttered atop the piano were silver-and-porcelain-framed pictures; one was an eight-by-ten glossy of Carmen and Mario Rossi on their wedding day. A grinning lieutenant junior grade, Mario Rossi was dressed in navy whites with sword, Carmen in a formal white gown. They stood before an old church with a dark brick facade.

  Donovan wasn’t sure, but it looked like St. Mary’s Catholic Church in San Francisco. Donovan was left alone with Mario’s father, a stooped old man who sat in a rocking chair in the corner. It squeaked as he rocked back and forth, looking out the window.

  “Nice day, huh?” Said Donovan.

  The old man nodded and rocked and squeaked and gazed out the window, a cane resting in his lap.

  “He doesn’t hear so good, Mike,” Carmen called from the kitchen. Dishes clanked. “Won’t be a minute.”

  “Hokay,” the old man gasped. He waved to Donovan and went back to his rocking.

  Donovan waved back. “Okay.”

  “He thinks his son is still alive.” A voice echoed from the staircase, startling Donovan.

  It was a boy, twelve or thirteen perhaps, sitting halfway up in darkness. His two prominent features were jet-black hair and dark eyes big as saucers, resting in a heart-
shaped face. Just like Carmen his mother, thought Donovan, but not as delicate. Except the boy’s voice was uncharacteristically deep, almost having completed its puberty. That’s what made Donovan jump, he realized. The boy’s voice was much like Mario, his father. Especially the inflection.

  “That’s your grandfather?” Donovan called up.

  “Luigi Humberto Rossi,” the boy confirmed.

  Scary. Donovan heard Mario’s voice and it made him feel strange.

  “Hokay.” The old man apparently recognized his name and gave a toothless grin. He reached out to Donovan.

  “Okay.” Donovan stood and walked over and shook Luigi’s hand. God bless you and your wonderful son.

  “What do you do in the navy?” Asked the boy.

  Donovan walked over to see better. An enormous head of hair flowed over the boy’s his ears and almost down to his shoulders. That’s right. Mario had complained how much trouble it was to get the kid to cut his hair. “Executive officer on a destroyer. I was onB“

  “B My dad’s ship? What happened to him? The telegram didn’t say anything.”

  Donovan nodded to the old man. “Maybe...”

  “He doesn’t listen. Anyway, he’ll be asleep soon.”

  Carmen walked in, carrying a tray of cups and a carafe. “You take sugar, cream?” Her smile was bright, her face devoid of what he knew she was suffering. For all her femininity, Donovan knew Carmen Rossi was tough. She wouldn’t crack in front of him.

  “No thanks, just black.”

  Smiling, she said, “Navy-style,” and poured. “I see you’ve met Dominic,” she added, nodding to the boy.

  “Nick,” the boy said.

  “We’ve been talking,” said Donovan. He felt uneasy, and his stomach growled.

  “Can I have some?” Asked Dominic.

  “No,” said Carmen, sitting back and pouring. She sipped her coffee, set it down, and twisted her wedding rings around her finger.

  “Why?”

  It was difficult for Donovan to listen to the boy whine in his father’s voice.

  “You know, caffeine. You must wait till you’re seventeen,” said Carmen, still twisting her rings. One was a large emerald-cut diamond engagement ring, the other a silver wedding ring. Donovan wondered why she hadn’t tossed them into the collection plate.

  “Seventeen, shoot. I can handle caffeine, Mom. Look at all the Cokes we drink.”

  “I said no.” She turned to Donovan. “You’re nice to come. And such a distance. This is hard for you, I know.”

  “Mario was the best skipper I’ve served under,” blurted Donovan. “I wouldn’t have done otherwise.” That was maybe true, Donovan thought. But they had argued a lot, almost to the point of yelling at each other in front of the other officers. Still, as hot-headed as Mario was, he was a good skipper, a good teacher, and one hell of a ship handler. It seemed a miracle that a hotheaded Italian and a hotheaded Irishman could get along in the same ship.

  Carmen nodded in a business-like fashion. “Thank you. Tell me, Mike, can you answer Dominic’s question?”

  “It’s Nick,” the boy called from the staircase.

  “Shush,” she called over her shoulder. She fixed Donovan with a stare.

  “About how it happened?” Asked Donovan.

  “Yes, we’d like to know. I mean you were there, weren’t you?”

  She’d emphasized the word were as if to question Donovan’s presence aboard ship.

  Ignoring that, Donovan asked, “What about Rosa?” Rossi’s other child was an eight-year-old daughter.

  “Piano lesson. I’ll tell her when it’s time,” said Carmen. Big round eyes and black pupils dominated her face. Looking at him curiously, she began twisting her ring again.

  “And...” He nodded to the old man.

  “I don’t think he knows. At least he’s never said anything since the telegram. He keeps to himself. I think he’s back in Napoli.”

  “Is that all he does?”

  “Retired now from the power company. Fly-fishes in the morning and rocks away in the afternoon. Has dinner and goes to sleep.”

  The clock ticked for a moment.

  “Okay.” Donovan shrugged. With a look at Dominic, he began, “Jap air raid. Fifteen or twenty dive-bombers in the Marianas.”

  “Is that where Guam is?” Asked Dominic.

  “Very good.” Donovan nodded. “We were about twenty miles southeast of Guam. Off by ourselves, running escorts for a bunch of AKsBuhBcargo ships. Anyway, they caught us flat-footed without air support. But,” Donovan grinned, “You should have seen them at first. They were so screwed up. Couldn’t’t hit the broad side of a barn. Mario and I were laughing. Their aim was terrible.”

  “Where was my father’s post?” Dominic called from the staircase.

  “On the bridge.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In CIC.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Inside the ship, main deck.”

  “Where you were safe.”

  “Dominic!” yelled Carmen.

  A wave of outrage flashed over Donovan, then was gone. He took a deep breath and said, “Young man, we do that for a reason: to make sure someone qualified can take over in case something happens to the captain. Also, the exec sees the big picture with the radar plot and all the radio circuits. He’s in contact with the captain by sound powered phone all the time. Together, they fight the ship.” Donovan was surprised to find he was on his feet. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his hands from his hips.

  Dominic’s eyes were wide open. And he drew back.

  “Apologize,” said Carmen. Her eyes glistened.

  “I’m sorry,” said the boy, his voice wavering.

  It seemed strange to hear Mario’s voice like this: subordinate, rather than what he was used to. But then this Mario had a lot to learn. “It’s okay.”

  “Go on, please,” said Carmen.

  “Not much to tell.” Donovan sat. “A bomb hit the bridge. I heard this loud>bang.’ Then everything went black. It was smoky. And then flames. We got out.” Donovan called up to the boy. “We lost twenty-six people with that bomb. Took us all day to put out the fires. But we did it and we brought the ship home.”

  “Where is it now?” Asked Dominic.

  “I left her in Pearl Harbor. After temporary repairs, they’ll send her back to Mare Island.”

  “In San Francisco Bay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see her?”Unusual question, Donovan thought. Carmen averted her eyes. She didn’t know what to think about it, either.

  “I suppose so,” said Donovan.

  “That’s keen.”

  “Your father died a hero’s death, young man. Never forget that.” He lowered his voice and patted Carmen on the arm. “And I know this. There was no pain. It was instantaneous.”

  She wiped a tear. Then, to his surprise, she reached up and wiped a tear from Donovan’s cheek. “Here.” Carmen gave Donovan a handkerchief.

  “Dammit.” Donovan honked and gave a grin. “Sorry.”

  She took his hand. “You two were a great pair.”

  “We argued like cats and dogs but...dammit...I loved the guy. Behind our backs they called us the Spic and the Mik.”

  Carmen shot a quick, efficient smile. “I hadn’t heard that.” She reached down and began twisting.

  Donovan blew again.

  “Mario said in his letters you were like a young brother. Always defying him. Usually right.”

  Donovan looked up. “He said that?”

  “>Crazy Mike,’ he called you.”

  “Yeah, that’s Mario. Off by ourselves he called me>Crazy Mike.’ But dammit. Nearly floored me when I found out he recommended me for command.”

  “You deserve it.” A pause and then, “You haven’t touched your coffee. Want me to warm it up?”

  Donovan’s belly felt strange. Dr. Duberman’s belladonna must have been doing some weird things. And it still ached. “No, thanks. Here.�
�� He pointed to the corner.

  “That’s Mario’s B-4 bag. All his stuff is in there. There’s some medals on top.”

  “I don’t care about those,” said Carmen. She looked up at Dominic.

  “Maybe,” said the boy.

  “I’d a lika see `em.”

  Again, Donovan was startled. It was the old man speaking in the voice of yet another Mario, a deeper timbre, self-assured and heavily accented voice.

  Carmen drew in her breath. “Pappa.”

  The old man pointed a bony finger. “My boy’s medals. Can I see my boy’s medals?”

  “Pappa, you... you know?” Asked Carmen.

  “Whadda you think, I’ma stupid?” Luigi pointed to the B-4 bag. “Just lay it over here, please.”

  “Of course.” Donovan stood and walked over the B-4 bag, unbuckled it and opened it flat on the floor at Luigi’s feet.

  The old man reached out and pat Donovan on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming,” he rasped.

  Donovan looked up to speak. Instead, he blew his nose.

  “Carmen, we got dinner for a hungry boy?” Said the old man.

  “Yes, Pappa.” She rose to her feet.

  “Then get out there and fix us something.” With a glance at Donovan the old man said, “You minda stay for dinner?”

  “My honor,” said Donovan.

  “Come sit over there and tell me about my boy’s medals,” said Luigi, his voice stronger. “In fact, I wanna know everything. What you guys did, about his ship, where you went. Canna you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now Dominic, get down here where we can see your damnda face. And your name is a Dominic. You unnerstand?” He pointed a long bony finger at the boy.

  The boy walked down the stairs and emerged into light. “Yes, Pappa.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  2 August, 1944

  Southern Pacific Westbound Special 533

  Rocklin, California