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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  3 August, 1944

  SS Empress Anne

  North Pacific Ocean

  En route , Honolulu, Territory of Hawaii

  Third Mate Karl Strauss smacked his lips and lightly patted his belly. Homer Yates, the cook, had once again performed his magic. Strauss had started lunch with a bowl of split pea soup. That was quickly followed by breaded pork chop, mashed potatoes, thick gravy, and carrots. Strauss polished it off with a dish of custard and coffee. After a second cup, he rose, stepped into the midships passageway, and walked to the hatchway on the starboard side. The hatch was clipped open and he propped a foot on the coaming, leaned against the bulkhead, and reached for a pack of cigarettes while taking in the Pacific.

  Amazing! It was difficult to believe there was a war on. The sun was shining. The day was crisp, and a warm wind tickled his face, hair, and blue chambray shirt. This was his third trip to Pearl Harbor. He’d learned to recognize the moisture-laden trade winds that would caress them all the way to Hawaii. And the color of the ocean. Now that they were well away from land, the Pacific had turned to a deep, shimmering blue. He wished he could jump in.

  Also amazing was that old Annie was doing twelve knots. A pace unheard of before the war. The ships’s engine had been reworked, her bottom cleaned, and now her screw joyously churned through a glassy sea. There was very little groundswell; only occasionally did the Pacific heave as if in a deep slumber, producing a slow, majestic five-degree roll aboard the Empress Anne. Otherwise, King Neptune left them alone.

  The Empress Anne was part of a five-ship convoy three days out of San Francisco, sailing for Pearl Harbor in a circular formation. Empress Anne and the three other cargo ships were on the two-thousand-yard circle; the Regina Dalmatia, a C-2 cargo ship deeply den with ammunition, was in the formation’s center as guide. Six newly minted destroyers from DESRON 63 on their way to the war zone were arrayed around them on the four-thousand-yard circle. The destroyers proudly wore their dapple-gray war paint and were ever vigilant: radar antennae twirling, gun mounts exercising, sonars pinging for enemy submarines.

  Strauss lit his cigarette and blew smoke out the hatch, watching it whip aft to be captured by the wind. A sense of pride surged through him as he felt the ship move easily beneath his feet. He’d calculated the cargo load perfectly, and the ride so far had been nice. They hadn’t rolled or pitched too much in the storm they’d hit just outside of San Francisco. The destroyers, of course, had bucked and bounced furiously. Strauss and Captain d’ Angelo both agreed they’d rather be on a plodding merchant ship than be known as the fastest dog on the block. As cocky as they were, the poor sailors aboard those tin cans paid dearly in rough weather, the strongest of stomachs eventually giving in. He wondered if...

  “Hey, Strauss!” It was Roberts, the tan, heavily muscled second mate, yelling from the deck above.

  “Yeah?”

  Robert’s voice rumbled, “The old man wants you onna bridge.”

  “Dammit, what’d I do now?” Strauss flipped his cigarette over the side and started up the ladder for the bridge. A charming conservationist in the wardroom, Peter d’ Angelo was hot-tempered and often flew off the handle at his men on the bridge. Strauss said a silent prayer he wouldn’t be d’ Angelo’s next victim. He reached for the rail on the next deck when--

  A brilliant flash of light. A loud, almost simultaneous crack pinned him against the bulkhead, slamming his head against a pad eye. The thunderous roar that followed was worse than the pain from hitting the pad eye as he tripped, fumbled, and bumped back down to the main deck. A world of sound roared through his essence for a good twenty seconds. The world turned a whitish gray, and the next thing he knew he was sitting up and groaning.

  He felt around. No bones were broken, but his head hurt like hell. He ran his hand over his scalp and brought away a bright glimmer of red. With another groan, Strauss grabbed a bulkhead-mounted rail and pulled himself to his feet.

  Someone ran past. It was Yates, the cook, pointing, his mouth working.

  “What?” yelled Strauss.

  Yates kept pointing, his mouth open wide, jaw muscles straining, his face red.

  It dawned on Strauss that his hearing was gone. Then he remembered the explosion. Yates jerked at his sleeve and pointed to starboard.

  White mist. Oil-scummed water. The destroyers turning in slow circles. White mist.

  “What?” rasped Strauss.

  “What the hell was that explosion?” demanded Yates.

  Strauss’s hearing was coming back. “I don’t know.” His head throbbed and he wiped away more blood. It was worse than he thought.

  Yates shouted, “Never heard anything like it--say, are you all right?”

  The mist was evaporating. A destroyer on the opposite side of the formation had sped up and was headed toward them, a bone in its teeth. Then it hit him. Where was the guide? The ship in the center? The Regina Dalmatia! “Sonofabitch!” he said.

  “You better sit down,” said Yates.

  “Lookit that,” bellowed Strauss. “She’s gone.”

  “Karl, set your ass on the ladder here and let me take a look at you.”

  Strauss sat, his mouth open. Incredible. The 7,952-ton Regina Dalmatia had moments before been plowing through the sea at twelve knots. And now she was gone. The mist was rapidly clearing. He could see all the other ships—except the Regina Dalmatia.

  He looked up at Yates. “What the hell happened?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  8 August, 1944

  Headquarters, Twelfth Naval District

  San Francisco Bay, California

  Yerba Buena Island was headquarters to the Twelfth Naval District and lay right in the middle of San Francisco Bay. The main building had begun life in 1939 as the site for the ultramodern World’s Fair. Done in art deco, the building was situated at the base of the three-hundred-foot Yerba Buena peak. Since taking it over, the navy had run four tunnels deep inside the hill to, among other things, house the command center for its West Coast radio intelligence and cryptographic network. An adjoining landfill gave rise to the Treasure Island Naval Base with a complex series of docks, warehouses and work and berthing facilities.

  Tunnel 2A ran for 275 feet beneath Yerba Buena peak. And three laterals, or offshoots, were situated along the way. The first lateral held a large conference room, the next had offices and an infirmary, the last was a cavernous armory originally intended to house six-inch ammunition for the defense of inner San Francisco Bay. Now it just contained small arms and ammunition.

  The door to room B-6 in the “Baker” lateral opened and John Sabovik walked out, a manila folder tucked under his arm. Quicky he walked down the hall to the corner of Tunnel 2A and Lateral B and drew up before the door of conference room 2A-B-1. Standing at the door were two marine sergeants dressed in fatigues and duty belts with .45 pistols. Sabovik knew both of them: Saunders and Evergreen. He gave a thin smile and said, “I’m back.”

  “Excuse me.” A tall, thin navy captain walked up. His hair was salt and pepper, and he looked as if he continually struggled with a five o’clock shadow. He looked at Sabovik. “Any luck yet? I’ve been waiting quite awhile.” It was Captain Samuel Doyle, commanding officer of the Port Chicago Naval Magazine. A former heavy cruiser captain, he wore dress khakis and held a garrison cap in his left hand, slapping it against his leg.

  Sabovik sighed inwardly. Everyone knew Doyle would be pilloried whether or not he was responsible for the explosion. “I’ll check again, sir, and let you know.”

  Apparently not satisfied, Doyle grunted and started for the door. Sabovik stepped before him and said, “Pardon me, Captain.”

  They glared at each other until Sergeant Saunders reached down and opened the door for Sabovik, giving him just enough room to slip through. “I’ll let you know, Captain,” Sabovik promised.

  Saunders stepped behind Sabovik and pulled the door closed with a soft click.

  Sabovik walked into a smoke-filled room twen
ty by twelve feet. A conference table was covered with a green-baize cloth and littered with books, papers, coffee cups, and brass butt kits made from five-inch shell casings. A slide projector stood at one end, a carousel of slides poised on top. It reminded Sabovik of the old submachine guns with the round, drum-type magazine used by gangsters. A slight, wiry, balding man sat at the table’s head, his blouse off and sleeves rolled up. The organization chart stated that two-star rear admiral John Egan’s title was deputy commander, Twelfth Naval District. But it was a trumped up title, since Egan had reported aboard just two weeks ago. In actuality, he’d been appointed by Admiral Ernest J. King, chief of naval operations in Washington DC. Everyone knew “Cactus Jack” Egan was Ernie King’s hired gun and troubleshooter. His presence here meant that King, and perhaps someone higher, intended to get to the bottom of things quickly and that his authority had the full backing of Admiral King, which included access to highly classified ship, train, and aircraft dispositions and movements. Also, King made sure Egan had access to the highest priorities for sending radio messages along with complete wiretapping capabilities, if needed, and the full cooperation of the FBI.

  On Egan’s left were two navy captains. The first was a thin, dark-haired man whose place card read “Captain Henderson.” On Henderson’s right was a heavyset navy captain with thinning straw-colored hair. His place card read CAPTAIN DANBURY. Next to them was an empty chair where Sabovik had been seated. To the right of that was a balding marine colonel. Beside the colonel was Alexander Collins, an EOD marine captain with a light, almost anemic complexion. His hair was in a tall crew-cut style. His eyes were light blue and were nearly perfect circles, as if they were propped open in perpetual surprise. Sabovik guessed that the combination of Collins’s EOD work and his eyes gave rise to his nickname “Nitro,” as if he were perpetually occupied with something so sensitive that it could blow up at any instant.

  To Collins’s right was a cigar-chomping Army Air Corps colonel whose place card read COLONEL SPARKS. An army brigadier general by the name of Cartwell sat at the end, opposite Egan.

  Seated to Admiral Egan’s left, across from Sabovik, were two civilians. The place card of the first man in coat and bow-tie, read LARRY PINDAR - BUORD, ALAMAGORDO. The other civilian was a balding man in a dark blue suit. His place card announced he was ROGER STEWARTB FBI. On Stewart’s left were five army officers ranging in rank from full colonel to a first lieutenant sitting at the end, who tapped a stenographic machine. All the officers’ coats were off and their ties were loosened except for Sparks, the air corps colonel, who kept his on, sporting a Fifteenth Air Force shoulder patch, three rows of ribbons, and five battle stars. Wall-mounted fans whirled furiously in the room’s opposite corners, only succeeding in shoving the blue-cloud of tobacco smoke in a counterclockwise direction.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Sabovik said quietly and took the seat beside Captain Danbury.

  Egan looked up to Sabovik, his question unspoken.

  Sabovik replied, “Captain Doyle is still out there, Admiral, pacing up and down.”

  “Dammit. I told him to go get a cup of coffee. Is he getting impatient?”

  “An understatement, sir,” replied Sabovik.

  Egan nodded. “That’s Sam Doyle, all right. Chomping at the bit. Can’t wait to get things done. I have to say this. He’s a good man, but somebody’s going to nail his ass to a hitching post and he knows he can’t stop them.” He eyed the group. “That’s not what’s going to happen here, gentlemen. Our job is to get our arms around this situation now and take names later. Most of all, I’m not going to sanction a kangaroo court against Sam Doyle.” Egan checked his watch. “We’ll get him in here shortly and listen to what he has to say, and then figure out what to do. In the meantime”-- he looked at SabovikB “you got what you need?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sabovik handed the folder over to Captain Danbury, his boss. “These are the load-out figures on the Regina Dalmatia, sir. We still don’t have an accurate crew manifest, though.”

  “Mmm,” said Danbury. He flipped pages, then waved the back of his hand at Sabovik. “Continue, please, John.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sabovik looked around the table. “The Regina Dalmatia was loaded with 2,476 tons of high explosive. Most of that was composed of, let’s see” -- he flipped a sheet -- “sixteen-inch, fourteen-inch, eight-, six-, and five-inch projectiles of various types, most of it armor piercing. That was in number two hold. All of it is semi-fixed, which means there were accompanying powder bags or canisters. Those were loaded in the number three hold. Also in number two hold were warheads for mark 14 and 15 torpedoes. Most of the stuff in the forward hold was 75-, 105-, and 155-millimeter projectiles for the army. The aft hold held smaller stuff. Aerial rockets, twenty- and forty-millimeter ammunition, some depth charges.”

  “The crew?” asked Cartwell.

  “We don’t have a full tally yet, General, but they were from the Higgins Navigation Company of Newark, New Jersey. The captain had been licensed for twelve years. And they had a navy gun crew aboard.”

  “What happened?” asked Egan.

  At a nod from Danbury, Sabovik turned to another report. “Eyewitnesses aboard the destroyer Mallanosay the weather was perfectB visibility unlimited. Sonar conditions were five thousand yards, and there was no sonar contact from any one of the six destroyers. They were zigzagging on a base course of two-two-six at twelve knots. The Regina Dalmatia was the guide.” Sabovik eyed the army officers. “In other words, she was right in the center of the formation, which means she was encircled by four other merchant ships and six destroyers.”

  “Difficult to get a torpedo in there,” offered Captain Danbury.

  Egan added, “And with perfect sonar conditions and all those ships around her, we can pretty much exclude that a submarine got the Regina Dalmatia.

  “Where was the Mallano in relation to the Regina Dalmatia?” demanded Faraday.

  “Let’s see, here it is. The Mallano was in station five, bearing one-four-five from the Regina Dalmatia. In other words” -- Sabovik nodded to the Army officers -- “they were on her starboard quarter.”

  “Okay,” said Egan. “That means the people on the Mallano were looking almost right at her when she went up.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sabovik. “We also have a report from the Phillips which was in station six on the opposite side of the formation; they also had a full view of the Regina Dalmatia.”

  “And... “ asked Egan. “Anything we don’t know?”

  Sabovik shook his head. “Eyewitnesses pretty much concur that she went up in a single white-hot brilliant flash. No one saw what could have been a torpedo hit. Nothing like an explosion plume up the ship’s side. No torpedo wakes. And as we said, no sonar contacts before or after.”

  “A brilliant flash?” asked Pindar, the ordnance expert.

  “Just one great big flash, a shock wave, a loud boom lasting twenty to thirty seconds, and then everything was gone,” said Sabovik. “Same as Port Chicago,” he added.

  With a glance at Stewart to his left, Pindar sat back and steepled his fingers. “Keep in mind, Commander, that there was a double flash at Port Chicago. A minor explosion was observed. The major detonation occurred four to six seconds later.”

  “Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir,” said Sabovik.

  “Any damage to other ships?” asked Stewart.

  “No, sir.”

  Egan asked Pindar, “Larry, what was that gadget you were waving around Port Chicago yesterday. You called it a Geiger...”

  “... counter,” said Pindar.

  “What the hell is that for?”

  Pindar picked up his briefcase and shuffled papers. With another glance at Stewart, he said, “We use that to measure different levels of ambient light.”

  “What?” asked Egan.

  “Light, you know, ambient light. Something that might have been leaking out that would have attracted a saboteur.”

  “Are you bullshitting me?” retorted
Egan.

  Stewart said, “Admiral, let me--”

  Nitro Collins raised his hand.

  “Yes, Captain?” said Egan.

  Collins said, “Excuse me, Mr. Pindar. But isn’t a Geiger counter used to measure radiation?”

  “Well, yes, that too.” Pindar sat back, folded his arms, and shot Collins a steely glance.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Egan. “Why did you have it there in the first place?”

  “The best thing we can tell you, Admiral, is we used it to make sure there aren’t any dangerous residuals around the explosion site. And we found none,” said Pindar.

  “Tell us again what you boys do down in Alamagordo?” asked General Cartwright.

  Pindar looked at Stewart, who said, “As we said before, General, we measure the physics of explosive forces and determine the best compositions for munitions of the future.”

  Egan snapped, “More bullshit. Our ordnance labs do that. What the hell are you guys really doing?”

  “Well, I must admit, some of it is classified,” said Pindar.

  “Horseshit!” said Egan.

  Stewart said, “Admiral Egan, the director personally asked me to convey to you and this committee that Alamagordo has no gravity in this situation.”

  Egan shot back, “Gravity? More horseshit! Perhaps we better ask Mr. Hoover to speak with Admiral King.”

  Stewart steepled his fingers. “They have.”

  Egan sat back and lit a cigarette.

  Cartwright kept at it. “How does what you do in New Mexico relate to what we’re doing here?”

  Pindar sputtered for a moment, then said, “Nothing, I hope. We’re just checking.”

  “What?” said Egan and Cartwright simultaneously.

  Stewart sat forward and said, “What he means is that they have technologies that will help you trace the origin of the explosion.”

  Egan and Cartwright traded glances. Finally Egan said, “This isn’t getting anywhere. We’d better get back on track.” He turned to Sabovik. “Is that it?”