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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “What?” He tried to rise again, but Walt eased him back down.

  “Someone screwed up.” said Walt. “When did you get there?”

  Donovan said, “My train got in about twelve. I went over there to sign in, but they said I couldn’t do it until checkout time, which is 1:00 pm. But I was due at the hospital, so they said they would hold a room for me anyway. Pre-registration, they said. “And I gave him a tip. In fact,” Donovan snapped his fingers, “I went back after seeing Diane at the hospital and the guy said I was all set.”

  Logan shook his head. “They lost track of it somehow. Now the place is full.”

  “What? I don’t believe it.”

  Walt said, “The Barker sent a kid over to the house with the bad news. “And there’s more bad news. They tried to set you up at the Rex Hotel, but no dice. It’s full, too.”

  “I’ll be damned, there goes my sawbuck.” Donovan sat back. “What else is there in town?”

  “Nowhere you’d want to be,” said Diane.

  “Look, Mike,” said Walt. “The kid left your duffel at our house. “And what the hell? You might as well stay there. We have plenty of room.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t.” Donovan started to rise.

  Walt pushed him down again. “Besides. Think of the money you’re saving.” He checked his watch. “My shift starts at ten.” He cast a glance at Diane. “His duffle’s in the downstairs room.”

  Diane dipped a finger in her water glass and flicked it at Walt. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t mind. Gotta go. See you tomorrow at breakfast. Diane makes great French toast. So long.” Walt Logan walked off.

  They looked at each other like a couple of wary animals. Donovan said, “This is ridiculous. I can’t put you out like this. I’ll take the next train for Oakland.”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s plenty of room. It’s my brother’s,” she said, pushing away her plate.

  “You didn’t finish your duck.”

  “I’m done.” She drummed her fingers.

  “Coffee? Dessert?”

  She shook her head.

  “What would you like to do? Hit a movie, maybe?”

  She sighed, “I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve been out.”

  “Hey, we can always go downstairs and get drunk. Bash in some heads. Throw chairs through the window. Maybe end up in jail.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  She squared Donovan with a look. “Younger brother. Wild. Used to run away a lot.”

  “And?”

  “Something happened after Mom died. I had just started medical school. Ralph ran off. Once in a while he would send postcards. That stopped two years ago.” She looked at him. “It really ripped up Daddy. Blackie, too. Ralph was his master.”

  “Walt works for the SP?”

  “Dispatcher. Been doing that for thirty years. “As a kid, he had me so stoked up I wanted to become a dispatcher, too. But then I went to medical school instead. Even more so, Daddy really wanted Ralph to work for the SP but he wouldn’t have any part of it. “And then the double whammy. Mom dies and Ralph runs off. “And now Dad doesn’t use his name. It’s just the downstairs bedroom. Not Ralph’s room.”

  Donovan took her hand into both of his. “I’m sorry.”

  She withdrew her hand. “I could kill the little bastard.”

  “No contact at all” -- he snapped his fingers -- “just like that?”

  “The last postcard we had was about twelve months or so. Nothing since then.”

  “You know, you really look like you need some coffee.”

  She cocked her head. “Mmmmm... “

  “Dessert?”

  “Actually, the green-tea ice cream here is fabulous.”

  * * * * *

  The radio played a soft Woody Herman while she made hot chocolate in the kitchen. They sat and stirred, listening to trains in the distance. He closed his eyes and sighed.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “This sure beats the hell out of the Barker Hotel.”

  “The Barker is the best one in town.”

  “I just found one that’s better.”

  “Don’t wear out your welcome.”

  He opened his eyes to catch her giving him a look. “ freight hooked up to a long line of cars, the couplers rattling for five long seconds. “Ever get tired of hearing that?” he asked.

  “People around here are so used to it, they don’t hear it. Me, I love it. I can tell the type of engine from the sound. I can just about tell how many cars the engine’s pulling and whether it’s passenger or freight. I can tell what kind of diesel engine it is or what kind of switch engine they’re using in the yards. In fact, I know the numbers on the switchers and can almost pick>em out by their sound.” She cocked her head to the sound of a locomotive working its way through the Roseville yards. “Now, that’s a compound engine.”

  “Like two engines on one chassis?”

  “Sort of. Two engines receive steam from one boiler. The forward and rear units are hinged or articulated so the whole mess can go around curves.”

  “Shows you how much I know.”

  She let that pass with, “We call them Mallets.” She pronounced it “Malley.”

  “How about that?”

  “Invented by a Swiss engineer, “Anatolle Mallet.”

  “I thought he was a private detective on radio.”

  She gave a look and said, “They’re big things. Sixty-three-inch drive wheels. Listen.” She cupped a hand to her ear. “Hear the syncopated ch-chuff, ch-chuff,ch-chuff sound they make?”

  He listened. “I do.”

  “That’s an “AC class, meaning articulated compound class. That’s probably an “C-10 4-8-8-2 cab forward locomotive.”

  Donovan sipped. “You know your stuff.” He had no idea what all the numbers meant. “I guess you have to grow up in a place like Roseville to appreciate all this.”

  Fixated on the sound, Diane went on. “Now listen. She has a long consist. Maybe seventy or eighty cars. You’ll hear two other helpers soon, one in the middle and a pusher at the back. They’re headed east, up over the mountain, which means they’re probably shipping lettuce back east. Chicago, New York, maybe.”

  “You really do know your stuff.”

  “Fresh, refrigerated lettuce anywhere in the United States. “ll you want; all within ten days.”

  “Maybe you should have gone into the railroad business.”

  She gave another look.

  “On second thought, you’re a hell of a doctor. I’m glad you went into medicine.”

  “I have to admit I’m still a kid at heart. But thanks.” She finished with her cocoa and stood to wash out the mug. “You grow up here, you learn a few things. Finished?” She stretched an arm for his mug.

  Donovan rose. It was the way she reached; the way she held out her arm, an eyebrow raised. “With this, yes.” He set the mug on the sink, took her into his arms and kissed her. Her arms went around his neck then began working up and down his back. She’d blended into him so perfectly. It felt right as he kissed her cheek, her neck, then the tip of her nose; then her lips once again, deeply. He looked in her eyes. She’d taken off her glasses and she looked so damn good, so–

  –She shuddered and drew back.

  “Diane?” He brushed hair off her forehead.

  “I... I better not.”

  He pulled her close. She pushed away. “It doesn’t work for me right now.”

  “Who is it?” asked Donovan. Walt and Lattimer had given him a tip. But he wanted to hear it from her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He took her chin in his hand. “Is there someone else? If there is, I’m sorry.”

  “Not now.”

  “What happened?” He kissed her forehead.

  “Guadalcanal. That’s in the Solomons, isn’t it?”

  “Right.” Come on, let it out.

&nbs
p; “And Bougainville?”

  “That’s at the western end of the Solomons,” he said, stroking her hair.

  Gently she pushed away.

  “Bougainville? You lost someone at Bougainville?”

  “I said, not now.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  She folded her arms.

  My God. She still carries the torch. “I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of this. I didn’t know.”

  She gave a short laugh.

  Donovan was surprised at the incongruity. “What?” he coaxed.

  “I don’t know what reminded me of this.”

  “Of what?”

  “The tenth grade. When I lost my first boyfriend.”

  “Who?”

  “His name was Mortimer.”

  “Like in Snerd?”

  She nodded, a smile stretching across her face. “Mortimer’s father owned five thousand acres of delta bottomland. Made a fortune in wheat farming. Look what I gave up.”

  He cupped her chin. “You made the right decision.”

  She stepped away. “Of course I did. Mortimer turned out to be a drunk.” She headed for the door. “Please kill the lights when you’re done. Good night.” She walked out.

  It was eleven o’clock when Donovan walked into Ralph’s little bedroom. Blackie was already there curled up in a corner on an old throw rug. He opened one yellow eye and flopped his tail for a moment. Then he groaned and rolled onto his back his legs in the air, exhaling deeply. Donovan opened the window and crawled into Ralph Logan’s bed, a comfortable twin. He snapped off the light and lay back, as Blackie gave a softer groan. Donovan cradled his hands behind his head, listening to the sounds of the night.

  The evening was cool and the music of the rail yards drifted in: Ch-chuff. Ch-chuff. Ch-chuff.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  18 August, 1944

  461 Cypress “venue

  Roseville, California

  Screams. That’s all he heard. Hot and sweaty. “And darkness.

  “Arrrrgh!” There it was again. “Tineeeee!” He threw off the covers.

  “Mike, come on.”

  “Not my fault! I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay.” She held him close.

  His eyes snapped open and suddenly, Donovan realized where he was.

  It was Diane, sitting against the headboard, gently rocking him. “Really, it’s all right,” she murmured.

  “... sorry.”

  “Shhhhh.”

  He lay back against her chest; her warmth, her scent enveloping, caressing him as she wrapped her arms around him.

  He looked up as she ran a hand over his forehead. “Was I yelling?”

  “A little bit.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was down for glass of milk and heard you. You okay now?”

  Donovan realized she was in just a nightgown. Under his back, he felt her bare thighs and just about everything else through the thin fabric. He became aroused and started to turn over.

  “Yes, you’re better.” She slipped away and stood. “You want something? “ glass of milk?”

  “Forgive me.” He ran a hand through his hair. It was damp. “And he knew that even though he was tired, he didn’t want to go back to sleep. Ruefully, he admitted to himself he was scared and checked the radium dial on his watch: two twenty-five. “Yes, milk sounds just right.”

  “Be right back.”

  “A locomotive whistle beckoned, and he sat up to listen. “What kind of engine is that?”

  The refrigerator opened. “Sounds like a Big Boy: a 4-8-8-4.”

  “A compound engine?”

  She walked back in with the two glasses of milk and set them on the bedside stand. “A monster. Union Pacific uses them for troop trains. We only see them around here at night.” She opened a closet, fumbled for a moment, and drew out a bathrobe. “After working into it, she sat at the edge of the bed and handed over the milk. She held hers up and clinked glasses. “Your health, Commander Donovan.”

  “And to you, Dr. Logan.” He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice when she’d put on the bathrobe. Dr. Logan had one great figure. But then he reminded himself, Donovan, you’re a guest here of some very nice people, so grow up.

  He swallowed. It tasted wonderful: it was always a marvel at how good milk tasted in the United States. When overseas, the best they could do was a reconstituted condensed milk that tasted like ground-up cardboard. Within seconds the glass was empty. “Wow,” he gasped. “Thanks.” He nodded to the robe. “That belong to Ralph?”

  “Can’t you tell?” She held out her arms, the sleeves drooping well over her hands.

  “Ralph’s a big boy. I’d better not tangle with him.”

  “More?”

  “Okay.”

  She was soon back with a refill.

  “You haven’t touched yours.”

  “Give me a moment.” She sat and drank, looking at him. Her glasses were on, and she examined him as if he were lying on one of Roseville Community Hospital’s operating tables.

  “What?”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  He checked his glass: half empty. “Damn, this is good stuff.” He looked up to see her eyebrows raised . “I don’t think so. Thanks.”

  “You’re sure? My rates are cheap this time of night.”

  He looked away and shook his head.

  She pat his knee. “Okay, Commander. Early rise tomorrow.” She stood, grabbed a magazine off the dresser, and pitched it in his lap. “Maybe this will put you to sleep.”

  It was a November 1941 issue of Popular Mechanics. He flipped pages. “Look at this. “ garbage disposal right in your own kitchen sink. What’ll they think of next?”

  “Good night, Mike.” Incredibly, she bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Then she tapped him on the nose. “Sleep well.”

  “Diane?”

  “Ummm?”

  “Okay. I’ll talk.” He pat the edge of the bed. “And turn off the light.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He downed the rest of the milk. “It’s dark where we’re going. Yes, turn it off.”

  She clicked off the light and sat. “More milk?”

  “No, thank you... “ He wove his fingers behind his head. ““Almost two years ago. It’s Guadalcanal.” In the dark, he shot her a look. “My Guadalcanal. At sea. Off Tassaforonga Point on the night of November 30, 1942. The Japs were desperate to re supply Guadalcanal and their troops.” He raised up on an elbow. “You see, their destroyers would shoot by the beaches and kick crates of ammo, food, medicine, over the side without stopping. They even pitched their troops over and made>em swim ashore. Well, that night, we were trying to stop them... “

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  30 November, 1942

  USS. Tampa (CA 40)

  Iron Bottom Sound, off Tassaforonga Point

  Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

  The night lit up brightly to port. An instant later, an explosion walloped director 82. Donovan felt as if he were trapped inside a fifty-five-gallon drum with a five-hundred-pound ghoul swinging a sledge-hammer outside. The heavy cruiser USS Tampa (CA 40) shook and vibrated and whipsawed, reminding him of a San Fernando Valley earthquake that had thrown him out of bed. Director 82, a mark 31 gun director, was one of two main-battery tank-like directors for acquiring targets and controlling the ship’s eight-inch gun mounts. Atop each director was a brand-new mark 3 fire control radar so highly classified that they were air brushed from photographs except those classified SECRET and above.

  The two directors were located high in the superstructure: Director 81, in the forward section of the ship, was two levels above the pilothouse and usually controlled the two forward eight-inch gun mounts. Donovan’s director 82 was in the after section, five levels above the main deck, overlooking the aft eight-inch gun mount and the fantail.

  There was a shocked silence; then everyone seemed to yell at once. “What
the hell was that?” shrieked Shinglar, a chalk-faced third-class firecontrolman sitting in the back of the director.

  “Also in the back of the director was Ensign Tiny Sabovik, who growled, “Easy, Shinglar, don’t wet your pants.”

  Shinglar heaved a sob, fell silent, and drew into a corner, trying to disappear in the gloom. For Shinglar, at five-six and 135 pounds, that was easy to do. “And as cowardly and shriveled as he was, the little man was a genius with electronics. Director 82 had always beaten director 81, the forward main-battery director, in target acquisition. In large part, that was due to Shinglar’s genius, so nobody beat up on him too hard.

  Tiny had only been aboard for two weeks and Donovan had swept him into his division and appointed him assistant illumination officer, a made-up job to break him in and keep an eye on him. The real illumination officer was chief firecontrolman Foley, a twenty-two-year veteran.

  “What’s going on, Mike?” Tiny asked in a calm voice.

  “Wish I knew,” muttered Donovan as he spun the sound powered telephone barrel switch. Panic ranged along the sound-powered-telephone circuits as everyone chattered at once.

  Finally Lieutenant Nichka, the fire control officer in director 81, yelled on the fire control circuit, “Silence on the line, dammit!” Voices trailed away, then Nichka said, “Bridge says we took a torpedo in the forward fireroom. It also punctured a fuel-oil tank, which sprayed the ship with the stuff. So we’re pretty well lit up. But never mind. I want everyone to hunker down and do your jobs.”

  Shinglar cranked open the after hatch and looked out. “Oh, my God.” Light danced and flickered on his face.

  “A wide-eyed Donovan rose out of his hatch. “Sonofab…”

  “As Nichka had reported, the ship was afire. Flames consumed the main mast and cross-arm, making them look like a giant crucifix planted by the Ku Klux Klan. Instead of the rich aroma of Guadalcanal’s jungle rot, the ripe odor of naval-standard fuel oil coursed through his nostrils.

  “Mike, what is it, for crying out loud?” asked Tiny.

  Donovan stammered, “We’re lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  Even as he spoke, the whole forward section of the Tampa caught fire from her number one gun turret back to the midship section break. Screams filled the night as bodies tumbled from the hatches of the two forward eight-inch gun mounts. Some men, their clothes on fire, jumped screaming over the side, while others with fire hoses sprayed water on the flames.