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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Tominaga?” said Noyama.

  “Sir?”

  “Do you have any apples in your larder?”

  “Just two left, sir.”

  “May I have them wrapped in a silk handkerchief for my trip tomorrow?”

  Tominaga hesitated for a moment, unsure. “Both, sir?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll put them with your gear, sir.” Tominaga bowed and walked into the darkness.

  Noyama lingered for a few last delicious moments, watching the western horizon. Then, with a sigh, he rose and trekked in darkness across the island. A twig snapped behind him, jerking him from whatever remained of his reverie. It was a marine sergeant.

  “Is this necessary?” growled Noyama.

  “Sorry, sir. We’ve seen Igorots over here.”

  “On Grande Island?” gasped Noyama.

  The sergeant gave a slight bow. “Just last week, they paddled over here and somehow grabbed one of our officers, a major. Just like you, he and his girlfriend went to the western beach to watch the sunset, ahhh, in this case, they were skinny-dipping – excuse me, sir, this way.” The sergeant gestured off to his left. Noyama was surprised to see three other marines behind the sergeant, their rifles at the ready.

  Noyama had been briefed on the Igorots – natives indigenous to the Philippines. Small in stature, they were fierce warriors who were nearly impossible to dislodge from wherever they lived in the thick jungle highlands of northern Luzon. Not bothering with Philippine politics, their role in the resistance movement was unorganized and unpredictable. The Japanese had found it nearly impossible to find them and had long ago given up. “What happened?”

  “The girl wandered back to camp, with no idea of where the major had disappeared. Then, a week later, just before serving the evening meal, they found the major’s head in a stew pot at our garrison barracks over in Olongopo – here we are, sir.”

  The sergeant stepped aside, gesturing to the campfire’s glow through scattered underbrush. In the east, a three-quarter moon rose, illuminating Subic Bay and the three Kawanishi flying boats bobbing obediently at anchor.

  Noyama’s throat felt dry. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Not at all, sir.” The sergeant and his men melted into the darkness.

  Noyama walked into the nipa hut and sat behind Kurita. They were all there and had obviously been waiting. His only admonition was a grunt from Kurita, who handed a notepad over his shoulder. Noyama’s job was to listen and take notes. He was there because they all had agreed he was the best. This meeting was to be uncomplicated by aides and staff and liaison officers and their pompous screaming and politics. Tonight the fighting admirals wanted to make decisions, plan strategy and tactics. After that, they would let their staffs work out the details.

  Ugaki sat cross-legged in the sand before a half-finished bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch, a leaded-glass tumbler nestled next to the bottle. A bottle of Fundatore Brandy was nestled before the Manila-based Mikawa, its color a bit lighter and not quite so threatening as the Johnnie Walker. As usual, Kurita drank tea. Deep in the shadows, one could make out the nearly fused eyes of Minoru Onishi. Still wearing a simple loincloth, Onishi’s enormous arms were folded as he stood ready for whatever Vice Admiral Ugaki ordered.

  With a nod to Noyama, Shima said, “Say that again for our friend here.”

  Mikawa cleared his throat and said, “Two weeks ago, we captured four American swimmers off Yap Island–”

  “–they call them frogmen,” corrected Ugaki.

  “Yes, frogmen. Upon interrogation, we learned that these men were scouting the beaches of Yap for possible invasion. Moreover, one of them tipped us that they are also scouting Morotai and the Palau’s.”

  There was a collective nod. Bracing his hands on his knees, Ozawa asked for all of them, “This means we were right? That by attacking Morotai and the Palau’s, they are anchoring their southern flank, intending to attack the Philippines and not Formosa?”

  “So it would seem,” said Mikawa.

  “Then why are they hitting the Formosan airfields?” asked Ozawa with a bit of irritation.

  Ugaki gave a long belch and said to Ozawa, “You should know that. They want to clear the airspace for the Philippines.” He leaned over and refilled Nishimura’s glass. Then he looked to Noyama, who waved him off with, “No, thank you, sir. I have to take notes.”

  “Better to take notes when you’re drunk,” muttered Ugaki, holding up the bottle and eyeing it. “Makes all this shit seem more believable.” The bottle was empty. He pitched it over his shoulder, then reached in a wooden case and drew out a full one.

  “You live in a fairyland,” snapped Ozawa.

  “All I’m saying is the obvious,” retorted Ugaki. He poured himself a generous dollop then sipped. “Uhhhh. It’s got to be the Philippines. Not Formosa. And not the Home Islands, and certainly not the Kurils. Am I right?”

  “Toyoda thinks it’s Formosa,” said Mikawa quietly, almost reverently.

  “Toyoda’s afraid of his own shadow. It can’t be Formosa. And this intelligence confirms it.”

  There was a collective gasp when Ugaki referred to their commander-in-chief as afraid of his own shadow. Ozawa grunted, “Stupid battleship sailor.”

  “Battleship, Baka!” Ugaki sat up straight. “Okay, let’s settle it, you pussies. Is it the PI or is it Formosa? Let’s vote,” he demanded. “Let me help you out. I say it’s the Philippines. Let me help you out some more. I say it’s Leyte Gulf.” He looked at Kurita.

  “No argument from me,” replied Kurita.

  Nishimura?” demanded Ugaki.

  “Bah! Formosa!” barked Nishimura.

  “Ummm.” Ugaki eyed Shima.

  “Leyte,” the diminutive Shima said. “It’s the only logical place. “ natural gulf with unrestricted access from the east.”

  “Yes? Leyte?” repeated Ugaki. “And how about you, Admiral Ozawa, our air warrior?”

  Ozawa rubbed his chin and stared at each in the circle.

  “Are you trying to fart?” quipped Ugaki.

  “Yes, Leyte,” Ozawa barked.

  “Very good. And now you, Mikawa, hero of the Guadalcanal campaign. What do you think?”

  Mikawa leaned toward the fire and said, “Americans are logical thinkers.”

  “Seems I’ve heard that before,” said Kurita.

  “They take things in moderate bites with overwhelming force.” Mikawa looked around the fire. “Anyone disagree?”

  When no one spoke, Mikawa continued. “Formosa would be too big a bite. Both flanks would be exposed. Plus that egomaniac MacArthur wants to fulfill his promise to return to the Philippines. So, yes, I agree and say it’s Leyte.”

  “How about Davao?” asked Ugaki, referring to a large gulf on Mindanao, the southernmost and largest Philippine island.

  “Leyte would be relatively easy pickings. Yes.” Mikawa looked up, “I agree. Leyte.”

  “Do you think Toyoda would go for it?” asked Ugaki.

  “If we’re unanimous,” said Mikawa.

  They all eyed Nishimura.

  “At length, he threw his hands in the air and said, “Leyte.”

  “What an intelligent choice,” said Ugaki. “That means you get to drink with us.” He poured a large dollop of scotch into Nishimura’s glass. “Very good. We endorse SHO-1 and Mikawa can send a message to Toyoda. Now, what can we do about it?”

  “Except…,” said Mikawa.

  “Except what?” demanded Kurita.

  Mikawa held his brandy glass up to the firelight and studied it. “Except Toyoda thinks, in the event of SHO-1, that it will be Davao Gulf, not Leyte.”

  “He’s a damn fool,” slurred Ugaki.

  “Not to worry,” said Kurita.

  All eyes turned to Kurita.

  “It’ll be the same footprint,” Kurita ventured.

  “Are you speaking of the tactical plan?” asked Nishimura.

  “I am.”

&
nbsp; “Well, please let us in on it,” said Ozawa. “That would be very nice, I think.”

  Kurita looked at Ozawa. “It all depends on perfect timing. And it all depends on you.”

  Ugaki belched. “Are you going to keep drinking that damn tea or are you going to have a man’s drink and let us in on this?”

  Kurita gave Ugaki a polite smile and said, “Halsey will be in charge of their attack force – the carriers.” When no one objected, he continued, “Halsey has a bigger head than MacArthur. All he wants is to sink carriers.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Ozawa.

  “And so, are you ready?” pressed Ugaki.

  Ozawa’s lips pressed and he slowly shook his head.

  “Ozawa?” Kurita said gently.

  “What a horrible choice,” protested Ozawa.

  Kurita said, “It’s like we discussed in Yokosuka. If we sink MacArthur’s amphibious forces and isolate his troops on the beaches of Leyte or Mindanao, we could buy, six months, maybe a year in this war, to regroup, to train more pilots, to ... save the homeland. Plus, think of the vast demoralizing effect it would have on MacArthur and his troops. All that effort lost. All those men – killed. All that equipment – destroyed.”

  Their eyes turned to Ozawa, the key to the whole operation.

  Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

  Ugaki burped. “This calls for another drink.” He began refilling glasses.

  Mikawa rubbed his chin. “So how do you bring this off?”

  Kurita drew in the sand once again. “At the first sign of invasion, we go on the move. You, Shima, will bring your cruisers and destroyers down from Beppu Bay and rendezvous with Nishimura at night to transit the Surigao Strait and drive north. It’s important that you keep the rendezvous – yes?” He looked at them.

  When they nodded, Kurita continued, “I will take the First Striking Force, drive through the Sibuyan Sea, transit the San Bernardino Strait at night, and–”

  “How will you get through?” asked Nishimura.

  “Simple. Turn on the lights,” said Kurita. Navigation lights through the San Bernardino Strait had been turned off since war broke out.

  “Ahhh,” they said.

  “Now, this also is important. Once through the San Bernardino Strait, I will turn south to rendezvous with Nishimura and Shima off Leyte to destroy MacArthur and his ships. Halsey will be too far north, dallying with Ozawa’s ships, to be able to return and do his job, which is to protect the fleet.”

  Ozawa slapped Ugaki’s knee. “You’ve been quiet. What does the great battleship admiral think? How would you like to have MacArthur under those eighteen-inch guns?”

  Ugaki fell over to his side and began snoring.

  “The bastard’s passed out!” snapped Shima.

  Ozawa patted Ugaki’s knee. “He’s a warrior. He’ll do what he’s told.” He grabbed Ugaki’s bottle of Johnnie Walker and filled his leaded-glass tumbler. He toasted Ugaki, then the rest of them in turn. “Yes, gentlemen. Makes sense to me. It will buy time. And we can fight again. Yes, I say, yes if Toyoda goes for it. Mikawa?”

  Mikawa said, “Very good, I’ll radio Toyoda tomorrow.”

  Ugaki gave a long belch.

  “He should be shot,” snapped Shima.

  “Nonsense,” said Kurita with a head shake. “Ozawa is right. This man is a warrior. He’ll do what he’s told and he’ll do a good job.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  3 September 1944

  Baguio, Benguet Province

  Luzon, Philippines

  Yuzura Noyama discovered his brother, Hiroshi, was stationed at Clark Field, and after some prodding by Kurita at Subic headquarters was able to raise him by telephone. They both got a day off and arranged to meet in Baguio, a resort that lies about 240 kilometers north of Manila atop the Cordillera Central mountain range in western Luzon. At 1,829 meters, Baguio had been founded in 1905 by Americans ebullient with their recent victory over Spain. Wanting a place to escape Manila’s brutal summer humidity, they patterned their new city after Washington, DC.

  The Manila-based Vice Admiral Mikawa pulled more strings and had a staff car assigned to Noyama. In fact, they came up with a four-door Packard convertible once belonging to General MacArthur. The Imperial marine whom Noyama had met the evening before on Grande Island was assigned as his driver. He was a short powerful Sergeant named Ito who told Noyama he was in for a real treat. And he was right. While Ito wrestled the Packard’s wheel, clutch, and gearshift to negotiate hairpin turns, Noyama gaped at ever-changing vistas of verdant jungle, deep fog-shrouded valleys, and vast rice paddies ingeniously terraced into hill sides. At twelve hundred meters, they ascended into a tightly packed forest of pine trees bringing a marvelous odor – something he hadn’t enjoyed since home.

  Sargent Ito dropped him off at the Pompag Bar and Grille on Sessions Road. It was in the main drag festooned, with bars and comfort houses. Ito said he would pick up Noyama at six and was adamant about that: no later than six, he said. Any later and they would be driving the jungle roads in twilight or, worse, total darkness. That’s when the partisans were most likely to strike, Ito warned. Terrible things happened, especially if one fell into the hands of the HUKs. Sergeant Ito waved a finger: no driving after sunset. Otherwise it’s our heads in a stew pot.

  Hiroshi ran up the moment Noyama walked in the door. They embraced, pumped hands, and slapped backs. A seven-piece band was imitating American jazz, and Hiroshi had to shout, “What luck. I couldn’t believe it was you.”

  Noyama shouted back, “You look marvelous.”

  “As do you. How ‘bout a rum and Coke?” Hiroshi waved to a table and they sat.

  “They have Cokes here?”

  “Well, that’s what they call them.”

  “Okay.” Noyama stifled a cough. The place was thick with cigarette smoke, and he could barely see the couples dancing American-style on the floor. On closer examination, he saw that almost everyone was military and most were officers.

  “You look like you’ve gained weight.”

  “A little.” He tilted his hand back and forth. “They’re feeding us well.”

  Lamb to the slaughter, thought Noyama. Hiroshi looked away, and he decided to drop it.

  A middle-aged waiter of average height walked up and bent to wipe the table. He was a malado: half Filipino, half black American. He set down a wooden tray of drinks and stepped over. “Rum and Coke?” he asked Hiroshi.

  “How did you know this is what we wanted?” demanded Hiroshi.

  "Everyone wants rum and Coke.” The waiter smiled as he stumbled through heavily accented Japanese. The smile was okay, Noyama thought. It was his eyes that disemboweled you.

  Noyama nodded and Hiroshi said, “Okay.”

  “Hai, hai,” muttered the waiter.

  After the waiter moved off, Hiroshi nodded toward a Japanese civilian in the corner sitting with two Japanese colonels. He wore a white planter’s hat and a cream-colored suit. “See that man?”

  “Ummm,” said Noyama.

  Hiroshi bent his head close. “He’s Kempetai, the little bastard. Looking for somebody to arrest and torture.”

  Noyama felt a cold surge in his belly. The Kempetai were thought police. Special investigators with unlimited power that augmented the local garrison. Basically their mandate was to terrorize at will in order to keep the local populace in hand. “What outfit is stationed here?”

  “The Nineteenth Tora.”

  A look passed between them, confirming they knew that the Imperial Japanese Army’s Nineteenth Tora Division had become famous during the 1941-1942 campaign down the Bataan Peninsula. But now the word was that the Nineteenth was a mere shell of its former self, its real fighters siphoned off to serve elsewhere. The Nineteenth was now reduced to a polyglot of frustrated police officers, out-of-work overaged butchers, and retail clerks, capable only of garrison duty. After a moment, Noyama nodded to the drink. “So this is rum and Coke?”

  “Hai, hai,” gr
inned Hiroshi.

  “I haven’t tasted rum in two years. How did you manage?”

  Hiroshi nodded to the row of bar girls seated across the room. “I have pull around here.”

  “I don’t want to hear about that. Tell me about the navy. How are they treating you?”

  “I’m assigned to the 215th Shiragiku Special Attack Unit.” He smirked, “That’s a euphemism, dear brother, for suicide body-crashing attack.”

  The room seemed hot and Noyama ran a finger around his collar. “Where do you train?”

  “Well, we finished up at Suzuka right after I saw you. Then last week they flew us down here to Clark Field,” said Hiroshi, drinking deeply.

  The band struck up a loud, thumping piece and Noyama had to shout,AWhy do you think your unit is posted in the Philippines?”

  “I figured you’d know the answer to that. You know all the brass. Isn’t this where the Americans are supposed to strike next?”

  The question seemed so innocent coming from his little brother. Yet nobody knew the answer, the intelligence about the American frogmen on Yap Island notwithstanding. It was the question on everyone’s lips. “Looks like your superiors are betting on the Philippines,” said Noyama.

  “That’s what I figure. Same reason you’re here, hmmmm? So tell me, since you’re close to the brass: Is it the Philippines or what?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Hiroshi finished his rum and Coke and slammed down the glass “How do you like this stuff?”

  Noyama slammed down his own glass and said, “You say it’s rum. I say it’s lizard piss.”

  “You’re not as stupid as I thought.” Hiroshi’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  Noyama’s head felt like it was closing in on him. “Smoke and this damn music.”

  “What?”

  “Look, little brother. I can get you out of this.”

  Hiroshi looked away.

  “Listen to me, dammit. You’re right. I do know a lot of brass. Say the word and I can have you transferred out of that unit. No questions asked.”