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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  In a voice worthy of a courtroom barrister, Corodini shouted, “Rudder amidships. Port engine ahead one third, starboard engine astern, one third.”

  Bells clanked and men in the pilothouse acknowledged the orders with Corodini clicking off his “very wells” like a tobacco auctioneer. With one hand, he lit another cigarette, took a huge drag, looked up to Muir, and said loudly, “You play ball?”

  “Not football.”

  “What then?” demanded Corodini as he leaned over the bridge bulwarks, watching the screws churn froth back aft.

  Muir said, “Varsity third base at the University of Oklahoma.”

  Donovan, Kruger, and Corodini all exchanged glances. “We’ll delay the game as long as possible,” shouted Kruger.

  Muir raised his iced tea. “That’s all right, sir. I could get used to this. This ship’s air-conditioned. Mighty fine in there.”

  Kruger shouted, “Mr. Muir. You get that damn mail sorted and report to us ASAP. That’s an order.”

  “Doing my best, XO.” Muir grinned. He took a long sip of iced tea, then sauntered to a hatch, swung the dogging lever, stepped in, and closed it behind.

  Corodini shouted, “Take in two. “ll back two-thirds.” Then he turned to Kruger, “Air-conditioning, XO? How the hell does he rate?”

  “Little bastard held out on us. I’ll pull his ass through a knothole,” growled Kruger.

  “Sound one long blast,” ordered Corodini, grinning from ear to ear.

  * * * * *

  They worked up to seventeen knots and secured from sea detail five minutes later. Merryweather hovered nearby with a stopwatch as gun crews worked the loading machine. The projectile loaders were broad, beefy men who lifted their fifty-four pound rounds from the hoist and plunked them on the ramming tray. Other crews cheered or catcalled or whistled as each crew stepped in, furiously working at three minute intervals.

  Donovan and Kruger stood in shadows on the signal bridge watching the workout. Drinking coffee, they enjoyed the wind that rustled their hair and cooled their faces while beneath, the ship carved a brilliant white wake in the deep blue lagoon.

  Kruger leaned on the bulwark and said, “Vicki should really see this. Maybe I can bring her back here after the war.” He looked up. “You think I can do that?”

  “I don’t see why not.” After a moment, Donovan said, “Please forgive me for prying, but how... how did she... “

  “You mean land in a wheelchair?”

  “Ummm.”

  “Me.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It was my fault.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Kruger sipped and looked from side to side. Seeing nobody in earshot, he said softly, “Damn loser.” He looked up. Donovan said nothing, so he went on. “I’d married and divorced twice. Both of them bad, bad deals. ’Course I was a loser, too. Then I met Vicky. What a knockout. And man oh man, she understood me. Kept me in check. Did you know she’s Rocky Jennings daughter?”

  “Jennings? The two-star?” Recently retired from the Navy, Rocky Jennings had worked his way up from bosun’s mate as an early innovator in naval diving and salvage.

  “That’s him. And he stood aside and let me date her. It didn’t hurt to have Chester Nimitz paving the way, either. We dated for nearly two years.

  “But she couldn’t stop me at times.”

  “From what?”

  “Booze, that’s what,” Kruger fairly spat. “I would get carried away.

  “Then, one night... I was sloshed. Really stupid. She had this neat Chevy convertible I loved.” He looked up to Donovan, his fist clenched. “I drove the damn thing into a tree. She was ejected. I had minor cuts and bruises.”

  “My God. You don’t have to…”

  Kruger’s eyes turned red. “Yes, it was horrible. She was bent up horribly – a cripple. I felt like running – maybe the Foreign Legion. But then I talked to the chaplain and he suggested the damndest thing.” He paused.

  “Yes?”

  “Marry her. Wheelchair and all. And that’s what I did, six months ago. She did me the great honor of accepting. But it wasn’t easy for either of us.”

  It grew silent. Donovan asked, “Is there a chance of…”

  “Walking again? We don’t know. The docs aren’t encouraging. Severe spinal cord damage, they tell us. But we keep trying. We keep–hey,” Kruger pointed. “What the hell?”

  Donovan looked aft into the port forty-millimeter gun tub to see Burt Hammond shove Jonathan Peete against the platform railing. Peete shoved back. Hammond took a swing, but missed.

  “Sonofabitch.” Donovan was down the ladder in two seconds, Kruger right behind. They were in the gun tub five seconds later, standing between the two red-faced officers.

  Hammond threw another punch. To Donovan’s amazement, the smaller Kruger stepped in, deflected it, spun Hammond around, and slammed him against the forty-millimeter ready service locker. “Knock it off, sailor, before I put your lights out,” he growled.

  Donovan stepped before Peete. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Heaving in great gulps, Peete clenched and unclenched his fists. “Dumb shit came after me, that’s what.”

  Hammond cursed.

  Kruger grabbed his shoulders and barked, “I told you to knock it off!”

  Donovan shouted, “Dammit. You two want me to slap you in chains?” He looked about. Miraculously, no one had seen–or at least they weren’t letting on. The loading machine clanked merrily below as the drills went on, the mount crews awaiting their turns. “Now, what’s going on?” Donovan demanded.

  Hammond looked away.

  Donovan said, “You better start talking, Lieutenant, or I’m stuffing you down the chain locker.”

  Hammond curled a lip. “He insulted my fiancé, that’s what.”

  Donovan and Kruger looked at Hammond. “Fiancé? You?” gasped Donovan. “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  Hammond’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir. ’bout four months ago.”

  “To whom?”

  “Velma Johnson.”

  “The actress?” Kruger and Donovan said simultaneously.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hammond.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Kruger. “But then what’s all this?”

  Hammond stiffened and pointed. “Little Johnnie Hollywood here called her a whore. A punchboard.”

  Peete stood erect and spread his hands. “I had no idea he knew her. What are the chances of anyone out here knowing someone in Hollywood? Anyway, I might have been exaggerating a little. I only dated her twice. The first time was to–”

  The afternoon sky lit up. A thundering crack threw them to the deck. That was followed by a rolling explosion of violence Donovan had never seen. He knew he’d been on the deck for four or five seconds but he couldn’t get up. Nor could he hear. Only ringing in his ears. He looked over, finding Kruger trying to rise.

  With a groan, Donovan got to his knees. Grabbing the bulwark, he struggled to his feet. An enormous gray-black cloud of smoke and fire roiled high overhead, blocking the sun. Metal chunks, some the size of gun turrets, fell about the ship. Something hot and metallic thumped against Donovan’s left shoulder and clanged to the deck.

  Someone tugged Donovan’s shirt. It was Hammond, mouthing, “What happened?”

  Nobody could hear, he knew, but Donovan said it, anyway. “The Mount Saint Helens. She’s gone.”

  Kruger pointed down to the main deck. The men around the loading machine lay on the deck as if shoved over by a giant hand. A few tried to sit. One bled profusely from a cut over his eye.

  A white-faced Jonathan Peete was shouting. Donovan couldn’t hear, but he knew what the ensign was saying. “Muir! What about Kenny Muir?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  17 October, 1944

  IJN radar station

  Suluan Island

  Leyte Gulf, Philippines

  Radar operator second-class Kozuko Tomura groaned, lifted
a bamboo curtain, and peered outside. Lightning flashed and thunder shook the little four-man hut. Reluctantly, he rose from his mat and pulled on shorts, shirt, and overcoat as the others snored. Slipping into split-toed sandals, he ventured outside. It was just before sunrise but still very dark as the storm raged overhead. Tomura clicked on his flashlight to find his path to the beach.

  Lieutenant Hara, a fat pig of a garrison officer, wanted the lobster traps checked. Forget about the weather, Hara had screamed last night. Make sure those traps are holding. Better yet, see if they have a catch. Hara was entertaining the major tonight, and he wanted no mistakes; he only wanted lobsters.

  Reveille was at 0700, and Tomura didn’t have to relieve the radar watch until 0745. So he had plenty of time to find out if the trap was loaded so Hara could slop up fresh lobster at dinner tonight. The wind blew harder as he drew near the windward side of Suluan Island. It was thirty-two kilometers southeast of Leyte Gulf’s wide, yawning mouth, with no protection from the storm raging from the east. Tomura shuddered when he thought about Suluan being the easternmost landfall off the islands of Leyte and Samar. After that, it was the Palau Islands, twelve hundred kilometers to the southeast. No comfort from that direction, he realized. The Palaus were now in American hands.

  The storm that had been pummeling Suluan for the past two days gave him a bizarre sense of peace. They’d had the briefings. If the Americans were to invade Leyte, he’d been told, it would start right here. Also on the Americans’ list would be three other outlying islands: Dinagat, Hibuson, and Homonhon. And for good reason. Each of the four islands had lookout garrisons and radar stations; they would have to be silenced also. But what about the mine fields? How would the Americans take care of that?

  The light was better, as Tomura found the rocky path down a cliffside. Lightning flashed, thunder ripped the sky, and fist-size rocks tumbled down the cliff. He heard the ocean before he saw it; large waves rose and smashed against the rocks, vomiting their energy in great white sheets of spume. He checked his watch: 0645. It should have been much lighter, but the overcast just wasn’t cooperating.

  At last, he saw the ocean. Waves smacked the shore, sending foam high in the air. If that wasn’t enough, the wind shrieked at more than forty knots, the sheer noise almost incomprehensible. Farther out, waves rose and crashed into each other, the ocean a confused morass of grays and anthracite blacks. He searched in vain for the buoys marking the lobster traps. No luck finding his offshore trap line. But to his left was a cove where he had laid four more traps. It looked fairly decent in there. A small banca was stowed in the rocks, and he wondered if he had time to launch, paddle out, and check for game. He looked back over his shoulder. No one was there. Nonetheless, Lieutenant Hara would kill him if he didn’t at least try.

  Okay. Back in fifteen minutes. The banca was where he’d left it yesterday, safely nestled among rocks. He kneeled to pick up the bow.

  Something... something. He peered eastward, out to sea. It was getting light, but the visibility was still poor, maybe one thousand meters, he guessed. But something was out there. Radar operator second-class Kozuko Tomura cupped his hands around his eyes and peered again. A fifty-knot gust nearly knocked him over, and he braced himself against a wet rock. Simultaneously thunder cracked and a wave crashed a few meters away, sending salt spray high in the air.

  There! It cleared and he saw a ship. No. Two ships. Big ones. Cruiser... maybe battleship size. Several smaller ones were there also. Destroyers? And behind them, even smaller ones. Another wave crashed and a cloud scudded past, obscuring the ships.

  Instinctively, Tomura knew, but he wanted confirmation. Another gust of wind was followed by a loud series of crashing waves. Then the clouds parted. There they were. Closer. Radar blips were Tomura’s game, and he tried to recall silhouettes he’d seen in recognition manuals. Racking his brain, he couldn’t come up with Japanese silhouettes matching the ones he saw now. No... it can’t be, he mouthed. Not in this kind of weather.

  There was a flash from one of the lead ships and something whistled overhead, sounding like a freight train. The shell exploded inland near his camp. Then another, and another. Shells all around. Tomura didn’t realize he was running until he slipped on the path up the cliff. He grabbed a piece of scrub brush, and that stopped his slide. Fortunate. Had he gained the crest, he would have been shredded by a shell exploding nearby.

  More shells. Kozuko Tomura was pinned down as naval gunfire raged all around him. The Americans were walking the barrage from the beach to the garrison and back. Devastating. Why the hell were they out there shooting now? In such horrible weather.

  Another shell crashed just meters away and lifted him. He fell among boulders with pain gnawing up his leg. His wind was knocked out and it hurt to breathe. But he braced himself among the rocks and clasped his hands over his head. His heart thumped in his chest, and he grit his teeth wondering if this was it for him. As the bombardment went on, however, Tomura wondered, of all things, about his lobster traps.

  * * * * *

  It was 0845 in Lingga Roads when Noyama tried to run up a ladder to the flag deck of the IJN Atago. Storm clouds roiled from the east as he stumbled his way to the bridge. But pain ranged up and down his bad leg, forcing him to wait. He was breathing hard; he was so out of shape. One deck to go.

  “In a hurry, Noyama?” asked Commander “kira Nakayama, the “Atago’s gunnery officer, a set of binoculars dangling from his neck.

  Noyama waved a flimsy radio message toward the deck above. “The admiral... A was all he could wheeze.

  “Here, let me take it.”

  Nakayama reached over, but Noyama waved it off. “Most secret,” he gasped, leaning heavily on the rail.

  Nakayama gave Noyama that look of disdain, so common to armies and navies of the world, in which the line officer accuses the staff officer of abject laziness and privilege.

  “Thanks anyway.” Noyama continued his climb to the flag deck, slower this time. Once there, the sentry opened the door for him. He stepped inside, headed down the passageway, and rapped sharply on the oak door.

  “No.” The voice was hoarse.

  “Admiral, I must see you,” shouted Noyama fairly clearly. “We have a signal.”

  “No!”

  “Please, sir, it’s urgent. It’s from from Admiral Toyoda.”

  A moment passed. Then. “ ...all right. But no lights.”

  Noyama opened the door and walked in, finding Kurita’s cabin almost pitch black. With the overcast outside, there wasn’t much light to begin with.

  “Sir?”

  There was a gasping sound from the bunk in the corner.

  “Admiral, what’s wrong?” Barely able to see, Noyama rushed over and fumbled with the light switch over Kurita’s bunk.

  “Leave that alone,” Kurita ordered. “Now tell me, what is it?”

  “Dispatch from Admiral Toyoda, sir.”

  “You already told me that. Where is he now?”

  “According to this, he’s airborne heading back to Tokyo.”

  “And?” demanded Kurita.

  “It looks like this is it.”

  Sheets rustled. Noyama’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he saw Kurita’s form rise from the bed.

  “Arrrrgh.”

  “Sir, what’s wrong?” Noyama asked.

  “Up all night puking. Splitting headache. Feel like my eyes are going to pop out.” He clicked on the light and fumbled for his glasses.

  Noyama had to admit the old man looked like a slab of bleached concrete. He also had a good idea what was wrong. He’d seen plenty of it in the Solomons. He handed over the message.

  While Kurita adjusted his glasses, Noyama asked, “Anything I can get you, sir?”

  “No, dammit. Koketsu was in here about half an hour ago. He gave me some pills.” Captain Senjuro Koketsu was the fleet surgeon.

  “What did he say?”

  “Dengue fever. He took some blood and gave me aspirin.�
��

  Noyama groaned.

  Kurita flashed a red-eyed look of anger. “Yes, lucky me.”

  “Is that why you didn’t feel well last night?”

  Kurita had flown his staff into Singapore last night aboard his H8K2 Kawanishi flying boat, dinning in splendor at the restaurant in the famous Raffles Hotel on Beach Road overlooking the harbor. “I imagine.”

  “I’m sorry, Admiral.”

  “Hand me my robe.”

  Noyama fumbled in a pile of clothing strewn about the deck and found a silk magenta robe. Kurita wobbled to his feet and Noyama helped him poke his spindly arms through. Kurita thrust out an arm and Noyama handed over the message. He nodded. “Alert, SHO-1. The Americans must be on their way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Someone rapped at the door. Noyama walked over and opened, it finding a flag radioman standing at attention. “I’ll take it.” He signed for the message, walked to Kurita’s bunk, and handed it over. “Another message from CinC Combined Fleet, sir.”

  Kurita adjusted his glasses again and squinted at the message. “It says that a large American group of cruisers and destroyers bombarded Suluan, Dinagat, Hibuson, and Homonhon islands. Then they sent troops ashore and took the islands. Minesweepers are now working the channel into Leyte Gulf.” He paused. “Toyoda is executing SHO-1, the Philippine Battle Plan.”

  He looked up to Noyama. “If I know anything about General MacArthur, he won’t be far behind those minesweepers.” Groaning, he fumbled at the sash, then finally tied it. “Call... call a staff meeting in half an hour” He checked his watch: 1030. “Lay out our contingency plans. And send a preparatory signal to all ships to raise steam, top off with fuel, and prepare to get under way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kurita shuffled toward a small door. Then he stumbled and almost fell.

  “Admiral!” Noyama turned.

  Kurita waved him off. “Go. Go do what I said.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Noyama.” Kurita’s voice sounded a bit stronger. It had some timbre.

  “Sir?”

  “Get that damn Koketsu back up here. And hand me my pants.”