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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  A first lieutenant and his platoon ran up to MacArthur. The man had a heavy five o’clock shadow and said, “Excuse me, General, but we’re not quite secure here. Plenty of Jap snipers. You and your party better get down.”

  “Who are you?” demanded MacArthur.

  “Er... Lieutenant Peoples, sir.”

  A bullet ricocheted off the jeep’s fender as if to italicize what First Lieutenant Peoples had just said.

  A high-pitched voice screeched from the jungle just fifty yards away, “You all die! FDR eat shit!”

  Peoples dropped to his knees behind the jeep. “See what I mean, sir? You gotta be careful.”

  The others crouched behind the jeep, but MacArthur remained standing. He pointed toward the jungle. “Looks like you have a job to do, son.”

  “But we’re detailed to protect you, sir.”

  MacArthur again pointed. “Then I repeat, Lieutenant Peoples, the enemy is that way. Now go do your job.”

  “Y... yes, sir.” With a whistle, Peoples ran in a crouch toward the jungle, his men following, their equipment clanking.

  Reynolds walked up and saluted. “Ready, General.”

  MacArthur returned the salute as rifles popped near the jungle. Then machine guns rattled. Grenades exploded. A flamethrower roared into the grove. The whole stand of coco palms lighted up in a bizarre orange-red as black smoke billowed overhead.

  “Looks like Mr. Peoples is on it,” said MacArthur. He looked at Reynolds, “Lead on, Owen.”

  A half-track drove up. A captain stood and offered MacArthur a ride. But the general waved it off as he slogged inland with his entourage. Owen Reynolds led the way, as a light mist became a drizzle. It was a downpour by the time they reached the culvert.

  While Gillespie briefed MacArthur on the microphone, Obermann walked around the truck and whispered, “Little bastards tried a banzai raid while you were gone.” He pointed to some bodies splayed about thirty yards away.

  Reynolds’s eyebrows shot up. “Everybody all right?”

  “Everybody except him.” Obermann pointed to a wet tarp. “ pair of army boots stuck out from the bottom.

  “Who?”

  “Your driver, Stoddert.”

  Reynolds swallowed hard to keep down the nausea. Finally he managed, “Stoddert.”

  “Guy was pretty good with an M1,” said Obermann. “He took a bullet meant for me.

  Reynolds leaned against the truck. Stoddert had a million-dollar wound. He could have been on an LCVP right now headed for a hospital ship and a back area for two weeks of R&R, maybe even better. “Stoddert,” he said slowly. He looked up. “What else?”

  “We’re okay for now. And I have my men posted. But I can’t guarantee anything. You better tell your general to watch his keister. The Japs are out for him.”

  “You tell him, Sergeant.”

  “Sheeyaat.” He waved a hand at Stoddert’s corpse and hissed, “Are you sure all this bullshit PR for Dug-out Doug is worth it, sir?”

  An enraged Reynolds went to grab Obermann’s collar. But just then the men around MacArthur surged into a tight group.

  All eyes fell on the general. After a pause he asked, “Ready, Owen?”

  Reynolds gulped and said, “We’re ready, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Reynolds nodded to Gillespie.

  Gillespie threw a switch. With an exaggerated sweep of his arm, he pointed to MacArthur

  MacArthur barked, “People of the Philippines: I have returned.” His voice shook a bit, and he paused for a moment to compose himself. “By the grace of Almighty God, our forces stand again on Philippine soil – soil consecrated in the blood of our two peoples. “t my side is your president, Sergio Osmeña, a worthy successor of that great patriot, Manuel Quezon. The seat of your government is now, therefore, firmly reestablished on Philippine soil. The hour of your redemption is here.”

  The roaring rain became a fitting backdrop as MacArthur’s voice grew strong and deeply resonant. “Rally to me. Let the indomitable spirit of Bataan and Corregidor lead on. As the lines of battle roll forward to bring you within the zone of operations, rise and strike. Strike at every favorable opportunity. For your homes and hearths, strike! For future generations of your sons and daughters, strike! In the name of your sacred dead, strike! Let no heart be faint. Let every arm be steeled. The divine guidance of God points the way. Follow in His name to the Holy Grail of righteous victory.”

  MacArthur stepped back and handed the mike to Osmeña, who had removed his helmet, letting the rain mix with the tears on his face. Then he spoke in his native Tagalog, wiping at his eyes.

  They were ankle-deep in mud, but they were riveted to the scene. Osmeña handed the mike to Romulo, who removed his helmet and spoke haltingly, also in Tagalog.

  Gillespie rose to his feet and caught Reynolds’s eye.

  Reynolds raised his eyebrows. Are we broadcasting okay?

  Gillespie nodded and flashed a thumbs-up.

  Obermann saw Gillespie, too. “I take it back, Colonel,” he said softly.

  “Pardon?”

  “It is worth it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  20 October, 1944

  IJN Atago

  Brunei Bay, Borneo

  The First Striking Force pulled into Brunei Bay, just before sunset. Waiting at anchor was Vice Admiral Nishimura and his Southern Force of two battleships, two heavy cruisers, and four destroyers. While fuel barges dashed about in a breezy seaway, Nishimura’s barge cast off from his flagship, the 29,223-ton battleship Yamashiro. Pitching and slewing in the chop, the barge took a full thirty minutes to make the starboard side of the Atago. At 1930, Nishimura and an entourage of five officers stepped onto the Atago’s quarterdeck. Captain Araki; Rear Admiral Abe, the Chief of staff, Noyama, and other staff officers were there to greet him.

  After bows and handshakes, Nishimura’s party headed for Kurita’s cabin. Deep in conversation, they split off in twos and threes. “An anxious Nishimura quickly moved ahead, followed by a puffing Noyama, shuffling his fastest to keep pace. The admiral grandly dashed up ladders, ducked through hatches, and threw perfunctory salutes as he passed guards in flag country. With a final burst of energy, Noyama caught up just as they reached Kurita’s cabin.

  “There is something you should know, Admiral,” wheezed Noyama. He edged between Nishimura and Kurita’s door.

  “Well, yes, you damn fool. I’m here to see Kurita.” He elbowed Noyama aside.

  “Please listen, Admiral.” Noyama explained Kurita’s condition and that he hadn’t improved much. He finished by explaining that Dr. Koketsu had ordered complete bed rest.

  “Rest, nonsense,” replied Nishimura. “He can rest when he’s dead. Right now I need him. The whole damn fleet needs him.” He waved a sheaf of papers at Noyama. “Have you seen this?”

  “Sir?”

  “That damn MacArthur has landed. Leyte Gulf. Right where we thought he would. Eight o’clock this morning.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve read the dispatches.”

  “Did you hear about his broadcast?”

  “I hadn’t heard that, “admiral,” Noyama admitted.

  Nishimura went on, “The damn fool is so predictable. He walked ashore and broadcast a radio message to the Filipinos.” Nishimura wagged his elbows against his rib cage and puffed up his cheeks. “People of the Philippines, I have returned,” he mimicked in a deep falsetto. “You can unlock your doors now. Your wives and daughters are safe with me. Please send them to the town square for processing along with all their jewelry.” He grunted, “Hah!”

  Noyama grinned. “He was really there?”

  Nishimura turned serious. “Apparently it is true. He landed and did make that broadcast from Tacloban beach. Had I known that, I would have ordered a detachment of marines in there to shoot the bastard.”

  “That would have been nice.”

  “We’ve got to get moving.” Again, Nishimura raised his hand to knock.
>
  “The admiral really does feel horrible--”

  Nishimura clamped Noyama on the shoulder and said with a pixie grin, “Noyama, I’ve known Takeo Kurita for a long, long time. He is one of the hardiest people I know. I’ll cheer him up and hand him back to you in fine shape.”

  Twenty minutes later Nishimura stepped out, looked at Noyama and shook his head. “Take good care of him, Commander.” Without another word, he left the ship.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  23 October, 1944

  IJN Atago

  Palawan Passage, Philippines

  After refueling, the First Striking Force sortied from Brunei at 0800 on the 22nd of October. And now, at daybreak on the 23rd, they began their transit of Palawan Passage, the western approaches to the Philippine archipelago. The evening before, Kurita had dictated the setup for a night formation from his bed. The strike force was to sort itself into five columns. Cruisers and battleships were set in columns two and four. Destroyers formed a protective screen in columns one, three, and five. Atago was designated formation guide at the head of the second column; the cruiser Myoko was also a guide at the head of the fourth column. With that done, they steamed on a course of 045T, speed twenty-five. Battle condition III was ordered at 0000, and they were to go to full battle stations at 0700 in the morning.

  Noyama rose early. His stateroom was aft, two decks below the main deck near the seaplane hangar. Keeping the lights off, he dressed quietly, since a large number of the flag staff were still asleep – they’d worked late last night. Shuffling fast, he checked into the flag bridge, signed dispatches, spoke with Admiral Takata for a minute, then walked down three flights to the wardroom for breakfast.

  Noyama had just taken his place at the table with twenty other officers when the Chelsea clock, a gift from the British at the Atago’s launching in 1932, chimed five bells. Three seconds later, Captain Araki stepped in and walked to the head of the table. As always, Araki scanned the officers, now standing at attention, then, with a nod, waved them down. Araki had always seemed stiff and distant to Noyama. They never spoke, except on official business. He never seemed to relax; on the bridge or anywhere else on the ship, Araki was always in formal tunic, never in fatigues. And yet Noyama saw him laughing and slapping his knee when off duty with his sanctum sanctorum, his inner circle of officers consisting of the executive officer and department heads. But with Kurita’s flag staff, Araki was precise, exacting, always by the book.

  Today was no different. A forever correct Araki poured tea and began passing a silver platter of umeboshi, dried plums.

  The platter reached Noyama, and he sensed that Araki’s gaze had followed it down the table directly to him. “Sir?” asked Noyama.

  “Are we going to ring formation anytime today, Commander?” asked Araki, with evident sarcasm. The ring formation was an air-defense formation usually set up for daylight hours.

  Noyama said, “I believe the signal is on the flag bridge, now, Captain. We should be executing momentarily.”

  “I see. And where are your colleagues this morning?” He waved at empty chairs with the back of his hand.

  “Still asleep, Captain. They were up late last night. Admiral Takata is on the flag bridge if you’d care to–”

  “No, no. That won’t be necessary. And how is the Chujo?” Another silver platter was passed. This one was loaded with mochitsukiB rice cakes.

  Noyama dropped one on his plate and said, “Better, I think, Captain. His temperature is down.” Noyama bit into a mochitsuki and chased it with water. “Dr. Koketsu says he will be able to–”

  An explosion shook the ship. Plates jumped on the table. Someone cried out in the pantry.

  “What?” shouted Araki. He turned to the chief engineer. “Get the–”

  Another explosion, far worse than the first, made the “Atago jump and vibrate horribly. She seemed to twist from end to end and then rolled drunkenly to port. Noyama’s chair fell over. He found himself on his hands and knees looking eye to eye with the a chalk-faced chief engineer. The lights blinked on and off as crockery, teacups, fine china plates, silverware, and water glasses crashed to the deck. Amid the mess was the remnants of a fruit bowl. Two apples rolled among the debris, making Noyama think of his brother.

  Captain Araki yelled at the chief engineer, “Get going. Damage report, quickly!”

  The chief engineer scrambled to his feet and dashed out before the others could stand. “Get moving, all of you!” Araki shouted to the rest. Then he bolted out the door and up three flights to the bridge.

  Stumbling along, Noyama was thirty seconds behind Araki. Usually quiet, the bridge was in chaos, a number of men shouting at once.

  Araki barked, “Silence!” He yanked a phone from its bracket and held a finger in his other ear. “Very well,” he roared. “Secure boilers one and two. What? All right. Secure those, too. How many casualties?”

  Just then something between an explosion and a volcano erupted beneath their feet. Noyama pitched to the deck and swore he felt it grow warm. He rose to his feet, slipped and slid his way to the pilothouse hatch, and yanked it open. To his surprise, Kurita stood there. “Admiral, I–”

  Kurita, wearing fatigues, brushed him aside, walked in, and barked. “Araki, how serious is it?”

  Araki clutched the phone in his hand. “Bad enough, Admiral. Torpedo hit in the forward fireroom. Another forward, under turret two. Everything’s gone in the fireroom. We just had to secure boilers one and two. Three and four were caught in the initial explosion and were goners. The after fireroom isn’t much better off. Packing glands from shafts three and four have ruptured and it’s flooding massively. From what I can tell, the fire mains are useless and we can’t control fires headed for the forward magazine. We’re flooding those now but I can’t–”

  Something rumbled and exploded deep inside the Atago. She gathered a list of ten degrees to port. Noyama checked his watch. Five minutes couldn’t have passed, yet incredibly, the Atago’s bow was almost awash. And she was nearly dead in the water, the other ships pulling away. Ships aft of the Atago hove out of column to avoid her and began passing, while destroyers dashed back and forth dropping depth charges.

  Suddenly four explosions ripped the cruiser in second column. Raising his glasses, Noyama watched an enormous tower of smoke billow from the Maya, a sister ship to the Atago.

  There were three more ripping explosions from another cruiser. This time it was the Takao, another sister to the graceful Atago and Maya.

  “How many submarines do they have out there?” gasped Araki. As if in emphasis, Atago leaned farther to port, creaking and groaning.

  The faces of Kurita, once the Atago’s skipper and Araki, her current skipper, flashed at the same time with the same horrible thought: their beloved ship was going down — fast. Araki held the phone from his ear, “Chief engineer reports all power lost, Admiral. No chance of lighting boilers.”

  “Can you counter-flood?” asked Kurita.

  “If we can get power to the pumps. Right now, there’s a serious fire forward. We’re trying to flood the forward magazine.” He paused. “Actually, I think we’re beyond counter-flooding.”

  Kurita nodded.

  An astounded Noyama checked the pilot house inclinometer. The list had increased to eighteen degrees. Worse, the Atago was dead in the water. Aft, screams echoed as fires shot up the boiler room hatches.

  Captain Araki calmly turned to his officer of the deck. “Call for abandon ship, Mr. Hitsuke. Make sure all classified material is destroyed.” He turned to Kurita and asked, “Shall I have the Kishinami come alongside and take you off?”

  Kurita looked at the deck and finally nodded. “We’d better, if only to transfer off the wounded. We’ll go later if... if... “

  “Better do it now, Admiral, I think we’re about out of time.” Araki gave the order to the signalman. Then he turned to Kurita and offered a hand. “Goodbye.”

  Kurita seemed at a loss for words. “You..
. you’re... “

  “Yes, good-bye.” Araki reached for Noyama. “You’re a good staff officer, Noyama. Probably better than you were a pilot. Good luck to you.”

  An astounded Noyama took Araki’s hand. “Sir, I don’t know what to–”

  “Go, you two. Now. I have work to do.” Turning his back, Araki grabbed the phone and began yelling at the engineers to get out. At the same time, he grabbed a length of line and began tying himself to the chart table.

  Kurita turned to Noyama. “Where’re our people?”

  Noyama sputtered for a moment. “Their bunks, sir. They worked late last night, and Captain Takata gave the second and third section permission to sleep in until seven.”

  Kurita looked aft for a moment. “I hope they’re not stuck back there. If so, they’re goners. Come on. There are some things I want to pack.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kurita grabbed a life jacket from a rack and handed it over. “Here. Why didn’t you have one on?”

  There was no time to argue. Noyama wrestled into the life jacket while Kurita took a last look around his bridge. Books, papers, manuals, and charts were scattered on the deck. Officers and men dashed about, oblivious to the detritus beneath their feet. The ship was now listing twenty-five degrees. More loose gear crashed to the deck and slid to the port bulkhead: pencils, ashtrays, a sailor’s hat, magazines, helmets, chalk.

  The ship gave an awful screech and rolled farther to port. Kurita slipped. Noyama grabbed his collar and dragged him upright, one foot braced on the port bulkhead, the other on the deck. Men screamed. Steam shot out the uptakes. Boats, ammunition, portable pumps sailed across her decks, some equipment striking men and catapulting them into the water.

  Fifteen minutes after the first torpedo hit, the once mighty Atago capsized with a great lurch, smoke and steam billowing high in the air. Noyama found himself in the water, his eye patch hanging around his neck. Quickly adjusting it, he found Kurita three meters away, treading water. But the admiral didn’t have a life jacket and his face was blue, his teeth chattering even though the water was at least twenty degrees Celsius.