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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  A sailor drifted by in a life jacket. He was dead, half his face gone. Quickly Noyama untied the jacket and pushed the corpse away. Then he swam over to Kurita.

  “Admiral!”

  Kurita spat water. “Wh... what?”

  “Here, put this on.”

  Kurita nodded and let Noyama manhandle him into the life jacket.

  Noyama had just tied the last lines when the Atago gave a great screech. Her stern rose high in the air, her ensign waving in the morning breeze.

  “Araki,” gurgled Kurita.

  “Yes, sir,” said Noyama.

  With a final vindictive blast of putrid air, the Atago slid into the depths, pulling with her dozens of screaming sailors. Around them floated what was left of a proud ship that only twenty minutes before had been steaming at twenty-five knots.

  * * * * *

  The destroyer Kishinami picked up the Atago’s survivors. The heavy cruiser had gone down in eighteen minutes. For many, there just wasn’t time to get out. Lost was Kurita’s chief of Staff, Rear Admiral Seiichi “be, along with a large number of flag staff trapped below decks in their staterooms. But the overweight Rear Admiral Satomi Takata got out, puffing and gasping, with ten others, including second-class petty officer Kurusu, Kurita’s valet. Dr. Koketsu also survived and, once aboard the destroyer, immediately had the admiral rushed to the captain’s day cabin, where he rubbed Kurita’s feet and arms, drying him out, getting him warm.

  Later that day, they again transferred, this time to the comfort of the giant battleship Yamato. Ugaki and Captain Ishima, the ship’s commanding officer, waited in flag headquarters as Kurita, Noyama, Dr. Koketsu, and the bewildered staff shuffled in.

  The normally ebullient Ugaki planted his hands on his hips. “Round one didn’t go well.”

  “What can you tell me?” rasped Kurita.

  “That you need to go to bed, dammit,” shot back Ugaki.

  “No, no. Our ships. Where do we stand?” protested Kurita.

  “Submarine got your ship.”

  “I know that, you fool.”

  Ugaki went on, “They got the Maya, too. She sank faster than the Atago.”

  The compartment fell into a shocked silence.

  “And the Takao took four torpedoes,” added Ugaki. All eyes were fixed on him as he went on. “Fortunately, her damage control crews were able to control the fires and flooding. She’ll survive, but she’s a wreck and is headed back to Brunei with the Isokaze as escort.” He looked at Kurita. “What do you think?”

  Kurita’s eyes glistened. “Think? Think? We damn well will go on. That’s what I think. And it’s almost certain we’ll see action tomorrow. Not much time to get ready.” Kurita turned to Dr. Koketsu. “What do you have to keep us awake?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  24 October 1944

  USS Matthew (DD 548)

  50 miles East of Samar

  Philippine Sea

  Six destroyers of DESRON 77 had left the light carrier San Cristobal (CVL 32) at 2030 the previous evening and run east to a point one hundred miles off the east coast of Samar. It was a calm, flat sea and the Simpson, Connelly, Thompson, Kumm, McGrody, and Matthew, easily joined up with the tanker Caliente (AO 53) at 2345, topped off with fuel oil, and broke away two hours later to head back to the San Cristobal.

  Donovan and Al Corodini, the Matthew’s chief engineer, were especially relieved. They were almost down to 5 percent remaining fuel, and the options were grim. That was the thing about the destroyer Navy, Donovan reflected. Run here, run there; always at twenty-five or thirty knots, chasing carriers for flight ops or frantically steaming to another station, getting ready for more flight ops. And that sucked up fuel oil, by the ton. Ever since they’d left Ulithi, they’d been running at twenty knots or more which, among other things, was a strain on the engineering plant, especially the fragile superheaters. It was beginning to show the stress. Number two evaporator, one of the Matthew’s two water-generating evaporators, had given out. Fortunately, it was a repair job they could do under way, and the engineers were down there now, frantically working to get it ready for tomorrow morning, when they rejoined the San Cristobal. The challenge was simple. Not having a second evaporator meant they wouldn’t have enough fresh water to feed the boilers at over thirty knots, which meant they couldn’t keep up with the San Cristobal during flight operations. Not good.

  A godsend was that the Caliente had sent over fresh milk, meat, produce, eggs, and mail. Everything had tasted like cardboard lately, which was just about what they were eating. But now, with something fresh in the larders, everyone looked forward to good hot chow tomorrow morning. Another godsend was the weather. The sea had been unusually calm, giving them a fine passage out to the Caliente, an easy time alongside taking on oil and goods, and a smooth run back to the San Cristobal. Larry Fox, commodore of Destroyer Squadron 77, had them in a bent-line screen, steering a sinuous course with the Simpson, Fox’s ship, as the guide. The only thing betraying their presence as they steamed at twenty-two knots over a black, glossy sea were six brilliant white foaming wakes stretching far behind the destroyers.

  And now, at 0300, the Matthew hardly rolled under a cloud cover that pressed down to five hundred feet. A three-quarter moon cast a little light loom, but not enough to silhouette an enemy submarine. It was hard to sense they were under way inside the pilot house. Their only illumination was from red lights and a muted white binnacle light. Donovan sat in the captain’s chair, one of three deck-mounted overstuffed chairs on the bridge. There was one on either bridge wing; this one was inside the pilothouse against the starboard bulkhead. He stretched and yawned knowing, he should be in his rack getting shut-eye. But until a few minutes ago, there had been just too much to do.

  Now things were settled down and it was strangely quiet as the ship dashed through the night. He felt completely detached from the six other watch standers in the pilothouse, now only dark, faceless shadows.

  With a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, Donovan eased the envelope out from under his foul-weather jacket. It had come over from the Caliente with the rest of the mail and had found its way to him an hour later. It was addressed in her signature green ink, and he’d been waiting three tooth-gnashing hours to read it in peace. Slowly he turned the envelope over in his hands. He held it to his nose. No perfume. No roses. Not even a whiff of ink. But a faint odor of ether or alcohol seeped through. She must have written this while at work. How could that happen? Alcohol and ether evaporate in seconds. Somehow she’d pulled it off. Either that or she was deliberately tormenting him.

  “Coffee, Captain?” Al Corodini, the officer of the deck held out a chipped mug.

  “Thanks, Al.” Donovan accepted the mug and asked, “What’s the latest on number two evaporator?”

  “We’ll have it back on the line in two hours, Captain, three, tops.”

  “Keep on it, Al.”

  “Will do, Captain.” Corodini backed away, stepping through the hatch to the starboard bridge wing.

  The others kept their eyes ahead, ignoring him.

  Now.

  He ran a finger under the envelope flap and pulled out three crisp onionskin pages, also done in green ink.

  My Dearest Mike,

  Would you believe? As of today, I’ve been an intern now for one year and they have yet to throw me out of town. I always worried about interning in the place where I grew up, but so far people seem to accept me as Dr. Logan rather than that skinny freckle-faced kid, once known for throwing a rock through Mr. Stippenfelt’s front window (that’s the dark green two-story across the street). Stippenfelt called the police, they had to drag my dad home from work– it was awful. Truth is, I was aiming for his cat, the damn thing was keeping everyone awake. I mean everyone. Actually, Ralph put me up to it. Dared me is a better term. Bet me fifty cents that I couldn’t hit the cat. Well, I missed the damn cat, Fritz was his name, and sailed a boulder through that window with a resounding crash. Old Stippenfel
t was inside listening to Jack Benny on his Philco. But it only took two seconds for him to come roaring outside. Ralph ran. I was so scared I was rooted to the spot, a stupid grin on my face.

  The cops came and they couldn’t find my dad right away, he was out somewhere sorting freight cars. So they dragged in Milo Lattimer, a family surrogate, to make peace. I had to wash cars and mow lawns for two months to pay for that window.

  And now it’s come full circle. Old Mr. Stippenfelt was rolled into emergency today with a coronary. I was on duty and I have to say, we did a pretty good job stabilizing him. Don’t know if he recognized me, though. Maybe it’s just as well. He probably would have died of shock.

  Speaking of Milo Lattimer, John Sabovik seems very interested in him. Can you figure out why? John keeps asking Dad and me questions. Right now he’s over at the dispatch office looking through records. Despite what happened between you two, John has always been proper with me, oftentimes funny, especially when that damn Nitro is around. Those two deadpan each other and it’s hilarious. But when Milo’s name comes up, John becomes hollow-eyed and distant.

  Saw a great movie the other night: Arsenic And Old Lace with Cary Grant, Raymond Massey, and Peter Lorre. Speaking of dead-pan, those guys really are masters of the art. I saw the play once when I was at Berkeley, but those three executed this seamlessly. Hope you get to see it soon. Or maybe you already have.

  Enough of that. How are you doing? Maybe not a Pacific pleasure cruise, but one I hope that’s comfortable and safe for you. Especially safe.

  I miss the hell out of you and think of you almost every minute. Almost gave a patient the wrong medicine yesterday because you were on my mind. So please, please, do me a favor and come home before I really hurt somebody. Just kidding. But just come home soon. Now. I miss you.

  Much, Much Love,

  Diane

  With a smile, Donovan rearranged the pages and began to read again.

  “Excuse me, Captain?” It was Lieutenant Sloan, the supply officer.

  “What?”

  Sloan handed over a clipboard. “The manifest for stores taken aboard, sir.”

  “Thank you, Howard.” Donovan ran a finger down the list. “You think the eggs are really fresh?”

  “Look okay, Captain. ‘bout a four day-supply, though, that’s all.”

  “Better than nothing. What’s this? They sent over movies, two of them?”

  “Well, yes, sir. We exchanged actually. Two of ours for two of theirs.” It was a common practice in the fleet. That way, everyone had a chance to see something new.

  Donovan signed the clipboard and handed it back. “What’d we get?”

  “Claudette Colbert.”

  Donovan groaned. “Since You Went “way?” They’d seen the tearjerker so many times on the way out from Ulithi everyone knew the lines by heart. They’d only gotten rid of it last week.

  Sloan nodded. “Sorry, sir.”

  “What’s the other one?”

  Sloan said, “Arsenic and Old Lace, sir.”

  * * * * *

  Someone tugged at Donovan’s sleeve. “Sir?”

  He’d fallen asleep. Through sandpaper eyes, he made out Burt Hammond’s face. “Yes?”

  “It’s 0400, sir. I’ve relieved Mr. Corodini as officer of the deck. Mr. Peete is junior officer of the deck. Boilers one and three are on the line, as are generators one and two. All systems in the operations and gunnery departments are functional, the engineering department is likewise functional except for work continuing on evap number two. ETR is 0600. We’re on course two-six-five, speed twenty-two, in a bent-line formation. Steering a sinuous course, Simpson is still the guide. The whale boat is gripped out for plane guard duty, sir.” Hammond stepped back. “Uh... Mr Peete has the conn, sir.”

  “Very well, thank you, Burt.”

  Donovan closed his eyes to drift off. Then he snapped wide awake. “Who?” he muttered.

  There, on the starboard bridge wing, he saw them through the porthole, laughing and talking. Hammond and Peete, the bitter enemies he and Kruger had pried apart at Ulithi. Before the horror of the Mount Saint Helens explosion and the loss of Ensign Muir, it was all they could to keep the two from trying to kill each other. That included keeping them off the same watch bill. But the recent events had been sobering. Not just for Hammond and Peete, but for the whole ship. It was a welcome to the war zone wake-up call that instilled a grim determination the crew hadn’t felt before. Fortunately, CinCPac sent along Ensign Steve Flannigan, a quiet, self-reliant journalism major from the University of Washington, to replace Muir. He’d been delivered via high-line by the San Cristobal a few nights before. He’d previously been the second division officer aboard the destroyer Kingsbury that had been sunk last month by a mine. Flannigan worked in almost right away, but Hammond and Peete still antagonized one another, almost openly, military courtesy notwithstanding. Donovan and Kruger decided to have one of them transferred as soon as they reached Pearl Harbor. But there they were, out on the starboard bridge wing, gabbing like two old men in the local hardware store eating soda crackers and talking politics.

  Donovan grabbed the telephone from the bracket and pushed the button marked XO.

  A raspy voice answered, “Kruger.”

  Donovan covered the mouthpiece. “Richard, for crying out loud, what are you doing?”

  “Sir?”

  Donovan hissed, “Hammond and Peete, dammit. Why are they standing the same watch up here together?”

  “Oh, sorry, Captain. I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Mr. Flannigan sprained his arm during uprep so the doc took him off the watch bill for twenty-four hours.” Flannigan had become a regular JOOD under Hammond.

  “Richard, don’t try my patience, dammit.”

  “So Burt Hammond specifically requested Jonathan Peete as Flannigan’s replacement.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Honest injun.”

  “I thought those guys hated each other.” Donovan glanced out the porthole. Peete was facing Hammond now, his hands moving in open gestures.

  “Well, Captain, quite a bit happened since mail call, and after all, you’ve been on the bridge for almost twenty hours.”

  “So that makes me the last to know?” Donovan said drily.

  “Dammit Mike listen to me.”

  It was Richard Kruger, the grizzled chief petty officer, talking to a boot ensign. Donovan knew when to shut up.

  Kruger said, “We had mail call in the wardroom. Good news and bad news.” He fell silent.

  “Come on, Dick.”

  “Okay, the good news first. Johnnie Hollywood’s father sent him a letter apologizing. Now he wants to welcome his son back a hero.”

  “What’s Mr. Peete say?”

  “That his father is doing this because it’s good for business.”

  “What a sick world,” said Donovan.

  “I’ll say, but that’s Hollywood. Peete says he’s going to do it, though. He likes the idea that it’s good for business and that he’ll have a job when he gets back.”

  “I get it,” said Donovan. “Now the bad news.”

  “More news from Hollywood. Hammond got a DJ.”

  “From the movie star? Velma Johnson?”

  “One and the same. We were sitting there reading our mail when, all of a sudden, Hammond goes berserk, screaming that Velma has run off to Brazil with her chiropractor. Peete starts laughing and says that’s part of her gig. Before Brazil, she ran off to Mexico with her dance instructor. He said she disappears for about three months and then sneaks back into town.

  “Well, it was quiet for a moment and I expected the two to reach across the table and rip each other’s throats out. Then, I’ll be damned, Hammond starts laughing and says, Good riddance. Dame was costing me a fortune, anyway.’

  “So Merryweather starts laughing, then Jack Kelso. We’re all laughing, Jonathan Peete included. So much so there’s
tears running down our faces. Pretty soon, Hammond and Peete are talking. Seems like Hammond was paying for her apartment on Sunset Boulevard. He had bought her a bunch of clothes and loaned her at least three grand. And then there was an engagement ringBa two-carat rock. Peete is telling him how to get it all back without having to go to some schlock Hollywood attorney.”

  “How can he do that?”

  “Well, remember who his father is?”

  Donovan did. Michael Thomas Peete was best known for playing opposite Gwendolyn Long in the 1934 smash hit “ Lonely Night in Paris, winning the Academy Award as best actor. “You mean his father’s connections?”

  “Exactly. Apparently they’re long and far reaching. Michael Thomas Peete knows everybody and has influence everywhere. So Velma Johnson will be removed from the scene, and Mr. Hammond will recover his rock and his money. Either that, or she’ll never work in Hollywood again.”

  “How about the clothes?”

  “She gets to keep the brassieres.”

  “I’ll be damned.” “gain Donovan glanced through the porthole out to the starboard bridge wing. No, they hadn’t stabbed each other. Instead Ensign Jonathan Peete held up a stadimeter, checking the range to the Simpson. Now it was Hammond doing the talking. By his gestures, it looked as if he was explaining how to keep station in the formation. Donovan leaned over and checked the radar repeater. Range was off by about twenty yards: bearing was smack on. “Okay Richard. Your social experiment seems to be working. Everybody is still alive up here.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Your crew and your ship need an alert captain tomorrow, not some clapped out caffeine addict who talks to himself and drools from the side of his mouth. So climb out of that damn chair, go to your sea cabin, and get some sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, Captain.”

  Donovan hung up and walked to the starboard hatch. He called to Hammond: “I’ll be in my sea cabin, Burt. Please wake me when we close to within five thousand yards of the San Cristobal.”