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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  MacArthur had received more than he’d bargained for earlier this evening. “ fully active Japanese fifth column promptly broadcast the news of MacArthur’s new headquarters to Manila. During a lull in the rain, Japanese fighters attacked the Tacloban airfield and fired a fuel dump, the flames roiling a thousand feet into the overcast and lighting up the surrounding area, including Tacloban City. Mercifully, the rain put it out an hour later – but not before the planes found the prominent Price house and raked it with cannon and machine-gun fire. There were no injuries and now, two hours later, General of the Army Douglas A. MacArthur slept within six feet of where two twenty-millimeter cannon shells had punched holes in his bedroom’s thick concrete walls.

  Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled, bringing more of the rain that had been pounding Leyte for the past four days. Not only did the rain slow MacArthur’s advance across the island, but it also kept Tacloban’s only airfield, bogged, making flight operations impossible. The Tacloban airfield had been key to their advance. They’d expected to have P-38s and P-47s supporting their troops by now. Instead the fighter-bombers sat mired in mud while engineers sat out the storm, waiting for the earth to dry. The navy continued to fly air cover, they were overextended, running low on fuel and ammunition. And the planes were getting tired.

  For now, the blue-blooded chief of staff was asleep, while the red-eyed block-headed German was reading copies of radio traffic from Halsey’s Third and Kinkaid’s Seventh fleets. Reynolds decided to try one more time. Pointing out one message, he said, “General Willoughby. I don’t think General MacArthur realizes the Japs have reversed course in the Sibuyan Sea and are once again headed for the San Bernardino Strait. Worse, I don’t think Admiral Halsey realizes it, either.”

  “Ja!” Willoughby sat heavily in a chair and sniffed. He was a great pouter and, with his regimented Germanic background, was hard-pressed to give up on his own conclusions. He waved at another message. “But then how do you explain this contact report of another fleet of Jap ships up north” – he squinted at a map – “about four hundred miles north? Four carriers, it says the Japs are throwing at us. Now, that’s what I call a major threat, and that’s where Halsey is going. The other ships you speak of in the Sibuyan Sea were wiped out today. All that’s left are stragglers.” He checked a thick operation order. “Besides, look at this. We have carrier groups off Leyte.”

  “But those are escort carriers, sir, not fleet carriers,” protested Reynolds.

  “But they have airplanes, don’t they, with torpedoes and bombs?”

  “Yes, sir, but–”

  “Here, for example.” Willoughby slapped his hands over his face and sneezed loudly. After wiping with a handkerchief, he continued. “This group,” he thumbed a page, “Taffy 3, now posted farthest north. Hmmm, let’s see, six aircraft carriers–”

  “Slow targets on merchant hulls. Hell, they’re so slow they can’t get out of their own way, General. Eighteen knots maximum. And they only have... “

  Willoughby turned a baleful eye: his right one.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Willoughby continued, “Six aircraft carriers, three destroyers, and four destroyer escorts. Now, don’t you think that should be enough to handle a few stragglers?”

  Reynolds scratched his head. “Well... “

  “And here. See this? There are two more Taffy groups south of Taffy 3. Taffy 1 and Taffy 2, all about the same size. I’ll be damned. Taffy 3 is commanded by that rear admiral. Clifton Sprague? Remember him? They call him Ziggy. We sat beside him during the Manus pre-sailing conference last month.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Reynolds recalled a two-star aviator whose face had creased and wrinkled long before its time. And it wasn’t from lack of sleep. Reynolds had seen too many faces like that out here. Even his own.

  “They should be able to take care of whatever fools come out of the San Bernardino Strait, don’t you think?”

  “But that’s just it, General,” protested Reynolds. “The Japs are in the Sibuyan Sea now and are heading east. What if they come in force? We should–”

  “We don’t know how many.”

  “What if there’s thirty or forty of them, General? Maybe more. Here, look at this PBY report. The navigation lights are on in the San Bernardino Strait for the first time in three years.”

  “That was probably part of their plan, don’t you see? Whoever was supposed to turn on the lights did it anyway.” Willoughby snorted. “He didn’t know about Halsey’s great victory today. “ll those ships we sank. We even got that big superbattleship they keep talking about. Those damn lights don’t mean a thing.”

  Reynolds sighed and pointed to another message. “And more Japs are approaching from the south, through the Surigao Strait. That’ll be a night battle.”

  Willoughby pulled out a dark medicinal bottle of terpin hydrate and took a swig. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and let it burn in his throat. “Ahhh. That stuff is lethal. Better than cognac.” He capped the bottle and shoved it in his back pocket. With a wink at Reynolds, he asked, “Ever try this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Get Doc Egeberg to fix you up when you have a bad cough or cold. It’s got codeine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Tastes great, but it constipates you. I won’t be shitting for a month.” After wiping his mouth, he burped and said, “As I was saying, the Surigao Strait is Admiral Kinkaid’s responsibility. He has waiting six battleships plus eight cruisers, thirty-seven destroyers, eleven escorts... even... “ he coughed. “... PT boats. Impossible for the Japs to get through.”

  Reynolds said, “I agree with that, sir. But it’s the San Bernardino situation that worries me. Look, I’m not a master of naval strategy, but leaving the strait unguarded looks like poor policy to me. And the navigation lights are on.”

  Willoughby rose to his feet wobbling somewhat. Dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief, he said, “You are a good officer, Owen. Always, your work has been near perfect if not so. And you have combat experience, just like I have – a quality that’s critical for an intelligence officer.” He tried a smile. “Ja. You’re right. You have no naval experience. Leave it up to them.”

  “Yes, sir.” But the San Bernardino Strait is unguarded and the damn lights are on, he wanted to shout. He checked his watch: 0030, half after midnight. Probably too late anyway. Halsey is too far along in his dash north intercepting those Jap carriers.

  Willoughby raised his little dark bottle of terpin hydrate and gulped. “Ahhh. Now I’m doing something I should have done hours ago. Good night, Owen.” He walked out.

  “Good night, sir.”

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  24 October, 1944

  IJN Yamato

  San Bernardino Strait

  Noyama’s headphones were connected to the Yamato’s main radio room, signal bridge, battle center, main-battery plot, and pilothouse; others gathered in flag plot were connected to the screen commanders, tactical commander, group commander, and intelligence commander. The seven staff officers of Ugaki’s Battleship Division One intermingled around the chart table with Kurita’s beleaguered staff of fifteen, their phone cords often tangled.

  Miraculously, the noise level was low as their eyes darted to tote boards or examined the master chart or paged through thick operating manuals. Occasionally someone would glance over the radar operator’s shoulder to see the disposition of the First Striking Force. For now the picture was all too evident. They were at battle stations and steamed in single file through the San Bernardino Strait at twenty-two knots. Samar Island lay to their right, the southernmost extremity of Luzon to their left. Yamato was the last ship in a column twelve kilometers long consisting of four battleships, six heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, and seven destroyers. Yamato was now at the narrowest part of the strait, where it closed down to within three and a half kilometers.

  There were treacherous whirlpools out there, and the current, racing from the Philippine sea
to the Sibuyan, often gushed through at eight knots which meant the navigation team on the bridge had their hands full. Rear Admiral Morishita, Yamato’s commanding officer, dashed with his men from bridge wing to bridge wing, taking sightings on buoys or dark promontories, shouting orders at the helmsman. Minutes ago, the Matnog Bay buoy had popped up on their starboard side exactly where it should have been. So far, there’d been no groundings or close calls.

  With everyone else, Noyama wondered what lay on the other end. What if Halsey was there, stretched across the strait? He could “cap the T” and wipe them out, one by one, as they steamed through. Reversing course would be extremely difficult. With a darkened ship and all the mayhem, there were sure to be collisions. That’s why Kurita had ordered life jackets to be worn. The admiral was sure death lay on the other side. Worse, when they’d all exited, they’d be even more vulnerable as they changed from transit formation to air-defense ring formation. With a twelve kilometer-long column, it would take an hour for all ships to exit and get sorted out. And given all his fast battleships, Halsey could have them for breakfast.

  Something cracked. Rear Admiral Takata had snapped a pencil in half. Nervously, he hitched up his pants and then tossed both pencil halves into a metal wastebasket, two meters distant. “Bull’s-eye,” he claimed, rearranging his belt. “Maybe someday I’ll play baseball.” He grabbed another pencil and bent over the chart.

  Kurita ignored him and turned his back.

  “Lose weight,” snorted Ugaki. “Otherwise, you’ll never make it around the bases.”

  Snickers ranged around the table. The navigation lights beckoned in silent invitation.

  Noyama clamped his hands over his earphones just as the Matnog Bay beacon passed down their starboard side, They looked at him. He tried to keep his voice level as he reported, “Flashing-light message from Kishinami. They’re passing Bingay Point to starboard. The lighthouse is operating. No radar contact. It looks clear, so far.” He checked the clock, 0035, made an entry in his log and looked up.

  Their faces said the same thing. The destroyer Kishinami had safely exited the San Bernardino Strait and was in the Philippine Sea. Now what?

  “I know this,” said Kurita. “Halsey is out there somewhere. Tell Kishinami to steam ahead thirty kilometers and report again. We must be sure.”

  “Yes, sir.” Noyama relayed the message to the signal bridge with a copy to the pilothouse.

  The signal bridge came right back with another message. Noyama reported, “Bingay Point lighthouse in sight.”

  They looked at the radar screen. “Nine kilometers ahead,” muttered Kurita. “Where the hell is Halsey?” He looked up to Ugaki.

  Ugaki shook his head.

  “All right, then,” said Kurita, “if Halsey is playing cat and mouse, let’s not make it too easy for him.”

  “No, we don’t want to do that,” said Ugaki.

  “What if we go to twenty-seven knots?” said Kurita.

  “Tougher firing solution for him, tougher fuel consumption for us,” said Ugaki.

  The two admirals locked glances and imperceptibly nodded.

  Noyama asked, “Increase formation speed to twenty-seven knots?”

  “Affirmative, execute immediately,” said Kurita.

  “Yes, sir.” Noyama gave the order to the signal bridge.

  Half an hour later, they were out of the Strait and steaming east along the northern coast of Samar. To the relief of everyone in flag plot, they had safely changed to an air-defense ring formation. In the center were the four battleships Yamato, Nagato, Kongo, and Haruna. The next ring contained their four heavy cruisers; the third ring held two light cruisers; and two heavy cruisers, the outside ring had the seven destroyers.

  Noyama checked the chart. Bacan Island, on the northeast extremity of Samar, lay about eighty kilometers ahead. Then they would turn south and dash the 160 kilometers to Leyte Gulf.

  He glanced at their faces. To a man, their expression was one of incredulity. They had all expected to be dead by this time.

  Kurita eased beside him and muttered.

  “Sir?”

  “When was the last time we heard from Nishimura?”

  Noyama checked a log. “About five minutes ago. The Southern Force is well into Surigao. They will pass Panaon Island in fifteen minutes. Admiral Shima is about fifty kilometers astern. Nishimura expects to transit into Leyte Gulf right after that. So far, he’s seen a few PT boats, but otherwise the enemy situation is unknown.”

  “He’s too early, dammit,” said Kurita. “So is Shima. They won’t be able to select targets at night. They need daylight.” He raised bloodshot eyes to the overhead. “We’re two days late and this has turned into a mess.” He spoke loudly so that Ugaki, half asleep in a chair across the room, could hear. “Fuel is precious. I’m reducing speed. Besides, I’d rather see Leyte Gulf in the morning than in darkness.”

  Ugaki waved a hand and nodded off.

  Kurita snorted. “A warrior. Doesn’t anything bother him?”

  Noyama raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes, give the order. Formation speed, twenty knots.”

  “Yes, sir.” Noyama called the signal bridge and relayed the order.

  Kurita bent over the radar operator’s shoulder for a moment. “Expand your range to the maximum. Let me see the northeast quadrant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Trailing his phone cord, Noyama walked over and looked over their shoulders. Nothing. The radar was clear.

  They looked at each other. “Where is he?” said Kurita.

  “Could he be going after Admiral Ozawa?” asked Noyama. Steaming about five hundred kilometers to the north, Ozawa had reported he’d finally been detected by U.S. Navy reconnaissance planes.

  “No, he’s not that stupid.” Kurita shuffled over to the cot Dr. Koketsu had rigged. He fell heavily into it but lay on his back, his hands folded behind his head, eyes wide open. “Where is that damned Halsey?” he muttered.

  PART THREE

  Captain’s Battle

  Attack immediately with all weapons, closing to point blank ranges, while convoy and carrier get clear. This would be a “Captain’s battle,” where the task of each Captain is to get a maximum number of shells and torpedoes into the enemy as quickly as possible.

  COMTASKGRP 14.3–A, Annex B

  23 October, 1941

  Rear Admiral H. K. Hewitt

  (On dealing with German surface raiders

  in the North Atlantic)

  * * * * *

  Despair not an enemy because he is weak,

  Fear him not because he is strong

  Japanese Imperial Mandate

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  24 October, 1944

  Eastbound X 4236

  Southern Pacific Railway staging yard

  Truckee, California

  Fred Droesch, the brakeman, muttered, then rolled over in his bunk.

  “Go back to sleep, Fred. I’ll get it.” Milo Lattimer jumped from the caboose and walked toward Ida’s coffee shop across the yard, an empty thermos swinging from his hand.

  They’d just passed the High Sierra’s 6,899-foot summit and pulled into the Truckee station; here they had cut out two helper engines now deadheading back to Roseville. A muted sunrise brought dark clouds that tumbled overhead in a confused array. A cold zephyr ruffled his hair and swept over his bald pate. It was the seasonal warning that winter was about to descend on the mountain, bringing rain and snow and miserable short days and long cold nights. Looking both ways, he stepped over the eastbound line and ducked behind a quietly hissing switcher engine, waiting for orders to spot logging cars on the number three track.

  “Hey, Milo.” A red-faced Charlie Hester, the maintenance foreman caught up to him, puffing.

  “Slow down, Charlie. You’ll have a heart attack.”

  “You know you had a phone call?” Hester wheezed in the summit’s thin air.

  “What the hell?”

  Hester flic
ked his eyebrows up and down a couple of times. “You know who.” He twirled a finger in the air and grinned. “Henry said to give you this.” He handed over an obsolete train order. A number was written on the back. Lattimer’s heart skipped a beat when he saw “the indians are coming” written beside the number. It was a code phrase: emergency – contact me immediately.

  “That number’s in Roseville, ain’t it?” Hester pointed.

  “It is.” Lattimer swore under his breath. He’d been trying to keep his liaison with Lorena quiet, if not a secret. But things get around in a small town, especially among railroaders. And particularly when Lorena grew short of money. That’s when she began putting out in earnest.

  And that happened all the time. God! Lorena could burn it fast. During her courier missions in San Francisco, she would go into Gump’s or Saks Fifth “venue and blow whatever Radizar gave her: nylon stockings, near-black-market silk dresses, patent-leather shoes with impossibly high heels, flimsy lingerie that she immediately put to good use. Then there was that damn expensive perfume she insisted on wearing: Arpège. Everybody turned their heads at that. Or that tight skirt and damn fox-fur coat she got last month, the combination devastating. She’d worn it last Saturday night when they went to the movies. Her hand had rested lightly on Lattimer’s arm as she strutted down Vernon Street, her perfume flooding all of downtown. Heads turned, traffic stopped, servicemen gawked, some whistling and shouting “Hubba-hubba” while wives threw sharp elbows into husbands who had the temerity to glance. Lattimer didn’t give a damn if she wanted to blow her wad on such nonsense except that it drew attention to him. When he tried to warn her of it, she only raised an eyebrow and gave a coquettish smile. Now the good citizens of Roseville were abuzz about Lorena Ortiz’s nocturnal habits and how a housemaid working at the Atwater Hotel could afford such a snazzy wardrobe. Lattimer vowed to do something about it. Quick.