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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Shima paced nervously in the Nachi’s flag plot. “Dammit.” He turned to Rear Admiral Yatsuki Ishii, his chief of staff. “What does radio say now?”

  Ishii had been trying to hide in the gloom. Shima was livid over the fact that they hadn’t rendezvoused with Nishimura as planned. Worse, Nishimura hadn’t bothered to wait for him. The crazy man had jumped the gun and was forty kilometers ahead – eager for a nighttime showdown in Leyte Gulf – something frowned upon by the SHO-1 planners in Tokyo.

  Also, it was ominous that there had been no radio contact with Nishimura’s force for the past half hour – they were most likely well into the Surigao Strait and explosion after cataclysmic explosion had lit up the skies in that direction. The radar showed no blips. Prospects looked grim.

  “Ishii!” shouted Shima.

  Ishii snatched a phone from its bracket. “I’m checking now, sir.” Like Ishii, the rest of the staff kept quiet and looked away, not wanting to bear the wrath of Vice Admiral Shima.”

  A voice announced, “Radio central.”

  Ishii recognized the voice of Captain Wakita, the battle station watch commander. “Wakita. Anything from the Yamashiro, yet?” The battleship Yamashiro was Nishimura’s flagship.

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Shima was watching, so Ishii, afraid to hang up, held the phone to his ear.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” asked Wakita.

  “No, I guess that’s it.” Expecting a blast of invective, liberally sprinkled with spittle, Ishii hung up and turned to face the old man. Instead he saw a blinking light through the porthole.

  Shima whipped around. “Target?” he demanded.

  Mikuma, the flag warrant officer, poked his head into flag plot. “It’s the Shigure, sir.”

  “Shigure,” shouted Shima, a bit of hope creeping into his voice. Shigure, a thirty-four-knot destroyer of fourteen hundred tons, was part of Nishimura’s southern attack group. Ishii checked the radar, seeing that the ship had separated from the greenish blob landmass of Camiguin Island. Maybe others were out there as well.

  Shima walked over and likewise checked the radar. Nothing. They waited a minute. Then another. Nothing. Shima’s jaw worked. His face grew dark. He ripped open the door and loosed his vitriol into the night: “What the hell’s the Shigure telling us, Mikuma?”

  Mikuma was right there. “Sorry, sir. He forgot to use an authenticator. We have it now.” He read, “Two hits aft. One serious. Having rudder trouble. Many casualties. Difficult to maintain station.”

  They could see the Shigure now. Her silhouette was vaguely outlined against a storm cloud. She was steaming in the opposite direction and would pass to port by about a thousand meters. With a closing rate of about fifty knots, she would be lost to the storm clouds in a moment.

  “Dammit,” hissed Shima. “Quickly, man. Ask about the rest of the Southern Force.” He slapped Mikuma on the rump.

  “Sir!” Mikuma dashed out to his signal platform and blinked his message.

  Now abeam and rapidly drawing down their port quarter, Shigure’s signal light stabbed the darkness with her reply.

  Mikuma muttered and clacked off.

  “Well?” demanded Shima.

  With the a pencil stub, Mikuma filled in the date-time group and then recited: “All ships gone.”

  “Gone!” Shima gasped.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mikuma, stepping backward into the safety of his little signal bridge.

  “Gone,” Shima whispered.

  To Ishii, it seemed he and Shima were the only ones on the Nachi.

  “Gone,” Shima repeated. At length, he straightened up and rubbed his chin. “Come.” He walked into the flag bridge and yelled at the flag operations officer, “Reverse course, re-orient the formation.” Then he grabbed a message pad and wrote for a moment. He tore it off, checked it, and made a few corrections. He handed the message over to Ishii. “See that it goes right away.” Then he walked through the hatch and stood alone, watching as the helm orders were shouted below to the bridge. The cruiser’s luminescent wake curved into the night as she reversed course toward Borneo.

  Ishii grabbed a phone and punched a button.

  “Radio central,” said Wakita.

  “This is Admiral Ishii,” he said stiffly. “I have a message to be sent to Admiral Toyoda, CinC.”

  “Yes, sir. Please go ahead.”

  “It’s from Admiral Shima. He read off the text:

  THIS FORCE HAS CONCLUDED ITS ATTACK AND IS RETIRING FROM THE BATTLE AREA TO PLAN SUBSEQUENT ACTION.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  25 October, 1944

  MacArthur Command Post

  Tacloban, Leyte, Philippines

  Lighting flashed. Thunder rattled outside from yet another interminable storm. At four in the morning, the humidity was sponge-squeezing thick with condensation running down the basement’s concrete walls. Converted from a wine cellar to a radio room, the twenty-by-thirty-foot-space was jammed with tall transmitting and receiving equipment. Aside from the regular watch section, the radio room was crowded with ranks and ratings ranging from three-star general to buck private, their billowing cigar and cigarette smoke so thick, it was almost impossible to see across the room.

  The off-watch people were down here for two reasons. The radio room was the safest place from marauding Japanese Zeros that had been shooting up the Price house since MacArthur took up quarters here. No doubt, the U.S. Navy owned the sky, but that didn’t stop Luzon-based Zeros from racing over, taking a potshot or two, and then running for home at deck level, literally weaving among trees in the jungle. It was like something from a cheap western movie. A bounty had been put on MacArthur’s head, and the Zero pilots were trying their damndest to collect.

  The other reason everybody was down here was to listen to fragmented radio broadcasts coming from Kinkaid’s Seventh Fleet battleships, now locked in battle with a Japanese surface force 120 miles south in the Surigao Strait. It was like listening to a football game on Armed Forces Radio Network: Screeches and squealing interspersed with loud, impassioned play calling from Bill Stern, followed by frustrating moments of silence, the process repeating itself all over again. Sometimes men cheered, shook hands, slapped backs, or thrust fists in the air. Other times they shrugged and stared at the floor. Everyone in the room had a stake in what happened down there. If Oldendorf’s battleships didn’t hold the line, the fox would be in the henhouse.

  Owen Reynolds was jammed in a corner with his boss, Major General Charles Willoughby, The coffee had long since turned cold, but Reynolds kept gulping. He’d not eaten since late yesterday afternoon, and his stomach rumbled in protest at his fourth cup.

  In a thick accent, Willoughby said, “How can you drink that shit, Owen? It’ll burn a hole in your gut.” He raised a water jug and drank. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he confirmed, “Besides, that damn caffeine keeps you awake.”

  Reynolds nodded. “Worse than the swill aboard the Nashville.”

  Willoughby said, “Now, Navy coffee... hmmm. It’s not really that bad, is it? Yes, it is designed to keep you awake, but not as dangerous as this stuff. My God.” He pointed to Reynolds’s cup. “That looks like it was strained through the Kaiser’s socks. Why are your hands shaking?”

  Reynolds gave the obligatory smile. “Tastes like it, too. Maybe I’ll shift to water.” What he really wanted was a bottle of scotch...

  * * * * *

  Early in the morning, Major General George C. Kenny, MacArthur’s chief of staff for air operations, had gone scouring for new airfields, a top priority. MacArthur decided to go along. When Kenny protested, MacArthur said that it was good to find out how the other half of the world lived. They shanghaied Owen Reynolds because of his combat experience, and because he knew his way around an M1 carbine. Kenny found an old Japanese airfield all right, but one end was still owned by the Japanese. They pulled up just after an artillery barrage, the smoke clearing. Reynolds strapped on his helmet and hunkered down
behind the command car as a vicious firefight broke out at the airfield’s other end, explosions thundering down the runway. The driver, two heavily armed sergeants, and a wide-eyed Kenny took cover with Reynolds. But not MacArthur. With his hands nonchalantly shoved in his back pockets, the general walked around a burning Japanese tank that had been knocked out only moments before, its dead three-man crew scattered about.

  “What do you think, Owen?” Kenny asked, his .45 pistol drawn. “Maybe we should pull back?”

  “They’ll do all right, General,” replied Reynolds, surprised the words got out. Had Kenny looked closely at his knuckles around the trigger guard, he would have known Reynolds could not have fired a shot, his hands were so locked up. His mouth was dry and he constantly swallowed. His stomach felt as if it had turned to a lead slab. Beyond his stomach, he’d lost touch with his bowels, making him wonder if he’d lost everything down there. At the same time, he felt like wetting his pants, but so far he’d kept that under control. And then there was that damn MacArthur walking around out there as if he were on a sightseeing tour. “I just don’t know how long it’ll take them.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Kenny.

  Twaannng! “ bullet ricocheted off the command car’s fender and zipped into the distance. Reynolds rose to find that the bullet had hit just six inches above his head. Dammit. I’ve already given half of my ass. Lemme out of here.

  Two more bullets dug holes in the dirt near where MacArthur walked; another slammed into the tank. “General!” called Kenney. “Maybe you should get over here?”

  “ It’s okay, George,” called MacArthur. “They’re about done.”

  A machine gun opened up to Reynolds’s left, making everyone jump. But then he recognized the resonant bark of a .30-caliber air-cooled machine gun. He relaxed a bit and forced himself to breath. Then again. But like on Bougainville, just before he was shot, his hands shook.

  Kenny nodded toward MacArthur and said, “I don’t understand it.”

  Reynolds took a drink of his canteen and handed it over to Kenny. “I don’t, either. How can he just walk around in front of the Japs like that? It’s almost like he’s giving them the finger... uh, sir.”

  Kenny gulped at the canteen and then handed it back. “Suicidal. That’s all. Just plain suicidal.”

  * * * * *

  Reynolds’s hands were shaking even now, as Willoughby cocked an ear toward the receiver. It bleated, making the room grow quiet.

  Then it blared. “Ipana, this is Horse Trader. Interrogative targets. Over.”

  The receiver squealed until a radioman, wearing sunglasses and a sleeveless khaki shirt reached up and twirled a fine adjustment. “... Horse Trader, this is Ipana. That last Jap just blew up. Lit up the whole sky. Plenty of fires all around but negative. We have no more targets. Over.”

  Once again, the crowd cheered and burst into applause.

  “Ipana, this is Horse Trader. How many targets is that so far? Over.”

  “Horse Trader, this is Ipana. Wait one... “

  Willoughby muttered, “PT boats, destroyers, cruisers, and now these damn battleships.” The fragmented reports, although not at all negative, didn’t tell them what what was going on in Surigao. Nobody would know at least until daybreak.

  “Horse Trader, this is Ipana. Best estimate is seven to ten. Over.”

  “Horse Trader. Roger. Please confirm, over.”

  “Seven to ten what?” muttered Willoughby. “Sampans, bathtubs, what the hell are they shooting at?”

  The loud-speaker squealed again. “Horse Trader, this is Ipana.”

  “Horse Trader, over.”

  “This is Ipana. Seven to ten targets destroyed. A few casualties from friendly fire. There is no more enemy. We’re picking up survivors. Ipana, out.”

  Pandemonium broke out until a beefy major stood on a stool and shouted, “Quiet! My men can’t do their jobs. This is a restricted space and by God, I’m going to throw you out of here. I don’t give a rat’s ass what your rank is.”

  Quickly it became very quiet. Some began to walk out.

  “Look at your damn hands, Owen.” Willoughby walked over to a watercooler and returned with a glass of water. “Here. Drink this. No more coffee.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Reynolds. He raised the glass and swallowed half; it was lukewarm but tasted good. He put it down his hands still shaking.

  “Get some sleep, Owen,” said Willoughby. “I need you fresh and alert tomorrow.”

  “Sir?” Reynolds pointed.

  “What?”

  “The tote board.”

  Imperiously, Willoughby cranked his head around. “Is there something wrong?”

  Reynolds’s hands shook when he was under fire on Bougainville. They shook today at the airfield. And they shook tonight while the navy was fighting the enemy down in Surigao Strait. But that should have been it. Apparently, the enemy had been turned away. Why were his hands still shaking? “Halsey, sir. What if he’s not guarding the San Bernardino Strait? We’d be left wide open.”

  Willoughby snorted. “Halsey demolished them yesterday in the Sibuyan Sea. Anything left over can be handled by Task Force 34.” He yawned and pat his mouth. “I’m going for some shut-eye, Owen. I advise you to do the same.” He started off.

  “But sir.” Reynolds pointed again. “That last message at sunset had the Japs going east again, toward the San Bernardino Strait.” It hit him. That’s why his hands were shaking.

  “Don’t worry, Owen. Kinkaid knows what he’s doing. So does Halsey.” He held up three fingers of one hand and four of the other. “Remember? Task Force Three-Four. “All those new damn battleships. Not to worry. Now, good night.” General Willoughby walked toward the door.

  “Good night, sir,” said Reynolds, looking at the tote board.

  “No, Colonel Reynolds. You’re to go to your quarters.”

  “But...”

  “And get some rest. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” After a moment, Reynolds followed Willoughby up two flights of stairs. He walked into his room, finding that his roommate, a quartermaster corps bird colonel, wasn’t there. Sitting heavily on his bunk, he held out his hands. Lighting flashed, thunder rumbled, rain pounded. His hands still shook, and he didn’t think he could stop it until he figured out what was going on.

  He lay back on his bed, scrunching covers, wondering if Task Force 34 was really guarding the Strait. He’d always admired General Willoughby’s cool intellect and his ability to think under duress, especially when MacArthur ranted and demanded answers.

  But this time? General, I think you’re full of it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  25 October, 1944

  USS Matthew (DD 548)

  Forty miles east of Paninihian Point

  Samar Island, Philippine Sea

  She has the greenest eyes. And her hair; it’s auburn with a wonderful sheen that’s positively spectacular when the sun catches it just so. A good-looking woman all right, and he’d told her that the night before he’d walked out on her in the hospital. “Green eyes, auburn hair, dynamite legs. That makes you an intelligent woman,” he’d said to her.

  “Legs?” She ripped off her thick glasses and knit her brow. “Is that all you care about?”

  Donovan smiled down at her. “Well, yes, what else is there?”

  “Damn you.” She reached up and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. Her lab coat had a starchy odor, but her hair more than made up for it. It had its own unique scent. She folded into him. He reached down and–

  The buzzer rang, once, then two more times.

  Diane vanished, gone with some ghoul’s push of a button. He was ready to kill whoever was on the other end. She was replaced by stark reality as he blinked himself awake. Pressing in on him were the dull, rust-coated bulkheads of the captain’s sea cabin. Dead tired, he’d turned in early last night about 2130. He made a big mistake in asking Chief Casey to give him a mild se
dative. Now, a glance at the bulkhead clock told him: 0653. He’d been out – ye gods – nine hours or so. What the hell was that, a mickey? Donovan fumbled above his bunk for the phone. He ripped it from its bracket and shouted, “Captain,” almost adding dammit.

  Someone babbled on the other end. It sounded like Kruger.

  “Captain!” Donovan shouted again.

  “Mike!” Kruger’s tone was high pitched. “We got shit to pay out here.”

  “Out where? Richard, where the hell are you?”

  “Oh, sorry. On the bridge taking a morning fix. You better get out here and we should go to GQ.”

  “Very well, make it so. I’ll be right out.” If Kruger wanted GQ, then let him have GQ, Donovan figured as he hung up. The general quarters alarm sounded as he splashed water on his face. Feet thumped. Men raced up and down ladders, manning their battle stations.

  Outside his sea cabin, the six-man main-battery director crew yelled at each other as they stomped into the barbette room and, one by one, scrambled up the ladder into the director. Donovan quickly buttoned his shirt, tied his shoes, jammed on his helmet, and grabbed his binoculars. Throwing on his life jacket, he yanked open the door, stepped through the barbette room and onto the starboard bridge wing to find... rain. It was pouring, the water gushing from the sky in large globs, the noise incredible. The storm was so thick, it was hard to believe sunrise was nearly twenty minutes ago.