The pilothouse that was abnormally quiet. Usually chatter was going on, but now, nothing. Maybe they don’t like wearing life jackets and helmets so early in the morning, Donovan reckoned. Kruger and Hammond were bent over the radar repeater in the corner. He checked the compass: course was two-five-zero, as it had been all night. The pitlog reported their speed at fifteen knots. He had to shout against the downpour’s roar. “We manned and ready, Mr. Hammond?”
“Yes sir,” reported Hammond.
“Then what do you have?” asked Donovan.
Kruger’s face was pressed to the hood on the radar repeater. “Take a look.” He stepped away.
Donovan cast a baleful eye at Kruger, then bent to the repeater. He ran the curser all the way out. West of them, at perhaps twenty-five miles, was a tight concentration of blips steaming in what looked like three columns – about twenty ships as near as he could tell. To the south was another concentration of ships. Six large blips were in a circular formation surrounded by seven smaller blips. “What’s going on here?” asked Donovan.
Kruger said, “The ones to the west popped up about three minutes ago. Course one-seven-zero, speed twenty.”
“Interesting.” Donovan ran the cursor on the southern group and asked, “The group to the south is Taffy 3?”
“Right.”
“And what do you think about the group to the west?”
“I gotta think Japs,” said Kruger.
“Why not Halsey?”
“We’ve tried to raise them with Task Force 34's call sign on the R/T. Nothing. And look at that formation. Columns. Halsey would be in a circular formation.”
“Report it.”
“We’re trying, but we haven’t been able to raise them, yet.” Kruger waved a hand at the storm. “Interference.”
“Well, hell, keep trying,” said Donovan. “What if–”
The 29 MC blared over the chart table. “Bridge, combat.” It was Ken Talbert, the CIC officer.
Hammond reached up and flipped the lever, “Bridge, aye.”
“We just copied a strange message from a TBF calling Derby Base.”
“Who’s Derby Base?” asked Hammond.
“St. Lo, sir. The TBF says they’re over a large concentration of Jap combatants: four battleships, eight cruisers, twelve destroyers. It’s got to be those ships ahead of us, sir.”
Donovan’s stomach churned as he again checked the radar repeater. This seemed all too real. But why couldn’t it be Halsey?
The 29 MC squawked again. “Now Derby Base is asking the TBF to authenticate, sir.”
“Well, let’s see what happens,” said Hammond. “In the meantime, keep trying to contact them.” Hammond switched off.
“Combat, aye–wait one.”
“What?” barked Hammond.
“The TBF reports flak and AA fire. He sees lots of pagoda masts and says he’s going in for an attack.”
“Bridge, aye,” muttered Hammond.
The 29 MC blared again. “Bridge, radio central.” It was Rudy Kubichek, the radio officer.
“Bridge, aye,” barked Hammond.
“Japs.”
“What?”
“Japs were jabbering all over the secondary tactical circuit before it faded.”
“No kidding?” said Hammond.
“What do you want me to do?” said Kubichek.
“Here,” muttered Kruger. He reached up. “If they come up again, Mr. Kubichek, tell them to kiss my ass. In the meantime, fix the damn circuit. Bridge out.” He flipped the 29 MC lever and looked at Donovan. “Japs.”
“Too bad it’s not Halsey,” said Hammond. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice, pleasant day.”
Donovan took a mental inventory of all the things he had to do. Then he said, “Okay, Richard. You better head down below.”
“On my way.” Kruger dashed out.
Donovan turned to Hammond. “Where’s Mr. Flannigan?”
“Out on the starboard bridge wing. Unless he floated away.”A corner of Hammond’s mouth turned up. “I figured the rain would keep his mind off puking.”
“What do you think? We’re going to need him.”
“Fingers crossed, Skipper.”
“Very well. I need him on the TBS. We have to know what Taffy 3 is doing.”
“Yes, sir, he’s on that.”
“Who’s the screen commander?”
“Commander Thomas in the Hoel, sir.”
“And we haven’t reported in to him yet?”
“Not yet, Captain. As soon as the TBS is up.”
“Okay. Now, what’s the status of the plant?”
“Boilers one and three on the line cross-connected, saturated steam; generator one on the line,” reported Hammond.
“What else?”
“Everything else works except for the damn radios.”
“Very well. Potter!”
“Huh?” Yeoman first-class Lucian B. Potter leaned against the bulkhead on the opposite side of the pilothouse. He looked over at Donovan with red, puffy eyes. Long straw-colored hair stuck out from under his hat.
“Potter, dammit! Do you know I can have you shot for sleeping on watch?”
“Sir!” Potter gulped, his eyes growing wide. Then he gasped, and clutched his throat.
“What the hell’s wrong, Potter?” shouted Donovan.
Potter wheezed, “Swallowed my gum, sir.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you ready to go to war?”
Potter stood straight and rasped, “Why yes, sir.”
“Why isn’t your hair combed? Didn’t I tell you to keep your hair combed?”
“Yes, sir.” Potter whipped off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and jammed his hat on at the correct angle.
Sailors snickered.
“That’s better, Potter. Now get over here and listen up, dammit.”
Potter walked over, trailing his telephone cord. “Sir!”
“Okay, Potter. Tell main control to light all boilers and superheaters and split the plant. Tell them I want generator number two on the line as well.”
“Yes, sir.” Potter bent to give the orders, his tones remarkably authoritative.
Donovan returned to the radar repeater, finding that two of Taffy 3's screening ships had peeled off and were moving directly north, toward the enemy. My God, he thought. Those people are attacking independently. “Mr. Flannigan?” he called.
“... sir?” came the weak reply.
“Where the hell are you?”
As from a bizarre puppet show, the red headed ensign popped up before a porthole. He’d been kneeling, working on something on the open bridge. “Right here, Captain.”
“How do you feel?”
“It’s okay... if I don’t think about it.” He tilted his hand from side to side. “I was working on the TBS socket. Looks like it’s fouled with moisture. I’ll have it fixed in a moment.”
“Very well, keep at it.” He turned to Hammond. “How about CW?”
Hammond rubbed his chin. “Rudy’s been up all night trying to calibrate our transmitters. But the tubes keep blowing. It’s all this damn humidity.” He waved an arm toward the sky. “It has them arcing. Right now, there’s so much ozone in radio central the place smells like Frankenstein’s jockstrap.”
Donovan waved a hand at the phone, “Give me Mr. Kubichek.”
“Yes, sir.” Hammond yanked the phone from its bracket and punched radio central. “Rudy? What... whoa. Who? No shit? Here, the captain wants to talk to you.” Hammond handed over the phone.
Donovan began. “Mr. Kubichek, I want those transmitters–”
“Captain, we got the SECTAC circuit back up. And the Japs are still on it, like they’re in the next room.”
“ Shift frequencies, Mr. Kubichek.”
“We’re trying, Captain.”
“In the meantime, tell the Japs to kindly go screw themselves.”
“Glad to do that, Ca
ptain. Don’t know if I would recommend using the word kindly.”
Donovan grinned. “What’s the story on the CW equipment?”
“We’re working on it. ETs have stuff spread all over the deck.”
“Well, get with it, Mr. Kubichek. We’re in the midst of a war.”
“There’s something else, Captain.”
“What?”
“We’ve copied a plain-language message from Vice Admiral Kinkaid to Admiral Halsey.”
“What? Plain language? Impossible.” It seemed inexplicable that admirals would communicate with one another in uncoded language, especially in the presence of the enemy.
“That’s what I thought, too, sir.”
“Well, what did it say?”
“Admiral Kinkaid reports Jap battleships and cruisers are approaching and requests Admiral Halsey to send fast battleships and an immediate air strike by fast carriers.”
“Good God.”
“Amen to that, sir.”
Donovan hung up and returned to the radar repeater. “Now our escorts are all on the formation’s port side, interposed between the carriers and the Japs. And those other two escorts are still charging north by themselves.”
The PRITAC speaker boomed, “Bookbinder, this is Hot Rod. Little Wolves form up to execute William, out.” Rear Admiral Sprague in the flagship Fanshaw Bay was telling his escorts to get ready for a torpedo attack.
Flannigan called through the porthole, “TBS is back up, sir.”
Donovan said, “I heard it. Okay, tell Hot Rod and Bookbinder we’re reporting in for duty assigned and ask for instructions.”
“Yes sir,” said Flannigan.
The clouds broke, the rain gone as quickly as if some ghoul in the clouds had twisted shut a gigantic valve. Sunlight streamed in the porthole. Suddenly it became quiet as pink daylight trickled into the pilothouse and lighted the bulkheads. The ocean was a deep blue, and steam rose off the Matthew’s wet, glistening decks.
“So much for hiding under cloud cover,” said Hammond.
Donovan stepped out to the starboard bridge wing, finding a drenched Ensign Flannigan bracing his arms against the bulwark and scanning the western horizon with binoculars. Following suit, Donovan found the horizon clearly etched against the morning sky. Just above, he made out several dark specks flying in a large circle.
“See anything, Mr. Flannigan?” asked Donovan.
“Not yet, Captain. I–”
“–Target zero-four-five. Shit, oh dear. Several targets zero-four-five. Sonofabitch.” It was a lookout on the pilothouse pointing west.
Again Donovan raised his binoculars and adjusted the focus. Oh, my God. Ten seconds passed before he caught himself and forced himself to count. There were six sets of upperworks on the horizon. One set flashed. Moments later, four red-colored splashes rose a thousand yards ahead.
“Oh, shit,” someone groaned from the pilothouse.
“That’s heavy-duty stuff they’re sending our way,” said another.
“Lemme out of here,” said a third.
Donovan yelled over his shoulder, “Mind your tasks.”
“What the hell is that?” asked Hammond, pointing at the fading columns of red water.
“Dyeloads,” said Donovan.
Flannigan’s binoculars were jammed into his eye sockets. His “dam’s apple bounced up and down as he rasped, “Wha... wha.. what are dyeloads?”
Donovan said, “Ship A fires red, ship B fires green dyeloads, ship C fires yellow, and so on. Therefore, each gunnery officer can spot his own shot and adjust accordingly.”
“Oh. Just one ship wasting all that stuff on us?” squeaked Flannigan.
“Right. See that?” Donovan pointed to multiple gun flashes. “They’ve opened fire. We’re small potatoes so it looks like somebody is using us for target practice.”
“If we’re so damn small, then why don’t they shoot at us with BB guns? That stuff looks like eight-inch. Maybe bigger.”
Another group of shells fell closer, perhaps five hundred yards off to their right, the columns of red hissing water rising fifty feet in the air.
Donovan called to Hammond, “Burt, see those shells? Head straight for them.” Chasing the splashes was something Donovan had learned in the Solomon Islands campaign, the theory being that the enemy gunner would adjust his aim, his next shells not falling where he’d shot before.
“Yes, sir.” Hammond gave the rudder order.
Flannigan grabbed his headphones, then said, “Monkey Wrench, roger out.”
“What?” asked Donovan.
Flannigan gulped and said, “The screen has executed William, Captain.” William was the code word for a torpedo attack. “Tabby Cat and Cherokee have attacked independently. And” – Flannigan’s adam’s apple worked up and down – “they’ve ordered us to make smoke and also attack independently.”
Donovan checked the radar, seeing that the two attacking destroyers had closed to within ten thousand yards of the Japanese group. They’re really mixing it up. Donovan reached up and keyed the 29 MC. “Combat, bridge. Who are Tabby Cat and Cherokee?”
Kruger came right back. “Tabby Cat is call sign for the screen commander, Captain, who’s riding in the Hoel . Cherokee is the Johnston. Looks like they’re hell-bent-for-leather.”
“Roger.” The Johnston, Donovan recalled, was nicknamed “GQ Johnnie” because her skipper, Commander Ernest E. Evans, often exercised his crew at general quarters. The call sign was interesting because Evans was a Cherokee. “What other ships are in the screen?”
“DD Heermann, then the DEs Dennis, Raymond, John C. Butler and Samuel B. Roberts.”
“Bridge, aye.” Donovan released the talk button and glanced to the south. Lazy black smoke rose above the horizon, looking as if a series of buildings were on fire. It was the smoke from the destroyers screening destroyers Taffy 3. And the airedales were busy, too. He counted at least ten “American TBFs, diving on the enemy ships.
Things to do. Get going. “Mr. Hammond.”
“Sir?” Hammond ran from the pilothouse.
“We’re going to attack with torpedoes now. Prepare to come right to two-six-five, speed thirty-three knots.”
“Thirty-three?” Hammond was incredulous. It was drilled into watch officers that the Fletcher class destroyers, originally rated at thirty-five knots, could barely make thirty-three knots due to the addition of equipment. But that was only if they had a clean bottom and light load. Moreover, the ships’ superheaters were notorious for breaking down. A call for thirty-three knots was something one usually didn’t do.
“That’s correct, Mr. Hammond. Two-six-five will do for now, please.” He grabbed Potter by his life jacket straps and yanked him over. “Okay, son, pass the word to Mr. Corodini that I’ll soon want turns for thirty-three knots. And tell him to make as much smoke as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” Potter keyed his mike and began talking.
Twenty seconds later, the bridge phone buzzed. Hammond answered, then held out the phone. “Captain, it’s Al Corodini.”
Donovan grabbed the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Corodini. How can I help you?”
When it came to his engines, Corodini didn’t waste words. “Thirty-three knots, Captain? We’ll tear up the plant.”
“How long do you think the plant will last at that speed, Al?”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
“I wouldn’t give it half an hour. Any more than that and she’ll blow a gasket somewhere. A bearing, a feed pump. Who knows?”
“That’s good enough for me, Mr. Corodini, because there’s a good chance we’ll be dead by then.”
It was silent on the other end.
Donovan said, “I’m sorry, “Al. I know you love your damn engines but right now, I need everything you and your feed pumps and bearings can give. So crack the throttles wide open, tie down the safety valves, and hang your hat on the damn steam gauge.”
“Jesus.”
“And make smoke, son. Plenty of it.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re a good engineer, Al. You and your boys keep at it and we’ll do just fine.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
25 October, 1944
USS Matthew (DD 548)
Thirty miles east of Paninihian Point
Samar Island, Philippine Sea
“Lieutenant Hammond, execute, please,” barked Donovan.
Hammond’s eyes glistened. Perhaps it was from the wind, but then Donovan saw something in his face that said, I know we have to do this but God, I’m scared.
Me too, Burt. He clutched the bulwarks tightly with both hands to make sure nobody could see they were shaking.
Hammond swallowed twice and hollered, “Right ten degrees rudder. Steady up on course two-six-five. All engines ahead flank. Make three hundred thirty three revolutions for thirty-three knots.”
Helmsman and lee helmsman acknowledged his orders almost simultaneously; the engine room telegraph clanged as the lee helmsman shoved the handles all the way down.
Ensign Flannigan handed Donovan the phone. “XO, sir.”
Donovan jammed it to his ear and said, “Richard?”
“You’re the captain, right?” asked Kruger’s metallic voice.
“Last time I checked.”
“Well then, shouldn’t you should say something?” said Kruger.
“I’ve been thinking about it. I guess now is the time.”
“We don’t have much of it left.”
“And what’s left is not going to be pretty.”
“I know, but they have a right to know what we’re in for.”
“I’ll say. Thanks for reminding me.” He hung up and walked around the full circumference of the bridge, ignoring the faces of signalmen, boatswain’s mates, and gunners. Just a few short months before, they had been were torn from their wives and sweethearts while going to high school and college or working for a living.
What do I tell them? That their chances of dying are certain? That we’re sailing into the jaws of hell at thirty-three knots? A phrase from the “Navy Hymn” popped into his mind.
O’ hear us when we cry to thee
for those in peril, on the sea.
He leaned on the bulwark and stared into the ocean. Yes, dear God, please let me do a good job and keep my men and this ship safe. Amen.
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 43