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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  He stepped into the pilothouse and keyed the 1 MC. “This is the captain speaking.” His voice echoed metallically from speakers throughout the ship. “You should know that we are now making a torpedo attack on a major portion of the Japanese fleet. I wish I could tell you that our chances are good, but they’re not. But if we don’t do our jobs, a lot of men will die and our carriers will be sunk, therefore prolonging this war. So we’ve got to do what we can to slow these bastards down. I know every man will do his job. And I’m proud to serve with you. That is all.” He clicked off, staring at the mouthpiece, wondering how they would take it. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that men in the pilothouse glanced at him and then looked away. Their faces were not looks of disdain or cowardice. Nor did they show fear or anguish. That was put aside as their training took over, and they bent to their tasks, ready to do what they had to do. The fear would come later. After the battle, if they lived. There would be sleepless nights, with excruciating nightmares; vivid recollections of severed limbs and decapitated heads, bloodied comrades and burning flesh.

  Donovan swore the stench of the Tampa was still with him. But then the thought of the Tampa brought back images of Tiny and his big, oafish, smiling face. Tiny, dammit! And John. They’d been such good friends. Then no longer good friends. But as he looked ahead at his last few minutes, Donovan realized that didn’t matter. Worse, he felt shame and anguish with the thought that his damned ego had gotten in the way and kept him from trying to reconcile with John Sabovik.

  I should have tried harder. And didn’t John Sabovik drive Diane all the way to Mare Island to see me off? He was trying, why didn’t I? Dear God, You gave me a wonderful woman to marry. And I refused to do anything about John Sabovik. I haven’t even written him. Oh, God, what have I done? Please let me do a good job, protect my crew, and go home to Diane. Then I’ll call John.

  And Tiny, this one’s for you.

  “Hodges,” he called.

  “Sir,” replied the signalman.

  “You have a battle flag?”

  “A lollapalooza, Captain.”

  “Then run it up.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” In moments, Hodges and two of his signalman pulled a flag from the flag bag and snapped on the hanks. His two apprentices fairly jumped the halyard, running the flag up and to-blocking it in three seconds. The ten-by-twenty-foot national ensign broke and crackled with the wind.

  Donovan shouted, “Mr. Hammond?”

  “Sir?”

  “I have the conn.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hammond leaned into the pilothouse. “Captain has the conn.”

  The Matthew came alive as she built speed; her uptakes squealed as she sucked in massive loads of air to feed the boilers. Leaping through the waves, she accelerated into her turn to meet the enemy. Standing high on the starboard platform, Donovan checked the gun crews on the weather decks. Their stance told him what he wanted to know. They were crouched behind their guns, eyes on sights, hands ready with ammo, fingers pressed on sound-powered phones. Down in the forward engine room, Al Corodini and his machinist’s mates, enginemen, and boiler tenders were throwing all the steam they could to the turbines. Yes, they were ready.

  They were soon up to thirty-three knots with the Matthew dipping and rolling in the waves. For sure, Donovan was scared to death, and he hoped it didn’t show. What he hadn’t told them on the 1 MC was that it was going to happen soon, most likely in the next ten minutes. He just hoped there would be time to fire all their torpedoes. With guns ranging from six- to eighteen-inch, the enemy fleet was far superior to the Matthew’s five, five-inch popguns; worse, each of the Taffy 3 carriers had just one stern-mounted five-inch gun. If there was any chance, it would be from the Taffy 3 and 2 and 1 Avengers and Wildcats, now furiously buzzing above the Japanese.

  “Range?” Donovan shouted up to Merryweather.

  “About twenty-one thousand yards, Captain.” Ten and a half nautical miles.

  The Matthew plunged ahead, steaming against the enemy at almost a perpendicular course.

  Where the hell are the red shell splashes? Donovan fine-tweaked the focus knob, bringing into view the upperworks of four gigantic warships - one a Kongo-class battleship. On the other side of the Kongo was a bigger battleship – a monster.

  He drew in a breath. My God. It was a battleship so large, he’d never seen anything like it. Not even in the recognition manuals. Two Avengers dove on her, slinging sticks of bombs across her path. All but one of the bombs missed as the giant swung though a turn and headed the other way. The last bomb bounced off her forward turret and exploded harmlessly just before it plunged into the ocean.

  Closer, two columns of heavy Tone-class cruisers rose above the horizon. Great sheets of water peeled off their bows; smoke erupted from their eight-inch guns as they fired at the carriers of Taffy 3.

  Donovan hailed atop the pilothouse: “What’s the range now, Mr. Merryweather?”

  “Nineteen thousand yards, sir.”

  “See that Tone-class cruiser at the head of the column closest to us?”

  “Sure do, Captain,” called Merryweather.

  “Take her under fire when the range reaches eighteen thousand yards.” Eighteen thousand yards or nine nautical miles was the maximum range for the five-inch/38 dual-purpose gun.

  “On target and tracking, Captain. Computer has solution.”

  “Very well.”

  The cruiser at the head of the column must have sensed what was coming, for her entire main battery of nine eight-inch guns slowly trained around and pointed directly at the Matthew.

  “Now we get to find out how good these guys are,” muttered Hammond.

  Smoke belched. Three red water columns rose off the port bow, about three hundred yards away.

  “Good enough,” said Merryweather with professional admiration. “A tight twenty- five-yard grouping.” Merryweather might as well have been judging skeet-shooting competition at the local hunt club on a balmy Sunday afternoon.

  Suddenly three shells whistled over and landed two hundred yards behind them.

  “Bracketed!” screeched Hammond.

  Do something. Donovan yelled to the helmsman, “Head for those splashes, now.” He pointed to the still-churning waters where the first three shells had hit.

  “Yes, sir.” La Valle eased in a bit of left rudder, and soon the destroyer sliced through the foaming pools where, just moments before, the shells had landed.

  Two red splashes smacked the water, exactly where their track would have been.

  The third shell was close, just twenty-five yards to starboard. Hot shell fragments rattled against the ship. The water column rose and hissed and tumbled upon them, drenching the forward section of the destroyer.

  Donovan was soaking wet. And there was something else.

  “Good God,” shouted Hammond. He rushed to Donovan yelling, “Call a medic!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” said Donovan, pushing him away.

  “Captain, shit, what is it?” said Hammond.

  “I dunno, wha–” He looked down, Red. Everything was a glistening red. The deck, bulkheads, portholes, the main-battery director, everything. “It’s the dye, Burt. Take it easy.”

  Hammond’s mouth worked. “Shit, you look like a monster from a Bela Lugosi movie.”

  Even Merryweather was red. Donovan called, “Cliff.”

  An incredulous Merryweather tried to wipe himself off. But there were large globs and it smeared into his life jacket and trousers. “What is it?” he screeched.

  “Cliff, dammit, Lieutenant Merryweather, you’re okay. Do you hear me?”

  Merryweather froze for a moment, then looked down at Donovan. His eyes refocused and he said, “Sorry, Captain. Shit. Do I look like an ad for the Red Cross or what?”

  “Most beautiful, Mr. Merryweather. Now listen up. I want you to call Mr. Peete in the torpedo director, okay?” As torpedo officer, Jonathan Peete’s battle station was in the torpedo director pla
tform mounted on number two stack.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him I want a ten-shot set up on that Tone class cruiser, the one in the lead. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. The one in the lead.”

  “I repeat, tell Ensign Peete to shoot all ten torpedoes.” Donovan didn’t explain to Merryweather the reason was that their chances were less than 50 percent to get close enough to launch torpedoes. And that their chances were less than 10 percent to be able to come around for another torpedo attack. By that time they were sure to be dead.

  He continued. “Tell him I want a one-degree spread, intermediate speed, six-foot depth. Shoot at ten thousand yards.”

  “Ten thousand yards, yes, sir,” said Merryweather.

  Hammond yelled up, “Cliff. Tell the little bastard he better not miss, or I’m gonna go back there and kick his ass.”

  Merryweather said, “He’ll appreciate that, Burt.” Then he bent to his sound-powered phone to relay the command.

  Wham! Wham! Mounts one and two barked from the foredeck. Cordite smoke momentarily swirled around the bridge, giving Donovan that centuries-old scent of war at sea. A quick, horrible image flashed through his mind of what a shell does to man’s flesh when it rips through a ship’s interior at twenty-seven hundred feet per second. Far better that the shell detonate. It would mean instant, merciful death and a good deal of obliteration of what happened to the hapless men in that millisecond. Without exploding, it would be up to the medics to rush into a compartment, most likely afire – and while slipping and sliding on bloody decks – work through the body parts and human goo to see if anyone was still alive.

  Opening fire meant the range had closed to eighteen thousand yards. Not long now.

  They sailed through a trail of smoke, the Japanese column momentarily lost from sight. Donovan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe off his binoculars, but it soon turned red.

  “Here.” Hammond leaned into the pilothouse and handed Donovan a clean pair of binoculars.

  They emerged from the smoke as the forward five-inch guns again barked. Donovan trained on the lead Tone-class cruiser. Her guns had trained around and she was again firing at the carriers. “Range?”

  “Sixteen thousand,” yelled Merryweather.

  Something exploded on the cruiser’s foredeck. Pieces twirled in the air: smoke poured and flames jumped, engulfing the forward eight-inch gun mount. “A hit, Cliff. Good going!”

  Merryweather grinned, “We sure got something.”

  Someone yanked at Donovan’s sleeve.

  “Look at her burn,” shouted Donovan. “Pour it to them.”

  Matthew’s five-inch guns roared with Donovan feeling a surge of pride as his gunners worked into an easy rhythm. The dead time was phenomenal – between three and four seconds – as the Matthew’s five-inch guns cranked out round after vicious round. The loading-machine drills, as morale crushing as they had been, were paying off.

  To the southeast, Donovan saw the other two Fletcher-class destroyers were in range, their guns barking in rapid succession. Amazing, thought Donovan. We’re close enough to shoot back and the Japs haven’t touched us yet. Just wait.

  Potter keyed his sound-powered phone. “Bridge aye.” He looked up to Donovan: “Our last salvo knocked out the surface search radar. ETs are on it. Exec advises it’ll be up in ten minutes.”

  “Very well,” said Donovan. Dammit! Now the radar. What else?

  Again someone tugged at his sleeve. “Captain.”

  “What the hell?” Donovan looked down. It was Ensign Kubichek, the radio officer.

  “Captain, you’ve got to read this.” He held up a clipboard.

  A red-slathered Donovan yelled, “Get below, son. I’ve got a battle on my hands.”

  “Please, Captain,” said Kubichek.

  “Who’s it from?”

  “COMTWELVE, sir.”

  “COMTWELVE? Dammit sailor, you want me to sign for some damn spare parts list in the middle of a battle? Get the hell off my bridge!”

  Six shots whistled overhead and fell four hundred yards astern. Quickly Donovan searched, finding a squall off to his right. “That’s enough of that. Come right to three-zero-zero,” called Donovan. “Head for that squall.”

  “Three-zero-zero, aye, sir,” replied La Valle.

  “Captain, you must,” shrieked Kubichek.

  Donovan growled, “Lay below, mister or I’ll have you thrown in the chain locker.”

  Hammond dashed over. “Rudy. Fer chrissake, get below to your station.”

  Kubichek planted both feet on the deck, ripped off the message, and jammed it in Donovan’s hands. “If you don’t read that message in the next five minutes, Captain, I’m not going to have any station to lay below to.”

  Donovan turned the message over in his hands, smearing it with red dye. Mounts 51 and 52 roared again, making him blink each time. And this time, the forward-facing mount 53 joined in, her field of fire unmasked. Then they were into the squall, a strange, thin mist swirling around them.

  “Captain!” It was Kubichek again, shrieking, tears running down his face.

  Donovan said, “What the hell’s gotten into you, son?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

  25 October, 1944

  IJN Yamato

  Thirty-two kilometers east of Paninihian Point

  Samar Island, Philippine Sea

  Wearing a starched-white waiter’s jacket, gunner’s mate third-class Meinoru Onishi palmed a tray over his head and elbowed his way through officers crowded around the plotting table. Perched on the tray was a frosted glass and bottle of Asahi beer for Onishi’s master. And he wasn’t going to let anyone get in his way. He cared not about the strident babble of admirals or captains or commanders around the table. Nor did he consider the path to his master a challenge. Nor did the roar of the Yamato’s guns detract from his mission, nor even the fact that a major battle was under way. Onishi had been ordered to bring beer to Vice Admiral Ugaki, and nothing would stop him.

  Noyama watched Onishi with an odd detachment; it was an isolated vignette, the only thing happening in this world: a stupid oaf delivering beer to his master.

  He was torn from his daydream when a blast roared outside. The Yamato vibrated as she loosed a nine-gun salvo from her 18.1 inch guns. Air seemed to vanish from the compartment. Seconds later, Noyama felt he could talk and breathe and live. He tried to edge his way through the crowd toward Kurita who, with Ugaki, was dictating a situation report to CinC Toyoda in Tokyo. Worse, they hadn’t heard from Ozawa and his Northern Force. Without that information, they couldn’t solve the Halsey equation. Where was he?

  Noyama turned, finding Onishi looking down at him as if he were a peasant in a rice paddy. Long ago, Noyama had learned to step aside when Onishi was on one of his Ugaki assignments. The beast didn’t care if he ran over an officer or enlisted, and it was too much trouble to bring charges against him. Ugaki would just have them waived. Noyama stepped away and Onishi passed with an “Uhhhh.”

  Noyama swore under his breath; flag plot wasn’t big enough for everyone. The five-by-five meter area was filled with Ugaki’s Battleship Division One staff. Added to that were the remnants of Vice Admiral Kurita’s First Striking Force staff. Crammed on the aft bulkhead was a wide variety of radio equipment and the assorted operators and supervisors to manage communications of the First Striking Force and Battleship Division One. Men cursed as they tripped over phone cords, spilled cigarette ashes or knocked papers on the deck. Moreover, it was hot and humid with this damn Philippine tropical weather. Half the radio operators and a few of the junior officers were shirtless and wore Hachimaki, the warrior’s traditional headband. The rest had their shirtsleeves rolled up. Many were crowded around the damn plotting table, their babbling and sweat mingling with the cannon fire.

  Lieutenant Commander Boshiro Hirota, Battleship Division One’s communications officer, was one of the officers competing for Ugaki’s attention. Running a handkerc
hief over his bald head, he yelled across the table, “Nagato reports the six carriers are Independence class.” Nagato was one of the battleships in his Battleship Division One.

  But Ugaki picked it up and turned to Kurita. “There, you hear? That’s Halsey out there. What more proof do you want?”

  “Yes, but those are thirty-three-knot ships. We’ll have a hard time catching them,” complained Kurita.

  Noyama edged through in time to hear Ugaki lower his voice and say, “We’ll never have an opportunity like this again.”

  “I know, I know, that’s why I ordered a general attack instead of a ring formation. But now, with all these damn airplanes buzzing around, I’m not so sure. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

  “Well, I say pour it on. Run the fleet speed up to twenty-five knots, dammit.”

  The ship vibrated as she leaned to port, again turning to avoid a bomb. They didn’t hear the airplane, but the bomb exploded close aboard with a loud bang that vibrated throughout the ship.

  Undeterred, men shouted, each with his own strident message.

  Ignoring them, Kurita hissed, “We have fuel oil to think about, you damn fool. And I don’t want to be the one on record who lost two of our finest battleships in as many days.”

  Ugaki rubbed his chin, thinking about the Musashi and how she’d been sunk yesterday by Halsey’s incessant air attacks. The same could happen today to Yamato, he admitted to himself.

  Onishi leaned over and, with an enormous barnyard reach, carefully placed the tray before his admiral.

  “Thank, you, thank you, Onishi,” said Ugaki, pouring his beer.

  “Uhhhh.” Onishi bowed, grunted, and backed away, captains and commanders bouncing off his enormous frame.

  Ugaki’s eyebrows went up. “Want one?”

  Kurita shook his head. “I’d pass out.”

  Ugaki made a show of pouring the beer and letting the foam build. “How much sleep have you had, Takeo?”

  “Enough.”