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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “What are you thinking of?”

  “I’d like to look at the firing lug, first.”

  Donovan checked his watch. “This squall isn’t going to last forever. Also, there’s a great big Jap battleship out there just waiting for us, so...” he straightened up, “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to duck out of this squall and fire nine of our torpedoes at that sonofabitch. You, Mr. Peete, have little more than ten minutes to verify that this so-named torpedo exploder is indeed aboard and to somehow get rid of it before 825 pounds of HBX vaporizes us, in which case, we’ll be meeting our honorable ancestors long before those Japs over there.”

  “Bridge, aye.” Potter leaned over and said, “Combat reports surface search radar back on the line, sir.”

  Hammond said, “I’ll check.” He ran into the pilothouse and called, “Battleship bears two-eight-two, range four miles, Captain.”

  A salvo flew over them, the explosions ear shattering. Fragments rained among them.

  “He’s bracketing,” said Donovan. “ Come left to three-zero-zero. All ahead flank, indicate three-three-three turns for thirty-three knots. Woodruff, tell main control to make black smoke and plenty of it. Combat, give me a course to launch torpedoes at five thousand yards.”

  “Coming left to three-zero-zero,” shouted La Valle as three shells erupted to port.

  The blasts were still echoing when Woodruff called, “All engines ahead flank, three-three-three turns for thirty three knots, fireroom’s making black smoke.”

  “Very well.”

  Kruger’s expression said Let’s-get-rid-of-those-damned-torpedoes-now-and-haul-ass. Donovan smacked his lips, the red dye running into his teeth. “Stay up here much longer, Mr. Kruger, and you’re going to look like a snow cone, just like me.”

  “Let’s just shoot, Captain.”

  Donovan said, “I’m for that. We’ll unload those nine torpedoes now. Ensign Peete, what happens after that is up to you, Chief Hammer, and your torpedomen. If this message is right, and I have no reason to doubt John Sabovik, my advice is not to remove the exploder. There’s just no time to fiddle with the thing no matter how good Chief Hammer thinks he is. Besides, they say not to do it, and they have an EOD guy to back it up. “Marine, I’ve met him. He’s a good man. So I’d try to figure a way to launch it from the tube. Get going.” He offered his hand. “Godspeed, son.”

  Peete shook with Donovan, his face saying, Do I have a choice? “Do my best, Captain.”

  Hammond punched Peete on the arm, “Go get’em, Johnnie.”

  Kruger said, “Maybe I better go back with him. There’s not a lot of time to explain to the torpedomen.”

  Donovan rubbed his chin. “I need you in combat.”

  “Mike, fer chrissakes.”

  Donovan asked, “Aren’t you second in command? Who takes over if a Jap shell hits the bridge?”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Peete said, “I don’t have time to argue, gentleman.” He took off.

  “Look, Mike, I know what has to be done,” shouted Kruger.

  “So do I, and so does Mr. Peete. And so will Chief Hammer.”

  “I beg to differ and there’s no time for Hammer. Come on, Mike!”

  “All right. It’s against my better judgment, but all right,” said Donovan.

  “Thanks.” Kruger followed Peete around the corner and down the aft ladder to the 01 level and the torpedo mounts.

  Two minutes later, the Matthew popped from the squall into sparkling blue waters, the brilliant sunshine making them blink. Black smoke gushed from her funnels; water peeled magnificently off her bow while aft, white foam spewed from her fantail. Almost dead ahead, the battleship stood out in clear and horrible abundance.

  Trailed by Potter, Donovan dashed to the port bridge wing. “Open fire,” he shouted.

  “Gun control, aye,” shouted Merryweather. Within seconds, the two forward-facing five-inch guns barked at the battleship. The forty - and twenty-millimeters chipped in as well.

  “The battleship is still on course zero-zero-zero, speed two-seven,” reported Flannigan.

  Hacking and coughing with the smell of cordite, Donovan said, “Very well.”

  “Captain.” Merryweather listened to his phones for a moment, then said, “The XO and Mr. Peete confirm the torpedo in tube ten is loaded with a mark 6 exploder lot number “LX24 114 UP. Sir, do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “In a minute,” Donovan shouted back, checking his watch: 0852. Hurry.

  Donovan looked aft, seeing the torpedo mounts trained to port. “Does Mr. Peete have a firing solution, Mr. Merryweather?”

  Smoke puffed from the battleship’s main battery. Shells raced over and were lost in the fog they’d just left. Now the battleship’s six-inch cannons opened up, pumping steadily.

  “Affirmative, sir. Two-degree spread. Zero gyro angle. Medium speed. She’s such a big bastard, I told them to set depth to ten feet.”

  “Very well. Commence firing tubes one through nine,” barked Donovan. Again he checked his watch: 0855.

  “Shoot – tubes one through nine!” shouted Merryweather.

  The five tubes of mount one coughed at one-second intervals, each kicking out a mark 15 torpedo armed with a mark 17 warhead, carrying 825 pounds of HBX. Next, torpedo mount two fired tubes six though nine, also at one-second intervals. The fish leaped into space, their counter-rotating propellers spinning as they dove cleanly into the water.

  Donovan mulled over the fact that the torpedo speed was only thirty-three knots. That was only a six-knot advantage over the battleship’s. “Time to target?” he yelled to Merryweather.

  Holding up crossed fingers, Merryweather replied, “Four minutes, fifty-four seconds, Captain.”

  Time: 0856. Damn, we may not live long enough to see if the torpedoes hit. He thought about getting on the PA system and addressing the crew. But somehow he didn’t think it would help right now. Plus, that damn Jap was still shooting and getting closer. Worse, he was overcome with the urge to scream and vomit at the same time. To raise his head to heaven and rage to God about how unfair this was. About how little time he had to live. About the girl he loved and how much he wanted to be with her. To hold her, kiss her, nuzzle his face in her rich auburn hair.

  Mario Rossi’s face popped into his mind. He was grinning, shouting something, throwing his fist in the air. What the hell is it, Mario?

  The man seemed to be saying, You stupid mik! Go get those bastards.

  Sailors ran forward on the 01 level. Donovan stepped to the signal bridge, seeing it was the entire torpedo gang, Chief Hammer included. He hollered down, “Chief, what’s going on?”

  World War I veteran chief torpedoman Cecil Hammer stood beneath him red-faced, his fists planted on his hips. “Them sonsabitches kicked me offa my tarpeder mount,” he shouted.

  Donovan checked his watch: 0858.

  Hammer was still talking. “And get a load of this. Johnnie Hollywood and that damn snipe are wrecking my mount. And they won’t tell me why they ain’t firing tube ten. They ain’t talking about nothing. Bastards just ordered me to clear the mount with everyone else. Me.” he thumped his chest. “Kicking me offa my mount by a–”

  “Snipe?” yelled Donovan. A shell raced over and exploded two hundred yards to port.

  “Yeah. Kruger. Once a snipe, always a snipe. The bastard’s telling me to get offa my tarpeder mount when there’s Japs out there,” Hammer bellowed. “And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Them pissants are knocking off my firing lug with a chipping hammer and chisel.” His face flushed even redder. “Can you believe that shit? My tarpeder mount. In the middle of a battle? What the hell is this Navy coming to, Captain?”

  Desperately, Donovan checked his watch. Time: 0859. No matter. Grabbing the rail, Donovan yelled at the top of his lungs, “Shoot it, now!”

  Tube ten coughed. The deadly pencil-thin torpedo flashed from the tube and hit the w
ater with a splash. Three seconds later, the torpedo exploded, almost knocking Donovan off his feet.

  Chief torpedoman Hammer raged up to Donovan, “What the hell? Them dumb bastards can’t even shoot straight. Look what they did to my tarpeder. Sheyaat. A premature. Now that’s downright embarrassing, I’ll tell you.”

  Merryweather yelled, “Dammit, she’s coming left to comb wakes.” He pointed to the battleship, now heeled in a turn to the left.

  Donovan yelled down to Chief Hammer, “Chief, grab your crews and lay back to your battle stations. I’m sure Mr. Kruger and Mr. Peete will explain.”

  “What’s there to explain? Them bastards wrecked my firing lug. It’s a tender job.” Chief Hammer whipped his cap off his head, slapped it on his thigh, and started aft, motioning the others to follow.

  The battleship was stern-on to them now, target angle of one-eight zero. Unless they were extremely accurate, all torpedoes would miss.

  Overhead, a flight of four F4F Wildcats swooped past. Then they lined up two on each side of the ship and began their firing runs. “Yeaaaah. Go get’em,” yelled Potter. Everyone cheered as the Wildcats shot past – the first two not firing, the second ones pouring .50-caliber rounds into the battleship’s bridge.

  Just then, another round blasted from the after main mount. The shells landed in a tight pack just one hundred yards to port.

  Getting close. Donovan gave the order to steer for the splashes. La Valle was right with him, and soon they steered though the turbulent water just as the Wildcats lined up for another staffing run. This time, neither fired. But the battleship’s AA battery filled the sky with flak as the planes zipped past.

  “Out of ammo,” said Donovan to Hammond. “Can you believe that? They’re making sacrificial runs for us.”

  As if in confirmation, a TBF Avenger flew low on the water across the Matthew’s bow, its torpedo doors open. But no torpedo was dropped. All the torpedo bomber did was hose down the bridge with its puny single forward-firing .30-caliber machine gun.

  The battleship twisted farther to port in a frantic attempt to avoid what the TBF appeared to be launching.

  The flyboys are doing a great job. And we’ve done our job. We’ve pushed this monster out of the fight. Unmask the battery and get the hell out. The saving grace of another squall beckoned about a thousand yards off the starboard bow. Donovan stepped to the pilothouse and shouted, “Come right to zero-four-five.”

  They were almost to the squall when Mario Rossi suddenly popped up before him. Like Donovan, he wore battle dress, even down to the same life jacket and helmet, the letters C/O stenciled in white right above the brim. And he was chewing gum as he always had. The wad so big it clacked in his teeth.

  “What the hell?” gasped Donovan.

  Mike! You stupid or something? What the hell are we paying you for? Stay on that battleship’s ass. Keep him out of the damn fight.”

  Donovan forced himself to take a deep breath. Then another. Mario was right. It wouldn’t do to run now. The carriers and men of Taffy 3 were depending on the tin cans, on the Matthew – and those brave airmen up there.

  Dammit! Diane, I love you. Good-bye. “Belay that,” he shouted into the pilothouse. “Come left to three four zero.” He yelled up to Merryweather, “Give him all you’ve got, Cliff.”

  “We’re on it, Skipper,” called Merryweather.

  Hammond jumped from the pilothouse. “What the hell?”

  The battleship’s after battery blasted again, the rounds whistling overhead and smacking the water two hundred yards to starboard, raising tall green water columns that hissed like a locomotive pulling into a station.

  “Button your helmet strap, Mr. Hammond, we’re going after Japs.”

  The Wildcats zipped past again on simulated runs. But that didn’t deter the battleship’s six-inch battery from firing furiously at the Matthew.

  But the shots were going wild and Merryweather yelled, “You bastards can’t hit the broad side of a barn.

  “Geez, lookit that,” said Potter, pointing.

  A squall line seemed to jump up right before the battleship. Already her forward section was swallowed up.

  “Sayonara, Tojo,” whispered Hammond.

  A foggy mist swirled around the battleship. Again, Donovan forced himself to breathe as she disappeared like an evil apparition in a horror movie. “I can’t believe it.”

  The battleship was almost gone. But then her after main battery belched just as she was completely enveloped.

  Three armor-piercing shells raced toward them. The first ripped the air search radar antenna off the tip of the mast, smacked the water, and ricocheted for another mile and a half.

  The second shell penetrated the after engine room plating six feet below the main deck and smashed the port turbine, releasing scalding steam. The impact wasn’t enough to detonate the armor-piercing fuse on the giant projectile. Thus it exited to starboard ten feet below the waterline, tearing a jagged nine-by-five-foot hole. A two-foot section of the high-pressure turbine spun out of the wrecked casing and ripped through the forward bulkhead into the after fireroom gouging a four-by-six-foot hole in number three boiler. Killed outright in the engine room were the M division officer, Lieutenant (jg) Henry M. Lonigan and eleven of his enginemen. A chief and three of his boiler tenders lost their lives in the after fireroom. The after engine room was completely flooded in five minutes. The rest of the engine room crew got out and secured the hatches. The after fireroom was saved, and number four boiler continued to function.

  The third shell passed through the 01 deck just abaft number one stack. It continued through the ship’s office, exited through the starboard bulwarks at the main deck, and plunged into the water, also without exploding.

  Killed instantly were Lieutenant Commander Richard (n) Kruger, and chief torpedoman Cecil P. Hammer as they stood arguing forward of number one torpedo mount.

  Ensign Jonathan M. Peete was blown over the side and into the Matthew’s raging quarter-wake.

  CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

  26 October, 1944

  IJN Yamato

  Cuyo East Passage

  Sulu Sea, Philippines

  The First Striking Force sailed through calm, flat waters in five long columns, on course 207 degrees, speed twenty knots. To port was Panay Island, the irregular humpback mountains silhouetted by a rising moon. Cuyo Island lay in darkness to starboard. They had just entered the Sulu Sea and were shaping course for the Balabac Strait and Brunei for refueling.

  The three days of incessant air attacks were done, the evening cool. With the danger past, Vice Admiral Matamo Ugaki had Kurita believing it would be good exercise to simply go down two decks down to his day cabin to dig up an overcoat.

  Kurita walked into his anteroom to find Dr. Koketsu sitting casually, his hands folded. Beside Koketsu on the green baize-topped conference table was his opened black bag.

  “What do you want?” demanded Kurita.

  “Admiral, you need to sleep,” said Koketsu.

  “Nonsense, I feel fine,” Kurita rasped. His skin was a blotchy pale yellow, and dark circles had formed under droopy eyelids.

  “Listen to you. Here, do you mind if I take your temperature?” He reached into his bag.

  “Leave me alone and get out.” Kurita walked to an ornate cabinet trimmed in mahogany, opened the door, and reached in.

  The bedroom door squeaked open. Kurita spun. “Ugaki. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Noyama and Onishi followed Ugaki through the bedroom door.

  “What are you doing? Get out, all of you,” Kurita shrieked.

  Ugaki said, “I’m sorry, Takeo. Dr. Koketsu has me convinced something bad is going to happen if you don’t sleep.”

  “You are not authorized,” Kurita gasped. “I’ll have you on charges.” He looked around Ugaki and pointed to Noyama and the gigantic Onishi. “You, too,” he shouted. “Traitors!”

  Ugaki said, “You may have us on charges, but then how ca
n you prefer charges if you’re dead? I believe the Americans call it a Hobson’s choice.”

  Something clanked. Kurita looked over to see Dr. Koketsu lift a syringe and vial from his bag. He raised the syringe to the light and tested the plunger; thin clear liquid squirted out.

  “No!” Kurita ran for the door.

  Noyama stepped between Kurita and the door. “Please, Admiral, you’re killing yourself. You’re no good to us dead.”

  “Aaaaieee.” Kurita reached to dig for Noyama’s eyes. Ugaki stepped in and grabbed one of Kurita’s arms. Noyama grabbed the other, but his gimpy leg gave way and the threesome fell awkwardly to the plush carpeted deck. Kurita struggled mightily and with a growl, flipped over and rose to his knees.

  “Ahhh,” growled Ugaki. “Help! The sonofabitch bit me!”

  “Uhhhh.” Onishi was there in two steps. Pushing Ugaki and Noyama aside, he encircled the struggling Kurita with a thick left arm and effortlessly raised the kicking and screaming admiral off the deck. Onishi looked at Dr. Koketsu.

  “The bedroom, quick,” ordered Koketsu.

  “Uhhhh.” Onishi walked to Kurita’s stateroom, the admiral roaring as he remained locked under Onishi’s arm. At the door, Kurita grabbed the jamb with both hands, but Onishi easily peeled Vice Admiral Takeo Kurita’s fingers away and carried him over to his bed, the perfumed sheet turned down and ready. Onishi eased Kurita onto the bed and pinned his hands to his chest with one gigantic paw, using his other to keep the admiral from kicking too much.

  “Perfect, just perfect. Hold that,” said Koketsu. He walked through the door, bag in hand, followed by a rather frazzled Ugaki and Noyama.

  “Uhhhhh.”

  “Just a few moments longer. Keep him there.” said Koketsu.

  “I’ll have you all shot!” screamed Kurita.

  For a moment, Noyama was afraid Kurita was going to get loose. But Onishi’s strength was overpowering.

  “Ach!” Kurita yelled as Koketsu jabbed the needle into his arm and pushed the plunger.