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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Like the rest of the fleet, Atago was at darkened ship. Lights-out had been sounded at 2200, and most of the crew was asleep while security watches patrolled her decks in split-toed sandals. The heat was intolerable below decks, despite the grinding of exhaust and blower fans. It was particularly bad in the berthing spaces, with many of the ship’s crew turned out on the weather decks, curled up on mats.

  Strident voices rang in the flag wardroom five levels above the main deck in the Atago’s superstructure. Vice Admiral Takeo Kurita, a slender man of five-seven, 155 pounds, had called a staff meeting after the evening meal. It was still raging at 2248, showing no sign of letting up. Portholes and hatches were clamped shut to keep light from leaking while four overhead mounted fans struggled to cut through thick cigarette smoke.

  Seated at the head of a T-shaped table, the nearly bald Kurita heaved a sigh of resignation, frustrated that he could barely control this collection of seventeen men who, with each passing minute, acted less and less like officers of the Imperial Japanese Navy. To a man, they were, eager, desperately sincere, almost overly zealous. Bitterly they argued about how to stop the American advance in the Western Pacific. The Imperial Japanese Navy had taken a terrible drubbing the previous month at the hands of Raymond Spruance’s third Fleet. The losses to the Imperial Japanese Navy were shocking, including more than four hundred carrier planes and their irreplaceable pilots. Worse, the Americans had retaken the Marianas, including Guam, Tinian, Saipan, and Rota.

  The question before them was: Where will the Americans strike next? The Philippines? China? Formosa? Once that was known, the Japanese could consolidate their strung-out forces and implement Operation SHO-GO, a brainchild of Admiral Soemu Toyoda, chief of naval operations in Tokyo. Stated simply, SHO-GO was Toyoda’s plan to draw out the American fleet and kill it in one decisive blow--no small accomplishment--given the Imperial Japanese Navy’s dwindling capabilities. Operation SHO-1 was an adaptation for the Philippines, SHO-2 for Formosa, SHO-3 for the Southern Home Islands, and so on.

  Rear Admiral Seiichi Abe shot to his feet. “Who says they won’t strike the Philippines?” Silence fell; they turned expectantly toward Kurita, who had more time at sea than almost any admiral in the Imperial Japanese Navy. A 1914 graduate of Etajima Naval Academy, he was fifty-six years of age and a proud and humble man, the son of a schoolteacher. Kurita had served his country for thirty-four years. Of this, a solid eighteen years had been at sea, all in surface ships, particularly destroyers, his first love. Also, Kurita was known for leading the navy’s night-tactics development to the level that it enjoyed today. The consummate surface warfare officer, Kurita saw no reason to waste time brown-nosing his way up the ladder on shore assignments. Before making rear admiral in 1938, he’d devoted his time ashore to either gunnery or torpedo schools, mostly the latter. As a full captain, he was chief instructor at the torpedo school between his stint as commanding officer of the cruiser Abukuma and the battleship Kongo. After the war’s outbreak, Kurita commanded battle groups from the Indian Ocean to Midway to the Solomons to the Marianas. And many of the men gathered here had been with him through all of that.

  Now they waited for the Chujo, an honorific for a vice admiral, to speak. Kurita sipped his brandy and said, “I’d say it’s the Philippines.”

  “How can it be?” asked Abe. Rubbing his eyes, he sat. “They can’t supply such a large objective over a long period of time. We’d wipe them out.”

  With a nod, Kurita said, “Consider the size of their fleet--hundreds, we’re told. And they’ve become proficient at replenishment at sea. That’s how Halsey and Spruance do it. They never go ashore. They just strike, chase tankers, refuel, and strike again.”

  Rear Admiral Satomi Takata stood and hitched his trousers. The man was overweight and hitched all the time, a habit Kurita hated in officers. But Kurita looked the other way in Takata’s case. He was respected as a brilliant strategist. After a nod from Kurita, Takata said, “Yes, the Philippines. I agree. After all, didn’t that egomaniac MacArthur say, ‘I shall return’?” Another dark side to Takata was that he was a hothead. He would get so worked up that he’d be virtually tongue-tied. And with the late hour, it was easy to see he was headed in that direction.

  But others around the table saw it coming. A few snickered.

  Takata’s face grew red, his eyes darting from face to face. “Won’t MacArthur be allowed his objective? Isn’t he an American favorite? Didn’t he try to run for president?”

  From across the table, Captain Ryozo Ishima pounded a fist. “Philippines. Nonsense. A no-win objective. They would be bogged down for months, if not years. It’s Formosa, I say. That way, they can choke off our supply lines to China and the Dutch East Indies. I say we draw a ring of steel around Formosa. The sooner, the better.”

  That was the decision before Kurita; how to allocate his dwindling fleet of ships over such a vast area. Right now they were anchored near Singapore because of its proximity to oil. But the Americans would soon be on the move. And he would have to decide. But where... where? Kurita chastised himself inwardly. Toyoda wanted a response soon.

  In the blink of an eye, Takata and Ishima leaned over the table, yelling, their noses almost touching. If the situation wasn’t so dreadful, Kurita would have burst out laughing. Two red-faced, adult senior officers, shrieking at each other, veins bulging in their necks.

  A glass toppled over. Water splattered on Takata’s sleeve. Enraged, Takata started around the table toward Ishima.

  “Enough!” Kurita shot to his feet. He rarely yelled, and his officers sat back in shocked surprise.

  Quiet returned. Kurita sat and asked softly, “The first question is: Where are their attack forces? Halsey’s Third Fleet? Kinkaid’s seventh? How can you hide two whole fleets like that? Next, where are their amphibious forces? Their troops? We’re supposed to have submarine pickets out there looking for them. And yet nobody has--”

  --A hatch opened. A blast of warm, humid air swirled into the wardroom, carrying the odor of ginger and gardenia from nearby islands. Kurita drew a deep breath. Beautiful.

  A full commander, resplendent in dress blues and aiguillette, entered with a limp, a black patch over his left eye, carrying a clipboard. He was Yuzura Noyama, a fighter pilot who’d lost his left eye and nearly lost his leg over Bougainville eighteen months ago. He’d become an outstanding communications officer and was one of Kurita’s favorite aidesBso much so--that the Imperial marines in the passageway automatically admitted him without asking for ID.

  Deftly closing the hatch, Noyama walked up to Kurita, bowed, and handed over the clipboard. Then he stood to one side at parade rest.

  Kurita took the board, then looked up to Takata and Ishima. Waving the back of his hand, he said, “Sit, gentlemen, sit.”

  The two officers sat. All eyes turned to Kurita as he read the message. At length, he looked up and said, “Yes, it’s from Toyoda.” Kurita rose and walked to a bulkhead-mounted chart. Picking up a pointer, he said, “Tokyo intelligence staff have strong evidence that it’s either the Philippines or Formosa.” Kurita’s pointer slapped the chart with a loud crack. “They are willing to bet on that. Thus our assignment is to submit plan SHO-1. Our goal is to meet the Americans at the Philippines, draw them out, and annihilate them. Toyoda will plan for SHO-2, the invasion of Formosa. I am to meet him in Tokyo in”-- he glanced at the message – “in two weeks.” He looked up.

  Noyama’s eyes glistened, and his face was a bit red.

  Kurita waved Noyama to a chair. “Your leg bothering you?” Sometimes Noyama was in a lot of pain. But he always masked it effectively.

  Noyama sat and exhaled loudly. “No, sir.”

  The corners of Kurita’s mouth raised slightly. “Then perhaps you’re up for a bit of mountain climbing tomorrow?” One of Kurita’s favorite things to do ashore was mountain climbing. But he seldom got the chance.

  Noyama looked Kurita in the eye. “I have the feeling, Admiral, that I’ll
be working on SHO-1 tomorrow, uh, with respect, sir.”

  A collective sigh heaved about the room. A sign of relief as the men sat back and nodded to one another. Toyoda’s decisions to plan for Formosa and the Philippines were better than no decisions at all. Now they could do something. Now they could plan for a way to get back at the Americans.

  Kurita nodded toward Noyama. “Well, maybe no mountain climbing tomorrow, Noyama.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  26 July, 1944

  Commanding Officer’s Quarters No. 5

  U.S. Army Fort Schafter

  Oahu, Territory of Hawaii

  General Douglas MacArthur walked into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and tossed them on a chair. Pointing to a bar stool in the living room, he asked, “Grab that for me, Owen?” Then he headed for the bathroom.

  “Certainly, sir.” Colonel Owen Reynolds stepped into the living room, one-handed the stool, and returned to the bedroom. Just before closing the door, Reynolds put a finger to his lips, gesturing to a signals major, an artillery captain, and two sergeant-valets seated around the living room. Aside from their B-17 flight crew, this was MacArthur’s entourage that had with him flown from Hollandia.

  Reynolds turned to one of the valets--a distinguished Filipino with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair named Navarro--and said, “Begin in two minutes.” Then he closed the door.

  MacArthur stepped into the shower and fiddled with the valves. Water gushed as he called, “What time did you say we were due there, Owen?” He stretched a hand out the door.

  Walking into the bathroom, Reynolds handed the stool over and said, “Fifteen hundred, sir.” The general already knew the answer. They’d discussed it many times during the long flight. Now it was 1505. And right now President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, accompanied by a legion of U.S. Navy dignitaries, waited for General MacArthur in Pearl Harbor, fifteen miles away.

  It seemed weeks ago that they’d boarded the general’s B-17 in Hollandia, New Guinea, leaving MacArthur’s aide and Reynolds’s boss, Major General Charles Willoughby to “take care of things,” as MacArthur put it. MacArthur hated leaving Hollandia. He hadn’t set foot on U.S. soil since 1937. But now his immediate superior in Washington, DC, General George C. Marshall, had ordered MacArthur to Hawaii to meet with the president.

  Over long hours, the flight crew did a good job keeping to the schedule right up until the last leg from Palmyra to Hawaii. They hit a storm and bounced and jiggled and ground through headwinds all the way to Hickam Field, ending up two hours late. And now Reynolds’s legs and butt ached: the legs from lack of exercise, his rear end from a wound on Bougainville.

  Steam rose over the transom as MacArthur sat on the stool and sighed, “Ahhh.” Then he called loudly, “So we’re already five minutes late?”

  “Afraid so, General.”

  “Well, I don’t care, Owen. I’m hot and sticky and tired and I’ll not go trudging aboard a capital ship of the United States Navy looking like a common bum, ruffles and flourishes be damned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you know that the president and I are distant cousins?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Out here, doesn’t mean anything, does it?” MacArthur began humming. Relatives or not, MacArthur ran a veritable kingdom out in the far reaches of the South Pacific. But in Hawaii, he was outranked by his cousin, the commander in chief who at the moment, was most likely drumming his fingers down in Pearl Harbor, waiting. Also waiting, and most likely fuming alongside FDR, were Admiral Chester Nimitz, commander in chief, Pacific Fleet, and Admiral William Leahy, Roosevelt’s chief of staff.

  This was one of the few times Reynolds actually felt sorry for MacArthur. In most situations, the general was confident, in control, eager for the next challenge. And yet he’d been called to this meeting as a pig to slaughter. It was to be a strategy meeting to decide where the Americans would strike next. With the Marianas safely secured, everyone, including FDR, the entire Combined Joint Chiefs of Staff, Ernie King, and Hap Arnold, wanted to invade Formosa next, maybe go even farther north: the Ryukyus, perhaps Okinawa. All were adamantly opposed to MacArthur’s plan for retaking the Philippines. They wanted to bypass the seven thousand island archipelago, throw up a blockade, and starve out the Japanese garrisoned there. Rumor had it that Admiral King, who had been in Hawaii just last week, had given Admiral Nimitz irrevocable instructions not to back away from the Formosa Plan. Reynolds and the rest of MacArthur’s staff knew the Navy believed that “Dug-out Doug” wanted the Philippines as a grandstanding issue, to complete his promise of “I will return.”

  There was another element. Both the Navy and Army believed President Roosevelt was here for political purposes rather than working with military issues. Just ten days ago, the Democratic Party had nominated FDR to run for president for an unprecedented fourth term. Many felt the only reason the president was out here was to garner votes, grin for his troops, and shake every hand offered.

  Maybe that was part of MacArthur’s strategy, the wire-thin, balding Reynolds mused. Offer up part of his empire to complement Roosevelt’s political campaign. But did MacArthur really have that to give? After all, he was subordinate to his commander in chief. It was to be an enormous contest of egos.

  MacArthur’s rich baritone voice echoed through the steam. “Well Owen I think you better get out there and put a cork in it for us.”

  “General?” Like MacArthur, Reynolds was tired. He ran a hand over his chin. He hadn’t shaved in two days. And he, too, had been counting on a shower. Moreover, he was famished. Two and a half days of dry bologna sandwiches and lemonade made with brackish water had left him with a sour stomach.

  “I mean, Owen, get down there, now. Talk to Nimitz’s aide, ahhh--” MacArthur snapped his fingers. “Lamar. That’s it. Lieutenant Lamar. A good man. Just tell him I’ll be right along. Then go get yourself a solid meal. Cruisers serve great chow. I love their navy bean soup.” Lost in steam, MacArthur gave a chuckle as water splashed over the transom.

  Reynolds hated navy bean soup. “Yes, sir. On my way.”

  “Everything else set up?”

  Reynolds ran over to a window and peeked out to see a Buick four-door convertible drawing to the curb. Naturally the top was down, and a four-star general’s flag was mounted on each front fender. Atop the right front fender was a gleaming chrome-plated siren. In front of the Buick were four motorcycles, their riders in jodhpurs and shiny boots, dismounting. Four hours out of Hickam, Reynolds had radioed the general’s request ahead and their host, Lieutenant General Robert C. Richardson, had come through.

  Reynolds checked the bed. Navarro had laid out a fresh set of starched khaki trousers and shirt, the general’s four stars pinned on the collar points. Socks and brilliantly shined shoes waited on the floor. His Philippine marshal’s hat was perched on the dresser; hanging next to it was his brown leather flight jacket. Good. He grabbed his garrison cap and ran back to the bathroom, finding it clogged with billowing steam. “All ready, General. And your car just pulled up.”

  “What kind?”

  “Buick, convertible. The top is down and you have four mounted escorts. Looks like General Richardson really put his back to it.”

  “Excellent, Owen. I wouldn’t expect otherwise. Now get going and find Lamar. I’ll see you there.”

  “Yes, sir. And may I add, General, best of luck?”

  “Thank you, Owen. We’re going to need it on this one.” MacArthur hummed again.

  “Yes, sir.” Reynolds dashed through the living room, shouting last minute instructions to the valets. Then he grabbed a worn leather briefcase, ran for the front door, and exited. The men in the motorcade looked up expectantly.

  “Ten minutes, tops,” he shouted. “Then give it all you’ve got.” Like a New Yorker calling for a taxi, Reynolds jammed two fingers on his lips, whistled shrilly, and shot a finger in the air. A four-door olive-drab Mercury sedan p
ulled from under a grizzled banyan tree and roared up to the curb.

  Reynolds jumped in back, surprised that he was out of breath. Dammit. More tired than I thought.

  The driver, a balding sergeant turned. “Where to, Colonel?”

  “Pearl Harbor. And step on it!”

  The sergeant popped the clutch and stomped on the gas, burning rubber and throwing Reynolds to the back of his seat. He hadn’t done that since high school back in California’s San Fernando Valley.

  “Where in Pearl, sir?”

  “USS Baltimore.” Reynolds’s eyebrows shot up. They were headed for the main gate doing seventy. “Hey!” The crazy sergeant wasn’t stopping. Frantically, the man waved his hand and blew the Mercury’s horn.

  The guards jumped aside, shaking their fists. Reynolds looked back, relieved they hadn’t drawn their guns and opened fire. “Soldier, what’s your name?”

  “McCormick, Colonel. Don’t worry, sir. They know me. More important, they know the car belongs to General Richardson.”

  “I appreciate your efforts here, but is somebody going to write us up? I mean--”

  “--Where, sir?”

  The man was also rude. “What?”

  “Whereabouts in Pearl? I mean I gotta know what gate to go for.”

  Reynolds almost said Baltimore. But that was stupid. He’d already said that. He reached into his briefcase, shuffled for an agonizing thirty seconds, and pulled out a nine-page agenda. “Here it is: Pier 22-B. That make sense to you, McCormick?”

  McCormick jammed down the gas pedal. The Mercury roared for Pearl Harbor at eighty miles per hour. “I can find 22-B blindfolded.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  26 July, 1944,

  Pier 22-B

  Pearl Harbor Naval Station

  Territory of Hawaii

  Sergeant McCormick made the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard in fifteen minutes. It took another twenty minutes to weave their way through heavy security. The base was crowded with sailors in whites and Marines in service C uniforms, the crowd growing thicker as they neared 22-B.