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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Yes, sir, for now.” Sabovik sat back, lit a cigarette and exhaled, feeling a bizarre satisfaction that he was contributing to the density of the cloud in the room.

  General Cartwell snorted. “Poof. That’s it? Scratch one ammo ship? Come on, we need more than that, Jack. Dammit, I’ve got an invasion coming up and I’m supposed to have bombs and bullets on hand for 170,000 men. Now the question from General MacArthur is, what the hell is going on? He wants to know if his supply lines are secure.”

  Egan butt-lit a fresh cigarette. “Easy, Tom. We have five ships loading right now. You’ll have plenty of stuff.” He exhaled, the smoke in the room growing thicker.

  Colonel McTierney of the Army Transportation Corps was seated across from Sabovik. “Rumor is that the darkies won’t load any more ships. They’re scared. I’ve heard talk about mutiny.”

  Egan drew a long face and replied, “Colonel, there’s truth to that, I’m afraid. I’m ashamed to admit we’ve botched it. The loading gangs in Port Chicago were all black and now nobody wants to talk to them, buck them up. They’re scared to death. Worse, somebody stuck them on a barge and everybody is ignoring them like they’re guilty or something. We’re going to take care of that.”

  “Poor bastards,” said McTierney. “Who’s supposed to be responsible for them? The sonofabitch should be cashiered.” He swung his eyes to Egan. “Doesn’t this lie at the feet of your Captain Doyle?”

  Egan said, “Probably so. We’ll ask Sam when he comes in. But remember this. It’s not every day that 1,780 tons of high explosives goes up in your face. We’re trying to unravel this thing a step at a time, and right now we’re making the rules as we go along. And the first rule is to keep the stuff moving.” He darted a glance at Cartwell.

  McTierney bored in with, “Who’s to say one of the darkies didn’t do it on purpose?”

  “Highly unlikely,” said Egan. “But then we’re leaving no stone unturned.” He nodded to Danbury. “That’s his job.”

  Danbury steepled his fingers and went, “Mmm.”

  Egan turned back to General Cartwell. “Tom, Port Chicago is still a mess, and, for the time being, its’ unusable. So your ships are being loaded out in Mare Island. We’re getting it done. You’ll have your stuff.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” said Cartwell. Then he asked, “Where do we go from here?”

  All eyes turned to Egan. After a moment, he tapped his finger on the tablecloth and said, “I recommend we attack this from three main standpoints. First, we want assurances that the ammunition is stable. Is it coming from the factories in a satisfactory manner? Does it comply with safety regulations? Is it safe to handle?” He turned to Pindar. “That’s your job, Larry. You say you and Roger and your boys know your science? So prove it. I want you to go after the munitions manufacturers on a round-the-clock basis. Especially the boys making the big stuff. I don’t think small arms could touch off explosions like we’ve been having. So go for the companies making five-inch stuff and up. Let’s see if we can validate what they have.”

  “Right,” said Pindar.

  Egan turned to the navy captain on his right. “Regis, you’ve got to look into ammunition handling and loading procedures. Also, I want complete background checks on all Port Chicago personnel.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Faraday.

  Egan continued, “This talk of work stoppage and mutiny is bullshit. I want you to put a halt to that. I have special powers and I can do anything I damn want, legally and otherwise. Right now, I want those ships loaded properly and swiftly. But I don’t want people to go after the loading crews just because they’re black. We’ll look into this in our own time and if we find something wrong, then we’ll figure out what to do. In the meantime, put `em to work.” Egan thumped his forefinger on the table.

  “Yes, sir,” said Captain Henderson. “We have discovered one thing.”

  All eyes turned to Henderson.

  He continued, “The supervisors have been running the loading gangs against one another on a competitive basis. In other words, the team with the fastest loading time, or the one that moves the most tonnage, gets more liberty and extra privileges, et cetera.”

  “Do you think that led to carelessness?” asked General Cartwell.

  “We’re looking into it,” said Henderson.

  “Anything else, Regis?” asked Admiral Egan.

  “That’s it for now, sir.”

  Egan stubbed out his cigarette and laid a fresh one on his lower lip. He lit it with a giant Zippo, exhaled, and said, “Find out what those loading gangs are doing right and what they’re not doing right. See if we can improve things for them, and for efficiency.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Henderson.

  Cartwright asked, “What’s the third point, Jack?”

  Egan laid both hands flat on the table. “The supply line. I want to see what’s happening to the stuff along the way.”

  McTierney straightened a bit. “Why, that’s a job for transportation corps security, Admiral. And believe me, we’ve been working our butts off since all this began. No way a Jap spy can get to one of our trains.”

  Egan gave McTierney a long look. “I’m sure there isn’t, Byron, but just to make sure, I’m assigning Commander Sabovik here to check the supply routes. And I understand our biggest railhead is in Roseville, California. Is that right, Colonel?”

  “Well, yes,” said McTierney.

  “Place is full of people running around, switching cars and engines and all sorts of equipment?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And what about the Sierra Nevada route?” asked Egan.

  “Pretty tight,” said McTierney. “We have guards in every snow shed and at least one every mile. And that’s over a 139-mile route from Sparks, Nevada, to Roseville, California.”

  “Is that so?” asked Egan. “Well, Colonel, I want it checked and double-checked and then taken apart and checked again.”

  “Yes, sir,” said McTierney. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  Egan added. “Also, don’t you think we should bear down on that as well as points east? Say, Nevada, and Utah and Wyoming and so forth?”

  “It’s an enormous task,” sputtered McTierney.

  “Well, yes, and we’ve had two enormous explosions. We have to start somewhere, so I say we start with Roseville. Okay? Then we look farther east.” Egan darted a glance around the table. Nobody objected.

  “Good,” said Egan. He turned to Captain Danbury. “Roger, can you help Colonel McTierney and take that on?”

  “Mmm.” Danbury rubbed his chin and looked at Sabovik.

  “Yes, sir. Roseville, sir,” said Sabovik.

  Danbury looked at Collins, the EOD marine captain, “You mind joining us?”

  “Be glad to, sir,” said Collins.

  “How can he refuse?” said General Cartwright.

  Egan grinned. “Damn, I appreciate men who know how to follow orders. You run a tight ship, Roger.”

  “Mmm,” said Danbury.

  “Mmm, is that all you can say, Roger?” asked Egan.

  Danbury tapped tobacco into a pipe, looked directly at Egan, and said, “Glad to be of service, sir.”

  Egan grinned again and tapped a fist on the table. “See that? People who follow orders. Military courtesy. How can we lose?”

  The men chuckled.

  Egan turned to Sabovik, “Okay, John, go on out there and bring in Captain Doyle. Let’s see what he has to say.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  10 August, 1944

  Roseville Community Hospital, room 206

  Roseville, California

  Donovan felt better than he had for a long time. Blood tests showed he was responding to treatment, and chances were good he would be discharged tomorrow. The only problem was that Diane Logan continued to act like an icebox.

  Roseville Community Hospital turned out to be a comfortable two-hundred-bed facility with a bored Donovan walking the halls the past few
days, looking out, taking in the town. One thing for sure. Roseville was a railroading town, the second largest hub in the United States. Whistles and chuffing engines, day and night, confirmed that. Often he was awakened by the strident racket of an engine pulling out, couplers clanking down a line of eighty or one hundred cars. He was in a four-man room; the tag at the door read: MORGAN, MUMFORD, SODAWSKI & DONOVAN. The names rolled off the tongue as if they were a law firm, and indeed, the nurses had a grand time with them as they made rounds, especially in the evening.

  Roland Morgan, the oldest, was a grandfather of five children and half owner at Barclay’s Hardware Store on Oak Street. The war had been hard for the retail hardware business, and an over stretched Morgan and Barclay were mortgaged to the hilt. Ulcers and the doctor’s demand for complete bed rest is what put the thin, bespectacled Roland Morgan in Roseville Community Hospital.

  Stanley Mumford was a lawyer who worked for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Poor hearing kept the young Stanley unmarried and out of the service, which frustrated him endlessly, especially in the presence of uniformed men like Donovan. Mumford had undergone surgery for a double hernia and had moaned for the first three days, the others having a difficult time sleeping. But now he seemed better.

  Benjamin Sodawski was admitted for an unspecified illness. But soon it became apparent that Sodawski had had bouts with alcohol and was on the edge of delirium tremens.

  Donovan had slept the entire night of his surgery and a good part of the next day. He’d heard later that Sodawski, who was admitted the same night as Donovan, had groaned a lot and had to be strapped in. But after two days, Ben Soda Whiskers, as he was called, became the life of the party in room 206. A slight man, no more than five-seven, he sported a flowing salt-and-pepper beard and, like Mumford, worked for the Southern Pacific. Soda whiskers was a perpetual fireman. Like the second-class gunner’s mate in the navy always getting busted down to seaman, Soda Whiskers should have been promoted to engineer a long time ago. Instead, minor infractions held him back: drinking on the job, talking back to supervisors, fighting, gambling. Even so, Soda Whiskers was a free spirit, Donovan sensed. Someone you could bet your life on when the chips were down. One thing about Soda Whiskers that caught your attention: he had one dark brown eye. The other one, the right, was a bright duck-egg blue. If one saw just the left, Soda Whiskers looked rather ordinary. But if just the right eye was revealed, the railroader appeared bright and intense, almost as if some hidden source of energy burned from within nearly out of control.

  It was eight in the evening when Soda Whiskers reached in the bedside drawer and pulled out a canvas bag. “You pussies up for a game?”he growled. The bag contained the cards and chips they’d used for poker over the last three nights. Without waiting for a reply, he tossed aside his covers and shuffled over to Mumford’s bed. They gathered there for a reason. Mumford kept to himself most of the time and didn’t smile or laugh at Sodawski’s crude jokes, which at times had the others roaring. During the day, the young attorney stared off into space and didn’t join in their conversations. But poker seemed to buck him up. The others let him win at times.

  Soda Whiskers reached over and turned off Mumford’s radio.

  “Hey... “ As usual, Mumford had been unfocused, staring at the ceiling.

  “Don’t need no bullshit longhair music,” said Soda Whiskers, plopping the bag on Mumford’s bed.

  “I told you, it’s Mozart, you clod.” Radio station KGEI in San Francisco played classical music at night. They often went to sleep by it. He clicked it back on.

  “C’om on, Junior,” said Soda Whiskers, “we don’t need no--”

  Morgan raised a hand. “It’s okay, Stan. Just turn it down a bit.”

  “That crap gives me a pain,” grumbled Soda Whiskers. Then he clapped his hands. “Okay. Time for some real recreation.” He shook chips and cards from the bag and yelled at Donovan, “Hey, Commodore, shake a leg. What the hell’s wrong with you? You afraid we’re gonna clean you out again?” Donovan and Soda Whiskers had conspired to put Mumford up by twenty dollars the previous evening. Like an eight-year-old, Mumford had squealed in delight as he gathered in chips.

  Donovan was sorting gear, getting ready to check out in the morning. “On my way.” He eased off his bed, pulled up a chair, and sat at Mumford’s bed, Morgan on his right, Sodawski across.

  “You guys want to play some serious poker?” asked Sodawski.

  “What?” they asked.

  “None of this joker, split-bearded kings, and one-eyed jacks are wild, bullshit. Let’s play some down-home, sho >nough stuff poker.”

  “Such as?” Donovan sat back, trying to stifle a grin. Sodawski was scheduled for release tomorrow as well, Morgan the next day. It seemed Sodawski was intent on regaining his losses before everyone split up.

  “Five-card stud. Guts to open,” said Soda Whiskers. He passed the deck to Mumford. “Cut.”

  The young attorney did as instructed.

  With a grunt, Soda Whiskers took the deck and began dealing.

  “I can’t remember, does three of a kind beat a straight?” asked Mumford.

  Flipping cards, Soda Whiskers gave a ghoulish smile. “Wait and see.”

  Morgan lit an enormous cigar. “Damn right it does.”

  Mumford said to Morgan. “I thought I heard Dr. Logan say no tobacco.”

  “It’s my first one since I’ve been here,” squeaked Morgan.

  “Your third,” said Soda Whiskers.

  “Well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Morgan said. Oblivious, he finished lighting and blew smoke. “Ummfff, ahhh.”

  Donovan began to gather his cards when he looked up, noticing the men had stopped and were looking over his shoulder. It became quiet. In fact the whole hospital corridor was quiet; almost like before an earthquake.

  Donovan turned around. Silhouetted in the doorway was a man, his face indistinguishable. Powerfully built, he was about six feet with broad shoulders and must have weighed nearly two hundred. He had a tight crew cut and an absolutely square face and wore the summer khakis of the U.S. Navy, his combination cap clamped under his left arm. Two and a half stripes on his shoulder boards told Donovan this man was a lieutenant commander. In the hallway behind the figure was a woman in a wheelchair.

  The man knocked on the doorjamb. “Commander Donovan?”

  “Uh-oh. The cops are here,” said Soda Whiskers.

  “Come,” said Donovan. He tossed his cards on the bed. “Deal me out for now, Ben.” He stood to meet the lieutenant commander.

  The man walked in, extending his hand. “How do you do, sir? I’m Richard Kruger.” His face was lightly pockmarked, very tan, square, with thin lips and white even teeth. But what struck Donovan was that his eyes were close together, giving the impression that Kruger was cross-eyed. Or was it intense concentration? Donovan couldn’t tell.

  “Good to finally meet you, XO. What a nice surprise.” Donovan took Kruger’s hand and was greeted with a crushing grip. He actually felt as if his knees were going to give way before Kruger released his hand. Pain radiated up Donovan’s arm, but he did his best to appear nonchalant, saying, “What brings you out here?”

  “Thought I’d pay better my respects, Captain. Please forgive me. I didn’t hear anything from the medics until yesterday.”

  “Not to worry. There’s plenty of time.”

  Kruger turned and said, “Here, may I present my wife, Vicky?”

  Vicky Kruger wheeled through the doorway offering a hand. “Good to see you again, Captain.” She wore a very heavy perfume.

  The other men caught it, too. Soda Whiskers gave a low whistle.

  Donovan said, “What an honor. My word.” He ran a hand over stubble. “I’m afraid--”

  “Captain. We’re only here for a moment. We don’t want to disturb you. And our train leaves in --” he checked his watch -- “forty minutes. So we won’t be long.”

  “Please, sit,” said Donovan, waving to chai
rs around his bed. “Can I get you something, coffee perhaps?”

  “No, thank you, sir. We had gallons of coffee on the train out here and to tell you the truth, my eyes are floating,” said Kruger.

  “Pardon?”

  “That means he has to go potty,” laughed Vicky.

  Kruger grew red and Donovan chuckled. “Outside and to your left,” said Donovan.

  “I believe I’ll take you up on that, Captain,” said Kruger. He walked out.

  “You look a lot better than you did the last time,” said Vicky, pulling a pack of Luckys from her purse.

  “I do?” Donovan looked around for matches. “Let me ask... “

  “Yes, you do.” Expertly, she flicked a match one-handed across the strike board, lit the cigarette, and inhaled. “I can tell now. You looked like a pile of crap. What happened?”

  Donovan opened a drawer and handed over an ashtray while giving her the extended story.

  “Well, that’s no fun. When do you get out?” she asked.

  “I think tomorrow.”

  From across the room, Soda Whiskers yelled, “Shiiiit. Where’d you get them aces?”

  Donovan looked over to see Mumford raking in chips.

  Kruger walked back in, saying, “Sounds like the mess decks in here.”

  Mumford giggled.

  “Can’t concentrate with that damned Vichinsky playing,” said Soda Whiskers. “Here, you earned the deal.”

  “It’s Mozart,” said Mumford, shuffling the cards.

  Kruger looked up and said, “Actually, it’s Haydn.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mumford looked across the room to him.

  “Joseph Haydn, I believe,” said Kruger.

  Donovan wouldn’t have predicted a solidly built boxer like Kruger to come up with something like that. He caught a glance from Vicky. Her eyes were gleaming.

  “I don’t know,” said Mumford. “I didn’t realize Haydn did that kind of--”

  “Who cares? Deal,” growled Soda Whiskers. They went back to their poker.

  Kruger paced for a moment. “Captain, do you need anything?”