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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Dr. Mishima walked out, his assistant close behind, staggering with the two cases of the mobile dentistry unit. Ugaki stood with his back to them and filled his glass halfway with scotch. Dr. Mishima and his assistant bowed. Ugaki continued to ignore them, so they backed silently out the door while he downed his scotch in three gulps.

  When the door closed softly, Ugaki turned. Finding Noyama the nearest, he shouted, “That fool couldn’t get the motor to work on his stupid drilling machine.”

  “Sir?” said Noyama.

  “Had to use a foot pedal.” Ugaki waved a hand in the air. “Zzzz, zzzz, zzzz. Up and down, up and down. The damn fool couldn’t get the thing to spin fast enough. Then, then--”

  Realizing the others at the mah-jongg table were smirking, he walked up to Noyama and sputtered, “The idiot ran out of Novocain!”

  “Your new teeth look marvelous, Ugaki,” quipped Nishimura. “I hope they smell better.”

  “What?” Ugaki spun.

  “Your halitosis. Will new teeth keep your mouth from smelling so bad?” asked Nishimura, tossing a die in the air and catching it.

  Ugaki pulled a face.

  “Or is it all that miso you suck up?” asked Kurita. The others laughed.

  Ignoring them, Ugaki stepped closer to Noyama. “Do you smell halitosis, son?”

  The man had been sweating and smelled of body odor. “No, sir,” said Noyama.

  “Here, Kurita!” shouted Ugaki. “Watch.” He grabbed Noyama’s cheek and pinched hard.

  “Owwww!” protested Noyama.

  Ugaki kicked Noyama in the shin and then released his grip on Noyama’s cheek.

  Noyama stepped back, rubbing his cheek while the others sat at the table watching Ugaki. He had their full attention.

  “It came to me,” Ugaki said, “with that incompetent dentist.” He reached up and patted Noyama’s cheek softly. “Sorry, son. But tell me, what did you feel?”

  “Sir?” asked Noyama.

  “What did you feel, Commander? That’s all I asked you,” said Ugaki, leveling a gaze at Noyama.

  “My cheek, it... well, it... “

  “Hurt, didn’t it?” prodded Ugaki.

  “Well, yes, sir,” replied Noyama.

  “How about your leg, your shin?” asked Ugaki.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was my cheek that I was thinking of,” replied Noyama.

  “Ummm,” said Ugaki.

  Just then Onishi walked in silently, carrying a silver tray with a frosted glass and bottle of Asahi beer. He walked up to Ugaki and held out the tray with a bow. “Uhhhh.”

  “Thank you, Onishi.” Ugaki sounded as if he was speaking with a dear old friend. He picked up the glass and bottle and poured, carefully nursing the foam to the top. Then he put the bottle to his cheek. “Ahhhh.” He looked up, saying, “Isoroku loved Johnnie Walker. Taught me to love it, too.” He held up the glass. But I couldn’t talk him into Asahi.”

  He spoke of Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Toyoda’s predecessor and CinC of the combined fleet. Architect of the Pearl Harbor attack and brilliant strategist, Ugaki had been Yamamoto’s chief of staff until April 18, 1943, when both were shot down by American P-38s off Bougainville’s coast. Yamamoto was killed, but Ugaki miraculously survived, although seriously injured. After a long recovery, he returned to seagoing commands.

  And from this distance, Noyama noticed, grisly scars and burns were in stark evidence.

  Ugaki sipped his Asahi and again pushed the glass to his cheek. “That dentist taught me something. You notice before they jab you with that Novocain needle, they first pinch your cheek to mask the pain?”

  “Works all the time with me,” agreed Kurita. “But what’s all this have to do with Meguro?”

  “We’ll pinch Halsey’s cheek,” said Ugaki. “Offer him something.” He darted a glance at Ozawa. “Then we shove the needle into MacArthur all the way.”

  “What?” the four admirals said in unison.

  “A diversion. That’s what the dentist does. He diverts you with the cheek pinching. Then he sticks the needle in. So I say let’s offer Halsey what he wants. We divert him away with a piece of the Imperial Japanese Navy while we jab the needle into MacArthur and let him have it.”

  “Aircraft carriers?” gasped Ozawa. “My aircraft carriers? Preposterous.”

  “It’s what Halsey wants,” said Ugaki. “Isn’t he the one who says,>Hit hard, hit fast, hit often’? Well, let’s give it to him. He can hit hard and as fast as he wants while we’re stirring up the pot elsewhere. Look at it this way, what use are your carriers to us now if you don’t have pilots?”

  Kurita, Nishimura, and Shima turned to look at Ozawa. Kurita said it for them all: “Halsey has an ego bigger than MacArthur’s. He would fall for something like that all right, Ozawa.”

  “Not that I’m afraid to die for the Emperor, but what if they sink us?” said Ozawa.

  “For sinking two or three of your carriers, we sink fifty, a hundred of MacArthur’s ships in Leyte Gulf,” said Ugaki.

  “But these carriers are all I have,” protested Ozawa.

  “What good are they without pilots? Where are your pilots?” Ugaki repeated.

  “I... I.” Ozawa raised his hands and flopped them to his side.

  Ugaki stepped close to Ozawa. “Think of it, Ozawa. If you divert Halsey” B he nodded to Kurita, Nishimura, and Shima -- “they would have the time of their lives. Damn!” Ugaki smacked a fist into his palm. “We’ll send everything we’ve got in there. Even the Musashi and Yamato.”

  Ozawa’s voice was strident, “And does that include you on Yamato’s bridge.”

  Ugaki stood to his full height, his scars red, almost glowing, “Better there than sucking it up with all the shore-based idiots here in Imperial Headquarters. You can--”

  There was a collective intake of breath. Everyone’s eyes were focused over Ugaki’s shoulders. Admiral Toyoda had silently entered the room from an adjoining suite. He was followed by two aides, a rear admiral and a captain, carrying a huge briefcase.

  Ugaki turned. All stood with him and bowed to Toyoda in unison. The others softly said “Gensui,” an honorific given to the commander in chief of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Ugaki refused to say it. The only Gensui he’d respected was Admiral Yamamoto, a fighting, seagoing admiral. To Ugaki, the two CinCs following Yamamoto were worthless bureaucrats.

  It was silent for a moment. Without a shirt, Ugaki felt naked standing before his commander in chief, even though he was in his own suite and even though Toyoda had walked in unannounced. Dammit. The man was dressed for dinner and even wore all his medals. “Would you like a drink, sir?” Ugaki nodded to the bar. “Perhaps some beer or some Johnnie Walker Black?”

  “Ummm,” said Toyoda. “That seems to be the preferred libation this evening. Just two fingers, please. I have to be sober for tonight’s meeting with Umezu.”

  Noyama, standing closest to the bar, was surprised when Ugaki nodded casually to him. Pour the CinC a drink.

  Noyama picked up a glass and poured as Toyoda said, “I heard part of what you were saying, Ugaki. Could you try it again for me?” He accepted the drink from Noyama, saying, “Thank you, Commander.” Then he sat and waved with the back of his hand. “Seats, gentlemen, please.”

  Everyone sat, except for Toyoda’s aides, who backed to a corner.

  Ugaki sat a meter across from Toyoda and said, “Admiral, we need two things for this to happen.” He waved to Onishi, who brought over a dress shirt.

  “Which are?” Toyoda sipped. “Ummm, excellent.”

  Kurita moved to a chair beside Ugaki and said, “I think he has something, Gensui.”

  “Have you gamed it?” asked Toyoda.

  “We’ll have it up first thing tomorrow morning,” said Ugaki.

  “Very well. Now, what are your two things that must happen?” asked Toyoda.

  Ugaki counted off on his fingers, “First, we have to get rid of Halsey and his carriers. Second, w
e need air cover. Lots of it.” He went on to explain the rest of his plan. When he finished, the room was silent. Toyoda pierced Ugaki with a stare that would have killed a king cobra. But Ugaki knew Toyoda well enough to know that nothing was in his head at the moment. Most people were intimidated by the fierce stare and did everything from back pedaling to outright resignation. Ugaki knew better. Strictly a defense mechanism, the fierce stare meant Toyoda was vulnerable.

  Casually Ugaki stood, finished buttoning his shirt, and waved a hand. Onishi passed over his tunic and helped him slip into it.

  Toyoda steepled his fingers.

  Noyama glanced at the CinC’s glass and was amazed to see it empty. He stepped to the bar and waved the bottle. At a nod from Toyoda, Noyama walked over and poured three fingers this time.

  Toyoda sniffed the scotch appreciatively. “We don’t get enough of this stuff. Damn war.” He looked over to his shoulder at Ozawa. “You can do this? You can draw Halsey off?”

  Ozawa sat forward in his chair and looked up to Ugaki, who finished buttoning his tunic. The two glanced at each other. Noyama realized a concurrence had passed between them; that Ozawa had bought into Ugaki’s plan. Ozawa said, “Yes, sir, I can do this. Additionally, I can throw in 100, perhaps 150 planes as well.”

  The admirals murmured, even Ugaki. Toyoda spun to face Ozawa directly. “I thought you didn’t have any pilots?”

  “None to speak of, at least not right now. But we have an intensive recruiting program going on. We’re giving them a truncated training program as well. The people over at Toho have been doing great simulations for us, which saves a lot of time and, I might add, fuel. Some of our lads are doing well. I believe we can put on quite a show for Halsey when the time comes. Maybe do some damage.”

  Ugaki said, “Think of it, Admiral. With the attacking force” B he waved to Kurita, Nishimura and Shima -- “in a pincer movement; it would be a killing field. American bodies floating everywhere. MacArthur, if he lives through it, would have to draw back and regroup. That would take at least six months; maybe a year. It would gain us invaluable time. Think of world opinion.” Ugaki lowered his voice, “Think of Dai Nippon.”

  Toyoda nodded and sipped his scotch. “It could work.”

  “If we get air cover, Admiral,” cautioned Ugaki. “We need General Umezu to give us everything he’s got in the theater, and then some.”

  “How many?” asked Toyoda.

  Ugaki and Ozawa exchanged glances. Ugaki said it for both of them: “Three hundred fifty to four hundred planes. We’ll base them on Formosa, Luzon, and Samar.”

  Toyoda looked over at Kurita. “Would you like a scotch?”

  Everyone knew Kurita was a teetotaler. Even so, he said, “No, thank you, sir.”

  Toyoda asked Kurita. “With Halsey gone, you can do the rest? Wipe out MacArthur?”

  Kurita replied, “Yes, sir. I believe we can. Also, the air cover would hold MacArthur’s capital ships at bay. That’s when we wipe out his amphibious fleet.”

  “How many of you?”

  “Everything,” said Kurita, getting a nod from Nishimura and Shima. “We have about fifty ships among the three of us. We can smash them in one decisive blow.”

  A light flickered in Toyoda’s eyes. He leaned forward and slapped his knees, then tossed off the rest of his scotch and stood. Chairs scraped as the others stood with him. “I like it. This version of SHO-1 has possibilities. Very well, gentleman. I’ll discuss it with General Umezu tonight. Yonai will be there as well, so perhaps we’ll have some additional influence.” To Ugaki he said, “I’ll be at Meguro tomorrow to watch the games. No cheating this time.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” said Ugaki.

  * * * * *

  After the admirals had departed for their dinners, Noyama and the other staffers helped clean up. Then he walked down the hall to Kurita’s room and arranged the admiral’s papers and briefcase for tomorrow’s session at Meguro. By eleven-thirty his leg hurt terribly. He’d been standing too long and the knee was swollen, so he sat in an easy chair to massage it.

  The next thing he knew, it was four thirty. Someone had draped a blanket over him; perhaps Kurita, perhaps second class petty officer Kurusu, his valet. Whoever it was had gone to a lot of trouble. His shoes were off, his collar loosened, and a pillow was propped behind his head. He was surprised he’d slept through it. A plain cream-colored envelope with the Imperial family chrysanthemum emblem was on the side table near his right hand. He opened it, finding a single cream-colored page in Kurita’s impeccable hand:

  N

  Umezu has given full permission for us to use army planes. Toyoda is pleased and operation SHO-1 is official. So, set up our section of the game tomorrow Bthe First Striking ForceB to take that into account. The next day, I’m climbing Mount Fuji with Nabuko, as you suggested, war games or not.

  I want you to take three days’ liberty and trust you spend them with your family. A green-car rail pass is included. Also, I’ve left a signed chit for you in the flag mess to draw two ducks, courtesy of the Emperor’s Royal Aviary. Please give your parents my regards with hopes you enjoy the ducks.

  K

  Noyama sat back, a strange, long-forgotten sense of calm and peace sweeping over him. At last they were decided, and none too late, for they would have to commit soon. The fleet intelligence reports gave every indication the Americans were on the move. Most of all, they were unified. He thought of Ugaki’s aside about Dai Nippon, and it gave him a warm feeling. Maybe there was hope after all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  12 August, 1944

  Yamashina train station

  Kyoto City, Japan

  Kurita had given Commander Yuzura Noyama a rail pass to a green car, a first-class car where he had the luxury of his own compartment. –But the train was two hours late -- wreck the conductor said -- although Noyama had not seen any trouble along the way. The four-hundred-kilometer ride was supposed to be an express taking six hours; instead it took eight.

  He fretted over his parents, whom he hadn’t seen in more than two years. They’d be waiting two hours most likely, and his mother, Mishoko, was a fidgeter. She did it constantly at the dinner table, tearing napkins into tiny pieces or twirling hair around her index and middle fingers, worrying about her boys or finances or her husband’s job. Noyama’s father often shouted her down. Then she would pout, and the table would become silent, nobody speaking. Even his younger brother, Hiroshi, who took after his mother and babbled a lot, became silent. No one dared to speak until—

  The train jerked to a stop. He reached for the door handle but it was yanked open before he could touch it.

  A little man, no more than five-two, stood before him, wearing the same assistant stationmaster uniform Yuzura had grown accustomed to all these years.

  AFather!”

  Masao Noyama mounted the steps, and they hugged. He stepped back and let his son alight with duffel bag and two packages clamped under his arm.AYou look marvelous,” said Masao. And that eye patch makes you look like a true warrior.”

  “Father, please.”

  Masao took a step back and reached up and touched his son’s hair. “My goodness, you’re becoming gray. What in the world is the navy doing to you? I always said you would be better off in the army.” Masao’s smile was infectious. “ gold tooth gleamed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. –But his eyes were close together, and for some reason he often looked cross-eyed. Even though proven mentally competent, time and time again people talked behind Masao’s back, labeling him the village dope. It was what had held him back in his job. “At fifty-nine, Masao Noyama was frozen as assistant stationmaster at the Yamashina train station, a position he’d held for twenty-two years. Younger men were jumped over him, his current boss just thirty-eight. The irony was that there hadn’t been an accident in the Yamashina train station since Masao became assistant. –But his supervisors always took the glory. It didn’t seem to bother Masao. His light heartedness and
his broad grin were compelling. The serious family worrying was always left up to his wife, Mishoko, the fidgeter.

  Carrying bag and bundle, Noyama followed his father through a throng of soldiers and sailors. Wounded men were in strong evidence, some on crutches, some without limbs. –beside the strident noise of trains chuffing and rumbling through, the human noise seemed louder than before. Having grown up just a kilometer away, he’d spent many days in here as a youngster. Over in the corner was the same decorative urn. It was so large that he and his little brother, Hiroshi, had hidden in there for two hours, laughing and giggling while their father and mother rushed about, screeching their names. –But oh, did they pay for that over the next two weeks, which began with a whipping from their father.

  Today was strange, though, he thought. No one was seated. Everyone seemed to be hurrying to or from something, their eyes fixed on the ground, unmindful of anyone else around. Then it hit Noyama. Kempetai — secret police. His eyes darted over the familiar platform where he picked out two pair of medium-size men in civilian clothes at opposite ends of the platform. Even though the crowd’s eyes were fixed on the ground, they still afforded the Kempetai wide berths, as if the men had been miraculously detected by some sort of radar.

  Father and son stepped from the station platform and into the sunlight. Noyama took in Kyoto’s Higashiyama ward, the Eastern Mountain area where he grew up. There were many days when he and Hiroshi ran its slopes and played in little ditches. They built a makeshift hideout in one of the ditches and spied on old Usui, a retired potter. They stole apples from his modest orchard, were caught, and were turned over to the police, who promptly dragged them home. There Masao and Mishoko were aghast to learn that the apples mysteriously appearing on their doorsteps in the early morning over the past few weeks were not gifts from friendly neighbors, but had been stolen from old Usui’s orchard by their sons. –But each time, there were only two apples – one from Yuzura and one from Hiroshi -- no more. Even at that, Masao was too overcome to do the whipping. That was left up to Mishoko. –But in later days, the boys referred to themselves as her “two apples.” They even designed their own insignia: two red apples on a square, white field, bordered by gold filigree.