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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The bridge was afire, and it looked as if it was creeping down to flag plot, two levels below the bridge. John Sabovik was in there, serving as a staff intelligence officer with the admiral. My God, get the hell out there, John.

  “Lost communication with mount 83,” said Palovich, their thick-chested pointer.

  Donovan rolled his barrel switch to the three circuits guarded by the aft eight-inch mount. ““ll of `em dead.” Then he connected with Lieutenant Tim Sullivan in main-battery plot, who reported they also had no communication with mount 83 and didn’t appear to be receiving signals from the computer. “We need to get word to ’em somehow to shift to local control and start acquiring targets by themselves,” said Sullivan. ““Any ideas?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Donovan. He turned and spotted Tiny’s hulk in the glow of gauges. “Tiny, think you can get down to mount 83 and tell>em to shift to local control?”

  Tiny stood and unhitched his sound-powered phones. “I’ll put a man right on it. You want me to stay in there?”

  “Come right on back. I’ll want you to be here when we start cranking out illumination. “And keep your helmet on. There’s a lot of crap flying around outside.”

  “Okay.” Tiny squeezed his considerable bulk through the narrow hatch and disappeared.

  Moments passed and a ghostly silence fell while the Tampa staggered through the night. It seemed to Donovan as if she was losing speed, which was probably the case, since she’d been hit in the forward fireroom.

  “Director 82?” Nichka’s voice was weak.

  “Eighty-two, aye!” Donovan shouted back. “Walt, what the hell’s going on up there? What do you want me to do? We need some target designation. Where the hell is CIC?”

  The phone circuit gave a scratching sound.

  “Another blast shook the ship, this one far worse than the first. Shrapnel clanked against the director, two pieces tearing ragged holes just above Donovan’s head. Picking himself off the deck, Donovan wondered, How’d the Japs find us? We have radar, they don’t. Smoke poured into the director as he called, “Everyone all right?”

  His question was greeted with coughing and curses as his men pulled themselves up.

  Tiny!

  The ship lurched to port. “And she was indeed slowing. Worse, the director was as black as the night sky outside, the gauges dark and silent. “Power?” Donovan shouted.

  “Nothing. “in’t got a pissant thing,” gasped Palovich.

  The director was trained out to port, but he couldn’t see because the night sky was lighted with their own fires: a massive one forward, a smaller one aft, breaking out in the seaplane hangar. It dawned on Donovan that the heavy cruiser USS Tampa had become a perfectly illuminated target for whatever was out there.

  “As if in confirmation, six freight-train sounds rumbled overhead. Six luminescent white splashes rose just two hundred yards to starboard. “Geez,” he shouted into the phones, “We’re a damn beacon.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Nichka yelled back, his voice suddenly clear. “Do you have a target director 82?”

  With the flames forward, it was impossible to see anything beyond fifty yards. “ Negative, director 81. No power. The whole damn director is dead. “And mount 83 is dead.”

  “Jesus! Get>em in local control.”

  “I sent Tiny down there to take care of that.”

  “Okay. Now find a target, Mike,” said Nichka.

  “Working on it, Walt. But can’t see a damn thing with all these flames. I haven’t heard a word from CIC. What the hell are they doing?”

  “Abandoned. Too much smoke, four dead.”

  “Good God. How about you?” asked Donovan.

  “Flames are getting close. We’re gonna have to jump pretty soon.”

  “Roger and good luck,” Donovan yelled inside the director. “Shift to manual. Come on, you guys, we need targets.”

  Just as Donovan spoke, five shells landed close aboard to port while a sixth hit directly on the Tampa’s bridge, making the fuel-oil-fed fire rage even brighter.

  “Good God…” was all he could manage. Icy fingers of fear reached up from his lower bowel, through his intestines and into his chest. Get a grip.

  “A loud explosion erupted below. Donovan looked down to the main deck. The after eight-inch gun had been hit. Impossible as it seemed, the mount seemed to jump and vibrate on its turret ring, as explosions racked it again and again.

  “Powder cases cooking off, one by one!” said Foley. “Amazing they haven’t all gone off at once.” Then he said, “Uh-oh.”

  “What,” demanded Donovan.

  “Lost the fire control radar,” said Foley.

  “Well, switch to optics and fix it, quick,” said Donovan. “Shinglar, can you get that thing going?”

  “Those poor guys,” muttered Shinglar. “What about Mr. Sabovik.”

  Tiny! Shiiiiit! Donovan had forgotten. Checking his watch, he calculated that Tiny had had time enough to get down the mount and start back. He barked, “Shinglar, dammit, all you have to do is to plug in a tube or something. Now hop to it, dammit!”

  “Sir.” Shinglar rummaged around a repair kit.

  Donovan was fighting for control. He knew he had to keep things on an even level while finding a Japanese target for the eight-inch guns to obliterate. But his mind swarmed with thoughts of Tiny. Where is he? Donovan yelled back to Shinglar, “Shinglar. Do you see Mr. Sabovik coming up?”

  The hatch squeaked open then clanged shut. “Not yet, sir,” reported Shinglar.

  “Keep looking.” Donovan’s mind reeled with the thought that Tiny might not have gotten out of mount 83 in time. He looked at the gun mount again. Thick reddish smoke gushed from its hatches, her right gun at a bizarre angle high in the air, the other two level with the horizon. Donovan realized the Tampa had no operable eight-inch guns. The only remaining guns of consequence were the five-inch guns on the port side. Two of those were in flames and they were hopelessly out of range for five-inch, anyway.

  Donovan shrieked into the night, “Get out of there.”

  “They’re dead, Mr. Donovan. “And we better scram before the whole ship blows,” yelled Shinglar. The aft hatch squeaked open.

  “Shut up, Shinglar, and get back to your post,” hissed Foley.

  Whump, went another powder bag in the turret, as if to underscore what Shinglar had just said.

  “Tiny…”, Donovan mouthed.

  The smoke was thick. Screams drifted up from the main deck as firefighters drew back from the erupting eight-inch mount. Each time a round cooked off in the mount, smoke and flames shot out blown-open hatches, the center gun barrel, and the optical sighting apertures.

  The Tampa listed farther to port. She’d lost way and was almost dead in the water.

  “An after five-inch gun cranked out two quick rounds. The muzzle crack snapped Donovan awake. “Target? Sure.” Concentrating on his binoculars, he said to Palovich and Laughlin, his trainer, “Come on you guys, come up with something.”

  More shells screeched past. Two rounds slammed between the stacks. Steam, smoke, and flames roared into the night as bits of lifeboat, canvas, deck plating, and human parts swirled high into the air.

  Donovan could hardly hear with all the screaming from inside and outside the director. Smoke billowed into the cramped compartment and his men coughed and gasped. Someone vomited.

  “... director 82…”

  Donovan shouted into his mouthpiece, “Louder, I can’t hear you, Walt.”

  The phones squeaked again; Walt Nichka’s voice was faint. It sounded as if he was coughing, too. “Abandon.”

  “Abandon ship?” repeated an incredulous Donovan.

  “Affirmative. Word from Brubaker in secondary conn.” Commander Brubaker was the Tampa’s executive officer. ““Almost everyone on the bridge is dead, including the captain. No power. Fires are out in all boilers. Magazines are flooded. We’re taking on water.”

  “Flooded?” Do
novan felt cheated. He hadn’t fired a shot.

  “I repeat. “Abandon ship. Brubaker is abandoning after conn. He asked for you to secure the scuttles to the after magazine before you jump. He doesn’t what the fire to spread.”

  “What about the people down there?”

  “Goners,” wheezed Nichka. “Now get with it. See you in the water.” The circuit went dead.

  “Roger.” Donovan turned and shouted, “Everybody out. We’re abandoning ship. Everyone to their lifeboat station.”

  The coughing and hacking men in the director needed no further urging and they began scrambling down ladders and companionways. The way down was easy, most of it lighted by the flames consuming the ship forward.

  Donovan stumbled onto the main deck, finding the Tampa dead in the water, her list at least thirty-five degrees. “Another powder case cooked off in the after eight-inch turret with a whump. Donovan swore the turret jumped three feet off its ring. But the scuttles were closed.

  Someone grabbed his shoulder. “You okay?”

  Donovan spun, finding John Sabovik standing before him. “A gash ran across his forehead, and blood ran down his cheek and neck. “John, thank God. How about you?”

  “I’ll live.” Sabovik’s eyes darted in his sockets as flames flickered on his face."Tiny!" Where’s Tiny?”

  Donovan tried to speak, but it didn’t come out.

  “Mike? Mike, what the hell? Where’s Tiny?”

  Donovan pointed to mount 83. “He’s...he...I mean... “

  “What?” Sabovik shouted. “You’re shitting me.”

  Tears ran down Donovan’s face. “I’m sorry, John. Direct hit. They didn’t have a chance.”

  “What the hell is he doing in there?”

  “ ... I... “

  Whump “Another powder case cooked off.

  “Maybe they’re stuck in a compartment or a void or something. Come on. Let’s go see.” John Sabovik turned and bolted for the mount.

  Donovan dove and caught a foot, tripping Sabovik. “Nobody can survive in there.”

  The mount exploded again. Smoke and flames shot out the hatch right over their heads. “At the same time, the Tampa lurched farther to port.

  Sabovik struggled to his feet. “Why was he in there? He’s supposed to be in the director with you.”

  “We... I... had to send him... “

  “You what?”

  “We needed someone to tell them to shift to local control.”

  “So you send my brother? You... you stupid sonofabitch,” Sabovik screamed.

  Men ran past shouting as Donovan rose to his knees and grabbed Sabovik’s arm. “Come on, John, she’s gonna capsize.”

  Flames flickered on Sabovik’s face as yet another round cooked off. He swung at Donovan, the blow glancing off the side of his head. “You stinking bastard,” Sabovik yelled. “That’s my brother in there.”

  “John, I couldn’t... “

  “You dirty, stinking bastard.” Sabovik’s face was a malevolent orange as he charged after Donovan.

  Three sailors grabbed Sabovik and wrestled him to the deck. One of the sailors looked up and pointed. “Lifeboat twenty-seven, Mr. Donovan. We got room. But we gotta scram; the ship’s a goner.”

  Flames roared. Smoke clouded the ship. “Another shell hit forward, throwing Donovan and the others to the deck. They gained their feet, the sailors tugging at Sabovik, who kept yelling, “You bastard, you dirty bastard.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  19 August, 1944

  Alameda Naval Air Station

  Alameda, California

  Sabovik gazed out the Plexiglas window. It was scratched and oil-smeared, and nothing but morning mist swirled about the R4D as it waddled down the taxiway. A wind sock drooped at its mast, the washed-out orange matching the mood of the foggy whites and anthracite grays of the early morning. The pilot stomped in right brake and goosed the port engine, swinging the twin-engined cargo plane into what little wind there was. Seated beside Sabovik on the hard wooden bench was Marine captain Alexander Collins who, for the moment, was fast asleep, his head back, mouth wide open. Sabovik chuckled over Collin’s nickname: Nitro. Yes, the Marine did look as if he were fumbling with nitroglycerin that was ready to explode at any moment.

  The crew chief, a redheaded second-class aviation bosun with headphones jammed over his ears, stuck his head out from the pilot’s compartment. Unlike Sabovik and Collins in fatigues, boots, and garrison caps, he wore an airman’s overalls. “Ready for takeoff, sir?”

  Sabovik drew his belt as tight as it would go and nodded. It had been clipped the moment he sat. He hated flying and dreaded today’s journey to Nevada: a flight sure to be bumpy over the Sierra Nevada. “Check.”

  The bosun frowned at Collins.

  Sabovik glanced over to see Collins’s seat belt dangling in his lap. “Nitro.”

  “Huh?” Collins’s eyes flipped open and he looked quickly about.

  “Time for takeoff. Fasten your belt.”

  “Yes, sir.” Collins’s belt clicked loudly as he buckled it in place.

  “Coffee coming up soon.” The aviation bosun waved and disappeared forward, closing the door behind him. In seconds the pilot firewalled the throttles, and the R4D surged forward. The plane was light, there were no other passengers or cargo, just a few mailbags. The tail rose almost immediately and they were off the ground in ten seconds. Ten seconds later, the overcast enveloped them as they climbed in a right bank, the pilot cutting his throttles to climbing power. Rivets rattled as the engines growled. Condensation trailed over the window, but there was no sensation of flight as the R4D rose into an opaque miasma.

  Sabovik turned to speak with Collins but the man had fallen back to sleep, his mouth again wide open.

  Nitro.

  The young captain was a marvelous find. A ninety-day wonder, he’d been in the Marine Corps for just eighteen months. While others went on to become platoon leaders and “mud Marines” Collins was held stateside because of his knowledge of explosives. With a degree in chemistry from Northwestern University, he’d worked for DuPont’s explosives section before signing up for the Marines. But wisely, a detailer had sidetracked him for stateside duty, despite his repeated protests that he deserved to have a crack at the Japs like everyone else. For Sabovik, the captain was indispensable. He had a sixth sense and an inquisitive mind that had led them down some very promising paths, while eliminating other time-consuming possibilities.

  Today they were headed for the naval air station in Fallon, Nevada. After landing, they would hitch a ride to Sparks, Nevada, where they were scheduled to board the engine of train number X 4293 westbound, departing at 11:59 am. One hundred and six cars were in the consist, all destined for the Roseville freight yards. The cargo manifest listed everything from large-caliber ammunition to torpedo bodies, torpedo warheads, air-to-ground rockets, small-arms ammunition, aircraft engines, aircraft fuselages and assemblies, packaged food, dry goods, and various electronic and engine parts. Also, there were fifteen tank cars containing aviation fuel, ten flatcars each mounting an M4 tank, along with thirty-two empty reefer cars that had been used to ship produce, mostly lettuce, to the Eastern Seaboard. In Roseville, the train would be broken up, its various components forwarded to the Bay Area or Southern California.

  Bouncing in air currents, the plane rose through the overcast into crystal-blue skies. Shafts of sunlight pierced the cabin with brilliant golds and yellows. Sabovik hardly noticed. Despite his dread about flying, he’d been looking forward to the 139-mile, eight-hour trip to Roseville. He hadn’t slept well last night, just thinking about it. Even so, the plane continued to jiggle, reminding Sabovik that he was at the mercy of elements created by God, while trapped in a machine designed and built by mere mortals.

  The door opened and the bosun waved a thermos, his eyebrows raised.

  “Please, just black,” said Sabovik.

  “Be warned, Commander, I didn’t make this. It’s thick stuff.”
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  “Go ahead.”

  The bosun poured coffee into a paper cup and handed it over while nodding at Collins.

  Sabovik took the cup. “Thanks. Maybe later for him.”

  “Yes, sir.” The bosun went forward and closed the door behind him.

  Sabovik sipped. “Yeaach.” His stomach rumbled in protest. Yet he sipped again with that never-ending hope that the coffee might suddenly taste good. The trick with navy coffee, he’d learned, was to let it sear your tongue a bit while it was still piping hot. Then you couldn’t taste it and had only to wait for the caffeine to hit your system.

  They were headed east, nearing foothills. The horizon was hazy, but he knew they’d be over the Sierra’s tallest peaks in another forty-five minutes. With a sigh, he reached in his briefcase and drew out a book: Man Against the Mountain, by Burton T. Chase. Sabovik wanted to check a few things about the railroad’s beginnings...

  * * * * *

  It was 1854 when Theodore Dehone Judah came to California to realize his dream. Aware of Congress’s objective to establish a railroad running from the Mississippi Valley to the Pacific Ocean, Judah wanted to play a major role. The young civil engineer decided to survey the High Sierras and build a railroad from California’s Central Valley over the mountains to the high plains of Nevada. His ultimate dream was for his railroad to connect to the one of the many sprouting from the Eastern Seaboard as Congress mandated. East meets West; a unified country. That was his dream.

  Judah arrived in a time of fervent gold-rush activity and headed up California’s first railroad in the Sacramento Valley. At the same time, he began looking for an optimum rail route over the Sierra Nevada mountain range.

  Judah completed the Sacramento Valley Railroad in 1856 and then began surveying the High Sierra mountain passes in earnest. He rapidly became an expert on the area and, by 1859, had been selected to represent West Coast interests in Washington DC. Given the politics of the time and the threat of war on the horizon, Congress was reluctant to allocate money to the project and couldn’t give Judah a definite commitment. But they did give him strong encouragement to proceed. Judah returned in 1860 with plans for a final route over the rugged seventy-five-hundred- foot Sierra. And to his delight, Congress was still interested. He returned to California and began looking for financial backers. In Sacramento, he found a group that included Leland Stanford, a wholesale grocer; Charles Crocker, a dry goods dealer; and Mark Hopkins and Collis P. Huntington, proprietors of a local hardware store. The “Big Four,” as they became known, agreed to finance Judah’s preliminary surveys.