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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Donovan said, “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Corodini. “re there any other casualties of note to the engineering department.”

  Corodini sat back and exhaled. “Not right now, sir.”

  “And will the boilers generate superheated steam?” For some reason, Donovan fixed his gaze on Peete. He was a good-looking kid, with lanky, straight brownish hair flopped on his forehead. Absent makeup, he seemed to have no pretense. He looked like any ordinary twenty-three-year-old.

  “Well, Captain, we can light them off and see what happens,” said Corodini. Immediately he flushed with the realization that he’d given the wrong answer. “I mean, we’ll have superheat ready to go, sir.”

  Corodini had the makings of a good engineer, Donovan decided. There were good fitness reports in his personnel jacket. His qualifications were excellent. He’d been an engineering major at Ohio State University and had indeed played football there. But he had no combat experience, and Donovan could tell the man needed to be goosed occasionally. In a way, he felt sorry for Corodini. He was giving the man a terrible beating before the other officers. But he could tell they were used to making excusesBbeing victimsB and that had to change. Corodini would survive, and these men would view Mike Donovan as a bastard. That’s what he wanted. He caught a glint in Kruger’s eye for just an instant. Kruger knows what I’m doing. So be it.

  Donovan turned to Corodini. “Very well. Do we have enough fuel oil to leave the dock and do a couple of circles around the Farallons?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Corodini.

  Donovan looked at the other officers. “Anybody else have a reason not to get under way?”

  He turned to Hammond. “Operations department?”

  Hammond was in the process of lighting another cigarette. With great panache, he waved out his match and exhaled through his nose. “Everything except the gyro, Captain.”

  Donovan knew about this. He’d read the report. “When will it be fixed?”

  “Well, it’s a ship-alt, Captain. We’ve been waiting on parts now for three weeks.” Hammond looked to the end of the table. “Mr. Sloan?”

  “Not a word yet,” said the supply officer.

  “Mr. Hammond, how about the watch, quarter, and station bill?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When was it last updated?”

  Hammond’s resonant voice softened a bit. “Let’s see. Two weeks ago.”

  “I see. And if I read the service records correctly, we’ve had at least a dozen new enlisted posted here, and two officers that I can think of. In fact... “ Donovan turned to Ensign Peete at the end of the table. “Mr. Peete, where’s your general quarters station?”

  “I don’t, er... torpedo director, I think, Captain.”

  “How about special sea detail?”

  “I don’t know, Captain,” he said softly.

  “Is your name posted on the watch, quarter, and station bill?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  Hammond glared at Peete and then at Donovan. “I’ll take care of it, Captain.”

  “You bet you will. It’s now” – Donovan checked his watch – “1347. I expect to see the updated watch, quarter, and station bill on my desk prior to ceremonies at 1500.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hammond said evenly.

  Donovan caught the glance of a balding tow-headed heavy-set Lieutenant with thick glasses. “You’re Mr. Merriweather, our gunnery officer?”

  “That’s right, Captain.”

  “How’s gunnery?

  “Five men AWOL, captain.”

  “What?” said Donovan. He exchanged glances with Kruger, who gave a shrug.

  “They’re in the brig. You see, there was a big fight at the Paradise Bowling Alley last night over in town. Wrecked the place. So we’re waiting for the Mare Island SPs to assess damages before they deliver our boys back to us.”

  Again, the wardroom was silent, the three fans whirring gleefully. Donovan let them stew for a moment.

  Kruger spread his hands and offered, “Crews from three other tin cans were there. Started calling us>Matthew the Motionless.’ It got to them. Got to where they stood back to back fighting for their ship. Finally the SPs showed up and hauled them off. Won’t let them go until damages are assessed. I think we should–”

  Donovan raised his hand. “I get it. “re there any other equipment casualties or crew problems?”

  Again the chiefs sat passive, stone-faced, their arms folded. The officers leaned forward in their chairs, eyebrows raised.

  “Very well.” Donovan lowered his voice. ““s mentioned, we’ll meet on the fantail at 1500 and I’ll read my orders and take command. There will be a captain’s inspection at 1600. “ll spaces are to be opened except voids.”

  Kruger made notes. “Very good, sir. What time shall we call liberty?”

  “There will be no liberty,” said Donovan. He listened for the collective intake of breath.

  “But, but... “ said Corodini.

  “What is it, Mr. Corodini?” asked Donovan.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Very good. Now that we have all of our manpower on board except five men “WOL” -- Donovan fixed Merriweather with a glare -- “I expect all the casualties to be repaired by the time we get under way tomorrow. Do you understand me?”

  They looked at one another.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

  “Very good,” said Donovan. “By 1500, I want this ship looking like a ship topside. Right now it looks like a whorehouse.” He pointed to Lieutenant (jg) Jack Kelso. “And I’ll hold you personally accountable. I don’t care who is responsible for what space. Clean her up, now.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” said Kelso.

  Donovan turned to Kruger. “When was the last time you sounded GQ?”

  “Well... “ Kruger’s eyes darted about the wardroom. “About two weeks ago. You see–”

  “That’s okay,” said Donovan. “Since Mr. Hammond is so kindly providing us with a new watch, quarter, and station bill, we’ll sound general quarters at 1700. Pass the word to all hands.”

  Kruger’s eyes wandered to the overhead. “Yes, sir. GQ at 1700, sir.”

  “Very good. Now everyone is dismissed, except department heads.”

  They shoved their way out as if the ship were afire. Kruger and the ship’s four department heads remained: Corodini for engineering, Merriweather for gunnery, Hammond the operations officer, and Sloan the supply officer.

  Donovan said, “I won’t take long, gentlemen. We have a lot to do between now and 0800 tomorrow. I’m sure it’s no news to you that this ship is pathetic. Material condition is poor, attitude is poor, everything is poor.”

  Hammond said, “Sir, we can’t help it if--”

  “No excuses,” barked Donovan. “Look, maybe it really isn’t your fault. But I don’t care.”

  He paused for a moment, reveling in their incredulity. “The system is screwing you, and now you have this new sonofabitch who’s treating you unfairly. Well, war is war, and we’ve got to be ready, no matter whose fault it is. Good God. Do you expect to ask the Japs not to open fire because we’re not ready? It’s just not our fault? They don’t give a damn about what’s fair.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I don’t care about faults. Somehow, we’ve got to get around all this crap and get these things fixed.” His gaze whipped to Sloan. “You see the Bridges across the way?” He referred to a shot-up Benson class destroyer that had just returned from the war zone.

  They all nodded.

  “Well, everybody’s on leave except for skeleton crew. What does that tell you?”

  They looked at one another. Corodini rolled his eyes.

  “Dammit, we’re getting under way tomorrow morning, Mr. Corodini. That means you’re going to have to go out there to the midnight auto supply and find parts. Same with you, Mr. Hammond. Just don’t get caught.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

 
; “And Mr. Merriweather. I want you and the exec to go over to the brig and bring our boys back.”

  “What if they don’t let them go?” asked Kruger.

  “Draw money from the welfare and rec fund and pay off the damages, whatever they are. We can have a captain’s mast for them later, but I want all hands back here by the time we get under way.”

  Donovan stood. “Main feed pump, fuel-oil service pump, gyro, steering ram, men “WOLB I want that rectified tonight, not next week. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

  Corodini said, “Captain?”

  “What?”

  “My wife, she’s pregnant, due anytime now. I should really be... home these evenings.”

  “Mr. Corodini,” Donovan said. “The Navy recognizes that it was necessary for you to be present for the laying of the child’s keel. However, your presence is not required for the launching. Moreover, the Imperial Japanese Navy has greater demands on your time, my time, all of our time that requires us to forgo personal items. Do you understand me?”

  “gain, the little red flecks flashed at Corodini’s eyes then were gone. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Very well, 1500 then.” Donovan walked out.

  * * * * *

  Donovan walked into his day cabin, closed the door and sat. The porthole was open and he heard an incredulous sailor gasp, “No shit? Under way tomorrow? How the hell we gonna do that?”

  The response was muffled.

  “... what a horseshit sonofabitch. We’ll be lucky to get past the Golden Gate.”

  “You eating on board tonight?”

  “This swill? Not on your life.”

  Their voices drifted aft. “... woddaya say we mosey over to the Tingey. I got a buddy there. She serves good chow. Real ice cream, too. Then we... “

  Sailors leaving the ship to find a decent meal? No wonder they don’t want to get under way. How bad will it be when we’re at sea? Donovan thought. Lousy food. Poor material readiness. “ll this damn squabbling. Not exactly the way I planned it. But there it is. Wait until we meet the Japs. His eyes wandered up to the overhead, and again he thought of Mario Rossi. What would you do, Mario?

  Then it hit him. His own admonition. Let the dead bury the dead. He had nobody but himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  22 August, 1944

  USS Matthew (DD 548)

  Moored Mare Island Naval Shipyard

  Mare Island, California

  There's something in the air when a ship is about to get under way. On the surface, one could call it a brittle tension combined with the thrill of going to sea. But far beneath, there have been hours of preparation, refueling and reprovisioning, the meticulous lighting off of boilers, bringing up the generators, the energizing of the ship’s gyro and electronic equipment.

  Awakening from her “cold iron” state, she becomes a living, breathing thing. Vents and exhaust blowers howl throughout the ship, providing fresh air inside. Uptakes in her stacks whine as boiler tenders raise steam, and perhaps lift a safety valve once or twice, the noise an ear-racking hiss heard for hundreds of yards. On board, raw heat radiates from her decks as one feels the vibration from pumps and motors whining within her, sending life-giving steam or electricity or hydraulic fluid throughout the ship. Inside, the odor of steam and condensation and hydraulic fluid combine with the morning pancakes and eggs, giving an unmistakable sense of purpose and direction. She’s alive and, in a way, exerts her own will, tugging at her dock lines, anxious to get to sea.

  With an hour to go the ship is ready, and then they wait. Everyone seems to stand around, bored. And yet they’re not. Massive tonnage underfoot is about to move and almost everyone – from machinists mates to boiler tenders to enginemen, boatswain’s mates to line handlers, quartermasters to signalmen, radarmen to radiomen – is part of getting her safely away from the dock and into the element for which she was designed. Men fidget with cigarettes and lighters, some spill coffee, others sniffle and blow their noses while pacing the decks, waiting for word from the bridge to do something. Inevitably someone runs about on a last-minute emergency; a rush for something – anything – stark anxiety. Novices, officers and enlisted, pace up and down, oftentimes asking inane questions. The pros stand back, their eyes darting everywhere, quietly double-checking, making sure everything is right.

  * * * * *

  Donovan sat in his day cabin waiting for them to finish their jobs. He’d been waiting nearly all night and had only two hours’ of sleep while keeping track of the repair jobs. Sloan was a bit more ingenious than resorting to the midnight auto supply in the tempting form of the USS Bridges across the way. Tomorrow was Tuesday, a payday, and Sloan walked to the supply center to draw currency to pay the crew. Normally he would take a storekeeper to carry the satchel full of cash. Both would be wearing .45 pistols strapped to their hips. This time, he took six of the tallest, burliest boatswain’s mates, suited them up in dress blues, leggings, and duty belts, and strapped .45s to their hips. After drawing the cash, Sloan and his entourage marched over to the main-base supply office. Crowding around the desk of a thin, balding supply corps lieutenant commander, they exacted all the parts from him as requested, the man’s eyes popping at the hardware crowding his desk. The parts were aboard by 1700, and they began installing them. The engineering jobs were finished by 2300; the gyro alteration was going nicely but, due to tedious calibration procedures, was not slated to be finished until early morning.

  Donovan turned in at 0015. He read for a while, then rolled over and flicked off the light. But his eyes were fixed to the bulkhead. He slept for an hour, then awoke sitting bolt upright in his bunk, sweating.

  Fire.

  He felt heat and choked on smoke and cordite while flames seared his flesh. Then the ship started capsizing, men pouring out of the engineering spaces below. Some were scalded, their skin blistering horribly all over their bodies. Their mouths opened to flattened ovals as they screamed. Except he couldn’t hear their silent screams; he could only see their faces.

  “Stop!”

  He jumped from his bunk, padded over to the wash-basin and rinsed his face with cold water. He was almost afraid to go back to sleep, so he took the chair and put up his feet, listening to the sounds of the shipyard, well into the third shift. Diane had held him in her arms and rocked him that night. He wondered if he could have a pure moment like that again with her, trusting, giving. My God, he realized. Not only had she patched up his abdomen, she’d played a role in stopping the nightmares. Except... they hadn’t stopped entirely. And he knew he couldn’t go to sea like this. He’d be a physical wreck after two or three nights.

  It grew light and he stood to look out the porthole. Fog. He couldn’t see more than a hundred feet. Now, ain't that a pip?

  He showered, shaved, and got dressed. Then he had breakfast sent in: powdered eggs, which tasted like cardboard, and greasy bacon. After a few bites, he sat back and drank coffee, aimlessly flipping pages of an impossibly thick technical report.

  Special sea detail was set at 0730 and he longed to be out there, looking over his ship. Making sure all was ready. Becoming part of her. But as captain, he had to step aside and give them their heads; let them work out the kinks. Let them learn. That’s what Mario had done, and Donovan could do no less. He owed it to them.

  He turned back to the report. It was labeled TOP SECRET and laid out new specifications for modifications to the mark 63 fire control radar system, which unfortunately had been installed under an obsolete procedure, a minor embarrassment for a new Fletcher-class destroyer that was supposed to have the best available. But he couldn’t concentrate. He was simply killing time, flicking pages, waiting for the knock.

  It came at 0752.

  “Enter.”

  Wearing parka and binoculars, Burt Hammond, the operations officer, stuck his head in. “Ship’s ready for sea, Captain.” Hammond was officer of the deck for special sea detail.

  “All respects
?”

  “Yes, sir. Boilers one, two, three, and four are on the line. So are generators one and two. Main control requests permission to shift from shore power to ship’s power?”

  “Granted. Now, how’s the gyro?”

  Hammond crossed his fingers. “It’s spinning, Captain. Yardbirds are finishing calibrations and wrapping it up. Should be gone by the time we shove off.”

  “The fuel-oil service pump?”

  “Done.”

  “Starboard ram?”

  “All set.”

  “... and the main feed pump?”

  Hammond’s face darkened. “Mr. Kruger reports it’s ready to go.”

  “And where is he?”

  “Down in the hole, Captain,” Hammond said off handedly.

  The executive officer belonged in combat information center during sea detail, watching the plot. “Who’s in CIC?” Donovan asked.

  Hammond looked at the deck, kicking aside an imaginary piece of dust. “Mr. Talbert, sir. He’s the CIC officer.”

  Donovan glanced at the bulkhead clock: 0754. “Very well. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hammond closed the door.

  Donovan yanked the phone from the bracket and punched MAIN CONTROL. “Kruger.” Turbines and the cacophony of a number of whining pumps shrieked in the background. Kruger would have a finger jammed in his unengaged ear, Donovan knew.

  “Dick, it’s Mike. What are you doing down there?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sea detail. You belong in CIC,” said Donovan. Outside he heard the 1 MC click on. The bosun’s metallic voice echoed throughout the ship. “First call, first call to colors.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, this is where I’ve always been.”

  “Where’s Corodini?”

  “Right here. You want to speak with him?”

  Donovan hadn’t spoken with Corodini since he’d ripped him apart in the wardroom yesterday. “Not at all. I want you in CIC.”

  “But who’s going to take care of main control?”