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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “No AWOLs?” Donovan asked, checking his watch: 0750.

  “Seems like everybody is anxious to take this little cruise,” said Kruger. “Sure you don’t want another belly bomb?” He nodded to a van parked on the pier, its side panels open, young women in bright aprons serving coffee and doughnuts.

  “Already had three,” Donovan admitted.

  “Umm, me, too.” Kruger leaned over the bridge and waved. Vicky was down on the pier waving and blowing kisses from her wheelchair. She was surrounded by a number of wives, sweethearts, mothers and fathers waving to loved ones aboard the ship that was to depart for war.

  Down the way, the battleship USS New Mexico, looking brand new in her dazzle camouflage, was also getting under way, a larger throng of wives, sweethearts, and family standing before her. The Matthew and four other destroyers were assigned to escort her to Pearl Harbor. A band on the pier had been playing marches. Now, they broke into a mournful “Now is the Hour.”

  “Not making it easy, are they?” Kruger muttered.

  “No, they’re not,” agreed Donovan.

  At 0755, the boatswain’s mate of the watch stepped in the pilothouse and clicked on the 1 MC. His metallic voice echoed throughout the ship: “First call, first call to colors.”

  Donovan turned to Hammond. “Please tell the quarterdeck to send over the gangway, Mr. Hammond. Also, tell the fo’c’sle to single up all lines.” He turned to Kruger. “You ready to get us under way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, let’s go then.” Donovan headed for the ladder that led to the pilothouse. It seemed surreal when they reached the top. The crowd seemed larger. And they were arm in arm, singing with the band. Some waved handkerchiefs; a few men tipped their hats.

  “It’s your show, Mr. Kruger,” said Donovan.

  “Thank you, Captain.” Kruger barked, “This is Mr. Kruger, I have the conn.”

  Donovan watched as Kruger went through the litany. So far, so good.

  At 0800 the 1 MC screeched and the boatswain’s mate blew a whistle. “On deck, attention to colors.” “ll hands faced aft and saluted while the national ensign was hoisted on the fantail, the jack on the fo’c’sle, while down the pier the band played the Star-Spangled Banner.

  The anthem done, the boatswain’s mate called, “Ready, two.”

  Kruger bent over and shouted down to the pilothouse, “Take in lines one, three, four, five, and six.”

  Donovan relaxed with the realization that Kruger knew how to handle things. Just sit back and let him do his job.

  A car barreled down the pier and drew up behind the crowd.

  “Rudder amidship,” called Kruger. “Port engine ahead one-third, starboard back one-third.”

  The order was acknowledged, and the ship vibrated as her screws bit the water, generating a clockwise twist. Kruger had opened his mouth to call for the last line when Donovan noticed a figure jump from the car’s passenger side and ease through the crowd.

  Just then, the New Mexico sounded one long blast and three short. With tugs breasting her out, she was under way, meaning the Matthew would have to wait a moment or two until she passed. The band struck up Auld Lang Syne. By standers at the New Mexico began singing.

  The figure who pushed through the crowd was a woman, her hands stuffed in her overcoat.

  Dammit! It’s Diane! Donovan thought of ducking behind the director, but he needed to be here since they were maneuvering in tight quarters. Another glance told him the car was Walt Logan’s Chevrolet. The driver stepped from the car, leaned against the fender, and lit a cigarette. He wore khakis and the bars of a lieutenant commander.

  “... my God,” said Donovan. It was John Sabovik.

  Diane recognized Vicky Kruger and walked over. They spoke for a moment, and Vicky pointed to the flybridge.

  Diane picked him out and with a wave, yelled, “Mike?” “ forest-green scarf was draped around her neck. Little zephyrs tugged at her hair which glowed dark red in the sunlight. She looked gorgeous.

  Kruger barked, “All stop!”

  Michael T. Donovan, commander, USN, had a thorough background in ship handling, especially destroyers, and he liked to think he’d seen almost every situation. But this nonplused him. People ashore watched Diane waving to someone on the bridge. Meantime the Matthew, having twisted clockwise from the pier, was more or less dead in the water, her fantail sticking out in the fairway, her bow near the pier. She was still attached to the pier by the number two dock line.

  Even the fo’c’sle and bridge crews looked up at Kruger, anticipating the order to take number two aboard and back clear.

  “Come on, Mr. Kruger,” muttered Donovan, “We’re late.”

  “Mike?” she called again.

  Kruger’s lips were pressed, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Take in two, Mr. Kruger,” ordered Donovan.

  “Aye, aye, Captain. Take in two.” He leaned over the rail and called to Potter, “Tell the fo’c’sle to take in line two.”

  Potter gave the command and sailors on the pier threw the line off the bollard.

  Aboard ship, the boatswain’s mate of the watch again clicked his 1 MC switch and blew a whistle saying, “Underway. Shift colors.” Jack and ensign were hauled down from the fo’c’sle and fantail. A sailor at the signal bridge yanked on a halyard; and a larger ensign whipped up to the top of the mast and was to-blocked.

  “Sound one long blast,” ordered Kruger.

  The crowd on the pier shoved their fingers in their ears as the Matthew gave a mournful six-second blast of her horn.

  The blast still echoed when Diane cupped her hands around her mouth. “Mike?” she hollered.

  “Get on with it, Richard,” hissed Donovan.

  Kruger spat back, “Dammit, Mike, say something.”

  Donovan tensed. He was ready to relieve Kruger, take the conn, throw in a two-thirds backing bell, and get the hell out of here.

  Another voice called from the pier. This time it was Vicky Kruger. “Mike, talk to her, you damn fool.”

  The crowd, sailors on the Matthew, yard workers, women working the doughnut and coffee van, all watched.

  Shit.

  He leaned out. “Hi.”

  She smiled, and he instantly felt sorry, and stupid, and foolish, and so very alone.

  “You remember my brother Ralphie?” she called.

  Donovan shrugged.

  “Say yes,” growled Kruger.

  “Yes,” Donovan called back.

  “What,” she called loudly.

  Dammit! Donovan grabbed the megaphone and said, “Yes.”

  Again, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called up, “That’s right. Well, he came back. He joined the Marines and had been on Guadalcanal and was wounded. But he’s okay now. Our little Ralphie is a sergeant. He’s home on leave.”

  “That’s mighty fine.” Donovan lowered the megaphone and glanced outboard seeing the that thirty-five-thousand-ton battleship was abeam, her tugs trailing watchfully as she stood into San Francisco Bay. Time to go.

  “Like a good Marine, Ralphie cleaned up his room,” she said.

  Donovan shrugged again. The crowd pressed in.

  “Guess what he found under the bed?” she said.

  It hit him. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Donovan said.

  “What was it?” an old man shouted from the pier.

  “Yeah!” yelled another. “Tell us.”

  “Okay?” Diane yelled up to him.

  “Yeah, what the hell was it, Mike?” said a grinning Kruger.

  “Not what you think,” Donovan retorted.

  “Okay?” she yelled again.

  My God, thought Donovan. She’s asking me to marry her.

  “What the hell, Skipper?” yelled a beefy overalled yard worker, a lunch box stuffed under his arm. “With a dame as good lookin’ as that, anything’s okay. So tell her yes, you dumb schmuck.”

  The crowd laughed and chanted, “Tell her ‘yes.
’ Tell her ‘yes.’”

  With the New Mexico clear, the band marched down to the Matthew playing the mournful strains.

  “Yes. Okay!” yelled Donovan. His heart soared. He felt as if he’d been released from a dank prison cell.

  Diane gave a jump then pulled her left hand from her pocket and waved it at him, Carmen Rossi’s engagement ring glittered from her fourth finger. She blew a kiss.

  The crowd figured it out and cheered.

  “I’ll be damned!” Donovan grinned, waved back, and pressed the megaphone to his face. “Okay,” he shouted.

  With a broad, dazzling smile, Diane stood on her tiptoes and yelled, “I love you.”

  Sailors on the bridge and weather decks, people on the pier, swung their eyes from Diane Logan back to Mike Donovan.

  The band drew before the Matthew, did a crisp left face and continued playing “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Donovan froze.

  “Mike, now’s your time to shine,” said Kruger.

  “Shut up,” muttered Donovan. He backed away and walked around the director, returning next to Kruger. The damned New Mexico wasn’t all the way past, so they were stuck here for a few more seconds.

  “Come on, schmuck,” yelled the beefy shipyard worker.

  Donovan raised his hands and let them flop to his sides.

  The crowd broke into a new chant with, “Say it. Say it. Say it.”

  Donovan raised the megaphone and called down to her. “Yes, yes, I love you too.” He grinned and pumped a fist.

  Diane waved and gave another brilliant smile.

  The crowd roared.

  The band played and the old song swelled from the crowd:

  For auld lang syne, my dear,

  For auld lang syne,

  We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,

  For auld lang syne.

  More than a few sailors on the ship and people on the pier dabbed handkerchiefs at their eyes.

  “Judy!” A sailor on the fo’c’sle whipped off his white hat and sailed it across. Eager hands plucked it from the air and handed it to a tearful young girl.

  “Mom!” Another hat sailed across. Then another; then another. It seemed an ancient and natural custom to Donovan as white hats flew until, it seemed for the moment, that white hats filled the air between ship and dock. He’d never seen it done before, but he instinctively knew it was good. And if the government wouldn’t pay for new white hats when they reached Pearl Harbor, Donovan vowed to pay for them out of his own pocket. The only thing that marred the exuberance was John Sabovik, leaning against the fender of Walt Logan’s Chevrolet, smoking his cigarette, gazing at the hills across the way.

  Donovan turned and said, “You may now order your backing bell, Mr. Kruger.”

  PART TWO

  I hung weakly on the side of my tractor (LVT) and prayed that I would do my duty, survive, and not wet my pants.

  Eugene B. Sledge, PFC, USMC

  “Hitting the Beach on Pelelieu”

  * * * * *

  At sea we may sink beneath the waves

  On land we may lie beneath green grasses

  But we have nothing to regret

  So long as we die fighting for our Emperor.

  Japanese Warrior’s Song

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  2 September, 1944

  Grande Island

  Imperial Japanese Naval Station,

  Subic Bay, Luzon, Philippines

  Grande Island was a one-mile-long oblong island near the mouth of Subic Bay, an enormous natural harbor almost one hundred kilometers northwest of Manila. Set aside as a resort area, Grande Island usually teemed with officers, men, and sometimes their women. But on this hot and humid afternoon, the main picnic area was nearly deserted. There were just seven men scattered about, wearing cutoff trousers. Some were shirtless, and one might conclude it was a group of simple fishermen meandering about. Except three H8K2 Kawanishi four-engine flying boats were anchored in emerald-green waters one hundred meters offshore, wavelets slapping at their hulls. And Imperial marines patrolled either end of the island in plain view.

  Three men wandered at the water’s edge, kicking at rocks. Another pair sat in a large thatched nipa hut that was situated under the shade of a scraggily narra tree. Drinking Asahi beer, they peered at the bay where the afternoon westerly kicked up whitecaps.

  Two men were at the water. One, bony and thin, stooped in shallow water near a group of rocks running his hands in the sand. The other stood patiently at the water’s edge, a bucket in his hand. It was Commander Yuzura Noyama, unmindful of the patch over his left eye and horrible burn scars running the length of his right leg.

  One of the men in the hut was Vice Admiral Matome Ugaki, who yelled to the man stooped in the water, “Do you have any yet, Kurita? I’m getting hungry.”

  The man stooped in the water was Vice Admiral Takeo Kurita. He waved a hand over his head. “You’re scaring them, my friend. All you have to do is stop yapping and we’ll have plenty of fresh crab for dinner.”

  “At this rate, we won’t see dinner until next week,” yelled Vice Admiral Jisaburo Ozawa, who was seated alongside Ugaki.

  “Careful one of them doesn’t bite your balls off!” Ugaki yelled.

  Kurita jerked something from the water and held it up. It was a hand-size black crab, its glistening claws wiggling and snapping in the sun. “Come on down here, Ugaki, and we’ll see who loses his balls.”

  The men in the hut laughed as Kurita beckoned for Noyama to hold out the water-filled bucket.

  “How many is that?” yelled Ugaki.

  “Twenty-three. Now shhh.” Kurita tossed the crab in the bucket and stooped to again probe rocks and sand. He found another crab, tossed it in the bucket, and said, “I think that’s enough.” He looked up and nodded at a group of white-coated stewards gathered behind the nipa hut. Two of them stepped out, bowed to Noyama, and accepted the bucket. As they walked away, Kurita shouted, “How ‘bout a swim, Ugaki?”

  Ugaki shook his head and held up his Asahi. “This is all I need for now. Besides” – he nodded to the bay – “there’s sharks out there.”

  Kurita shouted back, “Little thing like that shouldn’t bother you.” Then he dove cleanly into the water.

  Tominaga, the chief steward, walked out from the bush followed by the enormous bulk of third-class-petty officer Minoru Onishi, clad only in a loincloth. Onishi’s massive arms hung loosely at his side. Bowing deeply, Tominaga said to Ugaki, “We can have everything ready in an hour, Admiral.”

  Ugaki checked his watch and looked up. “Very good. Make it so.” As Tominaga walked back, Ugaki picked up his empty glass and waved it at Onishi. “Please?”

  “Uhhhh.” Onishi took the glass and moved off, happy for something to do.

  Ugaki nodded to Ozawa and wiped sweat off his brow. “Actually, it’s a good idea. Freshen up before the meal.” He stood, ran to the bay, and jumped in.

  “What’s to lose?” grumbled Ozawa, who rose and followed Ugaki into the water.

  As they ran past, Noyama noticed that Ugaki’s wounds were almost as hideous as his own. One scar ran jaggedly across the man’s back, another down his leg. These were the wounds received when Ugaki’s G4M2 twin-engine land-attack bomber was shot down by American P-38s eighteen months ago.

  The other fighting admirals of the Imperial Japanese Navy turned at the ruckus and ran toward them, joining Kurita, Ugaki, and Ozawa. They were Vice Admiral Gunichi Mikawa, Vice Admiral Shoji Nishimura, and Vice Admiral Kiyohide Shima.

  Noyama watched, marveling at these men who held the fate of the empire in their hands. They giggled like schoolchildren, throwing mud and splashing water. Even the withdrawn Mikawa, who had decimated the Americans at Savo Island in 1942, laughed as Ugaki reached down, scooped up dark bottom mud and splattered him up his back.

  * * * * *

  They finished a long and relaxed dinner about six-thirty. Later, while the admirals smoked and drank and reminisced, Noyama sli
pped away and strolled across the narrow width of Grande Island to the beach on the west side, facing the ocean. Sitting on his haunches, he peered at the horizon, thinking of Hiroshi whose Shiragiku Special Attack Squadron was posted at Clark Field, a hundred kilometers to the north. Kurita had made arrangements for Noyama to be driven up there tomorrow, where he could spend a good part of the day with his little brother; in all likelihood, his last time. The deeper the sun sank in the sky, the more intense were the memories of Hiroshi, of all the antics, the stunts, the practical jokes – indeed, the two apples – and the love and understanding they’d had from two wonderful parents. Even so, Noyama had only received one letter since he’d seen his parents. It was from his father, terse and direct, almost business-like. But there was no mention of Hiroshi; it was almost as if his little brother were already dead.

  The sky was mixed with a riot of reds, oranges, yellows, and pinks. Darkness had just about finished consuming the colors with its inevitable finality when something stirred behind.

  “Sir?” It was Tominaga, still wearing his starched-white steward’s coat. Interesting, thought, Noyama. Here, high-ranking officers were dressed like peasants, while cooks and stewards in their uniforms were the only military symbols. Except for Imperial marines standing watch at either end of the island, the admirals might as well have been rice paddy farmers under the control of a benevolent white-frocked landlord.

  “Yes?”

  “They’re ready,” said Tominaga.

  Noyama glanced at his watch: 2032. He’d been here for almost an hour and a half, watching the sky – letting his mind go, doing absolutely nothing. It was an art practiced over the ages by his ancestors, but something he’d been able to do only while in a hot bath – and then for only few minutes. The modern world with all of its Western imperatives has made such demands on Noyama and his fellow Japanese that at times like this, he felt as if he’d lost touch with what life was really about.

  And now, watching the sunset and embraced by twilight, Noyama felt a complete relaxation. He was reluctant to let it go, knowing that, perhaps, it was the last time he’d be able to enjoy this for a long, long time. Tominaga must have sensed this because he’d approached quietly, his voice soft and tranquil.