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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  A group of ponderous, flat-bottomed LSTs followed the second wave and drove themselves up on White Beach. Expecting a Japanese counterattack from the sea, they frantically disgorged their cargoes, trying to get away before sunset.

  Peering through binoculars, Owen Reynolds was perched on the gunnery officer’s platform, two decks above the bridge of the Nashville. He was scheduled to go ashore with the third wave, which consisted of thirty-five LCVPs and six LCMs, each containing a Sherman M4 tank. They were forming up in a circle five hundred yards off their starboard side. It was almost time for Reynolds to board a lone LCM that stood waiting near the quarterdeck, rocking in the chop, its twin diesels idling. It was loaded with the mobile communications truck and sound engineers who would set up General MacArthur’s radio network.

  Beside Reynolds was the ship’s gunnery officer, Lieutenant Commander Charles T. Corbett. “King Charles,” as he was known, was five-six when he wasn’t hunched over studying gunnery manuals. A former gunner’s mate, Corbett was balding, with thick bushy eyebrows and intense blue eyes. He continually chomped lighted cigars, the captain’s standing orders against smoking during general quarters notwithstanding. Smoking in the gun turrets was, of course, forbidden, but the gun director crews followed Corbett’s example and blue cigarette smoke gushed from the director’s portals as if it had been hit by an anti-tank round.

  The only reason Corbett and his director crews got away with smoking is that they were excellent shots. Corbett, especially, had an uncanny eye for spotting his gunfire. He’d already proven it several times this morning. The man loved his six-inch rifles and gladly boasted about them to anyone within earshot.

  They looked to the skies as the cacophony of the ship’s gunfire was again broken by a high-pitched engine noise. Another Japanese Val dive-bomber pulled out of its dive and screamed overhead.

  Reynolds watched it go, thinking, Talk about bum poop. They had been told Halsey’s Third Fleet had wiped out the Japanese air force on Formosa and in the Philippine Islands. Reynolds wished Halsey were here now, watching the Japanese bomb and strafe. At least the ships were safe for the time being, as it was apparent the Vals were targeting the troops ashore. To Halsey’s credit, his own Hellcats and Corsairs followed the Vals in, shooting them down, in most cases, before the Japs got to their targets. For that reason, the Nashville and other ships in Leyte Gulf checked fire lest they hit their own planes.

  The Nashville had taken a fifteen-minute break, and now her main battery of five gun turrets, each containing three six-inch rifles, trained out to port. Reynolds slapped his palms over his ears. Crack! The light cruiser fired another full salvo, making his eardrums ring. A full head shorter, Corbett stood beside him, legs planted, teeth gritted, binoculars poised, ready to spot the fall of shot. How the hell does he stand it? Reynolds wondered.

  Pressing his binoculars to his eyes, Reynolds scanned their landing zone. He knew combat when he saw it. And there was plenty of it on Red Beach, right where they were going. Japs were dying in there. So were Americans. His butt started throbbing, and he tried to put it out of his mind. Maybe I’ll get lucky and fall down a ladder and break a leg or something.

  The Nashville’s six-inch guns roared again. Their target was Hill 522, a humpback-shaped mountain, so called because it was 522 feet high. The assault troops ashore were taking artillery fire, and there was strong suspicion that a Japanese observation post was situated on the hill, if not the guns themselves. Also, Hill 522 overlooked the area where the general planned to land. So it had to be neutralized quickly.

  With raised binoculars, Corbett chomped his cigar and watched as the Nashville’s shells exploded on the north side of Hill 522. Suddenly he roared, “Shit, counterbattery! Mount 65!”

  A shell plopped in the water two hundred yards off the port bow. Water hissed as a large frothy-white column rose fifty feet in the air.

  A wide-eyed Caldwell, his third-class yeoman phone talker, shouted into his phone, “Counterbattery, mount 65!”

  Within seconds the after six-inch gun mount erupted with a salvo from all three of its six-inch cannons.

  “Where are they?” asked Reynolds.

  Corbett stuffed his cigar in his mouth and waved in the direction of Hill 522. “See that puff of black smoke near those trees?”

  Reynolds raised his binoculars. “Not sure, I think–”

  The three rounds from mount 65 landed near the trees.

  “Up one hundred, left seventy-five,” roared Corbett into his mouthpiece.

  The spot was applied, and five seconds later the guns of mount 65 again belched their defiance.

  Reynolds laid his binoculars on the spot and saw three more explosions. Then there were more explosions. Dirt, rocks, and tree limbs soared into the air. Smoke billowed up five hundred feet.

  “Looks like we got an ammo dump,” muttered Corbett, his binoculars jammed to his eyes.

  Caldwell grinned and said, “Gunnery, aye.”

  “What?” demanded Corbett.

  Caldwell said, “Captain and the general send their compliments, sir. Good shooting.”

  They looked down at the bridge. The Nashville’s captain and General MacArthur both looked up, grins on their faces, giving a thumbs-up.

  Reynolds grinned back at them, trying to look lighthearted. But inwardly, his stomach churned. He hadn’t slept well. And a nightmare had awakened him a little before one in the morning. After that, any attempt at sleeping was useless. And from the groans in his stateroom, the other three officers were having trouble sleeping as well. “Looks like you just made full commander, Charlie,” he said.

  “Bullshit.”

  Caldwell keyed his mike. “Quarterdeck says your mike boat is making the starboard side, Colonel.”

  Reynolds glanced aft, seeing it was true. He said to Corbett, “Time to head over to the soft sands of paradise island, Charlie. Keep your powder dry.” They shook.

  “Don’t worry about that. You just watch your ass.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Reynolds reached for a ladder.

  Corbett nodded to the M1 carbine slung over Reynolds’s shoulder. “You know how to use that?”

  “I’ve been around, Charlie.”

  “How ‘bout the general, I hear he’s going ashore?”

  “Pretty soon.”

  “Will he carry a carbine, too?”

  “No.”

  “Guy is crazy. There’s tons of Japs over there.”

  Reynolds’s head was almost down to deck level. He looked up and spoke sotto voce. “Keep a secret?”

  “Sure.” Corbett kneeled to hear.

  Reynolds nodded toward MacArthur. “See that bulge in his rear pocket?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s all he carries. “ single-shot derringer.”

  “Fer chrissake. What’s he expect to do with that?”

  “In case the enemy captures him alive.”

  “Oh.”

  * * * * *

  From the beginning, things went wrong. The security detail of twelve soldiers wasn’t aboard the LCM. An intermittent rain began to fall, and the LCM ran aground thirty yards offshore. By this time the radio broadcast engineers, who had never seen combat, were pop-eyed, their “dam’s apples bouncing. And it was obvious they didn’t know a damn thing about the M1 rifles slung over their shoulders. So far, the only good thing was that Owen Reynolds made it ashore in one piece, and that he was alive.

  Reynolds ordered the bow ramp down and had the truck, a Studebaker ten-wheeler, drive off in three feet of water. The driver, a curly-haired Texan named Corporal Stoddart, slapped the door and yelled, “Yippee-yi-yay” as he jazzed the throttle.

  Ten feet from shore, the engine died. Bullets whizzed about; Reynolds couldn’t tell if they were American or Japanese. A mortar round landed thirty yards away with a loud Whap. Definitely Japanese.

  His radio engineers fell face-forward in ankle-deep water and clamped their hands over their heads. Reynolds walked among t
hem, shouting and kicking them to rise. They struggled to their feet, their eyes darting about, mud and sand running down their faces. He got them together again, and they pushed, and groaned, and grunted, and cursed, trying to get the recalcitrant Studebaker ashore. Reynolds spotted a D4 Caterpillar off-loading from an LST fifty yards down the beach. He ran down and talked the bulldozer driver into helping them. Quickly they connected the tow wire, and soon the Studebaker was high and dry, with Stoddart working on his engine.

  At the same time, Reynolds had the engineers unlimber their equipment. In charge of the group was Oris Gillespie, a staff sergeant who, only months before, was one of the top broadcast radio technicians at NBC radio studios in Hollywood. On the way in, he’d told Reynolds that he could have sat out the war on deferment, watching girls strut down Sunset Boulevard. But instead, Gillespie wanted to serve. By the expression on his face now, Gillespie didn’t look so sure.

  The Studebaker’s engine caught with a roar. “Yaaaahoo,” shouted Stoddart. “Where to, Colonel?”

  Reynolds thought about that while the others jumped in back. “ security squad was supposed to have picked out a place for broadcasting and set up a perimeter. But they hadn’t shown up.

  “Sir?” Stoddart asked again.

  Reynolds hopped in beside Stoddart. “See that?” He pointed to a dry culvert about two hundred yards inland. “Looks safe enough. Take us in there.”

  “Good enough for me, Colonel.” Stoddart ground his gears into compound low and five minutes later the Studebaker jiggled and bounced its way into the culvert. Lush trees and vines surrounded it on both sides. Bougainvillea grew down to the edge; aside from a few smoking bomb craters, the clearing would have been perfect for a South Seas cruise line poster.

  Stoddart said, “This should just about do it. Lemme get that generator going and I’ll–ahh!” The driver’s windshield shattered and a bullet tore a hole in the side of his helmet. He fell over the wheel with a groan.

  “Everybody out!” yelled Reynolds. He kicked open the door and fell to the ground with a thud.

  Gillespie crawled up alongside, dragging his rifle in mud. “Wha–wha the hell is it?”

  Stoddart groaned up in the cab.

  Reynolds yelled, “Stoddart, you all right?”

  “ ...can’t see,” was the weak reply.

  “Keep still!” Reynolds checked around, seeing the rest of the engineers alive, but shaky. Then he unlimbered his carbine and peeked over the truck’s fender.

  Ping! “ bullet punched a hole in the fender six inches from his face.

  Reynolds saw the smoke puff. “Sonofabitch,” he growled. He rose up and emptied all eight rounds of his carbine into the trees across the culvert.

  Just then a squad of soldiers rounded a boulder and fell on their bellies. A sergeant crawled up to Reynolds and said, “Obermann, Colonel. What the hell are you doing in here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Reynolds shrugged. “Seemed like a good place to set up our equipment. You our security?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’d we miss you?”

  “Someone fouled up. They stuck us in another boat that landed us on White Beach. We had to fight our way back up here. Plenty of snipers.”

  The rain trickled to a drizzle. “Well then, welcome to the sunny Philippines.”

  “Sheeyaat.”

  Reynolds rose above the fender and said, “See the taller of those two trees over to the left?”

  “Sir.”

  “That’s where the little bastard is.”

  “I see.” Water dripped off Obermann’s nose as he yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, Louie.

  “Yup,” came a voice from behind the truck.

  “See that tall stand of trees over there.”

  “Yup.”

  Obermann growled, “The one to the left. He’s up there.”

  “Yup.” said Louie. “ long, stringy kid about nineteen years old crawled around the Studebaker, hoisted a BAR onto the fender, and began squeezing off rounds.

  After Louie’s fourth burst, someone screamed from across the culvert.

  Obermann yelled, “Hodgkins and Somerville, he’s all yours.”

  Two soldiers rose and zigzagged across the culvert. After a while, two shots were fired and they emerged from the overgrowth. One holstered a .45 and said, “Dead, all right, Sarge. Looks like Louie blew his arm off at the shoulder.”

  “Okay.” They stood and Obermann turned to Reynolds. “Colonel, we’ll set up a perimeter and make sure everything is secure. You can start setting up.”

  Reynolds and Obermann stood. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  “And sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “These Nips like to hide in foxholes covered with branches, so watch your ass.”

  Reynolds’s butt ached. “Never occurred to me.”

  * * * * *

  A medic worked on Stoddert, finding that the bullet had creased his forehead. Blood had gushed down, temporarily blinding him. The medic cleaned the wound, dumped in sulfa powder, and wrapped an ungainly bandage around Stoddert’s head. The medic said, “I put a couple of staples in there, but it needs sutures. Report to the debarkation center.” He wrote on a large red cardboard placard and hung it around Stoddert’s neck by a string. “Now skedaddle.” He jabbed a thumb toward the beach then dashed off in another direction.

  Stoddert climbed into the truck bed and began tinkering with the generator.

  Reynolds called up, “You’re supposed to evacuate, Stoddert.”

  “When pigs fly, sir, with all respect, that is.” Stoddert grabbed a wrench and began tinkering.

  “Stoddert, I want you to–”

  “’Scuse me, sir, but it makes sense that we should all work to get this damn thing going before the general shows up. And I feel good enough.” He lay down his wrench. “If this generator don’t work, it’s curtains for us. And I don’t think the general wants that, does he, sir?”

  Reynolds couldn’t argue with the logic. “All right, but keep your damn head down. And you’re gone when that thing starts. Hell, Stoddert, you’ve got an R&R ticket at least, maybe a trip home.”

  “I know, sir.” He thumbed a button on the generator panel. The engine cranked and roared into life, dark blue smoke gushing out of the exhaust stack. Stoddert grinned and adjusted the idle.

  “Nice job. Now get going,” yelled Reynolds.

  “In a minute, sir. Gotta make sure it’s running okay.”

  In the back of his mind, Reynolds knew Stoddert was not going to evacuate until he was pushed out. But there was no time to argue. He walked over to a small, fidgety private with a walkie-talkie. “What’s the word, Kramer?”

  “They’re on their way in, Colonel.”

  “When?”

  Kramer asked the question and then looked up. “Cox’n says they’re five hundred yards off the beach, sir.”

  “Okay.” Reynolds looked up, seeing the skies darken with the promise of more rain. Crossing his fingers, he hoped their equipment would survive and that Stoddert’s generator would keep going.

  “And sir?” said Kramer.

  “Yes?”

  “Cox’n says the piers are all blown up. He’s gonna have to unload them right on the beach” –Kramer pointed – “right over by that LST, he says.”

  “That’ll be a neat trick.” Reynolds turned to Gillespie. “Sergeant! Showtime. You’re on.”

  With a shrug, Gillespie spun dials on a tall radio console.

  “Can you make me feel more confident, Sergeant?” Reynolds demanded.

  “Just about got it, Colonel. I’ll know in another five minutes,” said Gillespie. He moved to another console and flipped switches.

  “Well, that’s good, because that’s about when General MacArthur will be here.”

  Gillespie said, “I’ll get it, sir. You just bring the general.”

  “Okay, be right back.” Reynolds walked toward the beach. The rain had stopped, and after living in h
is own microcosm for the last three hours, he’d forgotten about the frantic activity back here. If anything, it was even more intense as men stormed ashore, formed up, and trudged inland. Still more LSTs squeezed in, their crews forming human chains to unload supplies. Occasionally a Japanese dive-bomber buzzed overhead, chased by navy fighters. Billowing smoke was trapped beneath the cloud layer, turning the windless day into a sickening pall.

  Then he saw it. An LCM, flying a small red flag with four gold stars, maneuvered toward shore. Several helmeted heads peeked over the gunnels; one wore an officer’s cap. Brass! The General. If he was lucky, the cox’n would be able to drive his LCM all the way up on the beach. If not, they’d have to walk in knee-deep water like Reynolds.

  Sure enough, the general’s LCM grounded about forty yards off the beach. Waves slapped at the transom. The engines roared, and muddy prop wash frothed as the cox’n tried to twist it in closer.

  Reynolds walked up to the navy beachmaster, a full commander, and heard him say, “Screw ‘em. Let ‘em walk ashore, just like everybody else. And tell ‘em to do it quick because I need that spot.”

  A man stood beside the beachmaster with a walkie-talkie. “You want me to say it just like that, Commander?”

  The beachmaster sighed. “Just tell them there’s no alternative.”

  The talker relayed the word. Moments later, the LCM’s bow ramp splashed down.

  Reynolds watched along with the beachmaster, his talker, and hundreds of others, as General of the Army Douglas A. MacArthur strode out on the bow ramp and jumped into knee-deep water. Looking straight ahead, he slogged forty yards to the beach as men gaped. His entourage followed. Among them were generals George C. Kenney and Richard K. Sutherland, Dr. Roger O. Egeberg, Philippine president Sergio Osmeña and Resident Commissioner Carlos Romulo. All wore steel helmets, except for MacArthur, who wore his signature Philippine marshal’s hat, dark aviator glasses, corncob pipe, and khakis, which moments before, had been crisp and starched. Emerging from the water, MacArthur stopped next to a burned-out jeep, jammed his hands in his rear pockets, and looked about, waiting for the others to catch up.