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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Yes, sir,” said Hammond.

  Donovan fairly stumbled the ten steps to his sea cabin. The last thing he remembered was wondering about Cary Grant, Raymond Massey, and Peter Lorre.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  24 October, 1944

  USS Matthew (DD 548)

  Twenty miles east of Leyte, Philippines

  At 0445, the Thompson and Kumm split off and ran fifty miles south to rejoin DESDIV 77.1, where they joined the screen for the carrier Alliance (CV 35). Matthew and the three other destroyers in DESDIV 77.2 rendezvoused with the San Cristobal at first light under a two-thousand-foot overcast. They set up a diamond formation around her with the Simpson two thousand yards directly ahead. Connelly and McGrody were stationed two thousand yards on either wing. The Matthew was tucked in plane guard position, two thousand yards astern, where she could pick up survivors from ditching planes.

  Running at twenty-four knots, the San Cristobal launched their CAP of four F4F Wildcat fighters at 0600. There was no breeze, and the sea was quiet; ten minutes later, they cranked formation speed up to thirty-two knots to give eight lumbering TBFs plenty of wind over the deck for the first strike of the day. Fortunately, Corodini’ s engineers had just finished with the evaporators, and the Matthew had no trouble making fresh water to feed her thirsty boilers. With the TBFs gone, they settled down to wait... and to have their first real eggs, toast, and orange juice in two weeks.

  After that, Donovan tumbled into his bunk and slept soundly. Two hours later, the buzzer over his bunk ripped him from his sleep. He grabbed the handset. “Captain.”

  It was Cliff Merryweather, the OOD. “Sorry, Captain. You asked to be called when the first strike returned. They’re inbound about five minutes out.”

  “Very well, I’ll be there in a minute.” Donovan bracketed the phone and lay there blinking, his eyes feeling as if they were coated with sandpaper. Dammit. Go do your job. He stood, stretched, brushed his teeth, ran a razor over his face, put on a clean shirt, and pronounced himself ready to rejoin World War II.

  Two minutes later, he was on the open bridge wing, comfortably settled in the captain’s chair, drinking coffee.

  “Morning, Skipper.” Richard Kruger walked up and stood beside him.

  “Morning, Richard,” replied Donovan. Then he leaned forward and called to a thin, redheaded ensign wearing headphones. “And how are you, this morning, Mr. Flannigan?”

  “Fine, captain,” said Flannigan, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. They’d assigned the new ensign him as junior officer of the deck at general quarters but quickly discovered how easily Flannigan was taken seasick, often heaving over the side, his face turning a putrid green. “Aviator glasses couldn’t hide dark circles under his eyes. Still, Donovan and Kruger agreed the kid had heart; he wouldn’t quit. So for the time being, they’d decided to keep him there to see if he could conquer it.

  Hearing the rumble of R-2600 engines, they looked up to see two groups of TBFs drop through the overcast and wallow overhead. Tired, and low on fuel, they formed into single file and lowered their wheels, flaps, and tail hooks, looking as ungainly as ducks with their feet spread for a landing.

  Donovan jabbed a finger at the two formations.

  “What?” asked Kruger.

  “One missing. Probably lost one over the battle zone. See? The first group has four planes, the next group only three.” Donovan called over to Merryweather, “Cliff, check with combat to see if they have anything on a missing TBF. Maybe we’ll have a straggler.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Merryweather.

  Donovan turned to Kruger. And how are the Bickersons this morning?”

  A corner of Kruger’s mouth turned up. “Hammond and Peete? So far, so good. I gave them a bit of extra sack time. Figure they might need it later. What did it look to you?”

  “Like a couple of old fraternity pals.”

  With straining engines, the first group of TBFs were lined up for their final approach.

  “So maybe we don’t have to send off that transfer request?” asked Kruger.

  “I hope not. But I want to talk with them, because–whoa.” The second group of TBFs flew over. Now, there were four, not three planes in the group, their wheels all down. “Take a look at that,” said Donovan, jumping to his feet. “Why would a–dammit,” he growled.

  They watched in horror as the last plane in the group opened fire on the third TBF in line.

  Smoke poured from the Avenger’s engine. It rolled into a shallow dive to its left.

  “Shit,” yelled Kruger. The last plane in the formation was a Zero, its round, red insignias clearly obvious as it eased into the number three position.

  Donovan barked, “Meatball! Mr. Merryweather. Sound general quarters. Take that damn plane under fire immediately!” He dashed inside the pilothouse, yanked the TBS from its bracket, and shouted, “Flower Pot! Flower Pot. This is Monkey Wrench. Be advised last plane in the group now over me is a Jap. We’re opening fire!” He ran back to the bridge wing as the Zero began shooting at the next unsuspecting TBF. Donovan yelled at Merryweather, “What’s taking you so–”

  Wham! Mount 55 cranked out a round. Another round blasted from Mount 53.

  The engine of the second TBF sputtered as the Zero fired into it. “Get him, get the sonofabitch,” yelled Donovan. The second TBF drunkenly rolled on its back and plunged straight down into the ocean. “My God,” yelled Kruger, shaking his fist at the sky.

  Until now, Donovan hadn’t really felt hatred for the enemy. Not even when Tiny or Mario was killed. Before, he’d felt a deep sense of gloom and loss. In a way, he’d felt that he had something to do with it; that it was partly his fault. And with that came the lingering sense of guilt and the nightmares and sleepless nights. Now suddenly, an abject hatred for this enemy consumed him, turning his entire being into white-hot outrage. How can somebody do such a horrible thing to another human being? How can anyone tolerate leaders who drive their people into such a frenzy, throwing away their lives for a sick, criminal society? His mind snapped to the matter at hand. “Richard, you belong in combat.”

  “On my way!” Kruger dashed off.

  Mount 52 roared. Its muzzle was no more than twenty feet from their ears; the blast nearly knocked them over. The other ships began firing. Suddenly the Zero disappeared in a greasy, black puff of smoke, pieces spinning off in all directions.

  “Skipper, look.” Burt Hammond, the general quarters OOD, jabbed a finger toward the San Cristobal. The first TBF that had been shot up was still airborne. Smoking and trailing fire, it wallowed in for a landing aboard the carrier. By a miracle, it struggled to the aft end of the flight deck, the tail hook caught the first wire, and the plane stopped.

  “Amazing,” said Hammond.

  Donovan called to the sailors atop the pilothouse, “You lookouts. Vigilance! Look for Japs.”

  He grabbed Flannigan’s shirt. “What are you doing, son?”

  “GQ communications, sir,” was the immediate reply.

  “Well, dammit, while you’re communicating, look for Japs.” Donovan spun away.

  As if on cue, one of the lookouts pointed off the starboard bow. “Aircraft, sir, fifty feet off the deck. Looks like a torpedo bomber.”

  “Dammit,” muttered Donovan. He looked up to Merryweather and shouted, “Cliff, you got that Kate at zero-three-zero?”

  Merryweather shouted back, “On target and tracking, sir.”

  “Fire when ready!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guns roared in unison as the Kate turned directly for the carrier’s starboard beam.

  The rounds missed, the gunners frantically reloading. One second, two, seconds three seconds, four–

  Mount 54 got it off first, quickly followed by the others. A shell hit the ocean right in front of the Kate, spewing up a tall column of shrapnel and water. The water column faded to mist, to a white opacity. The Kate didn’t appear on the other side.

  Donovan looked up to a
grinning Merryweather and gave a thumbs up.

  Another Kate punched through the overcast, a five-hundred-kilogram bomb clutched to its belly. “ Wildcat followed close behind, smoke puffing from its wings as it fired its six .50 caliber machine guns. Fire burst from the Kate and it continued right into the ocean, hitting with a mighty splash.

  Donovan grabbed a sound-powered telephone and punched CIC.

  “XO.”

  “Richard. We had no warning of this, for crying out loud. What’s going on with the IFF?”

  Kruger cleared his throat. “Best I can tell, Captain, is that they mixed in with cloud cover and the returning TBFs. Nobody figured it out.”

  “Can’t your people count?” demanded Donovan.

  Hammond pointed almost straight up.

  Kruger shot back, “Captain, dammit. We’re tracking them and –”

  “Hold on,” Donovan said.

  “What?”

  Donovan sucked in his breath as a Kate plunged almost straight down through the overcast, its engine screaming, a bomb slung under its belly. Instinctively, he knew what the pilot intended. In seconds, the Kate dove straight for the San Cristobal’s flight deck and crashed where the stricken TBF had come to a stop. “ black-red greasy ball of flame erupted from the flight deck.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Mike, what the hell is it?” shouted Kruger.

  “That man wanted to die.”

  “Who?”

  Donovan said, “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. “ Jap deliberately dove straight down out of the overcast and crashed right onto the San Cristobal.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, and I–”

  A loud explosion erupted from the carrier. Smoke poured from her flight deck. Flame boiled out of the hangar deck and up toward the deck-edge gun tubs and the island. There was another explosion, louder than the first two. Flaming airplane parts spun across the deck and into the water.

  Donovan forced himself to breathe. Then again. “We’ve got a bad one, Richard. Call over there if you can, and ask if we can render assistance.”

  “Combat, aye.” Kruger hung up.

  The carrier seemed to have slowed. “What’s our speed, Burt?” he asked Hammond.

  “Fifteen knots, Captain,” came the reply. Then Hammond pointed. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Donovan raised his binoculars. “Those poor bastards.” Men were trapped by the fire in the starboard gun tubs. Some jumped over the side, their clothes smoking.

  Donovan clamped Hammond on the shoulder, “Burt, call away the boat crew and have the bosun’s roll the boarding net over the port side.”

  He leaned in the pilothouse and said to the lee helmsman, “Tell main control to standby for maneuvering bells. We may be going alongside the San Cristobal to render aid.”

  Calling to Potter, Donovan said, “Tell Chief Casey to stand by to treat burn victims.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Sir,” said Potter.

  “Have Chief Casey break out the salt bags. We’re going to need them.”

  “Salt bags, yes, sir.” Potter gulped and gave the order.

  Yet another explosion roared from the San Cristobal. Smoke billowed through what was once the forward elevator. The whole forward part of the ship was afire. More men jumped over the side, the sea dotted with them.

  Donovan checked the sky. Two Wildcats zipped overhead. The TBFs were gone; hopefully they’d found another place to roost. He grabbed the phone and punched combat again.

  “XO.”

  “Richard, what’s the story on the air threat?”

  “Looks clear for the time being, Captain. The CAP was overwhelmed. Japs came from every direction.”

  “But we’re okay for now?”

  “Looks like it. Radar is clear.”

  “Good enough for me.” He hung up and grabbed Hammond’s elbow. “Burt, I’ll take the conn. I want you to direct the rescue operations, but don’t leave the bridge. I’ve sent word to the doc and he’s ready.”

  Hammond’s face was chalk white.

  “You okay, Burt?”

  “... never better, Captain.” Hammond stumbled and braced a palm against the bulkhead.

  “Here.” Donovan shoved Hammond’s head toward his knees for a moment. “That better?”

  The color returned to his face. “Never better, Captain.”

  Donovan slapped him on the rump. “Good. Now get going.”

  * * * * *

  The Matthew pulled eleven San Cristobal sailors from the water, two burned seriously. The McGrody picked out another seventeen. Then they stood close by the carrier for three intense hours, spraying water into her hangar decks, dousing fire after fire. “At last, the largest fires were extinguished on the carrier. Although she still looked like a smoldering volcano, her skipper declared her out of immediate danger, saying her engineering plant was in reasonable shape and she could sustain fifteen knots. But men were still trapped by the fires and the Matthew was ordered alongside for rescue. Ten jumped safely; another fell between the ships. There wasn’t time to think as Donovan kept his destroyer in close to San Cristobal as screaming, desperate men leaped onto her fo’c’sle.

  Hammond pointed off to starboard just as the last man had just jumped.

  “Dammit,” muttered Donovan. It was a wind line bringing a series of long rolling groundswells toward the Matthew. “All back two-thirds,” he shouted.

  The screws bit the water too late. The first swell rolled under the Matthew lifting her bow up into the San Cristobal’s overhanging catwalk. There was a terrible screeching and ripping of metal as the destroyer’s stanchions, cleats, bits, and port anchor chewed up through the San Cristobal’s cat-walk and gun tubs.

  Finally gathering sternway, the Matthew backed clear, pulling a thirty-foot section of twisted smoldering wreckage onto her foredeck, some of it draping over the side. A small section burst into flame but a repair party put out the fire in minutes. Soon they were chopping and cutting at the wreckage and throwing pieces over the side.

  By three that afternoon, the overcast had burned off, and the seas remained calm. The carrier’s skipper ordered the McGrody and Matthew alongside, where the two destroyers set up a highline and transferred the grateful San Cristobal sailors back to their ship. Last to return were the burn victims who were sent over on stokes litters.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, the radar was still clear. They were about a hundred miles east of the Leyte coast on course one-two-zero, speed now up to twenty knots. The seas were still calm, and all fires on the San Cristobal were out. But she looked ugly, especially her blackened and wrecked forward section.

  Donovan stood the crew down to a condition III watch and took a tour of the ship.

  His first stop was CIC, a space of perhaps twelve by eighteen feet on the main deck just aft of the wardroom. Always dark, CIC was crammed with radar repeaters, target-tracking and communications equipment, and back-lighted tote boards. The executive officer, four officers, and ten sailors manned the area during general quarters. But now they were down to a condition III watch of just five men.

  Donovan walked in to find Kruger leaning on the DRT, reading a report. His hair was rustled when he passed beneath a whining blower outlet. He stopped and raised his head, letting the blast of cool air dry the sweat on his brow. “Ummm.” He turned his face higher, letting air wash over his face. “Not bad. Where’re you hiding the beer?”

  Kruger pointed, “That fridge under the DRT.”

  “Well, I’m going to guess it’s–”

  Ensign Kubichek, the communications officer, thumped in and edged among sailors. “Priority, Captain,” he announced, passing a clipboard over to Donovan.

  All fell silent as Donovan signed for the message. It was classified SECRET, but everyone in here was cleared for at least that, so he read it aloud. “Message from COMDESRON 77, info San Cristobal, “ he announced.


  “Uh-oh,” said Kruger.

  “Right. He’s ordering the McGrody to accompany the San Cristobal to Ulithi.”

  “ Soft duty.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No,” said Donovan. “Larry is attaching us TAD to Taffy 3 where we’re supposed to await orders for further assignment.”

  “Who the hell is Taffy 3?” demanded Kruger.

  Donovan gave a thin smile. “Perhaps you can look it up, Mr. Kruger.”

  Kruger retorted, “I think that’s a great idea.”

  Kowalchek, a first-class radarman, plopped a thick OPORDER on the DRT and wordlessly thumbed pages. He finally found what he wanted and pushed the manual toward Kruger. “Here sir.”

  Donovan looked over Kruger’s shoulder as he read. “Taffy 3 is a carrier group, just like ours.”

  “And where are they?” asked Donovan.

  “According to this, they should be stationed about forty miles off Samar.”

  Donovan turned to Kubichek. “Okay, Rudy, thanks. Please draft two messages. The first one is a roger to COMDESRON 77 saying we’re on our way to rendezvous with Taffy 3. The next message is a flashing-light message to the San Cristobal, requesting permission to proceed on duty assigned.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kubichek walked out.

  Donovan said, “I’m going to check up forward.”

  * * * * *

  Donovan was amazed at the huge pile of junk on the foredeck. Cliff Merryweather and his first lieutenant, Jack Kelso, moved about, watching over the shipfitters who bent with acetylene torches, cutting up the heavier pieces of wreckage.

  Jonathan Peete and Chief Torpedoman Cecil Hammer moved among the sailors helping to throw loose pieces of junk over the side. Donovan walked up to Hammer. “How goes it, Chief?”

  “Seen worse, Skipper. Gotta tell ya, though, that was a pretty chickenshit thing that Jap did.” Wearing heavy asbestos gloves, he grabbed an indistinguishable piece of twisted, smoking metal and heaved it over the side.

  “They’re getting desperate, Chief. They know the end is near.”