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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

“How much, dammit?”

  “Nothing since the Atago went down.”

  Ugaki leaned close. “And you were up most of the night before. That’s nearly fifty hours you’ve gone without sleep.” He hissed under his breath, “How the hell do you expect to survive the mission? How do you expect to serve your men? Your ships? Your Emperor, if you continue on like this?”

  Kurita shrugged.

  “Your dengue fever is not getting better.”

  “Quiet, they’ll hear.”

  Ugaki said sotto voce, “The hell with the others. And the hell with your clouded judgment. And the hell with the fuel oil. I say go after Halsey’s carriers, now. If we do that, we’ll have more than accomplished our mission. The Emperor will be proud.”

  “But are you sure it’s Halsey?” Kurita pounded his fist. “We have yet to hear from Ozawa. What’s he doing? Did Halsey go after him? And the Nagato’s report? I need confirmation that they are Essex class. And we’d have it if our damn reconnaissance planes would return. But they’ve been shot down. So who do I count on?” he yelled.

  Ugaki stepped back.

  Men babbled, waving papers in the air.

  “Silence!” yelled Kurita.

  When they quieted, he said, “Most of you are veterans of previous battles. Please conduct yourselves accordingly.” He turned to Noyama. “Commander, get this message off to CinC immediately.”

  Loudly, Noyama said, “Yes, sir.” He limped around the table and took the message.

  “Top priority. It must go out immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Noyama.” Kurita pulled Noyama close and said softly, “Find Dr. Koketsu and get something to take care of this splitting headache. Damn, I can hardly see.”

  Noyama said, “Maybe, Admiral, you should–”

  “Dammit, not you, too,” growled Kurita. “No more sniveling. Get Koketsu up here, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Noyama grabbed the message blank and walked over to the long-range radio operator.

  Just then Hirota called, “Suzuya reports two Baltimore-class cruisers attacking with torpedoes. One has already launched and seriously damaged the Kumano.” He clamped his hands to his headphones and yelled into the mouthpiece, “Yes, it’s confirmed. The other Baltimore cruiser has launched ten torpedoes which are headed directly for us.”

  “A spread of ten?” gasped Ugaki.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We must avoid.” Ugaki received a confirming glance from Kurita, then spaced two fingers over battleship icons on the plotting table. “With a spread that wide, two of us are in danger,” he muttered. “Signal Haruna and Yamato,” he said to Hirota, “to reverse course to comb the torpedoes’ course and make maximum speed to evade.” Again he glanced at Kurita, the two deathly afraid of losing another Musashi class battleship. He snapped his fingers at three junior officers at the opposite end of the plotting table. “You there. Make yourselves useful. Work out a course to evade, quickly now.” Then he called to Hirota, “Tell them to make their course zero-zero-zero, speed twenty-seven until we come up with something better.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hirota relayed the order by radio to the Haruna and by sound-powered phone to the Yamato’s captain, Rear Admiral Morishita, down on the heavily armored bridge.

  Men began plotting evasion courses at the table’s end. One of them, a junior officer, muttered a little too loudly, “Strange, there’s plenty of targets out there, but now our main battery’s out of range. I’ll bet our boys in the turrets are getting itchy fingers.”

  “You.” Hirota pointed a finger. “Silence.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Rear Admiral Takata took advantage of the moment and pushed his way through the crowd. “Admiral, you must see this.” He pushed a flimsy in Kurita’s hand.

  “Just read it,” said Kurita.

  Takata hitched up his pants and rasped, “Takao reports intercepting a plain-language appeal for help from Admiral Kinkaid to Admiral Halsey to send fast battleships and carriers.”

  “Plain language?” said Kurita as the Yamato leaned into her turn to port.

  “Yessir.”

  The ship heeled at least ten degrees as she powered through her turn. At the same time, she reached twenty-seven knots. Kurita rested a hand on the bulkhead and asked, “What’s gotten into Kinkaid?”

  “He’s desperate, that’s for sure,” said Ugaki.

  “Do you suppose that’s not Halsey out there?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Kinkaid’s escort carriers.”

  “Impossible,” said Ugaki.

  With a grimace, Kurita grabbed his head. “Where the hell is Koketsu?” he shouted to the overhead.

  “I’ll get him, Admiral,” said Noyama, handing the message to the coding officer. He grabbed the port hatch lever, undogged it, and pushed the door open. Wind blasted in. Papers scattered and the flag officers cursed as he stepped outside. They were in a rain squall, the visibility down to two hundred meters. But the rain felt good on his face, and fresh air filled his lungs.

  Kurita barked, “Noyama, get back here.”

  “Sir?” He stepped back in, redogging the hatch.

  “I can’t recall, did we inquire about Ozawa in that message?”

  “Yes, sir, we did.”

  The admiral’s eyes were bloodshot, and he was having trouble standing. “And?”

  “It’s being encoded, now, sir. Should go out in the next few minutes.”

  “Very well. I just want to--”

  “Yeeeeeeee!” screeched one of the junior officers. He pointed at a porthole in the forward bulkhead.

  Ugaki rushed up, pushed the man aside, and shouted, “You have him, Morishita; run the bastard down!”

  Noyama rushed outside, finding they had cleared the storm cell and were steaming into clear weather again. Directly ahead, no more than two hundred meters away, was an American destroyer, running at great speed, sheets of water peeling high off her bow.

  Hunching down, he grabbed the rail and yelled, “Bakayaro! We’ve got you.”

  Inside, Ugaki described the impending collision with the glee of an announcer calling a steeplechase. Before him, the American destroyer was square in his sights, the great battleship’s bow aimed directly at the American’s bridge. They were so close he saw faces of the men in the open gun mounts look up in surprise at the horrible apparition that had suddenly pounced upon them from out of the rain.

  Closer.

  It would be impossible not to hit. As the distance closed, Kurita’s hoarse voice mingled with the others as they yelled and shouted.

  And yet this destroyer, or this cruiser, or whatever it was, was as beautiful as a white dove just before a cat leaps to snatch it from the air. With raked stacks and mast, her lines were lean. She had mottled blue paint and an American red-and-white striped shield was painted on her forward stack; a gleaming silver bullet standing upright over the figures 77.

  At great speed, she squatted by the stern, a great rooster tail shooting out a white foaming wake. Noyama would be sorry to see this ship go down.

  Maybe not.

  The nearer they drew, the more he noticed the enemy ship leaning to starboard. Heavily. Yes, her rudder is hard over. Will she make it? He couldn’t help himself as he began urging, routing for the little ship to draw clear.

  Her stern moved quickly away as her rudder’s advance and transfer took effect.

  Something else. Amongst the opened-mouthed men on the American’s bridge, one was perched high on a platform. He was bareheaded, a megaphone in his hand. Red. He was red from head to toe. In fact, much of the bridge glistened in a reddish tinge. So did the other people Why are they red? And that man must be the captain. No matter, he stood proud and tall, glaring up at the seventy-thousand-ton battleship rushing to cut him in half. What the hell have these people done to themselves? War paint? Are these American Indians?

  CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

  25 October, 1944

&nbs
p; USS Matthew (DD 548)

  Twenty-nine miles east of Paninihian Point

  Samar Island, Philippine Sea

  Donovan screeched, “Where the hell did that thing come from?” They’d just popped out of a squall and were about to be T-boned by a seagoing behemoth. The enormous bow, the Kiku, the Emperor’s gilded chrysanthemum symbol, on her nose – barreled straight for them at a horrendous rate. He grabbed a megaphone and yelled at La Valle in the pilothouse, “Left full rudder!”

  A cold lump formed in La Valle’s belly; sweat stood on his bow as he spun his wheel furiously. Checking the rudder angle indicator, he yelled,” My rudder is left full, Captain.” He looked over to Woodruff, the lee helmsman.” Put on your face-mask, Nick, it’s deep shit.”

  Woodruff’s eyes were like saucers; he gulped a couple of times. “Maybe we should jump.”

  “No, better to stay aboard. That thing’s screws would chop you to shark bait.”

  Donovan bellowed into the pilothouse, “Increase your rudder to hard left.”

  “Hard left?,” answered La Valle.

  “That’s what I said, sailor. Put it in the stops, dammit.”

  La Valle spun the rudder all the way over. “My rudder is hard left, sir.”

  “Very well.” Donovan realized those may have been the last words he would ever utter. The Matthew heeled further to twenty degrees. Looking aft, he took heart. The fantail rapidly slid to starboard, out of the battleship’s way.

  Details stood out as the battleship’s bow loomed over him. The starboard anchor pitted with rust; the port anchor, newly painted. That damn gilded flower on the nose, and, yes, clear blue water peeling off those tremendous bows.

  “Go, go, go,” urged Merryweather from the pilothouse.

  She was clear! The giant ship’s bow blasted past the fantail with no more than twenty yards to spare. Three Japanese sailors stared down at them from the main deck. One of them shook his fist. Potter shouted up to them, his voice echoing between the hulls, “Hey Tojo! Go take a flyin’ leap in a rolling doughnut.”

  The Japanese shouted back. Another flipped the finger.

  “Meet her!” yelled Donovan. “La Valle, don’t let our nose get into her.”

  “Meet her, aye,” replied La Valle. With all his strength, he whipped the wheel to zero degrees rudder angle. “Wouldn’t to do that, Captain,” he gasped. La Valle knew what Donovan meant: too much rudder and they would keeping turning and nose into this monster’s port side. Too little and the Matthew’s fantail could get clipped. Easy, easy. He fed in a little right rudder. There! The bullnose steadied up on a course about two degrees to the right of the battleship’s track. La Valle shouted, “Got it captain, steady on course one-eight-seven.”

  “One-eight-seven. Well done, La Valle,” said Donovan.

  “Where... where the hell did that thing come from, Captain?” said Flannigan, his face a pasty white. Without radar, he was as exasperated as everyone else. The apparition had pounced upon them without warning.

  “Better yet,” said Donovan, “what the hell is it?” The gigantic ship raced down their port side. Their relative speed was nearly sixty knots. Guns. All he saw were guns sticking in the sky like a porcupine. Everywhere. Mostly anti-aircraft guns. But he did get a glimpse of an enormous superfiring number two turret that mounted three enormous rifles, their muzzles larger, he thought, than even the Iowa-class battleships he’d seen. Then came a heavily armored superstructure. He spotted the bridge. Above that was a signal platform and then another deck housing, maybe a flag bridge, he reckoned. A man stood at an open hatchway, an officer. Then the man did the damndest thing. He drew to attention and saluted.

  Donovan yanked his garrison cap from his pocket, jammed it on, and faced the rapidly disappearing Japanese officer. For whatever reason, he snapped a salute. The man was soon out of sight. The battleship’s after turret swooped past, followed by her counter drawing a churning, foamy wake.

  Donovan muttered. “Why the hell did I do that?”

  His answer was a salvo from the after turret: three enormous shells screeched overhead like three freight trains. He was surprised to find himself on the deck; his back had slammed against the pilothouse bulkhead, smearing it with red goo. The blast’s overpressure had taken them all by surprise and had thrown them down before they knew it.

  He shouted up to Merryweather, “Open fire, dammit.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. A cloud of smoke shrouded the ship’s aft section as the after two five-inch mounts opened up, the forty- and twenty-millimeters guns chattering right after.

  “Captain?” It was Kubichek, the radio officer. Good God. That damn message. He’d just finished reading it when that damn Jap’s bow came at them as they shot out of a squall. Mired in red goo and rainwater, he held it up again.

  SECRET

  TO: C/O USS MATTHEW (DD 548)

  FROM: COMNAVDIST12

  SUBJ: MK 6 TORPEDO EXPLODER-LOT NO. ALX24 114 UP

  INFO:

  1. CNO

  2. CINCPAC

  3. BUORD

  4. COM 3

  5. COM 38

  6. COM 7

  7. COM TG 77.4.3

  8. COMDESPAC

  9. COMDESRON 77

  10. ONI 24.4

  REF: A BUORD INST. 25.27.36(a)

  B. BUORD INST. 2731.1.3(B)

  1. BE ADVISED M ARK 6 EXPLODER LOT NUMBER ALX24 114 UP IS BOOBY TRAPPED.

  2. SUBJECT EXPLODER BELIEVED ISSUED TO YOU VIA USS MT. ST. HELENS IN ULITHI.

  3. MT. ST. HELENS LATER BLEW UP VIA ANOTHER BOOBY TRAPPED EXPLODER.

  3. SUBJECT EXPLODER RIGGED TO DETONATE 10250900H.

  4. BE ADVISED SUBJECT EXPLODER WILL PREMATURELY DETONATE ON ATTEMPT TO FIRE FROM TUBE.

  5. FURTHER, EXPLODER WILL DETONATE IF WITHDRAWN FROM TORPEDO.

  6. RECOMMEND USE OF ORDNANCE EXPERT ABOARD NEAREST AD.

  7. GOOD LUCK.

  SABOVIK BY DIRECTION

  BT

  Wham! Wham! Wham! Three enormous shell splashes marched up their wake.

  “La Valle, left standard rudder.” To Flannigan he shouted, “Tell the exec and Mr. Peete to lay to the bridge, please.”

  “To the bridge?” Flannigan gulped.

  “That doesn’t mean tomorrow, Mr. Flannigan. I mean now.” Donovan checked his watch: 0842. If that message is right, the thing will go off in eighteen minutes.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Four six-inch gun shells walked across their bow no more than one hundred yards away.

  “All engines ahead full,” called Donovan. “Make turns for twenty-five knots.”

  The bell was no sooner answered than two six-inch shells landed directly ahead of where they would have been. Then the battleship’s aft turret roared again; three giant green water columns rose five hundred yards to starboard.

  The Matthew was still in a left turn, still paralleling the battleship’s course.

  “Rudder amidships,” called Donovan. They were bracketing him, and it was only a matter of time. All he could do was chase the splashes, run for cover, and hope for the best. His heart jumped as he spotted another squall line about a mile ahead. He sighted it over the pelorus and said, “Come right to zero-two-four, all ahead flank, make turns for thirty-three knots.”

  Not enough time.

  Two TBFs popped out of the clouds, dove down on the water, and steadied up for a run on the battleship, their wings about five hundred yards apart. Except for her main battery, all the battleship’s guns shifted fire to the Avengers as they lumbered along at fifty feet off the deck.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Donovan whispered as the Avengers drew closer, their torpedo doors springing open. The two released at the same time, their mark 13 torpedoes cleanly diving into the water with a small splash. Then they peeled away in opposite directions, the AA fire following but not at all effective.

  The battleship turned ninety degrees to the left, waited a bit until the torpedoes passed harmlessly by, then turned ninety degrees to the
right, resuming her northerly course.

  A thousand yards to the squall line.

  One of the TBFs flew right overhead, wagging its wings. The pilot clasped his hands over his head and waved. A spontaneous cheer rose topside from the men on the weather decks. Donovan was still shouting when Kruger and Peete dashed up, nearly out of breath.

  “Skipper?” said Kruger.

  “Read this,” said Donovan in a hoarse voice. He handed the water-soaked flimsy to Kruger.

  The battleship’s main guns belched again; three freight-train-sounding shells rattled over their heads and exploded five hundred yards behind, raising large green water columns.

  “Good God,” said Kruger. He looked at his watch, then absently noticed the red stain that had transferred to his hand. Wiping it on his trousers, he asked, “If this is right, we’ve got about fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Bridge, aye,” Flannigan said. “Johnston reports ten torpedoes in the water, fired at that battleship. So we have our own incoming.”

  “Shit, what else?” groaned Hammond.

  Donovan said to Potter, “Tell the people on the fantail to keep a sharp lookout for overtaking torpedoes.” He turned to Peete. “Okay, Johnnie, any ideas?”

  The ship ducked into the squall line, this one only a misty drizzle. Donovan muttered, “Let’s see if we can park in here for a little bit.” He called into the pilothouse, “All engines ahead standard, make turns for twenty knots.” He looked down. “We’re waiting, Mr. Peete.”

  Peete took the message from Kruger, red stains running down his hands. “...not sure.”

  A number of six-inch shells ripped into the mist, landing short. For three seconds, their world was dominated by ripping, thundering explosions. Their ears still rang when Kruger said, “He’s firing blind.”

  “He’ll try again. That’s a pretty tight pattern. He must have a fire control radar of some kind,” said Donovan.

  “Wonderful,” said Kruger.

  Donovan raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Peete?”

  Peete ran a hand over his face. “Jesus, I don’t know. I have a couple of ideas, but this? It could be a real kiss-off. I dunno.”