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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

“Thank you, sir.”

  Nimitz clasped his hands over a knee. “Let me give it to you straight. The tin cans and aviators saved Taffy 3. Most likely, you also saved Taffy 2 and Taffy 1, as well.”

  Donovan whistled. “How can that be? We were a Johnny-come-lately.”

  “You, the Johnston, the Hoel, the Heermann, and the DE Samuel B. Roberts charged in there and confused them so much, they couldn’t coordinate their operations. Along with the flyboys, you kept the Japs from entering Leyte Gulf and having General MacArthur for breakfast.” Then he quickly summarized Oldendorf’s victory over Nishimura in the Surigao Strait the night before, and Halsey’s victory over Ozawa’s decoy force.

  “Did you say the Johnston? The last I heard from her is that she was launching a full salvo of torpedoes,” said Donovan.

  “When the Yamato saw Johnston’s torpedoes, she reversed course and sailed north right into your lap. And then, while Taffy 3 ran southeast, you stalled the Yamato, taking her out of the fight.”

  “Yamato?”

  Nimitz explained what intelligence had learned about Japan’s superbattleships and finished with, “And we got her sister ship the day before.”

  Donovan repeated the name softly, “Yamato. So that’s what we were jousting with. Eighteen-inch guns.” He whistled. “Admiral, you should see the hole that thing put in the engine room.”

  Lamar’s pencil was poised. “None of the shells detonated, right?”

  “That’s correct,” said Donovan. “But the damn things tore right through us like a hot knife through butter.”

  Lamar cleared his throat and said, “Japs were firing armor-piercing shells. Not enough to do real damage.”

  “That may be, but we took some hits that got our attention,” said Donovan.

  “I didn’t mean it that way, sir,” said Lamar.

  Donovan waved a hand. “No. What I meant is that, yes, we were lucky, but there’s nothing you can do when those things tear into you. It was a real slaughterhouse.” He paused. “I lost twenty-three men.”

  “I know,” said Nimitz.

  “And I’m sorry to report, Admiral, Richard Kruger was one of them.”

  Nimitz’s right eye blinked. “I didn’t realize that.”

  “There were twenty-two others. We buried... we... “ Donovan raised his cup and drank.

  “Maybe we can take this up later,” said Nimitz. “After all–”

  “–buried them at sea. Two more guys died en route to Ulithi and we had to do it again the next day. Can you believe that? Two funeral services in two days? We got pretty good at it.”

  The clock ticked.

  “I’m sorry. That came out wrong,” said Donovan.

  Nimitz said, “That’s okay. We have three of your boys at Aiea and they seem to be doing okay.” Once the Matthew had pulled into Ulithi, they flew out three seriously wounded to the Aiea Naval Hospital at Pearl Harbor.

  “That’s good to hear, Admiral. I plan to go over there this afternoon.”

  “Good,” said Nimitz. “The tough part about your job is writing the letters.”

  “Yes, sir. I did that on the way from Ulithi, and it wasn’t easy.”

  “Never is.”

  Donovan leaned forward. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What were we up against out there, Admiral? I mean, do we know how many Japs there were?”

  “Best we can tell, the flyboys counted four battleships, six cruisers, and about ten destroyers.”

  “Holy smokes. And so what happened?”

  “The Japs turned tail and headed back to the San Bernardino Strait. That’s what happened,” said Nimitz.

  “Good God,” said Donovan. “Pardon me for being the devil’s advocate, but what in the hell for? They had us by the you-know-whats.” He downed his coffee.

  “More?” asked Lamar.

  Donovan looked at the cup, realizing that he’d drunk it all. “You bet. Thanks. Thanks also for the Thanksgiving turkey. Lieutenant. Nothing like a taste of home.”

  Lamar nodded. “No, sir, nothing like it.”

  Nimitz continued, “The battle off Samar will be one of the great unanswered mysteries of all time. I’m sure naval warfare schools will study this one well into the next century.”

  “Amazing,” said Donovan.

  “Best as we could tell, the action of the tin cans and the aviators confused them and essentially drove them off. And then Bill Halsey was coming back hell-bent-for-leather. So we figure they wanted to get back through the San Bernardino Strait before Halsey showed up and shut the door.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Donovan.

  Nimitz nodded. “In war, can you ever find a situation where all is in place and yet nothing goes exactly as predicted?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet, Admiral,” said Donovan.

  “Neither have I,” said Nimitz. “But what astounds me is the way you all reacted. When the order came to attack, nobody flinched. Nor did you bitch or scream or protest or write your congressmen. You just did it. You charged into the face of overwhelming odds. I’ll repeat what you just said. Amazing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you know we lost the Johnston?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or the Hoel and the Samuel B. Roberts?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you know the Japs sank the Princeton, the Gambier Bay?”

  “I heard about the Gambier Bay.”

  “Later that day, a kamikaze got the St. Lo.”

  “Kamikaze?”

  “It’s what the Japs call a suicide attack. They intentionally crash their planes into ships. All of a sudden, they’re doing it in an organized manner.”

  Donovan nodded. “I’ve seen that, Admiral. We were plane guarding for the San Cristobal when she got hit.” He explained what had happened. But he didn’t mention the souvenir he recovered from the wreckage of the Japanese plane.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to see a lot more of it. They’ve lost all their trained pilots, so this is the best they can do.”

  “Hideous.”

  “Yes, it’s a dirty business. But so far, we’ve given far more than what we got.” Nimitz ticked the Japanese losses off on his fingers and finished with, “The Jap fleet is done for, thanks to you.”

  “That’s nice, sir. But the men deserving the thanks are still out there.”

  “You know, I hear that all the time and I appreciate what you’re trying to say. But dammit, you do deserve our thanks and you damn well better be prepared to accept them, especially when you get back to the mainland and mingle with civilians.”

  Donovan sat straight. “Yes, sir.”

  Nimitz continued, “For example, we’re awarding Ernest Evans the Congressional Medal of Honor. I’m proud to say I endorsed that recommendation this morning.”

  “That’s great, Admiral. From what I know, he deserves it,” said Donovan.

  Nimitz stared at the rattan carpet.

  Lamar said softly, “Posthumously, sir. Commander Evans didn’t make it.”

  “Oh,” said Donovan. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you know him?” asked Nimitz.

  “Met him a couple of times at skipper conferences. We nested with the Johnston once. They were a great bunch.”

  Nimitz continued, “There’ll be Navy Crosses for Rear Admiral Sprague, commanders Copeland of the Samuel B. Roberts, Kintberger of the Hoel, Hathaway of the Heermann, and a whole slew for those brave pilots. Some of them had run out of ammo and were making dummy runs to draw the fire from planes attacking with real ordnance.”

  “Yes, sir. They did that right over us. Never seen anything like it. Saved our bacon two or three times.”

  “Right.” Nimitz downed his coffee and sat forward.

  Time to go.

  “Can I put my two cents’ worth in, Admiral?”

  Nimitz stood. “Certainly.”

  “I’d like to recommend two of my boys for the Silver Star,” said D
onovan.

  With Makalapa in tow, Nimitz walked to his desk and fussed with papers. “Who?”

  “Ensign Jonathan Peete and Lieutenant Commander Richard Kruger…uh…Kruger posthumously, of course.”

  Nimitz threw a rugged glance, then said to Lamar, “Art, will you please excuse us?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lamar walked out.

  What the hell have I done? Donovan remembered the last time he was alone in Admiral Nimitz’s office. He’d almost passed out. Suddenly, he felt like that now. Except this time, he didn’t have a leaking appendix. He wondered if he should start faking malaria again.

  When the door closed, Nimitz asked, “Have you forwarded your recommendations to COMDESRON 77?”

  “Yes, sir. Larry Fox approved them, and they’re back on the Matthew. You should have it in tomorrow’s pouch.”

  “I want to ask you a question, Commander Donovan. But you don’t have to answer it.”

  “Do my best, Admiral.”

  “You’ve recommended Lieutenant Commander Kruger for the Silver Star.”

  “Yes, sir, and Ensign Peete as well.”

  Nimitz folded his hands and asked, “Would you also recommend Kruger for command?”

  Donovan felt like a brand-new salvo of three gigantic shells from a Jap battleship crashed into him. He ran his hand through his hair.

  “Commander?” prodded Nimitz.

  Donovan looked up. “Admiral. There’s no doubt he and Ensign Peete saved the ship. Had he not gone back there and acted quickly, it’s likely we all would have been killed. But…”

  “But what?”

  “But my dilemma is just that. I told Richard not to go back there. I told him to stay at his GQ station – CIC. I told him we needed someone to back me up in case I was incapacitated or killed. He wouldn’t do that. Like many times before, he had to go hands-on and do it himself. And like a damn fool, I let him go.” Donovan slowly shook his head. “Chances are, that torpedo would have gone up if he hadn’t gone back there with Peete. And then we’d all be dead.” He looked up. “But if you put it like that, Admiral, no, I’m sorry. I know you were friends, and I’m probably scuttling his memory when I say, no sir, I wouldn’t have endorsed Richard Kruger for command. I’d put it like this. You can take Richard out of the engine room but...”

  Nimitz finished it for him, “...but you can’t take the engine room out of Richard.” He nodded. “I agree. What a horrible thing to say after he’s gone. Yes, Richard was a great engineer. He saved me many a time aboard the Augusta, just like you.” He looked up. “You’re going to see Vicky?”

  Donovan exhaled. “First chance I get, sir. Actually, that’s a letters I plan to deliver in person.”

  “She’ll appreciate that.”

  Donovan nodded.

  “And Mr. Peete? Nimitz asked.

  “I have to say, that kid is really game. We picked him up two hours later after getting things under control. He’s a good swimmer and his life jacket kept him up. He had a broken leg and two broken ribs and was nearly a drowned rat when we pulled him in. He refused to be shipped back from Ulithi so we brought him home. They gave us a bunch of penicillin which helped take care of him and the rest of our wounded. Pretty good stuff, I’d say.”

  “Miracle medicine of the future,” said Nimitz.

  “Yes, sir” Nimitz stood and extended his hand. “Give Mrs. Kruger my best and please ask if I can do anything. And of course I’ll endorse the Silver Star recommendations for both of them. Please forward them on to me as soon as possible. Perhaps you’ll be able to deliver the medals in person.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to do that. Thanks again for the ice cream and the turkey. My boys will sure love it.” Donovan bent to grab his cap.

  “Oh, one more thing, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re being recommended for the Navy Cross, too.”

  “Good God.”

  Nimitz laughed. “No, it’s just me, Chester Nimitz. Now go on out there and fix your ship. And go home and get married. Just make sure you bring her by when all this nonsense is over.”

  * * * * *

  Donovan met Al Corodini at the officers’ club for lunch. After dessert and coffee, Corodini stubbed out a cigarette and heaved his bulk from his chair. “I bailed our lads out of the brig.”

  Donovan rose beside him and raised his eyebrows.

  Corodini grabbed his hat. “The Hollywood Club in Pearl City. Bunch of cruiser sailors fresh from Mare Island singled out two of our boys. Yelled at them as being from Matthew the Motionless.”

  “Who were our guys?”

  “Would you believe it? La Valle and Potter?”

  “Potter!” With difficulty, Donovan suppressed a smile.

  Corodini laughed, too. “They fought back to back. Took six MPs to take ‘em down. Damn near wrecked the place. Mirrors busted, furniture wrecked, the whole shebang.”

  Donovan looked the other way, his grin growing wider.

  “Lotta damage, skipper.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Gonna cost the welfare fund about twenty-five hundred bucks.”

  “Worth every penny,” said Donovan.

  Corodini gave an exaggerated, “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Go on Al, get out of here.”

  “Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “No thanks, I have a jeep from the Admiral’s car pool.”

  “Well, la-di-da,” Corodini rolled his eyes. “See you later, Skipper.” He walked out.

  At the desk, Donovan exchanged a ten-dollar bill for nickels and dimes. Then he waited for one of the three phone booths in the lobby. He couldn’t help but watch a young ensign through the glass of one of the booths. The towheaded man pulled a handkerchief, dabbed his eyes, and blew his nose several times. Finally the accordion door sprang open and the ensign walked out, stuffing a handkerchief in his pocket.

  He’s off to the war zone. Godspeed, Sailor.

  He slipped in, dialed the operator, and drummed his fingers for two minutes while the operator made connections. His heart jumped when he heard, “Roseville Community Hospital.”

  The operator said, “Commander Michael Donovan calling person to person for Dr. Diane Logan, please.”

  The receptionist put the call through and someone answered, “East Wing.”

  The operator repeated, “Commander Michael Donovan calling person to person for Dr. Diane Logan, please.”

  “Oh! Commander Donovan. Yes, please, oh, yes, hold on. “ Her hand covered the phone. Then she said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Logan is just finishing surgery, she’ll be available in ten minutes.”

  Donovan said, “Tell her we’ll call back.”

  The operator relayed the message and then asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Donovan thought for a moment and then said, “Yes.” He pulled out a black address book and gave a phone number and extension at the Twelfth Naval District in San Francisco.

  “Also person to person?”

  “Let’s try station to station this time.” He clanked in his nickles and dimes.

  “Yes, sir.” Static ranged on the line as she dialed the number.

  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, Donovan mused. Never a better time to put things right. He sat back waiting, sorry he hadn’t done this a long time ago.

  The phone began ringing.

  Something caught his eye outside the booth. “Good God!”

  It was Mario Rossi wearing dress khakis, shiny commander shoulder boards, full campaign ribbons,–even his purple heart – and combination cap. With folded arms, he grinned and chewed gum. I stand relieved, Sailor. Great job.

  Donovan jumped to his feet and gaped out the window. “Mario!”

  Rossi stood right on the other side of the glass. I’m done holding your hand, you crazy mik. You’re on your own from now on. Good-bye. Rossi walked off.

  “What the hell?”

  Rossi spun suddenly. And congratulations on getting engaged.
She’s gorgeous. Enjoy your rings. I’m glad Carmen gave them to you. He grinned. And she’s a doctor yet. He threw a hand in the air. It’s obvious you’re marrying above your level, you stupid mik! La dolce vita, eh? He grinned, turned, and walked away.

  Donovan pounded the glass. “Mario, for crying out loud!”

  The phone crackled, “What? Who is this?”

  “Er, what?”

  “This is Lieutenant Commander Sabovik. Who’s calling?”

  Donovan cleared his throat. “John, it’s Mike.”

  EPILOGUE

  There are no fifes and drums up at the front. You beseech alternately God and the Devil to help you. But they don’t. In a war, both are so busy. Why does God let it happen? You ask. You want to reproach Him for it. But it was not God [who] let it happen. He gave man freewill, the liberty even to wage war. A thief or a murderer cannot reproach the police because he is a thief, or a murderer. Nor can you reproach God because there is a war.

  The Beast Regiment

  Sven Hassel

  In anguish, we uplift

  A new unhallowed song:

  The race is to the swift:

  The battle is to the strong.

  John Davidson

  EPILOGUE

  25 October, 1994

  Highway 78

  Two miles west of Julian, California

  The black Mercedes-Benz E 300 drifted easily through curves on the two-lane road, Walt Donovan confidently letting the car’s suspension do the work. Apple orchards, gurgling steams, and sun-drenched meadows flashed by as the sedan accelerated down a straightaway.

  In the backseat, Diane Donovan stomped her right foot to the floor and shouted, “Walter, dammit. I’d like to live a few years longer, if you don’t mind.”

  Sitting beside his wife, Mike Donovan glanced at his son’s eye roll in the rearview mirror. “He’s doing it on purpose, honey,” he whispered.

  “Shhh,” she said.

  Walter said, “Sorry, Ma. This thing gets away from me from time to time.”

  Bullshit, figured Donovan. Walt loves his toys. He has a Ferrari at home in Pacific Palisades and he probably wishes he were driving it now on this fine backcountry road.