The following is an excerpt from John Gobbell's new book, A Call to Colors: A Novel of the Leyte Gulf, published by Presidio Press.

22 August 1944
USS Matthew (DD 548)
Moored Mare Island Naval Shipyard
Mare Island, California

There's something in the air when a ship is about to get under way. On the surface, one could call it a brittle tension combined with the thrill of going to sea. But far beneath, there have been hours of preparation, refueling and reprovisioning, the meticulous lighting off of boilers, bringing up the generators, the energizing of the ship's gyro and electronic equipment. Awakening from her “cold iron” state, she becomes a living, breathing thing. Vents and exhaust blowers howl around the ship, providing fresh air inside. Uptakes in her stacks whine as boiler tenders raise steam, and perhaps lift a safety valve once or twice, the noise an ear-racking hiss heard for hundreds of yards. On board, raw heat radiates from her decks as one feels the vibration from pumps and motors whining within her, sending life-giving steam or electricity or hydraulic fluid throughout the ship. Inside, the odor of steam and condensation and hydraulic fluid combine with the morning pancakes and eggs, giving an unmistakable sense of purpose and direction. She's alive and, in a way, exerts her own will, tugging at her docklines, anxious to get to sea.

With an hour to go the ship is ready, and then they wait. Everyone seems to stand around, bored. And yet they're not. Massive tonnage underfoot is about to move and almost everyone -- from machinists mates to boiler tenders to enginemen, boatswain's mates to line handlers, quartermasters to signalmen, radarmen to radiomen, is part of getting her safely away from the dock and into the element for which she was designed. Men fidget with cigarettes and lighters, some spill coffee, others sniffle and blow their noses while pacing the decks, waiting for word from the bridge to do something. Inevitably someone runs about on a last-minute emergency; a rush for something -- anything -- stark anxiety. Novices, officers and enlisted, pace up and down, oftentimes asking inane questions. The pros stand back, their eyes darting everywhere, quietly double-checking, making sure everything is right.

* * * * *

Donovan sat in his day cabin waiting for them to finish their jobs. He'd been waiting nearly all night and had only two hours' of sleep while keeping track of the repair jobs. Sloan was a bit more ingenious than resorting to the midnight auto supply in the tempting form of the USS Bridges across the way. Tomorrow was Tuesday, a payday, and Sloan walked to the supply center to draw currency to pay the crew. Normally he would take a storekeeper to carry the satchel full of cash. Both would be wearing .45 pistols strapped to their hips. This time, he took six of the tallest, burliest boatswain's mates, suited them up in dress blues, leggings, and duty belts, and strapped .45s to their hips. After drawing the cash, Sloan and his entourage marched over to the main-base supply office. Crowding around the desk of a thin, balding supply corps lieutenant commander, they exacted all the parts from him as requested, the man's eyes popping at the hardware crowding his desk. The parts were aboard by 1700, and they began installing them. The engineering jobs were finished by 2300; the gyro alteration was going nicely but, due to tedious calibration procedures, was not slated to be finished until early morning.

Donovan turned in at 0015. He read for a while, then rolled over and flicked off the light. But his eyes were fixed to the bulkhead. He slept for an hour, then awoke sitting bolt upright in his bunk, sweating.

Fire.

He felt heat and choked on smoke and cordite while flames seared his flesh. Then the ship started capsizing, men pouring out of the engineering spaces below. Some were scalded, their skin blistering horribly all over their bodies. Their mouths opened to flattened ovals as they screamed. Except he couldn't hear their silent screams; he could only see their faces.

“Stop!”

He jumped from his bunk, padded over to the wash-basin and rinsed his face with cold water. He was almost afraid to go back to sleep, so he took the chair and put up his feet, listening to the sounds of the shipyard, well into the third shift. Diane had held him in her arms and rocked him that night. He wondered if he could have a pure moment like that again with her, trusting, giving. My God, he realized. Not only had she patched up his abdomen, she'd played a role in stopping the nightmares. Except... they hadn't stopped entirely. And he knew he couldn't go to sea like this. He'd be a physical wreck after two or three nights.

It grew light and he stood to look out the porthole. Fog. He couldn't see more than a hundred feet. Now, ain't that a pip?

He showered, shaved, and got dressed. Then he had breakfast sent in: powdered eggs, which tasted like cardboard, and greasy bacon. After a few bites, he sat back and drank coffee, aimlessly flipping pages of an impossibly thick technical report.

Special sea detail was set at 0730 and he longed to be out there, looking over his ship. Making sure all was ready. Becoming part of her. But as captain, he had to step aside and give them their heads; let them work out the kinks. Let them learn. That's what Mario had done, and Donovan could do no less. He owed it to them.

He turned back to the report. It was labeled TOP SECRET and laid out new specifications for modifications to the mark 63 fire control radar system, which unfortunately had been installed under an obsolete procedure, a minor embarrassment for a new Fletcher-class destroyer that was supposed to have the best available. But he couldn't concentrate. He was simply killing time, flicking pages, waiting for the knock.

It came at 0752.

“Enter.”

Wearing parka and binoculars, Burt Hammond, the operations officer, stuck his head in. “Ship's ready for sea, Captain.” Hammond was officer of the deck for special sea detail.

“All respects?”

“Yes, sir. Boilers one, two, three, and four are on the line. So are generators one and two. Main control requests permission to shift from shore power to ship's power?”

“Granted. Now, how's the gyro?”

Hammond crossed his fingers. “It's spinning, Captain. Yardbirds are finishing calibrations and are wrapping it up. Should be gone by the time we shove off.”

“The fuel-oil service pump?”

“Done.”

“Starboard ram?”

“All set.”

“... and the main feed pump?”

Hammond's face darkened. “Mr. Kruger reports it's ready to go.”

“And where is he?”

“Down in the hole, Captain,” Hammond said off handedly.

The executive officer belonged in combat information center during sea detail, watching the plot. “Who's in CIC?” Donovan asked.

Hammond looked at the deck, kicking aside an imaginary piece of dust. “Mr. Talbert, sir. He's the CIC officer.”

Donovan glanced at the bulkhead clock: 0754. “Very well. I'll be up in a minute.”

“Yes, sir.” Hammond closed the door.

Donovan yanked the phone from the bracket and punched MAIN CONTROL .

“Kruger.” Turbines and the cacophony of a number of whining pumps shrieked in the background. Kruger would have a finger jammed in his unengaged ear, Donovan knew.

“Dick, it's Mike. What are you doing down there?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sea detail. You belong in CIC,” said Donovan. Outside he heard the 1 MC 23 click on. The bosun's metallic voice echoed throughout the ship. “First call, first call to colors.”

“I'm sorry, Captain, this is where I've always been.”

“Where's Corodini?”

“Right here. You want to speak with him?”

Donovan hadn't spoken with Corodini since he'd ripped him apart in the wardroom yesterday. “Not at all. I want you in CIC.”

“But who's going to take care of main control?”

“Mr. Corodini. That's what we're paying him for.”

Kruger paused. A loud horn bleated in the background. “Captain, we're not entirely certain of this main feed pump.”

“Then tell Corodini to get on it. It's his job, not yours.”

“Sir, I really think we should--”

“CIC, now, Mr. Kruger. I don't care if you're in your overalls or in your underwear. Get up here and let Corodini handle main control.”

“But Captain--”

“For crying out loud, Rich. How do you expect the man to learn his job with you hovering over him? He'll figure it out. And if he doesn't, we'll fire him and get someone else. Now get up here. That's an order.” Donovan jammed the phone in its bracket, stood, and looked out the porthole. He didn't know if Kruger realized it, but he really needed his XO up here. It was foggy as hell. He couldn't see more than a hundred feet.

Once again, he splashed water on his face and patted dry with a towel. Leaning close to the mirror, he saw that his eyes were red. In fact, he looked as if he'd been on an all-night drunk.

Hey, crazy Mike. Time to be captain.

Shut up, Mario. Grabbing his foul-weather jacket, he opened the door and stepped into the passageway.