Pacific Nocturne, 1944

by Don DeNevi

  “Your mind, what?”

  “ . . . is interested in the dark forces in man’s mind, especially the mind revolving from evilness. It’s a minor confusion in me caused by simultaneous conflicting feelings. Like I don’t understand me, I don’t understand him. But if I have an ounce, even a speck, of courage in me, I’ll solve one and fight to the death the other.”

  “Well, young psychologist who yearns to understand the criminal mind, let’s take a moment to look at what you have to deal, with, because it may well be the Ghoul, the Choker, or an immaculate-looking officer, or replacement officer, is a member of your own medical corps.”

  “Maybe. Regardless, whether an old combat-weary veteran who lost his equipoise, his self-possession, he will go about his duties, his daily work, in a deliberate manner, without ever looking up. There will be no superfluous energy exhibited, not a hint of intensity, all a show of singleness purpose. Not that he’s acting to fool us, but because that’s who he exactly is.”

  “Sounds like some of our surgeons,” interjected Sergeant Guidi.

  “Possibly,” reflected Peter.

  “Well, we sure have enough of them around here. Just yesterday, I had to sign off on a Cross Reference Memorandum from the Inspector of Medical Department Activities, Pacific Ocean Area, to the Commandant of the 14th Naval District, with copies to the Command of the South Pacific Force, CinePac and CinePoa. It dealt with our Fleet Hospital 110.”

  “Well, what the report tells me is that not only are replacements flooding Pavuvu, but also the wounded, the disease-ridden, the mentally ill. I’ll bet Mrs. Oscar Del Barbra’s panties the murder - mad multiple murderer is among the huge number of recent arrivals.”

  “Hmmm,” Peter sighed. “How many? You may be right. Sneaks out of his hospital bed, murders, then returns to his quarters or tent area. That may be why we haven’t seen him disappear into the jungle. But, I’m curious. How many infirmed do we have on the island now?”

  “Our new Pavuvu Base Hospital #110 has a normal capacity at 1,000 beds. We can expand to another 400, if we want to. As of this morning, we have 600 occupied. #110 is responsible for everyone on the island, Navy, Army, and Marine, for those on the ships in the harbor. It also has to care for the casualties evacuated from the more forward areas. And, here they seem to stay. Over 100 of our men have been ready for evacuation to the States, but the transportation is meager. Otherwise, we have no problems. Our hospital is considered to be excellently administered and adequately equipped. Our standard profession service has done well for us! We now have attached to us 59 nurses, a number considered excessive. Our #110 is basically Task Force huts with high concrete floors which allow for better ventilation. The operating center and X-ray room are well-dispersed. Arrangement of the huts for the two facilities are considered exceptionally good. Still another distinctive feature of our hospital is the unusually thoroughly precautions taken to safeguard the nurses against prowlers. The nurses’ compound is surrounded by a high wire camouflaged fence with the addition of electrified wire. In spite of these precautions however, prowlers have been caught in the premises around the compound. My hunch is that The Mad Ghoul is one of those doctors or surgeons from that hospital area. For some reason, the nurse in the dumpster was murdered on purpose, not at random. It was an easy killing for him.”

  “And, a civilian nurse at that.”

  “What?” asked Peter surprised.

  “One of our hired civilian nurses, a Hawaiian one,” the captain shot back.

  “One of Ellen’s best friends is from the Hawaiian Islands. Will ask her tonight after supper if she knew the young woman. But, I wondered why so many of our women here look like they are from the Pacific Islands.”

  “Well, by December of 1942, a little more than a year after Pearl Harbor, we only had 23 American hospitals, several of them the 100-bed mobile unit kind mounted on trucks,” Oscar started to explain.

  “Yeah, and thanks to my mentor, Brigadier General Earle Maxwell, the Australian manufacturer, began creating prefabricated ones out of plywood and Masonite that could be transported and delivered by cargo craft.”

  “Well,” the captain continued, “also in short supply were medical staffs of all varieties. Since war broke out, we’ve consistently been 5% below authorized. And, nurses in particular have been in demand. Every hospital is 15% understrength, including ours. So, the need was such our military was forced to go out and hire the closest girls they could find - - those from the Allied Islands, mostly the Hawaiian Islands. And incidentally, the same goes for the ‘doctors of the mind’, the psychiatrists. But, as we sit here now, the 1st Division psychiatrist is now on duty. Have you met him yet? Dr. Schneidermann arrived a few days ago and is busy providing expert diagnoses.”

  “I heard a little about him, but that indeed he is at work. I have yet to meet him. I’m anxious to. Was he at the meeting this morning?”

  “Yes, in fact he was in the first row.”

  “But, by your reasoning, a new base hospital, innumerable doctors and surgeons to choose from, and now the murder of a nurse, with more to come . . .”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Well, at least, you may have narrowed down who to look for. After all, surgeons are officers capable of approaching trusting sentries. What’s your plan, captain?”

  “Well, you’ll be included when we sit down to plan a trap, day after tomorrow.”

  “Day after tomorrow? He’ll surely kill tonight or tomorrow night. Why wait?”

  “Division Commander Major General Rupertus has been ordered by none other than Secretary of the Navy, John L. Sullivan, to accommodate, accompany, and protect, none other than Bob Hope and his entourage. During a one-day stay, they will entertain our troops on Pavuvu tomorrow afternoon, and Banika tomorrow night.”

  Peter was utterly speechless. So much so, in fact, the talking, laughter, and chit-chat of hallway and adjacent office activities reverberated throughout Del Barbra’s office. As the captain smiled and studied the lieutenant, he could see that he suddenly became grim and lynx-eyed. Now, he was dark, tense, and concerned. Peter was not pleased.

  “My God, what better place for a grand finale, a splendorous magnificent setting for homicide by a chameleon. God only knows what the dark matter in his mind will summon up. Use of an ax?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  -

  “Bob Hope? You’re Joking!”

  For a matter of minutes, neither of the men spoke. Peter was stunned. Del Barbra’s keen-sighted eyes under thick eyebrows never left Peter’s face.

  Finally, the lieutenant who had been gazing out the window in reflection, said soberly,

  “A murder - mad Marine on the loose killing his own and you have, of all people, Bob Hope, Jerry Colonna, and several ladies of Hollywood walking around to make us laugh? Are you making a joke?”

  “Oh, I hear you, lieutenant…simply put, we catch or kill the Ghoul tonight before Hope and the entourage fly in tomorrow afternoon.”

  As Peter chuckled warmly, Sergeant Guidi entered the office and, approaching the captain’s desk, announced, “Lieutenant Colonel Worthington is coming down the hall.”

  “Been waiting for him. Glad the lieutenant is here to hear it all. You better pull up a chair, too.”

  Turning back to Peter, the captain smiled,

  “You know, Frank, don’t you?”

  “I certainly do. One of the best of men.Alongside of Division Commander Rupertus, Assistant Commander Shepherd, and Chief of Staff Sims, you couldn’t ask for a better Battalion Headquarters Commander than Worthington. Other than my hero mentor, Brigadier General Earl Maxwell of Medical, there is no Marine more near perfect. Some of us have dark heroes as their life-long teachers, others have mentors with unsavory records and backgrounds, and some have no heroes at all. Both of the men I’ve selected to serve as my exemplars certainly have their fair share of warts and blemishes. But all I see are two kind, gentle Marines of persistent, resolute, indeed, fierce, defiant
, brave, courageous personality traits.Now, a whole lot of Marines around here have those qualities, including you, captain. But what makes them special, and, really, you, too, you old rummy, is your quiet gleam of empathy for the captured, sick, ill Japanese soldier who would just as soon atrociously shoot us in the foreheads.”

  “What’s wrong with being Bacchus? And, I do agree with you about both Marines. No wonder you’re the Medical Corps’ coxswain in analyzing the criminal mind.”

  Of course, Captain Del Barbra knew both Maxwell and Worthington well, agreeing with all that Peter had said. Neither officer tolerated fellow officers who liked whisky or enjoyed the concomitant of easy living while serving in combat. Neither was reckless, daring, or frivolous when it came to ordering men into combat. Neither was the least bit intimidated by swarms of “banzai” charging troops, or the continuous pings of bullets spattering all around. Neither officer knew any other occupation other than the corps, each a skilled marksman in the use of all light weapons. Each knew how to read men, regardless of rank, whether their psychological masks were on or off. No wonder, reflected Del Barbra, the young, highly intelligent lieutenant would gravitate to the Lieutenant Colonel and Brigadier General.

  With Worthington pausing a few moments to converse with Guidi who returned to the anteroom, Peter continued,

  “I’ll drink half a small glass of red wine to that, Bacchus. I’m the first to jump up and shout, ‘Welcome to colorful, enticing, strangely beautiful Pavuvu, for an excitement of a lifetime. But not this moment, Mr. Hope. We have a little problem we’re struggling to solve--a skillful butcher knife slaughterer of human meat frolicking every which way.”

  “Didn’t realize that on top of being a future psychologist of the murdering - mind, you were also a funmaker. “

  “Seriously, military police friend. If for an hour or so, we can protect Bob Hope to bring our bone-weary a few simpers, smiles, smirks, grins, giggles, guffaws, chuckles, titters, cheers, hurrahs, hoorays, shouts, yells and old-fashioned joy, jubilation, and hallelujah, I’m all for it! But suppose the Ghoul being one of us has the same access we have to the entourage, and he puts a blade through Mr. Hope’s eye, we’ll have a public relations disaster of unparalleled proportions, not just in the States, but throughout the Allied world. No comedian is more adored or revered. I’ve seen his last five films myself, for goodness sake. Fiasco? The 1st Division will have to answer at the very least to 10 million moviegoers, to say nothing of all the other military personal stateside he’s brought a little jubilation to.”

  “Well, that’s Frank’s problem. As for me, I’ll be with Hope every moment he’s here, from the moment the he steps off the plane to the moment he gets back on. The title of his first book or next movie might be, ‘I Had A Great Desire to Pee in The Pacific’. Here’s Frank now.”

  “Hello, gentlemen,” greeted Lieutenant Colonel Frank R. Worthington, Unit Commander, 1st Division Headquarters Battalion. He was a fine soldierly-looking officer, tall, calm, with a modest appearing face, a slight provoking smile suggesting kindness of heart, yet force of character. He was muscular and obviously strong.

  Peter immediately stood up, saluted, and offered his hand.

  “Always a pleasure to be in your presence, sir,” smiled the lieutenant.

  Shaking it firmly, the Lieutenant Colonel returned the smile, asking,

  “Catch the killer, yet?”

  “No, sir,” chuckled Toscanini, “but we will. So help me God, we will.”

  “I know, Peter. That’s why we look to you to unofficially lead the task force to get him. Any clues whatsoever?”

  “Only that he must be an officer to approach and close in on the sentries murdered, despite their being heavily armed. He is either an officer in khaki or posing as an officer.”

  “Well, keep me informed, preferably every few hours. The Marine Corps, or any branch of the service, for that matter, has never been faced with such an internal horror. And, now, with a VIP and his team arriving tomorrow?”

  “Makes me very, very nervous, sir,” interjected the lieutenant.

  “Me, too. But let’s take a look at this thing, so you can share the information with those who should know.”

  “Our recreation officer was informed by a summons from Commander Rupertus to report to his office by 0600 this morning. Since Shepherd and I were already in our respective offices, we were called in. None of us knew what it was about. Bill said he had just sat down at his desk when he received a teletype of the highest priority that Bob Hope agreed only hours earlier to perform on Pavuvu this afternoon before his performance tonight on Banika. We were both surprised and pleased. ‘Wow!’ was our first reaction, then remembered we’re in the middle of a murder spree. By midnight, our time, Secretaries of the Navy, past and present, Frank Knox and John L. Sullivan, had notified the President they were going to sign off approving the request promising Roosevelt the highest security would be in place. Hope said he’d like to meet the multiple - murderer because he might be related to Bing Crosby. Furthermore, he wanted the killer to know he didn’t mind being a victim as long as his handsome face was left intact.”

  Del Barbra and Guidi laughed softly, as Peter smiled.

  “So, this has gone all the way to the President’s office?”

  “Yes. Roosevelt said he had no problem with Crosby heading for Pavuvu, since he was a solid Democrat. But, as for Hope? A Republican? The Japs might be so infuriated Tojo would personally lead a landing assault.”

  Everyone laughed loudly.

  “Apparently, when told the Relax and Refit men on Pavuvu had nothing compared to the luxuries of Banika, he insisted on performing. He said something to the effect, ‘50,000 Marines to watch us perform? When Crosby’s ventriloqials will generally mobilize, maybe 5, lemme-at-em!’”

  Again, loud laughter from Del Barbra and Guidi, and a smile from the lieutenant.

  With that, Peter added, “Unless needed, I’m off to the hospital morgue. I need to examine the murdered. Was he killed by someone right-handed or left-handed? How tall was he to form the thrusts of the wounds, etc.”

  “No, lieutenant, do what you have to do. We’re going to review our safety and security preparations on Pavuvu for the performance. I’ll be roaming Tent City tonight. We’ll catch up then.”

  “I’ll be among the hospital wards, but will seek you out, unless you want to tour our arrangements there.”

  “I’ll see. Be prepared to attend the 0700 meeting tomorrow morning for the final summary.”

  “See you then!”

  With that, Peter hurried off, past Guidi with a nod and smile, and down the hall through the half-hysterical activity of headquarters, and out onto the front concrete porch. There, a mid-afternoon bright blur of shimmering light greeted him. Below, his rapid eyes swept the spread of Pavuvu, its bay and dock, crops of coconut palm trees, warehouses, utility facilities, armored vehicle lots, and the vast Tent City of the 1st Division. Farther out was nothing more than oceanic solitude. He had to hurry, since he would cross to Banika after examining the dead; then, after chow, a brief respite with Bill and Ellen, followed by a double back to assist in patrolling for the Ghoul.

  Descending the steps, Peter walked toward the new Base Hospital #110, past the fresh landscaped plantings and their rustic fences. Off to his left was the medical supply depot, the dispensary, and the four-celled stockade for neuropsychiatric cases.

  Within the base hospital, amid the steady luminous light heat, Peter walked down the hall filled with numerous hospital personnel past the wards of patients with malaria, dengue, various skin disorders, hernias, infected wounds, appendectomies, etc. Since the Solomon and Russell Islands suffered heavy flooding from inordinate summer rainfalls, various sections of hospital #10 were inaccessible. Entering the staff workroom and lounge, Peter immediately noticed the large refrigerator box morgue next to the embalmer’s chamber. It appeared unaffected by water damage. The five cadavers, four Marines and a civilian nurse, lay naked
awaiting dissection should the Division assign a coroner to determine the need for autopsies. Low, incandescent lighting lit the interior of what the medical staff referred to as the “ice box”, projecting eerie shadow images amid the dead.

  Since not a single murder weapons had been located, Peter quietly observed the sharp force bloodstain patters on each of the bodies for unusual significance. Atypical stab wounds, attacker handedness and frontal positioning, direction, penetration, order of wounds, etc. yielded a helpful overview of injury variables and death interpretations from sharp-edged weapons and their effects on the body. from a recent lecture Peter attended, he recalled two salient facts in stabbing murders: (1) The minimum safe distance from an unknown assailant wielding an edged weapon is 21 feet; from a known assailant, less than six. (2) Most homicidal slashings occur from behind, and, (3) screwdrivers are usually the murder weapon of choice, with two deep stabs accomplishing a death.

  For a moment, Peter reflected on the beginning of pathology science as a subspecialty of medicine in murder investigations in the late 1880s. In 1890, a city ordinance in Baltimore authorized the Board of Health to appoint two physicians as “Medical Examiners” to conduct all autopsies upon the suspected murdered. Twenty-five years later, New York City eliminated the coroner’s office and created a medical examiner system to investigate all deaths resulting from criminal violence. Systematic efforts at managing death investigations by a medical examiner was less than 30 years old.

  In the ample visibility, Peter studied each of the dead, recording notes and necessary surface anatomy, anterior and posterior blade thrusts for the external post-mortem findings submitted to the Judge Advocate, or legal officer, in Honolulu. The early afternoon hours flew apace. Noting the penetrations, punctures, wounds, and their depths and widths soon sickened Peter. Breathing heavily, he was laboring under powerful emotions. His weary face was a pallid gray, analogous to those of the victims.