by Don DeNevi
After a minute or so of reflective silence during which Ellen studied Peter’s lowered facial expressions, every muscle flexing in incensed passion at the government’s evacuation of more than 115,000 or so good, decent, proud people to cold, lonely barracks of deprivation and despair. He was thinking of the photo of an elderly Issei, perhaps 80 or 90 years old, in her black overcoat and black hat standing in an empty Tanforan, California, racetrack horse stall with only straw on the floor, straw soiled with horse urine and manure. The look on her sad face was of bewilderment and anguish, as if to ask, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’”
Then, after a moment longer, Ellen watched Peter’s quiet rage engender a grin. He smiled,
“If a 442nd Regimental Combat Team for Nisei women is formed, Joan will be the first to volunteer, and lead it.”
Again, a short pause.
“So,” continued Peter, “her bravery is one of the first reasons why I came to love her so much. But, obviously, Ellen, my feelings, my emotions, go much deeper than her bravery. And, it’s even more than that she loves me so much that makes me love her even more. To me, Spanish Philosopher Ortega Y Gasset expresses it best why men often fall in love. I was always looking for written words to say what was in my heart. Reading his “On Love--Aspects of a Single Theme,” which Gosset wrote in 1927, I found the closest words yet. He described beautifully Lord Nelson’s love for Lady Hamilton. It’s how I felt for Joan. Then, he introduces Orlando, a highly intelligent man, but not an intellectual. Regarding intelligence, writes Gasset about Orlando, his mind reacts to happenings with a certain sharpness and precision, Orlando tells Gasset since that he’s always involved in sharpness and precision, he is apt to fascinate over the ‘hidden deer in a woman’. That is, the more of a man one is, the more he is filled to the brim with rationality. Everything he does and achieves, he does and achieves for a practical reason. A woman’s love, that divine surrender of her ultra-inner being which the impassioned woman makes, is perhaps the only thing, which is not achieved by reasoning. The core of the feminine mind, no matter how intelligent the woman may be, is occupied by an irrational power. If the male is the rational being, the female is the irrational being. And that is the supreme delight, which we find in her! Do you get it, Ellen?”
“No.”
“I’m going to have to go in another minute, but will walk you back to your room. You know, don’t you, I will be on duty tonight to catch the Ghoul. But, before we go, let me say that it’s Joan herself, her very core, her intrinsic femininity, her truly deep mystery, her often-silly irrationality, her wondrous womanhood, her eternal maidenly, her unconscious wish to be matronly, her natural effeminate side that drives me into her arms.”
“Can’t any woman give you all that?”
“Freud and other psychoanalysts say any of, maybe, half a million.”
“Could I be one of those 500,000?”
“If Bill and Joan weren’t in the equation, you bet your life you would. But, enough now, Ellen, I must walk you back. I have work to do.”
With that, they both stood up, brushed off the sand, and, after Ellen folded the blanket, walked back to the hospital barracks where Ellen’s quarters were located.
“Aren’t the stars wonderful?” asked Ellen, gleefully, but softly.
“Yes,” responded Peter, glancing up into the sky, but obviously preoccupied. “Are you going to meet Bill? The movie has probably just started. It’s only 70 or 80 minutes long.”
“No, not tonight. I’ll rest for tomorrow’s big day. I just hope the noiseless ghost leaves us alone tonight and tomorrow.”
Peter, walking alongside, didn’t respond.
Armed Marines of various grades, alone and in small parties, hurried by, on their way to Pavuvu by way of the pontoon bridge.
“How many long hours do you expect to work tonight? You have to rest up for tomorrow, too,” Ellen implored.
“Oh I know,” responded Peter glumly. “Sleep is the least of my thoughts. This night might have no end, if a dead Marine turns up.”
Bonfires of gas-soaked litter had been started, illuminating the 1st Division Headquarters and the general hospital next door.
“Golly, I hope I don’t have to substitute for someone on the night shift,” Ellen breathed more to herself than to Peter.
“Yes, I hope so, too. A huge day coming up tomorrow.”
“I so want to be fresh for whatever assignments I receive. It’ll be in and around the open space of the amphitheater, I’m sure. Wish it would be close to the stage. Our captain is trying to arrange the nurses’ schedules so that all of us are on duty to watch the performance.”
“Well, I’ll look for you since I’m sure I’ll be with Del Barbra and Guidi circling throughout. Don’t you enjoy the peace and quiet when everyone is asleep in the ward?”
“Oh, I hate night duty. It’s more disconcerting than any of my duties. It was quiet and peaceful before the Ghoul showed up. Now it’s eerily quiet, thinking the Ghoul is behind everything, ready to pounce on anyone in the wards. Then, when you look into the neighboring jungle, all you’re able to see, if you have an imagination, are evil things.”
“Yes, all because of the Ghoul.”
“And, if he wasn’t on the loose, I’d be right back down there to your ‘private beach’. You and Bill don’t know this, but I have had a little dory, a flat-bottomed fishing boat with high sides, hidden yonder through the grove on the bluff above the beach not far from the old copra warehouses and docks of the plantation. My first boyfriend here in the Russells and I used to dive off the end of the coral blocks of the long jetty which extended from the first of the six warehouses.”
Listening intently, Peter asked, “But aren’t there crocodile nests near the berths where the coasters and copra boats used to dock?”
“Yes, but it didn’t bother us since no one ever went there because of the crocs. We actually repaired an old half-sunken dory. He patched it up with oakum and tar he found the Japanese left behind in one of the warehouses. He and I would row out in the channel with a bottle of wine he got from the Navy medical corps over your way. With the stars overhead, we’d swim, drink wine, and swim until curfew. Often, we would just watch the sun go down in the west. The crocs never bothered us and we never bothered them. Their main nests were among the patches of the mangroves. Occasionally, we would enjoy the bitter-tasting milk from the green coconuts he would cut down.”
“Sounded like fun. Who was . . . ?”
For all her nonchalance and bravado, Ellen’s chin began to quiver, slightly from fear, mostly from a general, uncontrollable anxiety. But she neither flinched nor lowered her head. She reached over and up, placed her arms around his neck, and allowed herself a single, soft whimper.
Nearing the general hospital’s covered ramp during the day that functioned as a verandah, Peter was pleased the sentries for both headquarters and the medical facilities had been tripled. All were heavily armed, as were those circling the adjacent military installations and low buildings and barracks. Within the surroundings, all was quiet, and the atmosphere heavy. Everyone they encountered was gloomy. Few words, if any, were exchanged. Wounded or ill Marines were strolling singularly or in two or three party groups, their heads bowed.
With silver-white stars sparkling overhead, and a cluster of motionless coconut palms forming a canopy, Ellen abruptly pulled Peter off the walkway under it. Looking up into his face, Ellen said quietly,
“I’m leaving you tonight for tomorrow. You and Bill should know that after tonight, I will no longer be able to live without you two easy-going, handsome guys, both of whom have little bone and absolutely no muscle, yet high intelligence, infinite kindness, courage, and old-fashioned, decent respect. And, on top of all that, both of you are nice.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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“Any Murders Tonight?”
With Ellen well on her way to either rare white sheets on a cozy cot, or to learn which hospital ward she would subst
itute in, and Bill enjoying the remainder of “Call Out the Marines”, Peter, flashlight in hand, hurried back down the road leading to pontoon bridge. Lanterns and drum bonfires helped illuminate the way. Although fuel was not necessarily in shortage, it wasn’t wasted on Banika. If the Mad Ghoul was to kill that night, he would not strike in the dark.
With a backward glance and a hand wave at Ellen as she smiled and waved back entering the hospital, Peter was surprised to see a jeep slowly rumbling down the road toward him from the general hospital parking area. Seeing it was Lieutenant Toscanini, the driver pulled up alongside.
It was the multi-denominational chaplain, Reverend Wilfred Pinoe, with a large grin on his face.
“Well,” chuckled Peter, “Looks who’s just come to rescue me from a long walk to Pavuvu, no less than a Minister of God, the clergyman of all clergyman with the ever - so -slight lisp!”
Pinoe had to laugh,
“Aw, get in. I walked over here to visit the sick in the various wards. Now, that I’ve borrowed the jeep from the motor pool, I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”
As Peter climbed into the front seat of the Jeep, Pinoe stretched his leg out to the floorboard in order to retrieve the Zippo lighter in his khaki pocket, then fumbling with it to light a cigarette. A big black Lincoln sedan leftover from the plantation owners and hidden from the Japanese occupation force in early 1943, passed by with 1st Division commander Major General Rupertus in the back seat with an unidentified officer.
Turning back toward Pinoe framed in the brief blaze of the Zippo lighter, Peter saw that the chaplain was pale, worn and somehow older.
“I’m so exhausted,” Pinoe confessed. “Working, counseling and praying with more than two dozen recovering riflemen leaves you a bit short of breath.”
Peter, to stimulate the clergyman, was friendly, conversational, and commenting on the activities along the way to the bridge. Natives, under bright portable lights, were still being supervised by officers in clearing away underbrush where the Ghoul might hide near the road, as well as cutting down tall coconut palm trees for new warehouse material.
Driving along the embankment near the bridge, Peter was surprised how well lit the permanent warehouses were, again to eliminate as much darkness as possible. There were permanent structures, well maintained, and guarded by highly disciplined sentries. Dozens of hastily built sheds, and larger ‘wattle and daub’, flimsy, badly paint-splashed, plywood frameworks harboring piles of crushed coral, extended beyond on unpaved roads.
“Where can I drop you off?” Pinoe queried.
“Don’t exactly know. Better drop me off at the Captain Del Barbra’s second office in the Pavuvu administration unit. Tonight, I’m roaming all over the island on my own, probably with Sergeant Guidi. So is the captain. We may not catch or kill the Ghoul tonight. Meanwhile, there are two with whom I want to spend some time, my mentor, Brigadier General Earle Maxwell, and Dr. Stuart Schneidermann, the new psychiatrist for the 1st Division.”
“And, you, Wilfred? Grueling, I bet. Marines think chaplains have the easiest, lightest gig-work. But, you fellas, are really unsung heroes.”
“God Bless you, lieutenant. You are one of the few who sees it, except for the men we serve. Right now, we have some 6,000 chaplains in the combat theaters, with another 3,000 on their way to sustain and promote wartime chaplaincy. The Office of the Army Chief of Chaplains is doing all it possibly can to ensure every military man, American or not, has access to someone of God to talk with. Makes no different if the soldier or sailor is Catholic, Jewish, Lutheran, Baptist, Protestant, Northern Methodist, Mormon, Christian Scientist, Greek Orthodox, Buddhist or whatever he is, that trooper will have an open door to a man of religious teachings to comfort or assist him.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Peter said softly. “But what denomination, or particular religious body do you belong to and preach about?”
“Lieutenant, we are all men of faith, religious freedom, religious liberty. For example, evangelicals and Mass-attending Catholics have the freedom to practice their faith while in combat. But I am available, night or day, any hour, to listen and help. That’s our clear message, and that’s why I answered over here on Banika this afternoon.”
“War, and all the tragedies it brings... “ Peter breathed quietly.
“Such a dastardly thing,” echoed the Reverend.
As the jeep slowly drove down the slope to the pontoon crossing, Peter glanced at Pinoe who was lost in thought as he firmly clutched the steering wheel. Two terms crossed his mind--selflessness and unity. Selflessness, because this man of God was a helper, a genuine caring helper. Unity, because his kindness was natural to his personality. Simply put, he was a loving man. And, as a loving man, his entire being was devoted to fixing broken hearts, broken minds, broken bodies.
At the pontoon crossing, a captain was in the process of unravelling a traffic jam of several dozen dump trucks hauling crushed coral from one of the Pavuvu beach hollows to the dock warehouses. He motioned for the jeep to cross against the oncoming traffic. Peter, who knew the captain, suggested they wait until he waved all the trucks across so that they could learn the latest deployment information for the night, as well as any rumors about the Ghoul that surfaced during the afternoon. But noting Pinoe’s weariness, Peter merely stood up in the slowly moving jeep and waved, the captain waving back in acknowledgment.
Reaching the edge of Tent City, Pinoe pulled up, paused, and Peter jumped out.
“I’ll catch up with all my people in and around here. You going back to the chapel?”
“Yes, until daylight, then back to the hospital on Banika. But I’ll cross back for Bob Hope. Wouldn’t miss that for anything.”
“We can call you later tonight, if we need you.”
With that, Pinoe drove off to the car pool to return the jeep, while Peter began to search for any officer he could find. A sentry greeted him, asking for identification. Then he explained that the Ghoul was still on the loose, and that the Russell Islands were temporarily considered a combat zone. Consequently, all officers were on duty and the Officers Club was off-limits. A voice on the Tent City PA system loudly announced that the curfew would begin in 30 minutes and all Marines except those pulling the night’s first assignment had to return to their quarters. Under no circumstance was anyone to appear on the grid’s roads, alleys, or public places.
As he slowly roamed the periphery of Tent City, Peter was impressed with the discipline exhibited by all aspects of the 1st Division. No one, including naval and Army personnel in the medical units assigned to the wards, displayed a relaxed attitude, or routine-as-usual mentality. In addition to being heavily-armed, everyone was in combat fatigues, helmets or caps in place, insignias clearly in view according to regulations, troops saluting snappily, and words spoken only when necessary.
“These men,” Peter thought to himself, “loathe the Ghoul more than they do the Japanese.”
Although Peter encountered just about everyone he knew, he was in no mood to discuss anything. That included with Dr. Stuart Schneidermann, the new 1st Division psychiatrist, and Brigadier General Earle Maxwell, the officer he respected and trusted the most. Strangely, his thoughts that long night fluctuated between his beloved fiancée, Joan, and the eyes of the murdered in the base morgue, and their young faces, of yellow pallor.
As Peter walked past extra troops hurrying to position themselves around both ends of the pontoon bridge, he was jarred into the realization that he would soon collapse from exhaustion. The Ghoul, Joan, and Ellen were taking their emotional toll on the young lieutenant.
By 1:00AM, and not a hint of murder from any quarter in the entire Russell Island group, and with an enormous day about to begin in less than five hours, Peter decided to trek his way across Tent City to the second office of Captain Del Barbra in search of a cot and a blanket. He would gladly sleep in his clothes if he could close his eyes for a few hours.
Every step of the way to Captain Del
Barbra’s office, Peter’s thoughts were of Joan. How he yearned to hear her voice and giggle again, her melting gaze of pure emotion. Now, at this hour, he knew he could very easily love Ellen. But it was Joan he would marry. She would bear his children and live her life with him. Ellen, hopefully with Bill, would be their lifelong friends.
Irrespective of the emotional thoughts bringing him almost to his knees, Peter was being gnawed by undefined, unexplainable doubts--would the Mad Ghoul ever be identified? Could the multiple - murderer be a USMC officer? Were the clues so apparent everyone was oblivious to them?
As Peter reached the crest of the slope and the triple-guarded annex of Division Headquarters, he turned right toward the well-lit general hospital which by its extension overlooked all Pavuvu. He virtually bumped into an advanced guard of four submachine gun-carrying Marines accompanying the 1st Division commander.
Following the guard which quickly placed itself in strategic protective firing positions were Major General William H. Rupertus; his Assistant Division Commander, Brigadier General Lemuel C. Shepherd; and Chief-of-Staff, Colonel LeRoy Sims. Three additional Reising - wielding Marines followed the party of seven.