Pacific Nocturne, 1944

by Don DeNevi

  In the final 90 minutes of the flight, the closer the Flying Fortress approached the West Coast of the United States, California and its principal city of San Francisco, with McClellan Field only 25 minutes of descent flight time away from touchdown, the more impatient and excited the passengers became. Surprisingly, a significant number were subdued, even sullen. Peter, a psychologist, understood the dynamics of anxiety of suddenly being Stateside, a rush of home life and activities overwhelming the man in direct proportion to the length of his absence. And, entering one’s hometown or city, the familiar sights, food, noises, horizons and skylines, and the welcomed sights of streets, trees, parks, schools, hospitals, theaters, churches, traffic corners, businesses often suddenly restrained, even stultified, rather than release pent-up emotions or fulfill longing. For some, coming home, even for only a short visit, could be cruel or joyous.

  But not for Peter, and his new friends. Although no one would admit it, all five were a bit giddy.

  Just then, wind-driven elephant-size clouds, accompanied by thunder and lightning, burst open, unleashing a deluge of thick, heavy raindrops that pummeled the B-29, slightly swaying the massive steel and aluminum bomber.

  “Oh, hell!” someone sneered. “Looks like we gotta land in this. No fun. Not a proper welcome for five courageous fighting like us.”

  “I agree,” someone else added, “hate massive downpours and even hate more the lingering showers. Doesn’t help morale.”

  “Won’t last,” interjected Peter, “I already see sunlight streaking through the broken clouds there to my right.”

  Then, almost as quickly as the thundershower unleashed itself, the storm was over, the clouds dissipating, or simply evaporating. The late-afternoon sun seemed to engulf all the northern world of California with magnificent bright yellow-orange colors some 10,000 feet below.

  “Land ahoy!” shouted a pilot from the Superfortress’s cockpit over the intercom system.

  And, sure enough, far, far ahead of the aircraft was the historic, six-year-old, Golden Gate Bridge, one of the world’s most remarkable engineering marvels. Basking in the late afternoon sun, the new span not only represented America’s genius of engineering and construction, but also superb planning at the financial level to pay the high cost of the achievement. As applauding erupted accompanied with shouts and yelps of joy, hand-shaking all around, and laughter, much of it nervous, followed by a shed tear or two, the feelings of well-being saturated everyone.

  Wheeling slowly, less than 200 miles per hour, like a massive winged pterosaurs reptile, the popular plane gradually settled on a course straight to McClellan Field, less than 100 miles away in the northern San Joaquin Valley. Already, the pilot was calmly requesting landing instructions, which he assumed would include a downwind approach. Although Peter was born and raised in nearby Stockton, less than 60 miles away, and knew the San Francisco Bay Area well, he had never seen the area from that height and perspective.

  He was captivated by the unlimited cloudless visibility. To his right, as the “Flying Fortress” soared over Alcatraz and Angel Islands, were the cities of San Francisco and, across the Bay Bridge, San Pablo Bay, Richmond, Berkeley, the Oakland Army Base, Alameda Naval Air Station, Hayward to Newark and San Jose.

  Then, almost immediately, Peter felt a slight vibration and he realized descent had commenced, and once over Mount Diablo, within minutes, the McClellan runways could be seen. Within a moment the B-29 “Superfortress” was entering the 3,000 acres, 3.3 million square feet of the USAFF Training Airfield, a major Command responsible for training pilots and aircrews of swift fighters and heavy bombers.

  As the “Superfortress” continued its long descent, reaching the B-29’s minimum decent altitude, and maintaining the aircraft in level flight, it was less than three minutes from the runway. Peter, gazing out his small window, and enjoying the slow, smooth approach, saw more than a hundred maintenance buildings, several dozen steel hangers, and innumerable machine shops in various clusters throughout the huge base. Little-used emergency landing fields dotted the areas in between. And alongside of them were flimsy, temporary warehouses.

  Within seconds of touchdown well beyond the midpoint of the 4,000 feet long strip, four engines began to soften their heavy burbling, the dull sound of a bump and its accompanying shimmying signaled a successful landing. When the taxiing was complete, and the four supercharger engines switched off near the main airport, the flight was over. Everyone aboard again broke out in spontaneous clapping and cheers, Peter joining in. But to him, it meant even more. There was an exhilarating sense of deliverance, first to feel the gradual decent, then hear the landing gear released, followed by the sound of the impact of the drop.

  Peter’s only disappointment upon being back home occurred as he stepped down from the Superfortress: the suffocating, broiling dry heat of the western San Joaquin Valley in late August.

  For some of the officers returning Stateside, being home wasn’t the remedy for the emotional turmoil of recent combat.

  Although Peter’s parents, grandparents, and extended family, as well as the proud city of Stockton, California were just beyond the horizon to the southeast, he was consumed by an inexplicable sadness.

  Why was he occasionally preoccupied with the final utterance of the Mad Murderer? Did he miss a fact or clue, as to the identities of the Mad Ghoul? Was a third murderer involved? Whatever was operating at his unconscious level, he was irritable, anxious, depressed, and agitated.

  Now, however, he was faced with the immediate reality of “What happens now?”

  Among the first to emerge from the B-29’s fully pressurized main cabin and disembark down the wheeled up stepped ramp, Peter felt the full force of the searing dry 115-degree heat. From near-perfect comfort to miserable, debilitating heat, he was near wilting until he heard, then saw, a large number of greeters, friends and relatives, well-wishers in a large mob, crushed and confused, beyond the tarmac within a fenced area near the baggage claim area. A dozen yards from the cabin ramp, a group of high level officers, all grey haired or balding officers with bronze furrowed faces, most holding files or satchels, waiting patiently. Each had a job to do, and the sooner the better. Sprinkled among them were a few Army Nurses (ANC) and Women’s Army Corps (WAC) officers, and several Red Cross young women with trays of fresh doughnuts, pots of steaming coffee, and decanters of cold orange juice.

  Then, the depositing of the B-29’s cargo of officers began. Every one of the travelers was exhausted. With packed gear, shoeboxes tied with string, small cartons and assorted bags, canvas and otherwise in hand, each officer descended the aluminum steps and quietly lined up in a queue. There was sorting out to be done by the McClellan Field administrative staff prior to release and transportation assignment to respective assignments. As those queued up waited patiently to be processed and released to the crowded fenced-off outer yard, the five pilots of the Superfortress walked past clutching their baggage of personal belongings. Not a word was spoken as spontaneous clapping began, an applause lasting a full minute as the embarrassed pilots simply raised their thumbs in pleased acknowledgement.

  Despite the pervasive heat, Peter, as exhausted as everyone else, was pumped up, especially when a small Army Air Force band among the greeters behind the fence began playing Glen Miller’s, “In the Mood”; the song made famous by the Andrew Sisters, “Don’t Fence Me In”; and “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”, sung by a young Red Cross teenager atop a large wooden crate. Such big band music usually appreciated in the barracks was certainly welcomed as the officers were processed. But when the band, minus a number of key instrumental players, began playing Irving Berlin’s 1918 composed “God Bless America”, beautifully sung by another teenager, undoubtedly still in high school, did the usual inviolable, Peter feel a tear or two run down his cheek.

  With scarcely a backward glance at their friend, the famous Flying Fortress of World War II, everyone scattered in varying directions with those awaiting their arrivals, many
headed to base offices, others to the nearby parking lots.

  Peter, standing on the street curb outside the small terminal, had no idea, not the faintest inkling, what to expect next. His plan was to quietly open the confidential envelope with what felt to be a single sheet of official military stationery in the presence of the Military Police Captain or Lieutenant he expected to meet. If he had questions, they could be answered by whoever welcomed him. But no one was there to greet him! Neither an envelope, written message, telegram, nor a simple phone call. He decided to reenter the terminal and request a lift to Base Headquarters.

  With a slight touch of anger, Peter, with his duffle bags in hand, turned and stepped toward the terminal entrance, when, suddenly, he heard a the honking horn from a Command staff car, with a second Buick following.

  As Peter abruptly turned, and the initial car pulled up to the curb where he had been standing, waiting, an officer, colonel in rank, jumped out and asked, almost frantically,

  “Lieutenant Peter Toscanini?”

  “Yes, sir!” Peter answered, turning around with an appreciative grin.

  “Whew! Hoped we hadn’t missed you!”

  “I’m relieved you arrived, whomever you are, colonel. I was on my way back into the…”

  “Well, we were delayed. We had an urgent order to await the latest word from your key contact in the assignment you are to undertake.”

  As he shook Peter’s hand, he introduced himself.

  “I’m Colonel Stuart Paige from the Marine Garrison Forces, Pacific. Mine is currently the 6th Company, Force Special Troops. Our sole duty is to guard Japanese prisoners of war captured by all services at the Iroquois Point Stockade at Pearl. We were formed just this past March. At the end of next month, September 30, I’m reassigned to return here at McClellan Field from the Canal to command all Stateside Provisional Military Police companies, detachments, and platoons formed on various American bases. We’ll headquarter here at McClellan in this inferno of the San Joaquin.”

  Just then, a hefty, medium-sized, middle-aged officer with a kindly face and gentle gestures and movements approached with his trailing adjutant clutching a clipboard.

  Colonel Paige said, “This is Captain Harry Wallace of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway who reports to the Officer in Charge of the Passenger Section of the U.S. Army Transportation Division. Following him is Lieutenant Edward Irby of the Southern Pacific Company of the Military Railway Service.”

  As Peter awaited the punch line, his new assignment, he noted the unmistakable tone of urgency. Everyone was in a hurry due to a sense of major importance.

  “We must leave immediately, Lt. Toscanini. You are to catch the SP all military train out of Sacramento to Los Angeles. Since we had no time to cut your orders and travel papers, Captain Wallace will accompany you to a point south. I will leave you at the Southern Pacific Station in Sacramento. I’ll read your orders to you in the staff car on the way. You are not to have a copy; it’s that confidential.”

  “Wow. Can you at least tell me where I’m going?” Peter asked slowly, quietly.

  “Why to the Rohwer Relocation Center in McGehee, Arkansas, of course!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  -

  On to McGehee, Arkansas

  Stunned, amazed, enormously pleased, Peter gasped, “Huh?”

  “With all due respect, lieutenant, get in the damn car. We’ve got to move, if we’re to catch that all troop streamliner.”

  Somewhat in a shock of awe, Peter shoved his bags into the passenger side of the front command car next to the driver’s seat and climbed into the backseat with Colonel Page. Captain Wallace and the two adjutants entered the second command car.

  Within a moment, the two Buicks were driving at the maximum speed limits of the McClellan Airfield toward the Base’s easternmost exit that led to Highway 580 and, beyond, some dozen city blocks, to the Southern Pacific Railway Station.

  For Peter, the experience of seeing the massive base, one of only three in California capable of accommodating B-29’s required 4,000-foot runways, was a joy in itself. Although he was born and raised less than 50 miles away in Stockton, he had never once stepped on the McClellan grounds, let alone toured the facility. He knew of its remarkable reputation as not only an instructing airfield born out of the need for to train skilled single-engine fighter pilots in the last year of World War I, but also as a staging area for transportation of as many as 30,000 troops at one time.

  Past row upon row of two-story olive drab colored barracks, they sped, leaving Peter in a trance-like state. McClellan was as monotonous as the Pacific. As the funnel through which fighter and bomber pilots poured into to recently captured Pacific bases, the site wasn’t chosen for its beauty. Only a few miles from San Francisco Bay, it was selected because it was large enough for the advance aircrafts of the future.

  “Well,” chuckled Colonel Paige, “Aren’t you going to ask any questions?”

  After a moment of reflection, Peter, still observing the layout of the base, said weakly,

  “I’m a bit embarrassed because I believe I just peed all over my seat. Rohwer is the one place I want to go on this earth, just about now. How on earth did you fellas know?”

  “What an uproar of logistical managing and planning by a number of high officers in diverse important offices to get you to some placid, dull, podunk Arkansas small town. And, having to read every communiqué, starting with ‘For Your Eyes Only. Destroy Upon Reading’. You certainly are V.I.P. to get there without delay.”

  “I’m on a 18-day furlough, most of which is to be spent with my finance at the Rohwer Relocation Camp in the Vicksburg Engineering District guarded by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.”

  “Yes, I heard she is a Nisei.”

  “What? You people know all this? How so? Why?”

  “O.K. I can tell you all I know. When you return from visiting ‘Joan’. You’re going to be on a streamliner just moments from now all the way to McGehee, Arkansas. After visiting with Joan, three days, you’ll board another train for the nine-day return trip, but to Stockton where you will spend three days at home with your parents. At that point, your 18 day furlough will end and, on the morning of the 19 day, we will pick you up at your parents’ home to report to me at either my McClellan or my Oakland Army office for final instructions and deployment.”

  “Where?”

  “The Camp Elliott brig outside San Diego. You’ll be going into it as a prisoner in an undercover operation. It seems that in that stockade, an inordinate, an excessive number of killings of Marine inmates, some of our boys simply disappearing. Your job will be to find out what’s going on without you being murdered yourself. You’ll be all by yourself, you and the killer, or killers, who are reportedly the guards and officers themselves. Somehow, you are to learn if there is an unmarked burial ground of Marines, supposedly cremated remains in the brig’s ovens. Not one officer, will know, absolutely no one will know who you are and you’ll therefore not have anyone to lean on, to call for help, aid, or assistance.”

  “What proof do you have such murders are going on?” Peter asked quietly, wide-eyed.

  “None, or we would have made arrests and closed it. But, rumors have persisted for almost a year now due to a significant number of unexplained dead, dying, and unaccounted for, and deaths from so-called, supposed, ‘inmate fights’. Almost 24 deaths within one year! By going undercover, you’ll see for yourself. When you report to my office upon your return from Arkansas, you’ll be permitted to read all the reports, observations and analyses. We’re in the process of creating for you a file of information on who you are, your crimes, sentences, and where you served time. It will follow you into the stockade and brig. You’ll arrive at Elliott aboard a prison bus with inmates from numerous other western states, but you’ll be the one from Oakland. The only help you’ll have will be a phone number that you’ll be able to access, of course, 24 hours a day. These are only a few of the aspects we’ll go over
when you return and are ready to assume your assignment. Upon the success of this project, there are several other assignments awaiting your expertise.”

  “I’ll be ready, Colonel Paige, and will work with you accordingly upon my return. I understand why I cannot be provided paperwork to peruse and study. So, I must remain patient until I return. But can you tell me who, and what agencies and officers were, logistically involved in the nightmare my furlough caused?”

  “That information is undoubtedly restricted, although no one has indicated it is not. I will tell you, Peter, if you and I have an agreement that the information I share will not be provided to anyone else lest the superb coordination allows insight about the special methods we use in joint - participation operations among agencies.”

  “Yes, you have my word.”

  “Well, in each area headquarters, like mine for Northern California back at McClellan, blackboards keep commanders like me informed on carefully monitored Lieutenant Peter Toscanini’s movements. Apparently, your assignment changed twice during your journey here, including the one I received less than an hour ago. The Army Transportation Office in San Francisco has ultimate jurisdiction over your safety, security, and success of arrival. I don’t know who those officers are or who’s overall is responsible for you between Pavuvu, Rohwer, and McClellan. Upon touchdown, I received a radiogram you had safely arrived. I immediately informed the Transportation Command Centers in Honolulu and San Francisco, adjunct offices of the Army Transportation Office. Both offices carry the authority equivalent of the highest authority, other than the Chief of Transportation Troop Movement, Division of Special Services in Washington, D.C. The detail desk there is who I’m in regular contact with, and, believe me, Major John Dunne and Lt. Colonel George Barney, like the tub of fat, Captain Wallace, in the car behind us, are old, hard-boiled, ignorant gruffers, puny to say the least, who make it all the more tedious and difficult.”