The Guardhouse Murders

by Don DeNevi

  With the slight turbulence easing the thinning clouds slowly fluttering away, the Pacific in all its shades and hues clearly visible and enhanced by the magnificent sun, the C-47 began its descent.

  The heavy fabric door of the cockpit swung open and co-pilot Jeremy Coldwell; tall, sandy-haired, and brown eyes, walked down the aisle past the forward officers’ cabin to the main paratroop jumping area. With his 6’2’’ superbly built, somewhat stocky frame, a dozen feet in front of Peter and Larry, he announced,

  “Everyone, your attention, please. We’ve begun bringing the 47 down for an approached landing outside the ancient, historic port city of Novmea on the southern tip of New Caledonia, once known as the Loyalty Island. If you look out the windows to your right, you’ll see the jagged, rocky elevations and green valleys. You can even see the high tree-covered slopes of the high mountains rising majestically above the horizon.”

  Glancing around the cabin at all the passengers, he noted one heavily-bandaged man sobbing with another Marine, arm around the rifleman’s shoulder, comforting him. No one in the cabin, respectfully, paid any heed to the sobbing man.

  “All of you were snoring loudly around 0100 this morning when we dropped down for a 45 refueling landing. The stopover was so silent and uneventful that not one of you yawned or lifted an eyelid.”

  “Our landing now, requiring at least six hours, maybe longer, is due to a failure in the instrument panel. Nothing serious, but for us to continue to Hickam, the damage has to be addressed.”

  “We’ve radioed the field. For those who prefer to rest, a transient barrack is near the airfield to sit, read, or sleep. For those more ambulatory, we’ll have a bus ready for a tour of the historic city and a late breakfast or early lunch at the main hotel. You’ll appreciate our ships of the Pacific Fleet massed in the harbor. Especially interesting is the huge airfield where not only the hundreds of A-20 Havoc’s, A-24 Dauntless, and B-17 Flying Fortress are all lined up in neat, evenly spaced rows, but also the so or so newly-arrived superfortresses. Remember, this base at Noumea in New Caledonia, less than 460 miles from Henderson is the home of the 60th Air Depot Group supplying all our bases.”

  With the monotonous drone of the C-47’s twin engines softening, interrupted with sharp supportings, for the landing, the co-pilot abruptly turned away and quickly returned to the cockpit. In that moment, with the fabric door open, Peter overheard the navigator remind the pilot, “We’re over the airfield now. As you circle for the landing, remember how tricky this one is. You’ve landed here before, right? You know there’s a sheer drop from the end of the runway to the ocean. You have to set your wheels down pretty sharply. Fortunately, we have good flying and landing conditions. It won’t be difficult. Just hope the landing gear doesn’t get stuck.”

  With Peter and Larry crouched forward with bated breath, the C-47 within seconds, seemed to glide in its perfectly smooth landing.

  “Well, private first-class, we’re in Noumea. Let’s take the tour of the town and base rather than nap in the transient barracks.”

  With maintenance running on the field toward the plane, Peter could hear someone in the control tower ordering the aircraft to a special maintenance hangar to repair the instrument panel.

  “PFC,” Peter commented cheerfully, “You were too busy looking across me through the window to notice that as in any island the C-47 flew over the island and ‘landed’ in the harbor.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Very interesting. Because the crosswinds of all, or at least, most, islands are such you usually don’t land on water. We flew around the New Caledonia Islands and came in and landed by way of the harbor instead. That was good since the cliff was in front of us and ahead, blindly. Anyway, we’re here. And, I hear from the cockpit the tower telling the pilots how and where to tread to get to the repair shed or the shelter for aircraft.”

  Gazing out the window again, with the young Marine having pulled the Navy blanket over his head again to fall back to sleep, Peter smiled. The ocean cold sullenness he remembered on New Caledonia was not present that day. From where he sat, Peter sensed the air outside the aircraft was warm and usually calm. He had been there when a hurricane, usually unpredictable, always violent, hit the Fiji Islands to the east, then New Caledonia, and finally petering out over New Zealand. It had been the worst weather experience of his life.

  Now, the world was bathed in the beautiful sunlight of the South Pacific Ocean, and with the absence of bad weather and the journey thus far uneventful, Peter was somewhat at peace. He would enjoy the layover, especially observing the enormous quantities of supplies needed to conclude the island assaults in the Pacific prior to the invasion of Japan, and the intense assemblage of “warbirds”, perhaps as many as 3,000. Such a concentration of offensive planes, bombs, bullets, and other munitions and equipment had never occurred before.

  Now, the C-47 was waddling through the Noumea airfield’s intricate system of taxiways toward the maintenance hangar behind a string of bright, shiny new liberators. Parked wingtip to wingtip along the runway were squadron after squadron, group after group.

  “No question,” said Peter, more to himself than Larry Angelo, “This island the Japanese desperately wanted has become our largest rallying point in the whole Pacific. When I was last here, it had one crummy crushed coral runway. Now, overnight, it’s become gaudy, showy, and an armed force no enemy can contend with. And, of course, all the pilots are no more than kids, like this little fart sleeping next to me.”

  “Hey, I heard that,” shouted the PFC, again curled up under his blanket in a prone position.

  Peter laughed softly.

  “If you’re awake and sitting up, I’ll want to tell you a few things about this part of the Pacific. We’re taxiing toward the repair hangar and buses to take us on a tour.”

  All about the runways and taxiways were heavily-armed sentries carrying carbines and .45s, their uniforms a hodge-podge of everything from standard dress and gear to helmets, Marine corps fatigues, long-billed flight caps.

  “Look, private first-class, to my right. A formation of 14 P-38 fighters revved up, waiting their turn to lift off. Where they’re going, they’ll be firing and bombing later tonight and returning in the wee hours of tomorrow morning. And, look, behind them, lined up ready to follow, are at least 50 Thunderbirds. All of em’, cocky, demanding, pushed little toy airplanes, wouldn’t you say? Further back are B-24’s, C4-6’s, C-54’s, B-25’s, and PB4 Y-2’s. Wow!”

  After a few moments, Peter said, “We’re here, boy. Buses waiting for us, ambulances waiting for the men on the stretchers.”

  As everyone disembarked, sorted by name, directed to the proper waiting bus, and instructed where to return, Peter was the first to climb aboard, sitting in the front opposite the driver, overlooking the step-up entrance, PFC Angelo following behind him and taking the seat next to him.

  “Well, here we are again, private first-class, waiting. ‘Hurry up and wait’; ‘Hurry, hurry up and wait, wait.’ No matter how you mouth or tone it, you’re waiting.’”

  Larry smiled and said nothing.

  “Well, since we’re waiting, let me tell you what our route will be from here to Hickam. As pointed out by the co-pilot, the distance from Henderson to Hickam is 3,632 miles, normally two fuel stopovers. Last night, apparently, it was an emergency to drop down to Espirito Santo in the New Herbrides. From Henderson, 640 miles from Espirito Santo to Noumea, 455 miles. Then, once we get to Hickam, no more stopovers for refueling to Hamilton Field near San Francisco, 2,402 miles away. Hamilton is the home of the 38th Reconnaissance Squadron and 30th Bombardment Group.”

  “How do you know all that crap?”

  “Just a personal challenge to my brain. It’s fun. Want to know how many miles from Hickam to Anchorage, the seaport in southern Alaska, another of our important Naval bases?”

  “No.”

  “4,500 miles.”

  As Peter and Larry remained silent, gazing out the front w
indow, lost in thought, wondering about the delay, one of the other nine ambulatory passengers in the silent bus could be heard uttering,

  “Darn!”

  Peter understood and smiled. He turned and smiled at the heavily-bandaged Marine. Then, glancing at Larry, he said,

  “Since we’re still sitting, private first-class, let me tell you some interesting features about Noumea.”

  “No need.”

  “Well, unless you’d like to hear about some of the cute things I did as a little boy, I’ll tell you about this great, great city. First, it sits at the southeastern portion of New Caledonia Island about 930 miles from New Zealand. The first European to ‘discover’ the island was Englishman James Cook in 1774, who named it New Caledonia. Caledonia is the Latin word for Scotland. He apparently didn’t inquire as to what the natives who were already living on the island called it. In 1849, an American ship named the Cutter was wrecked on New Caledonia, and the survivors were the victims of cannibals they encountered on the island.”

  “Wow! Never knew that. Valuable knowledge to use in killing Japs.”

  “Now, there is the topic I shouldn’t tell an innocent, naïve kid like you…”

  “Aw, please tell me. I’m not that pure.”

  “OK. But you are not to act, I repeat, you are not to act on what I tell you. Give me your word, your solemn promise on your mother’s heart, your grandmother’s heart. Do you vow not to follow up on it?”

  “Certainly. Do I look like the type of youngster who doesn’t keep his word?”

  “You sure do. But I’ll risk it. I didn’t know anything about this place at the time. All I knew is that getting here meant two more weeks on that damn ship with that damn Mae West and two bad meals a day. But away we sailed from San Diego, and, sure enough, two more weeks later we sailed into the harbor of Noumea. And for the first time since leaving stateside, they let us off the ship. They didn’t give us liberty--which meant that we had to be back on the ship.”

  “You were on a ship? I thought you were a Marine? Why were you on a ship?”

  “How do you think the 16,000 Marines of the 1st Division got to Guadalcanal to kick the Japanese off? By bus? By balloon?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I suppose we did leave Camp Elliott by boat, didn’t we? When my unit came through this port in ’43, I didn’t get off the ship.”

  “Why?”

  “I slept the whole time our troop ship was in the harbor.”

  “Well, in my case,” Peter continued facetiously, “I didn’t care. I got off that ship as fast as I could get. And when I stepped off it, it was the first time my feet had ever touched foreign soil. The first thing I discovered about this place was something that the more experienced sailors already knew about, and that was the local businesses catered to soldiers. And the world’s oldest profession was alive and well in Noumea, with doxies just waiting for sailors who’d been on a ship for two months. Now, they wait for dumb Marines.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen a whorehouse, and I had no idea what it was when I first saw it. It was built on stilts--the actual house must have been fifty feet in the air--and there were women hanging out the windows calling down to us. One of the guys with me had to explain what it was. None of us could get liberty, though, so nobody took advantage of the place. Especially, me, a good Catholic altar boy.

  There was a difference between shore leave and liberty, and when you were the one getting off a boat, it was a huge difference. Shore leave meant you were off the boat, but you were still technically on duty. For us, that basically meant that we weren’t allowed to do anything men might like to do after being on a ship for so long. Liberty, on the other hand, meant you were free to do what you wanted, within reason. Of course, if you broke the law, you were going to get hauled in by the Military Police. But as long as you obeyed local laws and kept your nose clean, you could do things like visit any number of whorehouses in Noumea.”

  Now having told you all this, which my better judgment told me not to, you made a promise, you took a vow, on your mother’s heart, the houses of prostitution were not for you. Do I…”

  “Lieutenant, in all seriousness, I’d rather sleep. My sex life is off-limits to all women other than the woman I’ve chosen to love and father our children with…on my mom’s heart, I swear it again.”

  With a deep affection, Peter looked at him and said nothing, a simple smile began to release across his lips.

  Just then in the far distance from the outskirts of Noumea along a wide, high-backed crushed coral road adjacent to a fenced-off defensive earthworks surrounding New Caledonia’s heavily-used airfield sped what appeared to be a tan military vehicle. Catching Peter’s attention almost immediately, the relaxed Lieutenant sat up rigidly as it closed quickly, heading directly to the C-47 and the assembled buses and ambulances.

  With horn blowing loudly, and two motorcyclists with 30-caliber machine guns strapped to their backs, roaring and sputtering closely from behind, the vehicle turned out to be a shiny new Buick Headquarters command car, its camouflaged paint highly polished.

  From his front seat near the door opposite the bus driver, Peter watched the Noumea AAF Depot Center control Lieutenant stand calmly on the taxiway tarmac in front of the now-empty C-47 as the rushing command car arrowed straight at him. He may or may not have been breathing heavily. But Peter thought to himself, “That Lieutenant is not flinching. If anything, he’s taken a step forward, daring the Headquarters’ driver to run him over.”

  With various maintenance repair mechanics exiting the hangar to observe the unfolding scene, and nearby MPs and assorted officers walking forward, the honking, speeding Buick squealed on its brakes, skidding to a halt at virtually arm’s length in front of the fearless Lieutenant.

  “The Lieutenant hasn’t moved a muscle,” Peter breathed more to himself than Angelo.

  “Huh?” asked the young Marine.

  “Instead of dreaming, you ought to watch what’s going on out there. Something big is happening, and I know not what.”

  Although a USN Captain had leaped out of the Buick’s back seat, Peter was certain three higher-ranking Navy commanders were sitting in the vehicle, two in the back seat, and one in the front seat, next to the driver.

  As the southern Coral Sea noonday sun poured its fierce light and heat on the interesting assemblage, the C-47’s twin-engine low hum occasionally retching a cough, Peter turned to Larry and said irritably,

  “Private first-class, are you still asleep? Watch, for heaven’s sake!”

  With the USN Captain shouting at the depot officer, the unsmiling Lieutenant saluted smartly. Despite the low din of the idling, Peter thought he heard the Captain yell,

  “We are in an urgent hurry, officer. Where is he? Now! Bus or aircraft? Fetch him! Now!”

  Other than this insolence, which didn’t appear to faze the depot Lieutenant in the least, the two seemed to speak in low, unemotional, and considerate voices. the Lieutenant simultaneously jotted notes on his black leather clipboard, 8 ½’’ x 11’’ in size, the official transport passenger list neatly clipped on it, while perusing and checking names off. Then, in less than a moment, the depot Lieutenant turned and pointed to the waiting bus arranged for the Noumea tour. At that, the bus driver, an aging noncommissioned sergeant, instantly straightened up and in a swift spring, hopped down the bus steps toward the two officers hurriedly approaching the bus.

  “Oh, oh, oho, oh, oh, private first-class, looks like you’re in big trouble! They are coming for you and appear plenty mad!” Peter teased, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Huh? Me? Why? Just because I shook a little when those Jap mortar shells bombarded all around me on that Canal Hill?” Larry asked, sitting perfectly erect, petrified.

  “I’m a proud split-second man of action. You gotta tell them, Lieutenant.”

  Just then, the USN major walked up the steps of the bus, stood in the aisle facing the occupants and said loudly,

  “Whoever Lieutenant Peter Toscan-n
a-nin-ni is, come with me, DOUBLE TIME! I repeat, COME WITH ME, DOUBLE TIME!”

  With that, he literally pranced from the bus, leaving Peter in a dazed stupor. As he stood up, he had to admit the roar of the private first-class’s laughter was deafening.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  -

  A Hawaiian Luau

  “Can you tell me what this is all about? And where we’re going now?” Peter asked expectantly as he almost stumbled down the bus steps in his haste to follow the captain toward the waiting Buick.

  Without as much as a glance response from the Naval captain, and only a slight nod by the depot lieutenant as he scrambled by, Peter decided to remain silent for the duration of whatever was happening to him.

  After having the backseat door opened by the driver, Peter climbed in and sat next to a high-ranking USN officer whose rank he could not determine since neither he nor his fellow back-seated passenger acknowledged each other. The captain then entered without a word, sitting next to Peter.

  Yet, it was impossible for Lieutenant Peter Toscanini to remain graveyard silent amid four other U.S. military officers. He smiled and said,

  “Nothing serious, I presume. After all, I was involved in an execution yesterday morning around this time.”

  Neither sound, a whimper, sigh, or utterance, nor physical movement, flinch, recoil, or gesture could be observed.

  “Ah, that was a personal joke I thought might elicit a slight grin, but no matter,” Peter concluded, staring straight ahead as were the others, including the captain who was now seated next to him. As the two motorcyclists revved their engines to a roar, the obviously skilled driver, a uniformed sergeant, abruptly turned the Buick around and in a loud roar returned the way in which it had come. Peter, with a swift glance back, searched the bus window for a sign of PFC Lawrence “Larry” Angelo, but none could be seen. “My God,” he thought to himself, “I hope I see that high-spirited kid again, just this side of being a simple dumbass, reminding me of my stupid self at that age.”