The Guardhouse Murders
Page 4
As the command car, haughtily and self-importantly, raced back along the crushed coral road, startled natives and military personnel leaping away from the thoroughfare, Peter thought, “My God, the death ride of a sweet guy like me with four gruesome funeral directors.”
Then, within minutes, turning off a narrow recently-asphalted lane separating what appeared to be acres of Flying Fortresses, it sped smoothly along the empty land bordered by barbed wire high fence barriers. Peter was uncertain whether the B-17s were in service or, now obsolete, mothballed.
Soon, in an obscure area of an open field, several large hangars appeared, with considerable activity and movement around them. Nearby on what appeared to be an unusually long runway, perhaps with a length of 5,000 feet, parked on a dead-end taxiway near the end hangar were what appeared to be two beautiful shiny new B-25 Mitchell bombers of the AAF 41st Bombardment Group. A swarm of aviation specialist mechanics, engineers, technicians, and varying ground crew, staff and flight officers were obviously priming the heavily-armed aircraft for a mission. Beyond, two dozen P-47 Thunderbolts of the 318th Fighter Group were being loaded with rockets. Behind and in front of the hangars were jeep trailers fitted with racks of floodlights. Even with the command car’s window closed, the loud, grinding roar of planes flying overhead permeated the interior. Peter, meanwhile, was enjoying the behind-the-scenes of a neat, modern, well-managed, well-laid out American airbase.
“This driver is certainly good,” Peter reflected as the sergeant was now forced to slow down as he darted in and out of increasing vehicular and military pedestrian traffic. At a circular intersection of several marrow lands, a M.P., recognizing the command car, stopped all movement by blowing his shrill whistle repeatedly, waved his arm unmistakably for the Buick down one road in particular toward a series of newly-constructed hangars.
Within moments, the command car made its way arrow-like past a small control post. A short distance away was the first of numerous anti-aircraft gun emplacements, obviously strategically placed to protect the new hangars. Surprising Peter were the large number of soldiers in helmets manning the guns, their muzzles off as if preparing for action despite thousands of miles away from the nearest Japanese threat. The troops appeared somber and focused.
Within the field where the hangars were situated, surrounding the 5,000-foot airstrip and its tentacles of taxiways and parkways, were marks of tank treads with countless heavy arm wheels meshed together.
Pulling up before the last hangar, its massive metal doors pulled down to the ground, the Navy captain immediately opened the command car door and jumped out. Peter sat absolutely still in his seat, observing the scene.
“Are you assigned to handle him? If not, I need to urgently speak to the ranking officer here. I was ordered to secure and transport him to hangar 14WP06.”
A young Naval lieutenant with a southern accent walked up with an envelope. Saluting smartly, he responded, “Indeed, I am. In addition, I have a receipt for you having accepted him. The captain abruptly turned and walked back to the command car, opened the rear door and without comment, motioned for Peter to exit. Then, unbuttoning his smart U.S. Navy jacket, he reached into the inner jacket pocket and from an oilskin wallet-pocketbook, pulled out a folded white envelope with Confidential Secret boldly printed on it. Below the heavy black lettering was “Lieutenant Peter Toscanini, USN, Medical Division.”
“Identify yourself,” the captain ordered. After Peter promptly did do with a wide grin, the naval officer climbed into the command car and, rolling down the Buick window, nodded, “It’s been pleasant, whoever you are,” as the Buick and sputtering motorcycles sped away.
Dazed by the whole proceedings, i.e., the mystery of his “abduction”, the exhaust of the departing command car and motorcycles, the contents in the sealed official envelope he was clutching, the buzz and seemingly chaotic activity occurring all around him, including two on-duty, readied tanks and several armored vehicles in front of and behind the hangar in front of him, Peter simply blinked.
“What the heck? Am I on some stupid movie set?” he wondered.
Glancing blankly, almost wearily, at the smiling appearing Naval officer assistant to a top-level commanding admiral of sorts, Peter again blinked. He said more to himself than the adjutant,
“I’m puzzled as to who, what, where, why, how…”
Meanwhile, crowding the two officers as the noonday New Caledonia sun cast broiling tropical beams of radiant energy on them were hundreds of additional USMC and US Army heavily-armed troops scrambling off nearly-arrived vehicles. All helmeted, the combat-ready riflemen thronged the entire area before the hangar field kitchen operating at full force nearby. The air smelled frightfully of coughing engine exhausts and kitchen cooking and frying smells and odors.
Peter looked at the adjutant beseechingly.
“Come with me, Lieutenant. Everything will be clarified soon enough. My orders are to safeguard you for the duration.”
At that, the adjutant led Peter to the hangar’s side door guarded by two armed sentries who immediately waved them through.
As the two entered, Peter noticed that at the corner of the building were at least a dozen additional armed troops, eating meals on proper plates, lounging, smoking, talking and chatting softly.
“But, as relaxed as they are, they all have heavy guns within arm’s reach,” Peter reflected, smiling at them.
In return, they, in strange sidelong glances, simply shrugged in amusement and went back to their lounging.
As the young Naval Lieutenant led the way into Hangar No. 4, completed the year before for use by the Allied Technical Intelligence Unit (ATAIU), under the control of the 5th Air Force and its 81st Air Depot Group, it turned out the hangar was not a hangar after all. Although there was a considerable open area in the center of the large complex, a series of high dark-paneled doors leading to offices of varying sizes surrounded the amphitheater-appearing area. Everywhere, there was activity, officers and staff entering and exiting the windowless box-like units.
“We should be in time for the noontime luau. I realize Lieutenant Toscanini, there is much for you to be explained, but the best way for us to begin is for you to read your confidential memorandum which you can do as we stand in line for our Hawaiian Luau lunch. Every day we have a cafeteria-style snack session. Today, in a few moments actually, our high-ranking official important arrivals will be appearing. Both have indicated they would like to say, ‘Hello’ before heading back to their bases this afternoon. Their planes are just outside the hangar being primed for departure. You probably saw them when you were delivered. Let’s step over there where the line will be forming, and you can digest your orders.”
“I have just one question, Lieutenant. No. Two questions. Is all this some kind of a lie? And number 2, what am I doing in all this rear-echelon commotion? And, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant, question number 3, who are you?”
With a wide grin, the Lieutenant was about to respond when a door from one of the nearby offices opened and a heavyweight sergeant with a cherry-red face hurried out.
“Does he know yet? You two will lunch at the other edge table yonder, with the VIPs I’ll bring over. You’re ready with the scout car? Their targeted departure is in three hours, precisely 1500, whether he’s on board or not. Remember, it’s a 30-minute drive to the berth.”
“We’ll leave here at 1400. The jeep is ready.”
Peter broke into an embarrassed smile as the Naval Lieutenant who had yet to identify himself said,
“Let’s eat. We’ll fill our plates and take our seats and begin eating. If they’re late, we’ll have our coffee with them. Hell or high water, we leave in two hours.”
The two Lieutenants and sergeant walked across the well-lit interior forum to an inner court where long, polished tables were lined. To one side, near the hangar wall, several four-chair tables had been set up. One table, with its four chairs turned inward and leaning against the table designating it “rese
rved”, had two tall lit candles atop.
The apparent supervisor of the native waiters and attendants motioned for the three men were to stand, since they were the first to arrive at the luau tables.
“Two minutes. Two minutes we finish. You eat.”
With that, Peter ripped open the “confidential/secret” envelope and unfolded a single page memorandum. It read:
C O N F I D E N T I A L
U.S. Navy Department
Washington, D.C.
In reply refer Feb. 4, 1945
to number Order #14LGH, 22A
N/C 17/3441 Special #K22-31-114
From:
To: Office-In-Charge
Subject: Lieutenant Peter Toscanini,
USN Medical Division,
assigned (temp) to the
1st Division, USMC
Reference: (a) Article 207(c) Criminal
Justice Manual
(b) SecNav Memo of
December 12, 1944
Enclosure: (a) Rescind all previous
memoranda pertaining to
Toscanini travel/special
assignment, USMC 1st Division
Proceed this date from Noumea, New Caledonia, by PBY, Flying Boat, directly Treasure Island, San Francisco; by provided Marin County Jail bus to San Quentin State Prison Reception-Classification Center; immediately preceding by California Department Corrections to San Diego County Jail, by its bus to Camp Elliott, USMC, stockade. Contact information restricted to 2 (two). References to follow unspecified, unannounced.
As the three waited in line for the buffet sideboard tables to fill with the final Hawaiian luau foods, Peter read and reread the official memorandum, replaced it in the official envelope, and pocketed it.
While the Naval Lieutenant and sergeant were in hushed conversation unrelated to Peter and his presence, Toscanini glanced around the interior of the hangar.
“So,” he thought to himself, “it’s a floatplane I’m flying in to the Treasure Island Harbor berth in San Francisco Bay. San Quentin State Prison? They’ve got to be kidding. So many unanswered questions.”
Studying the unusual interior of the hangar, Peter realized it was a canard, a ruse, a stratagem. No wonder the facility’s camouflaged painting on every structure within the radius of Hangar No. 4, the inordinate number of anti-aircraft artillery units disposed around that one hangar, the two new runways, SW-NE, nearing completion, the helmeted troops guarding or roaming freely, the nearby runway and airstrip aprons with ready-to-fly fighter planes, suggested the hangar housed a command center as critical as any in the Pacific War Theater of Operations.
As Peter penetrated the hangar’s interior architecture and engineering, i.e. the unusual U.S. Army 104-foot timber truss igloo, a form of light nailed timber arch construction with ribbon metal sheet cladding protected with lead-tin coating, some sort of fuss or disturbance was occurring behind him. Turning around to see what the commotion was all about, he was stunned to see General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander-In-Chief of Allied Forces in the South West Pacific Area (SWPA), walking slowly with Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz toward him!
CHAPTER SIX
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Lunch with MacArthur and Nimitz
Peter stared blankly, then unbelievingly at the two elderly, relaxed officers in deep conversation, eyes cast down as they slowly walked toward him. Having exited an obvious map-conference room, they were trailed by more than a dozen of their adjutants and staff at least 15 feet behind. Whether hungry or not, the entourage was bearing down on him, personally, he thought, not that they, too, might want to line up for luau lunch.
As they neared, both men, one, Chester W. Nimitz, who had been designated Commander in Chief, U.S. Pacific Fleet (COMPACFLT) on December 17, 1941, with the rank of Admiral, was of a special emotional interest to Lieutenant Toscanini.
As Peter observed the two, Nimitz appeared unexpectedly quiet and mild-mannered although it was quite noticeable, he radiated a general air of sincerity as he listened intently to the other officer, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur. More compact and muscular than Nimitz, the general’s personality and leadership qualities were nonpareil.
“Darn if this isn’t a high moment in my life,” Peter reflected in a dream-like state. “Two of the most legendary officers in the U.S. Military, and this Second World War isn’t over yet. Just look at those coming to get me, two hard-working, resolute, both with thinning white hair over cherry-red faces. Oh my God, thank you for making them both American, and not Japanese, German, or Italian, or for that matter, Russian.”
When Nimitz and MacArthur were within a few yards of Peter, who suddenly felt so self-conscious he felt he was standing at the head of the luau line totally naked, the Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Fleet turned to the Naval Lieutenant standing next to Peter and asked with a pleasing smile,
“Is this him?”
“Yes, sir, Admiral Nimitz.”
As he extended his hand, Peter literally swallowed so hastily he caught his breath as if swallowing, uttering a slight but unusual guttural sound. Urgently searching for something to say, the Lieutenant said hoarsely,
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” and, reaching over and extending his hand in a handshake, “…and I suppose, you, too, general.”
With both Nimitz and MacArthur chuckling softly, Peter, realizing why there was sudden humor, said,
“Oh general, I didn’t mean that in that way. Of course, for any military man or woman to shake your hand in a greeting is a lifetime remembrance. For a moment there, I felt so unduly open that you two were both measuring my manliness, my intelligence, my integrity. Silly, so silly, of me.”
“I learned of your bravery in saving Mr. Hope’s life from Mr. Hope himself, more than a month ago when he, Jerry Colona, and Frances Langford visited me when they passed through Brisbane where my headquarters are.”
“Well, Lieutenant, I appreciate your slight fluster. If I was as young as you, Lieutenant, I would be, too. Let’s have at the luau. The kitchen sergeant supervising the luau is ready.”
With that, the officers in line began to move toward the tables. Admiral Nimitz and General MacArthur, with respect to their high-ranking official positions, were first in line, with Peter and the Naval Lieutenant following directly behind.
Lieutenant Toscanini was pleasantly surprised by the variety of dishes laid out on long counters attached to a specially-designed removeable wall. The food display of the Hawaiian Luau included bundles of meat wrapped in leaves; a variety of taro dishes, especially Poi; taro pounded into a liquid; kulolo, a taro pudding; baked sautéed chicken marinated in soy sauce of garlic and ginger; grilled shrimp; various cucumber salads; Chinese-style barbecued pork; Hawaiian tamales consisting of various baked, fried, and sautéed fish; Macadamia nut baked cookies; fruit punch; and roasted Hawaiian coffee.
As Nimitz and MacArthur moved along the long counter helping themselves using the long spoons and forks on the platters and in the bowls, Peter turned to the Naval Lieutenant and asked,
“Where do we get our utensils?”
“There are none. Luau means dishes, side plates, and appetizers are finger foods. Small finger bowls and towels are placed on the tables ready for use.”
At the end of the Hawaiian luau line, a naval captain pointed Nimitz, MacArthur and Toscanini to a small table close to the hangar’s fourth wall, allowing for a bit more privacy.
The three settled themselves around the table in comfortable leather-lined chairs with MPs strategically placed around them but yards away.
“Well, young man,” Nimitz began as he tasted an item from each of his assorted choices, “I hoped to meet you on your journey to a new kind of assignment. My boys and I have heard how you are a daring visionary in terms of the deep recesses in the mind, that you yourself have a keen intellect coupled with a burning curiosity. You may well be the Medical Services’ most promising mind; brave, cultured, wise. Such adjectives flood your personnel file. What d
o you say to all that?”
Peter smiled at Nimitz and said simply, “Nonsense.”
General MacArthur looked up and said quietly,
“We heard as far away as Brisbane, Australia that you were highly competent handling the multiple-murderer’s execution. How was all that? I was especially the one most impressed with your work since, like General Eisenhower in the European Campaign who signed off on all executions, I was required to sign off on the so-called Ghoul’s execution. I read every page, every single sentence that a Naval Lieutenant named Peter Toscanini prepared for the death panel. When I heard this morning at our conference that you were out here, I insisted, and the admiral here, immediately concurred that we have lunch with you.”
Peter, now in a rare red blush, simply whispered, “I’m so, so indebted for your appraisal.”
“Your general thoughts, Lieutenant, please.” MacArthur requested in deadly silence and seriousness.
Peter, as it was, barely tasting what he had selected for lunch, was now no longer hungry. Suddenly feeling a chill, and more important, empty, he shoved his plate away and looked up at the two officers now studying him.
“All right, gentlemen. I vowed just yesterday to never again recall or reflect executing a fellow American soldier despite the horrendous nature of his crime. The executions that General Eisenhower has signed off, perhaps more than a hundred now, were for crimes of rape, our women and foreign, and deliberate murder. Nothing compared to Dr. Schneidermann’s.”