The Guardhouse Murders

by Don DeNevi

  Despite his excitement of being on the Treasure Island Naval Base for the first time, the San Francisco Bay winds that smacked Peter in the face as he stumbled out of the vehicle with handcuffs on in front of the headquarters administrative building of the 12th Naval District were nonetheless unyielding and annoyingly cold. For a serviceman returning from the Solomon Sea tropics, the shock of the change in weather was commensurate with the bleak, somber gray skies.

  Then, as a USMC military police gate officer exited a small wooden guardhouse to stand between the two rifle-bearing sentries at the on-guard behind the double-iron gate, Peter glanced up and down the busy thoroughfare of passing military vehicles of all sorts and varying sizes. Turning toward additional armed Marines trotting toward the gate from across the treeless but well-groomed lawns and flower beds skirting the curved driveway and encapsulating the entire yard, Peter noted the administrative building and the large sign in black letters against a white background which read,

  NAVAL STATION, TREASURE ISLAND

  Fleet Training Center, Training and Distribution

  Peter had actually driven his parents for a day to experience the Golden Gate International Exposition. The largest man-made island in the world had been built on the Yerna Buena Island for it.

  The administrative building that served the Treasure Island Exposition between 1937 and 1939 was now serving as the headquarters for the Treasure Island Naval Station, converted in 1941 as a necessary facility should there be war in the Pacific.

  Built in art deco, a decorative style of the late 1920s and 1930s based upon the cubism form of painting, it had been streamlined in 1942 in the modern style. Although located on the southern end of the island, the structure was the hub of all activity. It had a matte-white appearance casting a limestone look about it. Blending with the dark waters of the Bay, the structure was quite imposing.

  After the USMC gate, the Lieutenant, armed only with a holstered .45, unsnapped the heavy removable lock, passed the long chain through its eye, loosening the iron bar that secured the gates together, and waved his arm in a forward motion, ordering,

  “Come ahead!”

  As the twin iron gates opened inward, the long chain scraping the concrete entrance way, the caravan rounded the wide-lawned foreground rimmed with flower beds. As he gazed upon four well-positioned sentries on guard at the entrance of the facility, Peter pondered,

  “Is a major part of my life, if not all of it, about to end here? Surely, my new assignment will be issued verbally.”

  After one of the outside entrance sentries pressed the admitting buzzer, and the small party waited, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps could be heard echoing inside. Then, after the large glass door swung open, no less than an aging USMC colonel, gaunt and lanky, balding with a slightly pinched expression, nodded curtly to the assemblage waiting silently to enter.

  “You’ve been expected for some time, and you may have to explain why. This is the military base of the Pacific and nonsense is punished appropriately,” he announced in a loud voice. Pointing, “Go there, past the entrance hall. Follow the stairwell down to the lower level, the basement area occupied by the island’s military police. Walk down the narrow passageway until you come to two sentries on duty outside a closed room. A sentry will tell you what to do next. Make haste, latecomers. There’s no amount of tardiness allowed here.” With that, he turned and ambled off.

  Upon descending the stairway, the arriving party was greeted by a naval captain who indicated the officers to follow him. Not once did he acknowledge, or even glance, at Peter. Upon reaching the two sentries, the captain turned and said,

  “Thank you, gentlemen. All of you are dismissed. The handcuffed arrested will be relieved of his restraint since he is now in our custody.”

  With that, and the captain’s quick knock on the door, Peter, now unshackled, stood between the two sentries and alone with the captain as the arresting party departed down the hall. As the door was held open for him to enter, Peter slowly strolled, rubbing his wrists, after the naval officer exiting.

  “Enter, Lieutenant Toscanini,” beckoned a voice in the partially lit, windowless basement bunker.

  As Peter adjusted his eyes in the semi-darkness, he initially felt the soft rug he was standing upon. Colorful and thin, he saw that it was larger than the typical Persian carpet. Because he knew such Persian rugs felt good to walk upon barefooted, since they consisted of wool and silk, their knots tied 1,000 per square inch, Peter felt like removing his shoes. But he thought better of the notion.

  A quick glance all around showed how austere the room was. The vacant walls were painted a dull gray. In front of him sat someone alone. Behind him was an elongated, highly-polished mahogany table with absolutely nothing on it. Behind it sat three high-ranking USMC officers. Each sat rigidly with his hands folded on the table. no one said a word in the diffused lighting. The seated man, sitting straight up, said,

  “Approach, Lieutenant, and sit. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Peter had never seen, let alone met, any of the four men sitting rigidly behind the lengthened bare, well-polished table. Although in civilian clothing, the solemnity of the setting, the formal tomb-like silence in the stark setting, told the wide-eyed Lieutenant he was among the highest level of military leadership.

  “I suspect the one in the middle, the frowning old one glaring at me is the boss of this kit and caboodle, probably a major general or a Lieutenant Colonel,” he mused. “I sense doom. They going to execute me?”

  Suddenly piercing the room’s gloom and shadows was a strident voice somehow emanating from the human-like figure resembling a male sitting erect before him.

  “No introductions necessary here. You are Ensign Peter Albioni Toscanini. You need know nothing of us. I have two sealed letters to read to you, both of which will be destroyed thereafter in your presence,” he said in a loud strained voice.

  Peter didn’t like this man sitting there bolt upright, facing him directly, hands resting on his knees or his curt condescension.

  “Your work,” he continued, “is so confidential and unofficial no one knows about it, including the Director of Naval Intelligence, the FME, Fleet Marine Division, Commander, and not even the Criminal Division of the Military Police. Nonetheless, your assignment is top priority to Washington, known only to top staff men. You have no liaison officer, no handler, no surface personnel with whom to reach out in event of discover. There is only one code word to remember from this point to your assignment’s conclusion within the stockage, and it’s ‘almond’.”

  “Almond?” Peter could hardly restrain his surprise. For the first time, he smiled.

  “How’d you come by that code name?”

  “Apparently because you’re familiar with it. It was selected by the Secretary of the Navy. You need not explain to us. Your life may depend on hearing or voicing that word. Whoever says it is your safety. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

  “My orders?” Peter inquired, a hint of defiance in his tone.

  “In this first of two unopened envelopes,” he responded.

  From a large sealed buff-colored 81/2’’ by 11’’ sized envelope, he pulled out two regular sized white letter envelopes with normal gummed flaps. The “orders” were terse. They read simply,

  “You are to proceed by way of the Camp Stoneman Stockage as an inmate-prisoner to Camp Elliott where you will be incarcerated for the attempted assassination of the Mad Ghoul of Pavuvu prior to his court-martialed death sentence by firing squad execution. There, while awaiting trial, you will learn the identity of a murderer of Marine recruit inmates. You will retain your full identity, and use when appropriate, or asked, the details and other authentic information pertaining to the crimes of murder by the multiple-murderer, as well as his execution when you served the court-martial board. The code word ‘almond’ will signify a contact person is at your disposal.”

  After a short pause, the reader asked,

 
“Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, we’ll proceed to a letter held until your arrival. It is from your mother, and lengthy. Since both envelopes and their contents will be burned in your presence, you will listen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peter leaned forward slightly to listen intently as the five-page handwritten letter described in detail the major war events, and minor civic activities occurring in his Stockton hometown and neighborhood. In her usual chatty, excited manner detailed, for example, how she panicked where she momentarily misplaced the family’s monthly ration book. In several pages, she paraphrased the well-wishes from relatives and neighborhood friends. She numbered the variety of clubs, events, and activities in which his brother was involved, and the incidents, some dangerous that occurred in the two jobs his father held down, delivering oil and gasoline to local gas stations and garages during the day, and operating the projection book of the Star Theater on West Sonora Street at night.

  “Rarely does Dad get more than four hours of sleep a night,” he thought to himself.

  Her final paragraph on the last page jarred him back into the reality of Joan’s dissolution of their engagement.

  “How is Joan and her family doing in the concentration camp?” she asked wistfully, not realizing there was a horrendous difference between “concentration camp” and “relocation-internment camp”.

  “The gossip around town, and especially the whites in our neighborhood claim they are all doing just fine. That makes me happy,” she wrote, “because it will mean a wonderful, beautiful marriage when the war is over and you both return to South Center Street…she hasn’t changed her mind, has she, and run off into another concentration camp, has she?”

  Suddenly, sharply, a Ka-Bar was plunged into him. Every force of strength, for months, had repressed all thoughts and emotions of his Joan. Now a single question sliced him open again. Peter no longer heard a word that was being said, whether it came from a postscript by his mother, or an official order of instruction. He was so filled with Joan, the woman he loved as much, if not more, than his mother, that he could see her, smell her, hear her, magnificent heart murmuring, her whole soul again alive before him. His eyes welled up with tears, as, in a flash, he recalled every single word she had ever spoken to him, every touch of her on him, every glance, comment, and conversation she had with others in his presence, withered his entire being.

  “What’s wrong, Lieutenant? Are you still with me, or are you going to throw up and faint?”

  “No, sir. And, yes, sir,” Peter responded meekly, shifting his eyes.

  “Give me the ‘yes, sir’ part. We have no time for nonsense.”

  Peter hesitated,

  “I was engaged until just recently. To my high school sweetheart. She’s a Nisei, interned in Rowher, Arkansas.”

  “A Jap woman?”

  “Yes, sir. And, it’s been over for several months. I was just thinking about her from Mother’s question, just then. That’s all. Nothing more to it, sir.”

  “I must impress upon you, Lieutenant, the need for utmost secrecy. In fact, within three days, you will be incarcerated in the Elliott brig. Even should you engage in conversation, there is nothing to reveal because you know nothing. You have no knowledge of your handlers, who the victims, and their murdering suspects, are. You can’t contradict yourself because nothing has changed regarding your identity, your involvement with the Ghoul. You will improvise your questing both by the brig military police and guards and prisoners themselves. You are intelligent enough to ad lib. Our guess is that unless you are murdered upon arriving, you’ll learn something within weeks of being celled. You have no help. Help is there waiting for you, and will be identified with the one word mentioned, a word that none of us know because the order will be destroyed. You have an adequate trail, having been cuffed here a few hours ago for involvement. All perfectly planned, all movements and paperwork perfectly organized. Your trail is covered because all who worked on this project sincerely believe you are criminal. Their paperwork is available to the staff at Elliott. Because it has been so competently prepared, there is not a flaw found anywhere. Your movement sheet is on USMC letterhead because you are on loan from the Navy. Unless there are questions, you are to transfer this moment for the Camp Stoneham Stockage. By morning, you will be in a nonstop troop train headed south, and by late afternoon, admitted into the Camp Elliott reception unit. Everyone from this moment, unless you have a question or two, with whom you come in contact will believe in your complicity with the Ghoul. Your questions, Lieutenant?”

  “None, sir.”

  “You’re dismissed. And, good luck, Lieutenant. God only knows how much you’re going to need it. Now, put your hands out because I need to put your cuffs back on.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  -

  The Daylight to Elliott

  In the 72 hours that followed, Peter, tired physically and psychologically, lost himself in a crazy, hurried swirl, pivoting every which way. Temporary detention at Camp Stoneham, with all its orientation, classification, and discipline among military police personnel and both USMC and Army inmates, produced in him such a variegated hodge-podge of impressions and emotions that the young ensign was filled with an unaccountable sense of imminent catastrophe. His very bones seemed to shudder, the blood in his veins frozen into stone.

  In short, Peter’s mind was a seething ferment as he adjusted to becoming a prisoner. Throughout those hours there was only one firm recollection atop a sad undercurrent, and her name was Joan Ikeda.

  “What I’d die for now would be a long, soaking hot bath, but how do I get one of those? And, dreaming of being billeted at the Royal Hawaiian in Honolulu on a honeymoon with Joan, locking the doors behind for a much-needed rest until 1975, in senseless. Now that I am stealth, and that cruelty, bloody, mindlessness will fuel the gloomy vigilance that his begun,” he thought to himself.

  Peter had never experienced, let alone observed, such a staging center as Camp Stoneman. Although his vision was partially blurred by the 90-minute ferry ride from Treasure Island under an armed guard to the Pittsburgh waterfront wharf leading to the base, Peter later vaguely recalled seeing a 16-foot sign that proudly proclaimed,

  “Through these Portals pass the Best Damn Soldiers in the World.”

  Spread over three million acres, Camp Stoneman was the largest troop staging area on the Pacific West Coast, deploying by late 1944 almost a million troops to the fighting areas across the Pacific Theater of Operations. Not only was it a “jumping off point” to embark on troop ships for overseas, but also it was a medium-sized city unto itself. Named after a Civil War Commander who later became a governor of California, Stoneman was a perfect cantonment area because of its paved highways leading to and from the Santa Fe and Southern Pacific Railroads entering the staging center, and the bay waterways leading to the San Joaquin and Sacramento areas.

  When Peter was driven from the Pittsburg landing dock to the Camp Stoneman detention facility adjacent the stockage, Peter recalled the 800 “cream-khaki” colored barracks, 86 additional light gray company warehouses and administrative shacks, three motion picture theaters, eight infirmaries, nine post exchanges, 14 recreation halls, 13 mess halls, a post office, and chapel. Somewhere along the way, he heard Stoneman boasted 75 phone booths. Apparently, over 2,000 long-distance phone calls were made each day by base personnel and departing troops.

  During his three-day orientation phase of looming incarceration in the Camp Elliott Stockade, two images would remain indelibly engraved in his mind. The first dealt with a seven-hour full medical examination in which he was riddled with innumerable inoculations for a variety of disease, either as prisoner or for his return to combat duty in the deep Pacific areas. In addition to updating his immunizations, he had to undergo half a day of dental work that had been long overdue.

  The second was a USO show that the 100 or so detainees had been allowed to attend as a group under armed g
uard by the military police. On his second visit in the detention center, Peter watched Lucille Ball don a swimming suit to dedicate an enlisted men’s club. Later, Groucho Marx, Gary Moore, and Red Skelton, on their way to the baseball field to perform before some 10,000 servicemen awaiting deployment, stopped unannounced by the detention to say, “Hello to the boys who have been naughty.”

  On the early morning of the fourth day of his “detention”, Peter was issued newly-washed and pressed clothing for prisoners, gray with a large “P” for prisoner embossed in yellow paint on the back. After updating his personnel file, he was issued into lecture hall where other passengers for Southern California were assembled. A mean-looking staff sergeant entered with a clipboard and without introducing himself, launched into a lecture on proper prisoner train travel, its etiquette, and potential security and safety risks.

  “You’ll be traveling south with the Marines’ 2nd and 86th Infantry Divisions deploying for maneuvers in the Mojave Desert sands for preparation of invasion on some small island of nothing but volcanic rock and ash.”

  “Your conduct is to be impeccable. Conduct is everything, or you’ll hear loud and clear the ‘why’ of it. You’re lucky about one thing: You’re boarding a shiny new Southern Pacific Streamliner.”

  And it was true as Peter watched in amazement as he waited with the other prisoners on the small station platform. The clean streamliner seemed to shine in the gray overcast, slightly foggy morning as it steamed directly into the installation on the spur from the Southern Pacific’s mainline shared with the Santa Fe. Then he, for the first time, noticed the recently established German-Italian prisoner-of-war camp everyone was talking about. More than 500 POWs lined the barbed-wire fence to watch the streamliner ride by at less than 10 miles per hour and the boarding of the passenger-servicemen.