The Guardhouse Murders

by Don DeNevi

  Suddenly, Captain Hofmeister was standing very correctly, very stiffly. Then, with his hand clasped behind his back, he walked around his desk, stood over Peter for a moment, and then leaned back on it, half-sitting on its edge.

  As the captain gazed grimly at the lieutenant for the second time, Peter sensed there could be no doubt that something unusual was going on in the stockade. And, the intentional dehumanization of soldiers with minor offenses was the least of the stockade’s offenses.

  “Mad Ghoul, our favorite trick around here for those who misbehave badly is injecting them with a scoop of aviation fuel. After one injection, no more trouble.”

  “And meanwhile,” responded Peter, “prisoners are beaten, humiliated and terrorized into obedience.”

  “Why, of course. What’s wrong with that? And in this prison, we intersperse endless shouting of orders, endless punches in the solar plexuses, endless insults in names, accusations, and catcalls. We shock, here.”

  “Most sobering, most sobering!” Peter said as an afterthought. Looking up into Captain Hofmeister’s tight-lipped, sallow-complexioned dark brown eyes, protruding and enlarged three times their natural size by the thick lenses of his French spectacles, the Lieutenant understood he was now incarcerated in a model of authoritarianism. And, the man’s deep wrinkles, mouth tightly closed with determination, and eyes burning with pyre-like intensities, testified there was neither a spark of human graciousness about the man nor a hint of a soft smile.

  “No,” Peter concluded, “This is a place of terror and blood, and blood and terror.”

  Suddenly, the abrupt opening of the office door behind Peter startled him. As he turned to the sound, two hefty-looking men in civilian clothing hurriedly approached him. Although neither was armed, one carried a thin black briefcase.

  “Lieutenant Toscanini,” one demanded loudly. “The Mad Ghoul? Let’s go!”

  Peter, who had foreseen such a moment, remained perfectly still and expressionless. He reflected as he studied them. “Smiling, frowning, or expressing fear may suggest I have no idea what he’s insinuating. Remaining completely composed, admitting to nothing, pretending automatism, being slumberous, or a somnambulist, may suggest I am indeed am the Ghoul and don’t care if they know it or not.”

  Of course, the Lieutenant understood instantly who they were, and why they had come. Glancing at Hofmeister, he noticed a smug smile crossing the captain’s lips.

  “The secret police of the Military Police, akin to the Gestapo. No badges, no uniforms, no paperwork. Only cold, silent, unfeeling intensity, the sons-of-_______s. They have no formal name. Their only responsibilities consist of monitoring all court martial proceedings and corruption or illegal activities of the MPs.”

  Yet, Peter was ambivalent.

  “If these guys are the secret police of the military police, where are their usual telltale signs?”

  First to appear was demanding impatience:

  “UP! You’re coming with us! Now! Let’s go! RIGHT NOW!”

  A second sign was the other “civilian” sitting arrogantly at Hofmeister’s desk calmly, coldly, and methodically thumbing through a small pile of military personnel records from the thin briefcase he was carrying as the captain stood meekly a few feet away without comment.

  As Peter was hurried out of Hofmeister’s office and escorted down the corridor to the end of the stockade’s administrative unit, a number of armed MPs flanked the entrance to a door without a sign bearing its purpose.

  The civilian knocked, while clutching Peter’s elbow. Someone within shouted, “Enter.”

  To Peter, the large windowless was being used as some sort of a conference room by the captain. In the center, stood a wide table capable of seating eight. Peter was ordered to sit across from the other side where the two civilians and Captain Hofmeister sat, the file from the briefcase on the table in front of the middle man. No one else was present.

  For more than several minutes, the three sat staring at the Lieutenant. Peter stared back, expressionless. He understood exactly what was happening. They were highly suspicious of him. Was this the notorious Mad Ghoul associate who was soon to be court marshaled and, in all probability, sentenced to death? Even with careful examination, the three couldn’t make up their minds. It was an ancient technique, designed to both instill fear, and produce feelings of anxious inferiority while measuring his reactions for further interrogation methods to be employed at later sessions.

  At this point, Captain Hofmeister, with a friendly smile on his lips, stood up, and, as he replaced his eyeglasses with a monocle in his eye, began to speak in a surprisingly soft, almost human tone.

  “We have questions. Answer the truth. This is not the Spanish Inquisition. They are inquisitors. We have no tribunal. Just give the true answers and we’ll learn if we have work for you. Or, you wait for trial in isolation, solitary confinement. Tell us the truth.”

  While thoughts raced through Peter’s head, he listened, but remained silent. He said nothing. Hofmeister whispered something into the ears of the civilian who had been thumbing through the personnel files on the table, then walked out without so much as glancing at Peter.

  “So, Mr. Ghoul,” the civilian-leader said soothingly, “Let’s begin this interview with your thoughts about Pavuvu Island.”

  “Certainly. The Japanese didn’t even want it. Malaria-carrying mosquitos, worthless kunai grass with razor-sharp bandsaw edges, capable of cutting men into long vertical strips, coconuts falling on you, sometimes, if head-hits, pure bush, a wilderness, knee-deep mud, devoid of anything valuable, always hot, steamy, smell of death, billions of land crabs, trillions of rats, etc. etc. Frankly, I’d rather talk about my impressions of ‘Jimbo’s Bop City Jazz Club on Fillmore Street in San Francisco, and what it was like between midnight and 6:00am.”

  “We have no interest in ‘Jimbo’s’, Lieutenant Toscanini. Tell us, instead, how gastroenteritis sneaked into your gut and racked your bowels with enervating dysentery, which, in turn, led you to ghoulish murders. Right?”

  Peter remained stone cold silent and expressionless. If anything, and as difficult as it was, he feigned indifference, as if caught in guilt. In reality, he was seething with anger at the insulting arrogance of two military police members posing as civilians who may indeed have been the murderers themselves.

  “The stockade, Lieutenant, is divided into three different camps, A, B, and C, within the walls. On the main yard, barbed wire fences separate the three spaces. All are guarded by strategically placed machine guns and sentries placed in perfect detention positions. The three areas are the maximum-security yard and housing; the minimum protection recreation area, and the General Infirmary compound which is the closest to the road and beyond the barbed wire adjacent to the other two camps. Because we understand your training, Mad Ghoul, is medical, you’ll be assigned work duty in the infirmary, where staff is desperately needed. The offices of the doctors and nurses are there. The ‘maximums’ never leave the stockade. The ‘minimums’, the workers, form groups every morning and are sent out to supply labor in San Diego County, but mostly on all the main surrounding bases. Some go in buses more than 100 miles away for special military jobs, returning a week later. They work in a variety of jobs supplementing paid civilian help in quarries, roads, and odd construction sites. Those prisoners are allowed canteen privileges, especially purchasing cigarettes.”

  Peter hoped the civilian was correct indicating he would be working in the infirmary. From past experiences, he knew the General Infirmary was the only place where the prisoners of various camps could meet for a few moments.

  Suddenly jolted from thought, Peter heard a horrifying, piercing shriek followed by a succession of rapid, loud screeches, ending with a long, painful howl that faded into silence. Peter looked past the two seated civilians as if his eyesight could penetrate the room’s walls and see down the long corridor. The two MPs facing him remained stoical and impassive. Peter had never before heard such a despe
rate, blood-curdling scream. Only someone being tortured beyond human endurance could have emitted such a sound.

  Only one word came to mind, “Torture!”

  Unfazed by the sound and concerned whether Peter was shaken by it, the lead MP continued abruptly,

  “Answer when asked, after considering that the least resistance will be answered by harsh methods. Before I begin, is there a question you care to direct to us?”

  “When do I eat?” Peter asked, nonplused. “Or if you won’t feed me, how about a cup of coffee?”

  The two civilians stared at the Lieutenant incredulously.

  For a moment, Peter stared back, then said quietly, “Oh for Christ’s sake, it’s been over 30 hours since I’ve had a meal or coffee. Or, maybe it’s true, what the prisoners are saying about this so-called ‘simple guardhouse’, this harmless ‘minimum security brig’ for irresponsible young men who went AWOL for a few hours, that the way you treat prisoners but for soldiers who have been condemned to punishment by and at the whims of their own officers--brutal, sadistic, cruel, inhuman. If so, inhumanity is not unique with or restricted to the Japanese or Nazi SS and Gestapo.”

  Again, the two civilians, with the hint of fury in their eyes, stared laser holes through Peter. After a long moment, the one leading the interview said in a low, slow, dull voice, “We may be stiff, controlled, tough administrators. But I assure you, Lieutenant Toscanini, we are not sinister or evil. Like all stockades, there is much noise here, shouting, screaming, and babbling. But, there is no murder here, as has been rumored. There isn’t even bruising brutality or special torture, as far as we can see. Never have we witnessed suffering torment, other than the occasional complaint of not having a cup of coffee for 24 hours.”

  Peter sat back and glared at the civilian. Then, he asked quietly, “Can you tell me your names and ranks?”

  “No, we may not.”

  Then, after a short pause in which the civilian glanced down at a file he had before him, he said, “In this interview, I ask a few questions, primarily about your medical background and experience. Be specific in your responses. If you do not lie or exaggerate, this will require only a few minutes. You’ll then be determined for work or remanded to your cell until the court-martial. Either way, you’ll then have your coffee and eat. So, let’s begin.”

  Again, a pause, as the interrogator looked up at Peter with the barest hint of a smile.

  “In one statement, describe where and how you grew up; why you chose to join the Hospital Corps, hoping to be a corpsman; then, after that, pharmacist’s mate third class; how you wound up in the Naval Hospital in Seattle, learning first aid and minor surgery; the understanding you gained of difficult autopsies; the amount of exposure you had of everything in the hospital environment; and, in this phase of the questioning, why you believe you were selected for the Fleet, Marine Force back at Camp Pendleton.”

  For a brief moment in time, Peter was quietly pleased. In responding to questions about his early years, he pleasantly reminisced about favorite people and significant events and changes that impacted his life. He responded, “Well, from Corps School, I went to Hospital in Seattle, as you know. The Corpsmen were interns there. In those days before the war, they moved you from ward to ward knowing you would be doing a variety of medical functions. So, it was a good teaching process. I learned first aid and minor surgery. I even did autopsies.”

  “It was at that point they began selecting the people for the Fleet Marine Force. Somehow, after spending 10 or 12 weeks at the hospital, I was transferred to the FMF at Pendleton.”

  “I was happy about it. I felt it would give me an opportunity to learn more than I was learning in the Naval Hospital. I wanted to get out in the field and have a little independence. I looked forward to it, especially since I had taken a course as a junior college freshman in Introduction to Psychology and I loved reading Freud and Jung’s concepts about the unconscious mind and its motivations. But, to get back to the point, in pre-war times, the independent corpsman was a doctor without a license and you could do just about what you had to do in the field. I never felt that I was at a loss as to what to do in certain situations or conditions.”

  “On my transfer to Pendleton in the summer of ’42, I trained in what is the Field Medical Service School. The training was terrific. They were trying to put into our minds enough information to be able to do our jobs in the field and the instructors were very dedicated. It certainly wasn’t near as polished as it is today. In those days, the theory was the same but we didn’t have the high-tech things. We didn’t have the dummies to practice with that you find today. However, there was enough there to do and we had enough accidents to patch up so we got the message quite loud and clear.”

  “So you see, it was basically aid and minor surgery. We had had all the schooling they could pump into us at Corps School, and it was trauma training mostly. If you had to encounter illness or disease, the training for those was pretty basic because there was only so much you could do for that. During each phase of my activity, I had the opportunity to work at sick call, setting some Thompson leg splints, and doing some things that later would become very important.”

  With such enthusiastic responses, the two civilians leaned back in their chairs and actually chuckled, surprising Peter.

  The leader of the two commented barely audible, “You’re doing fine, Lieutenant. Just a few more questions, then you’ll have your breakfast. But, now, we’re going to bypass your weapons training, assault unit medical work, and your reassignment from the 11th Regiment of the 1st Marine Division to G Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Regiment, 1st Marine Division. What we’re most interested in is how you were most certainly going to be killed by the Japanese.”

  “Yes. We had a complete briefing before the Guadalcanal assault. The night before, on board our troop transport, our company commander, Colonel Bill Desrosiers, told our entire company that we were expendable, but we already knew that. It didn’t make for too good an evening.”

  “In the meantime, the Zeroes were doing their thing. We were a small ship, so they weren’t trying to get us, but I stood on the top deck of that LST and watched one of them 100 feet from us trying to make a turn into a capital ship and one of the guys on our LST knocked him down. His name was Pocani. He was running a 20mm hand-operated gun that doesn’t carry too many rounds. When the Zero was hit, I saw the pilot try to open his canopy, but he couldn’t or three nights before we were ashore.”

  “The day of the assault, we discharged from the tank deck. I think mine was the fourth amphibious tractor out. I didn’t know what I was doing in the front row. When we hit the beach, we were very surprised to lose only one man early that morning.”

  “Then, you went ashore on Guadalcanal to do your medical work?”

  “Yes. I went ashore with the full pack of medical supplies, my .45 pistol, and rations, pretty near everything to survive for a week or 10 days in the event we weren’t resupplied. We were pretty well equipped.

  “When you came ashore, did you have a ‘snooperscope’, which was just recently developed?”

  “Yes, we were among the first to test it.”

  “I’m curious. Not for the record, but to satisfy my own curiosity, how did you use the ‘snooperscope’ and how do you judge it?”

  “Well, you could mount it on a light machine gun and snoop at night with infrared and see things moving. You could also mount the scope on a springfield that had a backpack sniperscope and batteries for power. Enemy soldiers would show up fuzzy and once you got them in your scope, you had them. It took the Japanese a long time to figure that one out. We also had the rocket ships that could fire ashore and they did a lot of damage.”

  “For your work here in the stockade, tell us about the care you took with your actual first casualty.”

  “Well, during our advance into the near jungle off the Henderson Airfield, a sniper shot the lead man in our company with a small caliber Japanese rifle. I thought I could save
him because he was talking to me, but he was just too far gone and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t bring him back. He was lying on his right chest and was drowning in his own blood when I knelt next to him. While I was working on him, I came the closest I ever came to being killed next to when I got myself hurt later on. I literally looked down the rifle of a Japanese and he did not fire on me.”

  “In that company had replacements with us and a number of Marines who were unfamiliar with warfare. They were well trained, but it takes a little while before you get to be a veteran out there. An elderly Japanese woman had come out of a nearby cave and pulled the sniper in after we wounded him and he fell from a palm tree. We did not fire on her and I think that was because we looked upon women differently. Later in the Guadalcanal and New Georgia campaigns, we changed radically when we saw women, young and old, shooting at us. But at that time, our group didn’t fire on her. A few hours later, when I went after another of our boys, the Japanese didn’t fire on me.”

  “Interesting. You say you looked up and saw a Jap aiming his rifle at you?”

  “Yes. I could tell the caliber of the rifle, maybe as close as 20 yards. And, I knew what I was up against. I thought, ‘I’m in deep trouble now.’ But after I couldn’t do any more for him, I calmly covered him, turned around and walked behind a big rock. And then all hell broke loose. But I didn’t even get shot at. I suspect that they didn’t fire on me because we hadn’t fired on that elderly woman.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that I never came as close to death as I did that morning because they had me and there was no place to go. The dead Marine had a BAR and if I picked up the automatic rifle, I would have been dead in an instant. Had I gone for my .45, I could never have hit that soldier in the cave or the one down the path looking at me. So, I just walked away. We ended up closing that cave with a satchel charge and kept on going.”

  “And, after that?”

  “Well, I was always, in one way or another, in a full-scale war. For months, it was an absolute continuous battle. My exposure was in every fight. In those days, if someone was wounded out in front of the lines, as a corpsman, I had important things to consider. If I exposed myself and was nailed, the rest of my company lost their corpsman. So they were not too happy to see me go out any more than I was happy to go out. But the decision was mine, not the sergeant’s. I always said, ‘I’ll go. Give me someone in front, and someone behind me. We’ll bust getting to the wounded guy.’ Once there, I did what I could.”