The Guardhouse Murders

by Don DeNevi

  This, the final of a series of short dreams, awakened him. He sat up, and, for some moments, he trembled slightly. Never once in his entire life did he dream of any form of death. What was the interpretation of this one? Out the small, barred window of the infirmary sleeping quarters, he saw a razor-thin light creep over the eastern horizon. Dawn was near.

  As he sat up rubbing his arms in the cold room with several others, he considered his own situation. It was entirely possible that he might be the next target. After all, he and the warrant officer had been observed with Six-bits in what appeared to be sympathetic conversation. Did the MP inform whomever it was signaling the victims for murder? More likely, it was Captain Hofmeister who stumbled upon them together in the cell. Where the killers fearful Six-bits had informed on them? No matter how he cut it, he was in an extremely precarious position and he neither had a defensive weapon nor anyone to help defend him.

  As he sat there shivering in the darkness watching the gray of early morning fade into the first rays of sunshine to inundate Southern California, Campbell awakened. For some time, he said nothing as he studied Peter. Finally, he whispered a hoarse whisper so the other staff asleep under their thick Navy blankets could hear,

  “Worried, aren’t you? So am I! They know I know what a cesspool of unmilitary inhuman acts and conditions occur in here. They know I’m not going to rat out the MP guards who deny medication, savage for the joy and sheer fun of it, young defenseless Marines, and even sexually abuse them. I’ve seen heads stomped, permanent injuries leading to disabilities, guards refusing to stop fights. I don’t even want anyone to tell what other injustices take place here, especially in the basement and out at the dump.”

  Peter was dumbfounded. At least the opportunity presented itself to ask the ultimate question he dared not ask before.

  “Unreported beating deaths that wind up in the incinerator and the after remains in the dump?”

  Campbell, suddenly wide-eyed, lifted slightly, and leaned on his elbow, staring in utter disbelief.

  “What kind of a question is that?” he asked haltingly in a soft voice. “What do you know?”

  With eyes narrowing, Peter gazed calmly at the warrant officer and responded bitterly, “Only what I overheard a few of the Stoneman inmates whispering in the seats in front of me on the train ride down here. I hardly paid attention, thinking deaths and disappearances of the bodies were impossible in a modern Army stockade. If nothing else, the inmates would go berserk rioting.”

  “Last year, a few, learning a buddy went missing, smashed some furniture, threw their tin dining plates at windows and the MPs, and that night they all were shipped out. Who and where, no one knows,” Campbell said with a sneer. “The Hofmeister group posted a list of names of those sent to ‘punitive segregation’, but no one ever saw or heard of them again. The hue and cry lasted a few hours and young Marines disappeared. End of story.”

  “Plotted murders?” Peter asked, fearful he was pressing for answers too forcefully.

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. Just too many involved to get away with it. One thing is for certain. That martinet of strict discipline, Hofmeister, always puts out official memoranda, ‘Today’s Suicides’…oh, Peter, I’m kidding. He doesn’t do that. Today, when we see the bulletin on the board stating Six-bits death was a suicide, we’ll need to hold back our smirking. We’ll know a clean, open, honest, friendly, but burdened man who was murdered for talking to us.”

  Suddenly, the door to the infirmary sleeping quarters swung open and two burly baton-carrying MPs entered, along with Dr. Fisher.

  “Glad you both are awake. Hofmeister wants you two in his office in an hour. Better come and eat something. We’re to escort you. Let’s go, and right now.”

  After a hasty breakfast on a back table with Fisher and the two MPs joining in, the men relieved themselves in the corridor restroom, next to the Captain’s offices, then, unannounced entered the outer office of the Captain’s suite. His door open, Hofmeister, looking even more dumpy than usual in a hodgepodge of military clothing, glared past an MP sitting at the entrance desk plucking a typewriter at the arrivals.

  Squatting on an undersized chair, a sullen expression on his face below slitted red eyes, he yelled,

  “Sit here.”

  Entering the inner office, as sterile and lifeless as when Peter first entered weeks before, the Lieutenant and the warrant officer seated themselves before the Captain’s desk. For a long moment, he studied the Captain. His skin was very white, the type that never browns or burns in the sun. Like his barren office, the man appeared empty of thought or motion. A broad forehead capped a wide-open pair of black-green eyes, stubbed nose, and clenched mouth.

  “Of course, this measly military man, condones murder,” Peter reflected. “Sure, he’s always alert and his eyes move quickly, occasionally stopping to weigh whatever catches his attention. Even with a midday shower or bath, he never seems fresh, his unnatural paleness never leaving his body.”

  With a slight harshness in his voice, his overall bearing hinted an exultation from a false sense of command leadership. Seated, nay, squatting, his overall countenance appeared grotesque. “Adding his toadying demeanor to higher-ups, he is a freak. Well, the comedy is over.”

  After another moment of studying each other in silence, Hofmeister leaned forward across the desk and said with a satiric smile,

  “What did your dead friend the so-called, Six-Bits, tell you?”

  “He said your tongue is not straight and his heart, as well as all the hearts of the Code Talkers, are not good for you,” Campbell said slowly, somberly. “He said you are a burlesque, a parody, a travesty wrapped in a single pot belly. He said that the Japs will surly win this war if the top brass are all caricatures of you.”

  Eyes bulging, fists clenched, and flabby facial flesh beginning to swell, Hofmeister flushed.

  “Damn it all,” he sputtered, attempting to sound manfully,’ We’ll get the truth out of you, if it takes great pain. We already know the difference between truth and lies. You will pay dear for your drollery.”

  With that, Hofmeister folded his arms, and, glaring at Campbell with pure hate, Peter thought, leaned back in the frail chair.

  “That fat, flaccid ton of crap is going to collapse his throne, for sure,” he snickered.

  But then, the Captain nodded to the two, stood up and abruptly left the room through the door behind his desk.

  Then, without warning, and what appeared to be a single movement, one of the MPs smashed a powerful fist into the side of the warrant officer’s head, nearly toppling Campbell from his chair. The second MP stepped forward with his long black baton to mercilessly batter the corpsman in a systematic manner; they stripped off his clothes and continued to pummel as they screamed, “Tell us everything!! You are covering up! No lies, here!”

  Peter, shocked, stood up in disbelief. He had never seen such a continual beating. Campbell, doubled-up on the floor, whimpered in agony. Peter know that fists, boots, and batons pounding his face and body would not cause Campbell to give them information, even if it meant his death.

  With blood on their knuckles, fingers, and hands, the MPs turned from the warrant officer’s bleeding body to Peter standing back. Shouting curses and insults, they raised their batons to strike the Lieutenant, when the back door of office opened and Hofmeister emerged, shouting loudly, “The murderer will tell me. Step back.”

  Grinning a little as he glanced at the warrant officer clutching his stomach and writing in pain, the captain motioned Peter to resume sitting in his seat.

  Now, once again seated and leaning across his desk, Hofmeister nodded to one of the MPs, who resumed his standing position behind Peter and smiled,

  “Hit him again. Not too hard that it hinders his vocal cords…”

  Peter stiffened, repressing the compliment of a sneer, while gravely locking his teeth. And it came, a stunning smash to the right side of Peter’s face. It was so hard; Peter was sent spin
ning from his chair. Bleeding, and barely conscious, the Lieutenant found himself on the floor face down next to Campbell. The two MPs leaned down, grabbed Peter, and lifted him up. But instead of continuing to strike him, the two introduced a new means of torture. While one held him up, the other twisted one of his arms behind his back.

  Hofmeister eyed Peter suspiciously, musing, “Will you tell the truth before losing your arm? No tales. Only what the Redman said. That, or the bloody work on you continues. You’ll wish you had told the truth after your body is broken all up.”

  Peter’s agile mind thought hard how to respond. He nodded. Hofmeister waved the MPs aside, then leaned further across the desk in anticipation.

  “Well,” he grinned.

  “To tell the truth, Captain, all I can remember is that Six-Bits said you were the sorriest son-of-a-bitch in the universe.”

  Hofmeister remained motionless, neither leaning back in his swivel chair nor shifting his feet. Although he appeared impassive, he was stiff, including his face muscles. Without changing expression by so much as a flinch or wince, he appeared to Peter carved in stone.

  For what seemed an infinity in time, Hofmeister focused his cold eyes upon the Lieutenant’s lips. Then, suddenly, he squared his shoulders. Remaining immobile, he asked slowly, almost measuring the impact of each word, “What did you say in response?”

  Peter, tight-mouthed, answered, “I told him, to his delight, that I agreed with his every word, and then some. Where he labelled you ‘an ordinary graven sorry son-of-a-bitch’, I held my feelings and description of you back.”

  With that, Hofmeister leaned further over the desk to shake Peter’s hand. With a shy grin, he stuttered, “Oh, for crying out loud, Mad Ghoul accomplice, share with how you view with increasingly wrinkling USMC officer. Don’t worry about little ole me coughing up a tear or two.”

  In the tone of his statement, Peter sensed Hofmeister was growing, despite his veneer of civility, angrier and more vituperative. Again, the Captain broke the silence by raising his voice, shouting, “Tell me how you picture me, murderer. TELL ME EVERYTHING! YOU’RE GOING TO DIE ANYWAY AFTER YOUR TRIAL AT THE STAKE BY FIRING SQUAD! TELL ME!”

  Yet, another pause.

  “Well, I told him the truth. You, a full-fledged Marine Corps Officer are not an ordinary graven son-of-a-bitch. You are the sorriest of all sorry sons-of-a-bitches in the universe”.

  Peter, about to shake Hofmeister’s hand, refused. In doing so, he thought he saw the barest glimpse of a cynical smile crisscross the man’s face. It was so fleeting, it seemed to occur in less than lightning speed time.

  One of the MPs, baton in hand, walked from behind Peter in his chair around the prostrate Campbell, to the side of the desk, and whispered a few words in the Captain’s ear. then, with a glint in his eye, Hofmeister looked at the second MP guard, shifted uncomfortably, grunted, and, as Peter sat studying Hofmeister, rammed his baton at full force into Peter’s stomach. He hit Peter so hard he went flying backwards, the chair hurtling almost all the way to the office’s entrance. Peter, virtually swooning from the powerful force of the blow, laid smothered in pain on the floor. Utterly defenseless, he wanted to regain his feet and balance to hurl every criminal epithet and obscene vulgarism known to man at him. But as Peter struggled to get back on his feet, several other MPs rushed through the back door, grabbing his arms, restraining further movement. Peter, in a state of painful delirium, fell back. His final recollection was hearing Captain Hofmeister shouting something about being “…the sorriest sorry son-of-a-bitch in the universe.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  -

  Pipsqueak

  Tired of their bloody work, the MPs, now numbering seven, lifted and carried Campbell and Peter Toscanini from the floor of Captain Hofmeister’s office down the corridor and main steps leading to the several dozen cells, including the solitary conferment “hole”.

  Both brutalized corpsmen, barely conscious and bleeding from a multitude of wounds and fissures, lay in a heap, shivering in the near-freezing cold, on a flat piece of wood serving as the bare cell’s bed. Their bodies tangled within each other, the two friends, groaning while slowly emerging from semiconscious conditions, tried to sit up. Neither spoke, although each was riddled with pain.

  Peter, managing a slight grin, nodded to Campbell and said hoarsely, “Chicken-shit punches and beatings.”

  Before Campbell could sit up and smile, all but one of the MPs left the large darkened “hole”. As they did so, both Peter and Campbell managed to raise themselves on all fours. As the single MP stood between the two corpsmen, he suddenly bent over and grabbed Peter by the throat and began choking him.

  “Tell us what the Redman said! Or, in less than a moment, you’ll stop breathing. Now, talk!” he pleaded implacably, his eyes narrowing.

  Pretending to remain unconscious, Peter remained silent as the MPs finger tightened around his throat. With a wry smile, the nameless MP then stepped back, dropped Peter and paused to catch his breath. Again, the Lieutenant was back down on his knees. He could barely breathe. The resistance Peter maintained all day was waning. He was so weary, he could barely open his eyes. No matter, he thought, he would stick to his story. According to Six-Bits, the captain was one sorry son-of-a-bitch.

  “I will be back soon, and your pain is nothing compared…” the MP shouted, his rage increasing the man’s intrinsic banal brutality. Hardly conscious of his plight, Peter sustained another noisy bombardment of blows.

  “I will break you in half,” the MP again scowled furiously, rubbing his hands together in delight and self-satisfaction.

  As the solitary confinement steel door slammed shut behind the exiting MP, Campbell was up on all fours with enough energy to crawl toward Peter.

  “Chicken-shit or not, are you okay?” Campbell asked Peter.

  “Hell, yes,” Peter struggled to answer. “It wasn’t his baton, or fists, or boots that punished, it was looking into that big bastard’s bully looks looking straight in my eyes, the sorry son-of-a-bitch.”

  Campbell smiled weakly. Then, crawling even closer to Peter, he whispered, “There are things I must tell you. Things I kept from you. But they may string me up as they did Six-Bits. As early as tonight.”

  Peter nodded, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Glancing around, he said as Campbell lay back again.

  “Look at this dungeon! No windows, a gloomy, airless tomb, so dark I can’t even see how far back it goes.”

  Suddenly from somewhere in the black darkness of the “hole’s” depth, a voice startled the two corpsmen.

  “Welcome to our ghastly Death House!”

  Peter, still dazed, and yearning for the comfort of deep sleep, opened his eyes wide. “I know that voice!” he thought. “I know it! But whose?”

  The unidentified voice continued, “You two will undoubtedly want to freshen up after your comfortable arrivals. We have plenty of room, and more to come since some of us are going to die anyway.”

  Struggling to regain his sensibility to respond, all Peter could respond was, “Who’s that? I know you, friend. But who are you? Are you a victim, too, like us?”

  “Are you hurt bad?” the voice asked, as it grew louder with approach.

  “We never have visitors down here in solitary confinement. So, when the other guys come in from the exercise yard, they’ll surround you for news. But, how badly did they punish you?”

  Campbell looked up and smiled. He recognized the visitor. Peter, continuing to see through bloodied facial cuts, his vision gradually gaining clarity, saw the figure of a young Marine approach, stand before him with a wide grin, then kneel face to face. Peter gasped.

  “Sonny! Sonny, is that really you? What are you doing in this hellhole? I’ve been looking for you since the day we arrived together. Why? Why? God, you look well. This is my partner in the infirmary. But why?”

  “Being the angry smartass that I am, I could say that it’s because of bliss one feels i
n the darkness, day after day, week after week, month after month. I’ll tell you a lot of things about this horrible death-house. Later, we’ll catch up on things after I care for you and your friend.”

  Peter, in pain, clutching his stomach and ribs, reached up and gently stroked Sonny’s face. His eyes narrowing, he was relieved to see whatever stockade and brutalness he endured did not affect his handsome face. No contusions, black-and-blue spots, or bruises. Appearing intact, his height was unchanged, as were the colors Peter remembered of Sonny’s hair, eyes and complexion. He had no idea how long his friend had been swallowed in darkness and loneliness, but the teenager had survived thus far. Even Sonny’s clothes had the appearance of freshness. Tight-lipped, Peter said so softly they were barely audible,

  “The silence of isolation and dark gloom didn’t leave your face expressionless. Your eyes are exactly as I remember them, bright and black.”

  “Yes. Death hasn’t reached me yet. But it’s on the way. For weeks I’ve seen nothing, and heard even less, except for one thing--one of us being grabbed without warning hauled away. When other prisoners began surrounding the guard MPs as the frightened Marine wondered why and where he was being taken, one would laugh, ‘Why, to the dump, of course.’ That’s why we must talk.”

  As Peter studied Sonny, weighing his words, he heard the tramp of heavy footsteps walking down the corridor to the solitary confinement cell. For a long moment, he, Sonny, and Campbell listened intently, especially when a heavy key was inserted in the lock of the steel door and it was shoved open noisily. Entering, three guards holding their batons tightly swaggered in. The one strutting ahead of the other two shouted,

  “Toscanini. Which one is Toscanini? The Captain wants you now. Let’s go!!”

  “Oh, shit,” whispered Sonny, as he stepped back a few feet. Then, he walked forward and whispered,

  “When you return, we’ll talk about this year’s ‘almond crop’.”