The Guardhouse Murders

by Don DeNevi

  Recovering his wits, Peter asked, “What now?”

  “Shut up, all of you, and follow me, single file, without a word, quickly into the black night, off the main road, across the fields, irrigation ditches, ground crops.”

  As Pipsqueak turned, and began to tred his way into the darkness, he added tersely, “The moonlit night is more of an enemy than the dozen MPs Hofmeister is making ready to dispatch. Listen for shouts from search parties. Walk low. No profiles in the bright night. And, acknowledge you’re terrified, every step of the way, beyond belief.”

  In the pitch darkness, Pipsqueak and the Navajo MPs, who as of yet had not uttered a single word, hurried. Peter, Campbell, and Sunny, despite their pain and weariness, slouched and shuffled as best they could from behind. It was cold, not quite frost-bitter cold, but far colder than the cells had been. Not one of the six-member team wore a sweater or jacket.

  Time was getting on as the small party trudged and plodded on in silence. Surprisingly, Campbell revived, rallying to the point he could amble along by himself. Refreshed by the cold low wind, Sunny was able to maintain Pipsqueak’s pace side by side with Peter, who muttered,

  “No official confirmation from Hofmeister that we made it out. Apparently, no orders have been issued to mobilize, no alarms. But I bet every prisoner knows we’re on the run. And, every one of them is rooting for us to succeed.”

  “The next few hours will be decisive, if we’re to reach the utility hideout under the Highway 101 bridge I’ve staked out,” reckoned Pipsqueak. “Even though the worst may be over, we can’t be certain we’re going to be clear and free all the way. We’re still challenged. Listen, everyone. Huddle up to me for a moment. We’re coming up to a ridge that leads to the tent camp at Linda Vista, eleven or twelve miles south of the main Elliott encampment. From there, we’ll descend to a gully stream and follow that directly to the bridge underpass. Two things are critical. Watch your tracks. Follow me. Stay away from the water. Water means tracks which anyone can follow.”

  Then, he added, “We will have to hurry low-bent, shadow-silent on the ridge. We’ll have to negotiate alongside near the top, not the skyline top. Just below the top. Crouching and as swift as we can. Don’t forget. No matter how it looks black as ink. You may think it’s plumb, utterly nighttime. That you can’t see a thing. But remember this: No nighttime is so dark as people atop any elevation, any height with the black sky in the background can’t be seen, distinguished. Meanwhile, we move fast. Enjoy the clean feel of the wind. I expect no trouble, but quickly let’s…”

  Just then, Sunny whispered loudly, “LOOK! To your right, due north! Small lights, like bugs floating around. No sounds, but dozens of lights!”

  “Flashlights!” muttered Pipsqueak angrily. “But thank our stars, no dogs! They can’t track us in the dark. This overwhelming blackness is our Savior. Let’s go!”

  Suddenly, a dozen scattered rifle shots from the vicinity of the bobbing specks of lights crushed the silence. As the six-man party whipped around in their tracks to stand like startled deer, heads erect, eyes disbelieving, ears taut, exerting to listen, a Browning Automatic Rifle crackled, its bullets snapping, popping, puncturing the top sands of the ridge, some ricocheting less than feet away from the escapees gripped in terror.

  Amid the distant staccato of the BAR, and the resulting pinging sounds of bullets striking the earth, Pipsqueak cursed viciously,

  “Down to the flats of the creek. Down! Down! The one thing I hadn’t anticipated. That damn fox-minded Hofmeister outsmarted me!”

  “Yeah, he figured this route,” echoed Campbell, heavy-voiced. “Twice in the last year prisoners managed to get over the walls near the north stockade gate. It’s not the shortest distance to 101, but probably the best since the fields are so rough and open.”

  The gruesome reality of their discovery gripped everyone in abject terror as they scrambled over the top, along the ridge that pitched down the bank to the creek.

  “Quickly, into the creek waters. They’ll cover our tracks. We’ve a distance to the overpass, but we’ll make it.”

  Splashing into the cold shallows and forging up the narrow small stream, the men made their way briskly north, the shots still echoing. For more than an hour, no one said a word, although there was less confusion. The decline of the creek had diminished from thirty-degrees to less than fifteen, making the jaunt all the easier. No longer was anyone rattled, and all tumbling had ceased. The winds had increased their buffeting, but the near-freezing cold had warmed a trifle.

  “Look,” Peter pointed to the east, “There’s the first dull streak of dawn above the eastern San Diego mountains. How much longer, Sergeant?”

  “Not much. In fact, I see automobile and truck lights yonder to the right. We’ll be approaching the overpass in mere moments.”

  Scanning the slopes’ embankments from the gully bottom’s creek flats, Pipsqueak, with a hint of excitement in his voice, pointed,

  “There! There we are! The overpass. A few more minutes, then rest under the freeway most of the day. No more crouching, no more balancing, no more being shot at.”

  Looming on the dark grey-black distant horizon was what appeared to be a single light pole illuminating a horizontal line crossover or resting upon a pure black circle or hole. Streaks of light seemed to be continually flashing back and forth across it.

  “That beautiful undivided four-lane highway bridge lit up for us to find!” exclaimed Pipsqueak. “Of the bridges over North and Southbound 101, I chose the smaller, least important one. To the north, is the large Santa Fe railroad underpass, part of the freight network in the Southern California area. Hofmeister is sure to look for us there. To the south is the massive interchange of connecting freeways and side roads serving all San Diego and the Miramar Naval bases and airfields. The MPs will scour the highway grade separation structures. Both are Army, Navy and Marine communication centers.

  “Hofmeister’s people are probably already in both places,” agreed Peter.

  “What I like about them all is that our Army and Marine Corps engineers made sure the wild animals of this part of the state, goats, deer, small harmless four-legged friends had a tunnel to go between the open fields,” added Sunny.

  “See the culvert and drainage conduit up there to the left? Both partially hidden where we are going to hide today.

  Less than a minute later, with Pipsqueak leading the way, the six Marines started climbing up the embankment steps beneath the bridge to the 10-foot cyclone fence enclosure of the bridges’ utility and drainage components. Here, behind a small pump station and free-standing panel-board of electrical powerline switches and water shut-off valves was a locked steel door with a “Storage--No Admittance!” sign.

  Producing a key, Pipsqueak unlocked the steel door, and the six quickly entered. Pulling the door shut, he switched a dim light on and, although limited in space, each man was able to find space to sit or recline at will among tool boxes and equipment.

  “Earlier in the week, I brought several stacks of sacks to sit or lie down on. Sorry, no blankets. Since the door is well-sealed, we can leave the light on. Get comfortable, because we’ll begin our trek around 1600 this afternoon.”

  The men settled in for the day, the Navajo MPs sprawling themselves out on large road metal covering plates. Campbell, still in considerable pain, smiled at Peter,

  “Who would believe it? We actually crashed out of that cell block guardhouse! I worked in a number of military detention structures, even studied some of the more classic examples, like the Navy’s brigs, from inside out. Like a friend told me, ‘A greased rat can’t have get out of the Elliott Stockade unless he someone within giving it a stiff shove in the ass.’ And, as of yet, we’re not dead, burned to an easily crumbling, curled crisp, and tossed together into the dump. You, Sergeant, gave the shove. If we live through this, it’s because of you.

  Pipsqueak, on one knee peering through a crack at the door, turned, smiled, and nodded,


  “Doing my duty, corpsman, doing my duty. But we’re not ‘home’ and safe yet.”

  No sooner than Pipsqueak responded, when he whispered in a flat monotone of shock,

  “Easy men, easy. I make out three figures climbing up our embankment. They have M-1s slung over their shoulders. Each has a large flashout despite the morning light. They’re part of a patrol, coming our way. Get low behind the road plates, not a breath from anyone. If they open the door, I’ll deal with them, one way or another, if they don’t buy my lie that I’m AWOL. If they begin to come in to search, or threaten to take me back to Elliott, I’ll kill them all.”

  As the steep climb became more demanding nearing the top of the ridge and its cyclone fenced-in utilities, the MPs stopped to rest. The leader of the three said,

  “I’m calling a halt so we can eat the food we brought with us.”

  As they munched their provisions, they flashed their lights through the 10-foot-high fence all the way to the utility storeroom door, then on the ceiling of the overpass, finally agreeing nothing was out of order. Only one of the three had met the endurance test, the other two completely exhausted. For the following half hour, the three rested, then abruptly stood up and climbed their way to the top of the highway and marched alongside the edge, disappearing in the cold morning light.

  With that, the six were reflective for a time. Although sleepless and Peter, Sunny, and Campbell exhausted from varying degrees of pain, they all knew other patrols were close.

  “We’ll make it!” Pipsqueak insisted. “Besides, they may not come this way at all. As late approaches, we’ll leave, two at a time, maybe 20 yards apart so we’re not observed as a group. But, all of us will be within sight of each other. Our route is simple. We’ll have to cross Camp Elliott itself. Headquarters straddles the various camps. All their crossings are heavily guarded. Obviously, we’ll need to avoid the main roads, bridges and rail lines crisscrossing the grounds. The units don’t have the manpower to completely guard every stretch of the topography. We will hook up on the Headquarters step and spend the rest of the night sitting in the lobby until dawn. Our job now is to evaporate back into the military bases leading to the Miramar Administrative Center. Not for a single second can we forget that there are patrols out there scrutinizing every face of a man in uniform with explicit orders to shoot on sight if recognized.”

  With aching muscles finally consuming their remaining energies, all but Pipsqueak and Peter made themselves as comfortable as possible and closed their eyes. Pipsqueak, turning from his point of observation at the entrance, again smiled at Peter, gazing in wonderment at him. Peter responded, “If my life depended on it, I can’t walk another step today.”

  “Rest, you won’t have to. Try to take a long nap. I’ll keep watch.”

  “Oh, Sergeant, I can’t. I’m too excited to get back and give my oral account.”

  “Well, know this, Lieutenant. My year-long report is taped to my chest.”

  “Sunny and Campbell will have oral summaries like myself. Can you confide anything with me?” Peter asked searchingly.

  “Sure. You’ll hear it all anyway. The Elliott guardhouse; call it what you want, ‘brig’, ‘stockade’, was an unusual concentration of power and terror narrowly confined in one spot. Pure and simple. If you need to find murderers there, all you have to do is look behind desks. And, the desk of Captain Hofmeister is where terror was planned and started. And, he was the one who processed that terror in an orderly, systematic manner so that it appeared to be legal in the annals of military justice, that what he ordered done would pass muster in the minds of the inspectors.”

  “And,” interjected Peter, “he had a special squad, a death unit, to carry out the punishments, some of which included murder, right?”

  “Exactly. And, you were assigned to corroborate what we thought was factual. I was assigned to watch over Sunny who was planted early on to watch over you. The word, the noun ‘almond’ was selected as the identifying code, because it was the one name you knew well, having spent your summers on your grandparents’ almond ranch in Galt, California. It is a term you wouldn’t easily forget.”

  “They sure were right about that. unless it’s my mother’s maiden name, no word or name has more of an emotional meaning to me.”

  “So rumors of brutally tortured young Marines have been true. Most absorbed the torture, believing in the Corps concepts of discipline, the cowardice inherent in squealing and being ‘a man’ at all costs.”

  “And, the suicides?”

  “Most accepted it as a by-product of war. Those who didn’t, who questioned it, disappeared, presumably murdered.”

  “So, so sad. Unknown kid Marines, 18, 19, 20 years of age, willing to testify, refusing to bend, who did not take the easy route of closing their eyes, who opted for resistance and would not hesitate to risk their lives to prevent harm to fellow Marines--all gone, disappeared, murdered.”

  With that, Corpsman Campbell, who had awakened and was now listening, interrupted,

  “Those were days one never forgets, days that tested a young Marine’s character, integrity, resolve. I never knew so much physical and psychological torture without opening wounds, or even bruising men. I never know men to give themselves up to death so easily.”

  “Yes,” added Sunny, “And the endless silence as shadows seemed to shoot from their wide, seriously wide eyes that were planted in pallid faces. When they were brought back from so-called ‘interrogations’ they looked as if brought back from the grave.”

  As the four gazed upon each other in what little light the cracked door had to offer, no one spoke. Each of them sat impassively, thinking his own thoughts, listening with his own ears to the first ever openly discussed eye-witness descriptions of the brutality.

  “I remember how the first night I was pushed into a windowless cell on the lower floor,” Sunny continued, “without even a blanket. On the wall, I saw a single five-word sentence, ‘Welcome to murder basement’.”

  “In the infirmary,” corpsman Campbell offered, “An interrogation was occasionally held when the basement was full. I saw for myself how questions came hard and fast, one after the other, question after question, from four MPs cross-examining, hitting the victim with their fists.”

  “No,” Pipsqueak turned and commented, “detention meant, if not death itself, then a near-death event. And, the afflicted dared not say a word, yet alone complain. And, why, why, why? Not because of crimes, rule violations, or even juvenile infractions of less than less camp misdemeanors.”

  For a fraction of a moment, there was absolute silence. Then, Campbell said, quietly,

  “The Camp Elliott Stockade has become a silent ghost-like death house. The solitary cells are hellholes of cruelty, perfidy, baseness. Supposedly those cells are for our young Marines to serve a little detention for minor violations of Article 51, Paragraph 3 of the Military Criminal Code. Now, there are dark, motionless men of pure evil who rule the stockade shadows, abetting murder.”

  Outside, the mild breeze, which had been refreshingly pleasing had, by mid-afternoon, turned into a crazily screaming wind. In the underpass utility storeroom, it felt more like a whimpering whisper. Soon, Pipsqueak knew, the party of six would be picking their way, cat-footed into its very howling, promising hours of treacherous journey throughout a second night.

  “What I will never be able to erase from my mind,” Sunny said softly, “are the screams lasing for hours, often throughout the night, finally turning to low whimpers, then loud screams again.”

  “Lieutenant,” said Pipsqueak steadily in crystal clear language, “This is what you must know as fact. The MPs who were specially assigned to guard prisoners varied in both character and intellect. Some behaved correctly and even groused the system. Others were out and out sadists and tormentors of human beings. Harassment was vilest when it came to trifling matters. For example, tying hands and feed together for not saluting!”

  “And,” interjected Sunny, “ne
ver allowing us outside in the recreation yard for fresh air. One of their favorite tricks was to shut the cell door forcefully from the corridor so that the suddenly raised air pressure popping the poor fellow’s eardrums. And, being manacled all the time, eating, sleeping, in the cells, relieving ourselves. And, for nothing. For having done nothing.”

  The final hours of that windy afternoon were the longest of Peter’s life. All, including Pipsqueak and Peter were wide-awake, living the passing minutes in fear that a second search party would sound the alarm, having noticed a telltale sign pointing to the storage room. Their escape thus far, Peter felt, was successful because they had faithfully followed Pipsqueak’s carefully directed guidance. He had been completely honest with the escapees, and, thus far, had saved their lives. He said,

  “Our route is very simple. Follow me. Stand up and stretch. We walk in less than one minute…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  -

  Flight to Headquarters

  With the final vestiges of sunlight evaporating, Pipsqueak said softly with a wry smile to his assembled party outside the underpass storage,

  “If you believe for a solid moment we’ve outrun, outsmarted Hofmeister’s search parties, you could not be more sadly mistaken. With savvy MPs crisscrossing every known footpath trail, back alley, driveways, and roads, we’re in greater danger than ever. We’ll walk along in twos; the two Navajos in the lead, me and the Lieutenant second, and the boy with the corpsmen third. We’ll remain behind each other’s twosome by some 25 yards, enough to see the group ahead. My Navajo boys know the way, and, remember, stay behind enough to see the two heads ahead of you. We’ll become lost in the myriad of the small tent camps, barracks, warehouses, storage facilities, and the terrain itself. Tonight’s moonlight is both friend and enemy.”

  Pipsqueak paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then ordered everyone to drink several sips from the two canteens the Navajo MPs were carrying along with their personal kits. The Navajos and Pipsqueak were now officially AWOL and could be shot on sight.