The Guardhouse Murders

by Don DeNevi

A small sign attached to the bottom of it read:

  Commander

  General Clayton B. Vogel

  Where for two days no one paid particular attention to any of the twosomes, all eyes were now on the six men. Two fully-armed sentries guarding the entrance left their post to quickly step forward quizzically riveted on each of them.

  Almost simultaneously, a Lieutenant accompanied by five equally heavily-armed sentries stepped from the shadows of a covered walkway, surprising both the entrance guards and the Pipsqueak fugitives.

  Holding up his hand as they stepped lively from the somewhat hidden area among the eucalyptus trees adjacent the lawns, “Stop, Marines! We’ve been expecting you. You are to follow me as a safety and security measure. After bedding down for the remainder of the night, then breakfast, showers, and change of clothing commencing at 0600, you’re to be debriefed at 0900 in Commander Vogel’s presence. Meanwhile, Sergeant, three of my five will join you at the entrance. Under no verbal or written orders are you to allow anyone into the facility. Headquarters will be completely surrounded and secured within minutes. Upon the highest orders which are being typed now from within, you are to fire upon and kill anyone or group who attempts to force his way forward. Now, gentlemen, follow me, under armed guard. Total closure and lockdown orders are in effect until 0600 when a Battalion of MPs from the Camp Irwin in the Mojave Deserve arrives for your protection.”

  Following the Lieutenant, Pipsqueak piped up, “We’re anxious to get to our cots. The night is icy cold, and none of us had the proper clothing for our long jaunt.

  After a long moment huddling with the entrance sergeant, the Lieutenant motioned for the party, with Pipsqueak and Peter joining him side by side.

  “Who called us in? How did you know we were approaching Headquarters?”

  “The sergeant of the Navajo MPs your boys conversed with on the street in Miramar. Of course, the military in all Southern California has been scouring cities and countrysides for you fellas.”

  Peter, sizing the Lieutenant up, instantly liked the officer. Deeply understanding, it appeared he knew all about the Camp Elliott stockade disappearances. He said as the party half-stumbled down the steps and across the small porch connecting long verandahs,

  “I’m glad you are all safe and sound. But you’re certainly nothing to admire, shoes heavily caked with mud, some of you stained with blood, filthy to the bone, hair matted with dirt, each of you a mess.”

  Peter, somewhat sarcastically, “Yes, compared to you, spruce, cleanly shaved, freshly out of bed at 0200. No, you, the epitome of sharp military, us the sad tragedy of murder.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. All of us here were hoping to see you, none of us dreaming you were on your way here.”

  “Oh, for a hot shower, soap suds, and a cot of warm blankets,” Sunny muttered.

  “Well, come it,” the Lieutenant, a good-looking man with obviously an extraordinary character, smiled as he led the way forth.

  As the group tiresomely reached the top step of the lobby porch, Peter positioned himself near the rear of the group to reflect for a moment upon the overall aesthetics of the wood-framed Headquarters.

  Designed and assembled to be low, slim, and virtually colorless, the bolted-together barracks provided a sufficient warm incandescence from the extra-clean skylighting and abundant wall windows that Headquarters’ flexibility and nimbleness seemed to welcome rather than hinder or threaten the visitor.

  The heavily-trafficked entry on the front porch consisted of standard double doors, encasing highly-reflective glazing. Peter whispered to Pipsqueak who had walked back to hasten the Lieutenant along,

  “What a marvelous design from ordinary barracks. Even Frank Lloyd Wright would approve. Sleek, clean lines, obvious courtyards within, and all most certainly fire-resistant.”

  From a night that had been busy and noisy, the group was relieved that the open light-filled lobby was calm and quiet. Its layout hinted at a friendly, height-increased atmosphere. A table with a few dozen bottles of Sonoma, California mineral water, greeted them. Immediately indulging themselves as the Lieutenant and guards watched with a bit of amusement, the fugitives had a few moments to glance around as they gulped the mineral water, quenching their thirsts.

  On the ground floor, they noted offices, conference rooms, lavatories, wash basins, and janitorial storage rooms. What mattered the most to Peter was the reception that Pipsqueak was receiving from the high number of officers and adjunct personnel sitting on lounge couches or standing and conversing in small groups. Peter was certain he glimpsed officers turn their heads and spit in contempt on the floor.

  As the Lieutenant led the way down the main corridor toward the back of the Headquarters facility, with the three armed sentries bringing up the rear, Peter was delighted to see patio gardens with lush vegetation, including a number of rare, exotic Pacific Island flowers.

  “Imagine that, horticulture during a time of death and destruction,” he chuckled approvingly.

  Along the lengthy rather sparse corridor, officers sitting on couches sipping hot coffee and munching freshly-baked pastries, eyed them unsmilingly.

  “We’re certainly out of place, looking more like tramps or hoose-gow bait,” whispered Peter to Pipsqueak, “but maybe they know who we are and detest us for snitching. Look at those raised eyebrows!”

  “Yeah,” responded Pipsqueak rather defiantly. “I’m so weary of bastards like that, with no a single sing of war having touched them. Fresh, crisp, and clean in smartly pressed uniforms, especially after what we’ve been through.”

  “Well, can’t say that I blame them, us appearing like after-battle dregs.”

  Approaching a large double-door room, the Lieutenant announced,

  “This is our small athletic room for staff daily workout sessions. Temporary cots are set up for your use until sunup. Strip and crawl under the blankets for at least a few hours of shuteye. Coffee and baked goods are on the way. Sleep, after, if you can. I’ll get you at 0530 for a quick breakfast, shower, shave, and issuance of fresh uniforms right down the hall from here. You’ll be then ushered into Commander Vogel’s conference room at 0700. I understand a rather large gathering will be sitting in to hear wha you each has to say. Based upon that, arrests will begin immediately.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  -

  Captain Hofmeister, Again

  To their surprise, the first thing everyone in the escape party saw as they entered the made-over gymnasium was MP Lawrence “Larry” Angelo, the only military police officer to show sympathy for not only Six-Bits and the other Code-Talkers, but also concern regarding the disappearances.

  Sitting up wrapped in blankets on one of seven cots lined up next to each other, he was as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” exclaimed Pipsqueak. “What foolishness brings you here?”

  Angelo grinned sheepishly.

  “Once I heard you all were on the run, I knew the Hofmeister Death Squad would immediately seek me. The hospital van was how I opted out.”

  “Good for you,” one of the Navajo MPs said, walking up to him, rubbing his back. “You are a good people, one of us.”

  “Sure, so much so I couldn’t save Six-Bits. I heard about when the squad returned and were laughing about it in the mess lounge,” Angelo said softly, head bowed.

  “Well, you saved our asses,” Corpsman Campbell smiled, “I’ll forever be indebted.”

  “Why? Don’t you know we’re at death’s door? They’re out there at this time doing their best to find you. They figured you’d be headed for the Camp Pendleton Commander. They’ve been swarming Hwy 99 and surrounding countrysides for almost three days now. I’m going back to sleep. I awakened with the commotion down the corridor. I knew it was you guys. As for me, I’m crawling under. I supposed we’ll all be gathered in for the debriefing at the same time in the morning. Now, goodnight, men.”

  Everyone was too weary to further co
nverse. And, it wouldn’t have benefitted anyone anyway as the fugitives, uninterested in food or drink, began pulling off their filthy uniformed with their caked blood.

  “Anyone want a hot shower?” the Lieutenant asked with a smile. For Peter, who leaped at the opportunity, it was the first hot water he had had on his backside since Camp Stoneman. The bulk military soap had a sweet, luxurious scent, its suds a relief for exhausted muscles. The fresh underwear that had thoughtfully been rushed forth as they all showered nearby. Refreshed, they were soldiers of the United States Marine Corps again. Respectable, clean and presentable. All they needed were shaves, but that would come soon enough. The cots with clean, crisp sheets and Navy blankets were surprisingly comfortable. And, for less than two and a half hours, all six men slept soundly side by side with Sergeant Lawrence “Larry” Angelo of the Camp Elliott Stockade Military Police.

  Later, what seemed like only a few moments, everyone was up for yet a second hot shower, the welcomed shaves, and hearty breakfasts. It still wasn’t daylight. The Lieutenant, who had remained with the party since their arrival on the Headquarters’ step, said,

  “The day may have surprises in store for everyone. This is Commander Vogel’s show and he wants you outside his office door in less than 30 minutes. He says he wants to meet Lt. Toscanini, especially since he’s the ‘almond’ spy extraordinaire.”

  Through the corridor skylights, Peter on the walk with the others to the commending general’s office, noticed through the skylights that daylight had crept through the typical early morning overcast. Within, meanwhile, orderlies and staff were already going about their administrative paperwork. It would be interesting, Peter thought to himself, to tour the facility, inspecting office by office, the nitty-gritty management of war, day in and day out. Most of these would never hear a single gunshot, and certainly never know the fear of being shot at. Yet, these unsung heroes were absolutely vital for winning the war.

  As the group silently approached the outer open desks in the foyer of the commanding General’s Office, young staff officers in quiet efficiency typing, filing, and engaging in other secretarial duties looked up to see seven men descending upon them, six of them attired in varying military clothing. Peter smiled at the incongruity of pristine officers attempting to fathom the meaning of the seven-man party headed for the commander’s office.

  Flush with the wall at the end of the corridor was General Vogel’s large office and conference room. Two armed MPs standing at ease, but eyes watchful and fully alert, guarded the entrance which was fashionable set back 18”. Directly across at the end of the corridor, where 10 comfortable chairs facing the entrance to the Commanding General’s office.

  For more than an hour, the fugitives sat still and silent as death, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. Within the opposite office walls, there was considerable commotion, movements, voices, shouting, and other unusual notices and activities. As hard as Peter tried to hear what was going on, he could not determine the words and other sounds. He whispered to Campbell,

  “Several different voices. Can’t make out what’s being said, but it sounds serious.”

  Finally, under the steady gazes of the two MP sentries, Peter stood up, walked a few steps, and sighed.

  Just then, as a small chain scraped across metal, and the two MPs snapped to attention, the office door opened smoothly inward, and Commanding General Vogel stepped out. In a tired, almost angry voice, he motioned,

  “Come in, men, we’ve been waiting for you. Sorry for the delay, but we had to clear up a few things. Go on in and take a chair.”

  Since Peter had already been standing for a moment or two when the general opened his office door and greeted the Pipsqueak party, the Lieutenant smiled, delighted to finally notch the face and figure of a man with the sterling reputation he had heard so much about during his entire enlistment. Just recently, both Pipsqueak and Campbell had spoken highly of the general’s “soul of honor”, referencing as well Vogel’s geniality and sensibility. “Everyone who serves under him,” commented Pipsqueak, “acknowledges the commander is a first-class soldier.”

  Now, despite being vapid and somber, the tall, thin, balding man with the barest hint of a smile stood at the threshold of his office door and shook the hand of each escapee who crossed it. The first thing Peter noticed as he entered the large office was a huge electric ceiling fan fully-functioning above the general’s desk. Some 10 to 12 yards in front of Peter were more than a dozen ordinary US Army chairs arranged in a semicircle before a large reddish-brown and mahogany desk virtually devoid of all paperwork. Peter noted instantly as he ambled forward to the nearest chair the desktop was as pristine as the general’s uniform, although he had rolled up his sleeves, his jacket stretched over the back of yet another common Army-issued chair.

  “Clean, neat and certainly able and competent, without the slightest air of dilettantism or manners of a poseur. My kind of man, real, genuine, no nonsense, but kind and gentle.”

  Also catching his eye were the dozens of unarmed, other than long black batons, MPs, six evenly spaced on each side of the room standing at attention.

  “Normal,” thought Peter. “He must feel we’re dangerous.”

  Suddenly, as he neared the semicircle, he noticed two vaguely familiar figures with their backs toward him facing the front of the desk. Momentarily stunned by simultaneously confusion and fear, Peter winced in pain. Grimacing in pure disgust, he recognized the two Marines handcuffed hands behind their back to their chairs. Just as the two turned their heads to see who was approaching, Commander-in-Chief General Clayton B. Vogel of the Fleet Marine Force, Training Center, dropped the bombshell,

  “Gentlemen, I believe you know Captain Hofmeister and Dr. Simon Fisherly, the Chief Physician of the Camp Elliott Stockade. Both certainly know each of you.”

  Even before the full sentence could be completed, PFC Lawrence “Larry” Angelo, recognizing from the distance of the office entrance who they were, was so instantly enraged that he bounded past those in front of him, and literally leaped headlong, arms wide open, to grasp the two seated handcuffed men in a tumultuous whirlwind uproar. Pounding with his fist whomever the figure next to him sprawled on the polished wooded floor, it required the entire contingent of MPs, their batons beating all three of the prone man into submission. The noisy chaos and commotion lasted less than 60 seconds.

  Pulled to his feet, badly bruised around his head and bleeding from his scalp near the left ear, Larry Angelo exclaimed,

  “What the hell have I done?”

  Struggling to stand with his hands still handcuffed to the back of his chair, Hofmeister, bleeding from a long deep cut above his eye, and Dr. Fisherly, relatively unhurt, attempted feeble grins without comment.

  As Vogel sat down in his chair behind his desk, he motioned for the aghast, eyes glazed over escapees to take whatever seats remained standing.

  “Well, boys, we’re used to hectic intent-to-kill moments, aren’t we? But I understand the PFC’s natural reaction,” General Vogel commented, giving Angelo a sour grin.

  Turning to the others now all seated, with the 12 MPs repositioning back against the wall, he said quietly, leaning slightly across his desk, “Gentlemen, there is business at hand we must confront. But before we begin, is anyone interested in a hot cup of Java?”

  As inviting as the offer was, no one responded, each man paralyzed in thought.

  After a brief stunned silence, Dr. Fisherly asked hesitantly, somewhat hoarsely,

  “How can you think of coffee now? Man should not live by bread alone.”

  Peter glanced at him, wondering, ‘What kind of daffy question and statement is that?’ Then, he turned to study Hofmeister.

  The square-jawed Germanic face of the Captain was dead-white. With long lines stretching downwards from his eye-sockets, he was no longer the “Hated Boche” that many of the Marine veteran inmates referred to him as. Instead, the cruel, sadistic Marine Corps Officer was wearing a simply co
mbat sweater filthy between recognition, appeared weary to the point of collapse. Not a muscle moved. Whereas, the physician-administrator, who shook with emotion, seemed indignant, fiercely wrathful.

  To Peter, the dumpy little man in charge of the stockade was pitiful as he appeared more a victim than anyone else. He was in a mighty distressful state and Peter felt sorry for him. He felt like rising, walking over to him and with his handkerchief, wiping the single tear that made its way down his tear-stained face. He hesitated, lest General Vogel, and the others, especially his fellow travelers, saw the gesture as a sign of collaboration. Because the sight of Hofmeister on the verge of slobbering all over himself turned his stomach, Peter turned away, gazing through the office’s single window overlooking an open-skied garden. Midday had turned gray and a fine drizzle more like a thin mist had started falling, creating and deepening glistening hues on the vegetation.

  As for Fisherly, his arrest and handcuffing, in addition to a sleepless night, seemed to strengthen him. His mouth was tightly closed in defiance as his eyes burned in a somber fire. Tightly cuffed and sitting side by side with Hofmeister, he turned sharply with a grimace, then sneered,

  “You are the one responsible for the unspeakable things done to our boy by the inhuman goalers assigned to you in our brig. It is you by your cruelty who egged them on.

  The commander raised his hand, and asked casually, “Am I to take it that no one wants a cup of coffee?”

  Without so much as batting a single eyelash, the doctor continued, “You starved, interrogated, stripped naked, tortured to death, and burned to ashes many innocent kids.”

  Captain Hofmeister, who had been leaning forward, turned and yelled loudly,

  “You piece of cow dung. You know damn well it was you! YOU! You kept the black list! You, the great doctor, kept the boys from medical help adding to the suffering. You made the Camp Elliott Stockade extremely dangerous. You, Doctor, are responsible for that sinister maze of murder. Yes, I admit I frequently saw nooks and niches of blood.”