The Guardhouse Murders

by Don DeNevi

  Hofmeister paused, then looked up at his commander, and, for a moment, reflected, ‘He won’t believe me that his chief physician, such a fair-haired, solidly-built, tall, gentle, good-natured, and distinctly dignified, was the head of the death squad’.

  Suddenly, Hofmeister’s face reddened as he turned back towards Dr. Fisherly. Pure rage now gripped him as he struggled to release himself from his handcuffed hands, as the physician nonchalantly looked at the Captain with a sneering grin.

  “Why you dirty toe-sucker! You were in it every step of the way. On the selection of the Marines to be ‘punished’. Oh yes, you knew what was happening all right. Your furtive expressing has become sickeningly habitual. It gave you away every day, from the very beginning,” shouted the physician.

  After a short pause, Captain Hofmeister retorted,

  “Because of you, there was fear. In the air! Often, I had difficulty restraining from bursting into hysterical tears. Oh, how I hated what you and your Gestapo were doing!”

  After yet another short pause, Hofmeister continued,

  “It has been known ever since our bleak prison began that you ordered, organized, and coordinated the beatings and killings by all the special unit you organized. I repeat, you, it was you, who made the selections and punishments, including murders by ‘special treatment’. The scene of all the crimes was the basement right under my office floor. Reports of these extreme punishment made their way back to the Headquarters and the commander.”

  “Yes! Yes!” screamed the physician. “True, all true and we should have killed you, too. Oh, how I wish we had!”

  “You swine, you swineherd! At this very moment you had two more down there. Two so-called defendants awaiting your evil death-sentencing hand,” Hofmeister snapped back.

  “I was planning on commuting them, you stupid fat Kraupt.”

  “Yes,” Hofmeister scoffed, curling his upper lip, “an American Kraut at that who will follow you to the stake before the firing squad. Best if high-explosive saturation bombing takes down that stockade with you in it.”

  Turing back to Commander Vogel, Hofmeister said in a low whisper, “I am so happy you liberated me from that horrible place. From all my guilt and sadness, I am free. Even my prayers couldn’t help me. I, too, heard the screams. In that death squad, I was all alone. I, in my way, arranged for a number, more than you know of, boys to live by transferring them from our brig to the Pendleton Hospital with forged paperwork specifying the need for life-saving surgery. They are living proof I let them live and did not shoot them in the back of the head.”

  “You have their names?” interjected Commander Vogel.

  “Absolutely,” responded Hofmeister.

  Angrily, the Doctor spit at the Captain, “You low-ranking official.”

  “Perhaps, but I am free to face the firing squad. I told the Commander upon their escape he had no further to look for the murderer of the guardhouse atrocities than behind the administrative desk of the infirmary.”

  Dr. Fisherly, snarling, did not respond.

  Captain Hofmeister’s final words before relapsing in a prolonged somber silence were,

  “At last the horrible stench of death is lifted from my body.”

  As everyone in the office stared at the Captain in amazement, the physician, frowning sternly, began unleashing a spasm of pent-up emotion. In the calm and quiet, they seemed to rush up in horrific evilness. The somewhat hour-long tranquility of the proceedings was not shattered by noise, but by the words spoken in soft tones.

  “Yes, I’m that physician who was relegated to that minor infirmary. My assignment was to ensure all measures were taken within the guard house to crush treasonable aggressions. My acts of defense of the homefront are legally justified. I was hard-hitting, unlike the patsy with the fat ass sitting there. Yes, I created a political police force from within. Yes, I coordinated its tasks from my office. And, it was me with unflinching perseverance who carried out the deeds. And, don’t you try to wiggle out of it, you slop. You cannot ward off your execution by confessing. Our goal was the expulsion of the weaker Mariners. We meant to guarantee the purity of the USMC.”

  Commander Vogel suddenly put his hand up as if to stop Fisherly.

  “So, you say you committed these heinous crimes to make the Corps more racially pure?”

  “To paraphrase an old cowboy movie star, ‘You’re darn tooting!’ And General, you know I’m right. Simply put, those unfit to fight were unworthy of life. Thus, the establishment of systematic punishment. If some couldn’t endure it and survive, so be it. Murder isn’t so bad once you get used to it. The Corps vital energies are what counts. Not mothering the weak and ineffective. Hitler has the right idea.”

  With everyone’s jaws dropped, and all mouths agape in the deadly silence of the office, the open confession of outright systematic killing so smugly admitted was staggering.

  After another pause during which Dr. Fisherly chuckled to himself, Commander Vogel said quietly,

  “Well, Marines, we’ve heard enough. It seems we’ve had a Nazi sympathizer as our Chief Physician at Camp Elliott. We’ll adjourn while these two are removed to their isolation cells. Lieutenant Toscanini, we have a PBY awaiting your arrival in the San Diego estuary harbor for immediate departure to Treasure Island. You brought nothing with you from Camp Stoneman, so there is nothing to forward. Apparently, Almond, a new assignment, more urgent than this one, is pending.”

  Motioning to two MPs standing with their hands behind their backs at the office wall, Vogel said,

  “You’ll go now, as you are. Commendations are in order for all of you. Mail from these men sitting next to you will be held until you return from your third official assignment. I can tell you only this, Lieutenant. It’ll be far, far deep into the Pacific, almost all the way to Japan.”

  As Peter rose to salute the General and nod to his fellow travelers, then turn to make his way behind Hofmeister and Fisherly, the captain, in a fiercely desperate motion, jerked himself to his feet. With his powerful shoulders thrust forward in a frenzy, he slid forward partially across the desk, handcuffed hands in front of him struggling to grasp the bronze letter opener next to a small stack of sealed confidential letters and taped various memoranda and files.

  The MPs leaning against the wall were so startled, they froze for a second, then, vividly alert, literally jumped across the 20 to 25 feet toward Hofmeister, letter opener clasped firmly in hands handcuffed together. Twisting around and turning off the desk back toward the physician, Fisherly jerked violently. He realized intuitively, and certainly instinctively; he was a dead man. “Unbelievable,” was the last word he gasped, as the impact of the letter opener in a single backhand swipe slashed half his face and most of his upper throat open.

  Strangling in the guttural sounds of blood pouring through his mouth and throat, his last glimpse of life was that of Hofmeister’s sadistic snarl. Peter, with spattered blood on his face and clothes, stepped back weakly, trying to recover his strength. Less than a foot away, Fisherly’s heavy body somehow continued to quiver tremulously in a rapidly expanding pool of dark red blood.

  Despite the silence following the terrific crashing impact of the victim’s body, Peter, eyes closed and his body wavering and swooning, believed he heard bones crunching, grinding, and grating although he knew that was impossible.

  “You’ve paid, you evil, diabolical monster,” Hofmeister bellowed loudly, dropping the bloody letter opener.

  Peter, meanwhile, in half-suffocation for never having observed bestial cruelty up close, to his everlasting embarrassment, fainted dead away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  -

  A Note from Naval Intelligence

  Dressed in freshly-washed white skivvies and sitting comfortably in a single seat next to the navigation table behind the Engineer’s Station aboard the Boeing B-314A flying boat, Lieutenant Peter Toscanini was the only passenger among a crew of eleven.

  After circling the offshore
Farallon Islands before approaching the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco Bay to avoid the remote possibility of being mistaken as an enemy aircraft and shot down, the huge water aircraft had begun a steady, laborious decent to the calm waters of Treasure Island’s Clipper Cove and its moorings and newly constructed hangars. Bound for Noumea, New Caledonia, the California Clipper would deliver Peter, and, in turn, board a dozen or so Naval personnel for duty during a 20-minute stopover before resuming its nonstop journey.

  Now, after napping off and on during the three-and-a-half-hour flight as the flying boat droned along at 135 miles per hour along the California Coast from San Diego in clear weather, Peter turned to gaze out his window. A late afternoon sun was bravely struggling to filter its fading light through a growing mist.

  Skimming the surface toward the eastern portion of the San Francisco Bay Bridge and the adjacent cove, Peter enjoyed the splashing water pounding the heavy flying boat’s hull and tin roof.

  Upon landing, maneuvering and taxiing to the assigned berth next to the island’s lagoon, Peter, upon deplaning, once again noted, and smiled, at how “Clipper Cove” became a popular gathering place where spectators and picnickers could observe the Clippers coming and going.

  At the foot of the moveable ramp leading to the floating loading dock connected to the low wharf, two MPs stood in starched, carefully-pressed uniforms. Both were obvious high-ranking officers in the security unit assigned to Naval Intelligence.

  “Lieutenant Toscanini,” smiled the lead officer, walking toward him as he stepped onto the floating dock from the gangplank.

  “Yes, sir,” Peter replied. “You’ve come to fetch me, I presume?”

  “Our staff car is waiting, as are your superiors. This way, please. Anything we can do for you before your conference?”

  As a line of a dozen or more departing Navy personnel ambled down the wharf carrying suitcases past them to board the aircraft, Peter, without so much as batting an eyelash grinned, “How about an early supper with Nimitz and MacArthur ?”

  When Japan attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, the U.S. Navy took control of Treasure Island, making it a central part of its administration arm throughout the war. Under the Navy’s jurisdiction, all arriving and departing flying boats, flight crews, and ground staff were supervised by the Treasure Island admiral.

  Of the three permanent structures on Treasure Island, the prewar Pan American Air Ferries Terminal with its famed art-deco design and motifs served as the Navy’s Pacific Fleet Headquarters and the island’s control tower. Peter, of course, had been here before.

  “Follow me,” ordered the MP, as he led Peter down the corridor of the building’s main wing housing the weather station offices to an unmarked door which led down steps to a vast well-lit basement with designated areas for mail delivery, freight, and customer services. Through an open door in the rear of the basement, Peter saw five loading ramps.

  Finally, after what seemed hours of traipsing through hurrying officers and busy management staff, the MP stopped before what appeared to be an unmarked storage room. Although he had never been in this area of the station before, the door painted a dull gray appeared vaguely familiar.

  “You’re wanted in here,” he said quietly as he knocked a few times on the door, then opened it and motioned Peter in, closing the door behind him.

  Instantly, Peter felt he was in a room similar to the one he had entered in that basement weeks before when he returned from Pavuvu and met with the representative from Naval Intelligence. Long, narrow, dim-lighted, bare walls, windowless, and totally vacant but for a bare desk with only a lamp and telephone. Since there were only two chairs, one of occupier and, in front of the highly-polished desk, a chair for the visitor. The chamber certainly resembled an interrogation chamber, especially with a thick brown carpet muffling all noises and sounds.

  With no one present, Peter suddenly felt lonely. He felt cold, near-freezing, as he walked forth and sat down. Earlier, even on the flying boat he had been warm, even hot. Certainly by then, the sun had descended beyond the coastal range to the west.

  As Peter surveyed the room for the second time, the only door in the back of the room opened and an Army colonel entered with what appeared to be five white confidential envelopes in hand. Freshly-shaven and dressed in an immaculately clean and pressed uniform, the balding, tall, thin officer was a complete stranger.

  After stepping into the room, he chuckled, “Come, Lieutenant. This will be brief. A staff car is nearby waiting to drive you over to the Alameda Naval Air Station near the foot of the bridge, yonder there. The sun’s setting over San Francisco and we can watch its last rays bounce off the skyscrapers with nightfall in this basement, tensions increase. You get so busy down here you no longer see anyone, but feel like a million eyes are watching your every move. Only around 0200 do things quiet down then, at down everything gets back to normal. Right now, this room, one of five just like it, is too coffin-like. So, let’s go in the garden, watch the sun go down, and talk.”

  Startled by the liveliness of the Colonel, Peter, finding no words to respond, smiled, stood up, walked around the desk, and followed the officer out the door. Through low-hanging clouds hung over San Francisco across the waters of the Bay to the west from Treasure Island, wan, pale shafts of early evening light tipped the spires across the Bay.

  “No matter how many times you watch sundown from Treasure Island, it’s a mystic glow to experience regardless of mist, fog, wind or rain,” the Colonel said. “The garden is across the avenue there. We’ll sit on the bench overlooking the beach. The usual sharp gusty wind blast that blows in from the Golden Gate in the late afternoon diminishes by now. Anyway, Lieutenant, heroes are always welcome.”

  What was there for Peter to say? Strangely, his once-fiancée Joan Ikeda was more present in his mind than any other time during his now-completed assignment. His last kiss, her hands that refused to let him go, her beloved hair, her sweet face. For a long moment he said nothing as the two Marines walked toward the bench, watching San Francisco come alive with lights, colorful neon lights in the increasing darkness.

  “The bench is only a few yards away. We’ll then sit down, Lieutenant,” the unidentified office explained. “There goes a twin-engine Martin Mariner, a PBM-3. It taxied downwind from the eastside of the island toward Berkeley, after making the 180-degree turn for takeoff into the wind. Power had to be added only to the downwind engines to avoid dragging the wingtip into the water. Just before Pearl Harbor, I was inducted into the Naval Intelligence Unit from the Naval Reserve on inactive duty. On December 8th, as an aging, white-haired, balding Captain, I was commissioned as a Lieutenant Commander. That’s all you have to know about me and my identity. The small garden off the main avenue is a leftover from the 1939 Golden Gate International Exposition, built by the San Francisco Public Works Commission and groomed and cared for by our own naval people including Headquarters, the former Pan Am’s stunning Art-Deco Terminal. From this bench, people still flock to Treasure Island’s unrestricted park areas to watch Clipper flying boats take off and land and observe sharply uniformed flight crews marching to and from, as well as observe ground staff remain operational 24 hours a day. What do you think of our prized little garden nook?”

  From the sidewalk of the busy thoroughfare, the Naval Intelligence officer led the way on a short curving path through mingled together acacia and olive trees to a small cluster of jacaranda trees and, in the adjacent nook, a vine-covered column overlooking Bay bench. Surrounding the niche’s bench were three and four-foot-high clipped Japanese boxwood hedges left over from the Exposition five years before. Lone, delicate racemes of wisterias softened the entire scene.

  As the two settled down, the senior officer said, “We’ll get down to business as we watch that magnificent city over there come alive. You’ll note my security team all about closely observing our every move.”

  “I certainly do. Counted eight so far.”

  “There are ten, one in t
he headquarter tower across the avenue, and one off to our left on the beach.”

  “I see him now.”

  “Well, your job is just to listen. No comments or questions until the end. Then ask, or say your piece, and immediately after that hightail you over to the Navy’s HE-Is Piper Cub revving up just about now. It’s used to transport casualties and is clearly marked with a Red Cross on the fuselage as well as the U.S. star insignia on its wings.”

  “Care to guess where the Gooney Bird is going to fly you?”

  “Can’t imagine. Certainly not far. Easier to drive me there.”

  “Well, how about Stockton, California? Care to be flown there for a 10-day, much-earned furlough? And, by the way, I’ve been carrying around your mail that’s been accumulating, including your next assignment.”

  As the unidentified officer handed the confidential, sealed envelopes to Peter, he read the names out loud, one by one,

  “…Private First-Class William Lundigan…Adele and Aldo Toscanini, Joan Ikeda. The fourth letter is official and as I hand it to you, I will explain cursorily what it’s all about.”

  Peter’s face was frozen in stone, his thoughts uncalculatable. He was so astounded he could no longer speak. He no longer was present, listening to what was obviously genial and sensible talk from a first-class officer. Dazed, the apparition was totally unexpected, so marvelous that for a moment, Peter felt a sense of unreality, of being in a dreamland, a realm of pure fantasy. Then, regaining a semblance of reality, he simply stared incredulously as the words sank in. “Stockton and his parents, Bill Lundigan, and…Joan, all in one breath?” he reflected lightly. “How could this be? Best I hear about my new assignment, then get on home. Their letters will be on hold until I’m airborne.” Turning to focus on the officer, Peter, weak yet buoyant, asked quietly,

  “Can you tell me about my third assignment?”

  “Only this,” the unnamed officer grinned, amused, trying not to sound jocular. “Within three hours, you’ll be knocking on your parents’ door, unannounced. In less than 30 days, including your 10-day furlough, you’ll be behind Jap lines.”