Pacific Nocturne, 1944

by Don DeNevi

  Guidi, continuing to gaze upon the death scene, angrily remained silent.

  Then, he quietly mumbled words Captain Del Barbra didn’t grasp, words whispered so hoarsely they were meant more to himself than his superior.

  “What’s that you say, youngster?”

  “Not for your ears, sir. Actually nothing. Only a few sentences from Shakespeare.”

  “Test this ancient ‘wop’, this Italian family that arrived in America without passports. Get it? ‘Wop’, ‘without passport’, that’s me.”

  “I quoted Lady Anne’s fierce denunciation of Richard. She says in Act I, Scene II of ‘Richard III’, ‘Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor Man. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.’ And, Richard, in cruelty, answers, ‘. . . but I know none, and therefore am no beast!”

  After a reflective pause, the captain asked,

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “That Richard says he is a murderous man, a human being who can commit heinous crimes no beast, even the most killing kind, the most poisonous, can ever equal. A monster-man can murder. No animal on earth can murder like this,” Guidi slowly responded.

  “Ok, you win. I’ll read him someday, this Shakespeare. But I still don’t get it.”

  The lieutenant added, “Captain, this murder defies description, it’s so horrendous.”

  “And, committed by a Marine using his Ka-Bar fighting knife. Only a swinging ax, or Ka-bar, or hatchet could create such mayhem,” added the captain.

  “Later this morning we’ll examine the body to see if there are any bite marks around the head, or if the killer is anthropophagy,” Guidi concluded.

  “Someone who consumes the victim’s blood? Yes, possibly. But he had no time.”

  “In this case, no, he didn’t have time. He had two sleeping tentmates.”

  “No, but he might have wanted to,” said the captain. After a long thought he added, “O.K, cowboy, I’m leaving everything to you. Seal off the tent. Assign the MPs who are arriving for specific duties. Then, write up the initial investigative report. Have it ready within four hours for our 0600 meeting. I’ll contact the chain of command. You see to it the body is removed carefully. See to the photographs. Coordinate everything with the medical examiner-coroner. Tell him he is to report to the 0600 meeting. I’ll let him know where. Search for footprints outside the tent. Search the surrounding areas. Just make sure to safeguard the body 100%. Come directly to the meeting at 0600, probably next door of headquarters. Once the body has been removed and placed in cold storage, leave two sentries to guard the entrance to the tent.

  “And, sir, with all due respect, what are you going to do in the next four hours?”

  “Why, you silly ass, I’m going ballroom dancing, then to sleep, of course. What a dumb question, second lieutenant.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  -

  “We probably won’t see any more killings... “

  All day, Tuesday, August 1

  An air of anxiety pervaded Pavuvu the rest of that day. After the brazen, horrifying murder in the earliest morning hour, and the uproar that followed during the hectic predawn, few of the 16,000 resting or recuperating Marines were capable of resuming their sleep, or even drowsiness for that matter, let along breakfasting with an appetite.

  One of their own had been slaughtered, nay massacred, and there was no plausible explanation for such an atrocious act, especially after their officers had returned from the hour-long briefing shaking, and unnerved. Staring straight ahead, and in deep thought, all they could offer was “Charlie the Choker” or the Mad Ghoul, has crossed the line from severe psychoneuroses into the sheer insanity of murder and no one had a clue to his identity.

  With a cup of hot coffee in one hand, a pencil behind the ear, and clipboards in the other, Captain Oscar “Slim” Del Barbra and second Lieutenant Leo Guidi were in a frenzy organizing work parties, drawing up assignments and sentry duties, quietly selecting the Division’s best marksmen and scribbling time sequence intervals for posting as lookouts with binoculars among the tops of the palm trees at varied strategic distances throughout Tent City. In addition, large drums of oil, gasoline, and aviation fuel had to be “borrowed” from the small, destroyer class naval vessels in the Pavuvu-Banika channel and the outer harbor, where the larger ships were anchored. Arriving by barge and light craft, the drums and men had to be supervised for disbursement to several strategic points within the base for unsealing and pouring. The smaller containers then had to be directed to the crossroads, alleys, avenues, and intersections of Tent City for igniting at twilight.

  “Are we gonna be famous!” chuckled Del Barbra to his second Lieutenant. “No one in the history of the Corps has lit up an entire base in the middle of a war, lighting up every shadow in every nook and cranny, establishing a whole new level and standard in the art of military illumination.”

  “All this effort,” grumbled Guidi, joining him from across the road, “without a single clue, or shred of evidence, of who’s doing what to whom or why.”

  “I’m starting to think the whole thing was just between two malcontents who hated each other. We probably won’t see any more murders. The killer wants us to put it on old Charlie, or the poor Ghoul. Good idea, when you think about it. But he doesn’t fool an old professional like me.”

  As Army and USMC trucks, as well as other vehicles, rolled stocked with oil drums toward their designated depots, the Captain reflected, “I never told you, little one, but I was a cop in crime-ridden South Sacramento before signing up two years ago for the Military Police of the Corps. Between 15 years there, and two here, I must have taken off the street at least a thousand, and thrown them in one hoosegow or another, maybe two hundred of our boys included. I’ve had sons-of-bitches pull knives and hatchets on me, shoot at me, and pummel me with rocks and fists to baseball bats, with me enjoying every second of it, from case to capture. And, believe me when I say maybe three got away, and even they were hurt or wounded. I had a reputation then, and even now, as being ‘fearless’. I hate crime and criminals, even the petty thieves. You get smart with me, and I’ll show you. But, for me, it comes down to the sensation; the adrenaline rush. The medals and decorations were nice, but the excitement was the key, and that came from beating the bad guys up. I’ve seen the unimaginable all around me. And, because I didn’t cause any of it, I could sleep without a thought and eat without a care. In 15 years, I saw more body parts than most cops in small towns, like old Copperopolis. Heads, arms, legs, hands, feet, and other body parts severed. Ghastly. But I know the feeling of having a wacko, or sophisticated assassin, lunge a butcher knife at you. As hardened as I am, it shook me up. But, after cheating death so many times, I’m softer now, but very anxious to catch up with, and clutch the throat of that killer.”

  That entire day witnessed not a single drop of rain. Cool night winds mingled with incoming Coral Sea breezes. The work parties hastily poured the inflammable gas, aviation gasoline, and oil upon the rocks and open sand-packed containers and lit them. Soon the bonfires were sufficient to light up the faces of the Marine work parties on the ground and snipers in the palms.

  “All that’s missing, Captain, are dirge songs of death being sung.”

  Second Lieutenant Leo Guidi would never know the number of songs needed to be sung by all the choirs of the world to prevent the two murders that would occur in the next few hours.

  A little after 1:00am, a sentry in his early 20’s was struck so hard from behind with a carefully sharpened screwdriver that his M1 bayoneted rifle flew more than 15 feet in front of him. Instantly deceased, not a sound was uttered as he collapsed from the weapon entering his temple on the right side of his head. The murderer paused long enough to bite the victim’s face hard, drawing blood to ensure his teeth pattern could not be easily identified. Apparently, he had no concern his saliva was left in place since he knew full well Captain Del Barbra would have no idea what to do with it.

  It was poss
ible the unfortunate sentry faced the murderer moments before, being killed, recognizing and engaging him in a brief, amicable conversation. When the sentry turned his back to continue his designated pacing duty, the killer struck in one extremely violent blow, easily penetrating the victim’s temporal scalp to the temporal bone above the ear canal. The murderer did not wait to see how much blood was released by the deepness of the swift thrust. He quickly raised up from the superficial biting and walked casually into one of the well-lit roads. There was no blackness of night on Pavuvu that evening. The murderer simply strolled, then disappeared, into the heart of Tent City.

  The second death occurred within a half hour of the first. A lone PFC sentry patrolling the back area of headquarters was murdered in the same way. He, too, recognized the perpetrator, engaged him in a brief conversation without once raising his bayoneted rifle, then as he turned to resume his march, was struck violently in his frontal stomach area, penetrating his liver and spleen, while severing the young man’s splenic artery. The death weapon was an icepick, and like the screwdriver, was left unabashedly at the side of the victim in his large pool of blood.

  Captain De Barbra would later determine the murderer stood less than 18” from the victim in order to achieve three rapid plunges. Again, not a sound was uttered.

  “His wielding of the icepick is surprisingly professional. A butcher or surgeon, perhaps?” asked the Captain at the post examination of the violent crime and its scene. “Also, note the subacute bite mark on the cheek. Two different weapons for puncturing; not cutting, not sawing, not slicing, plunging thrusting, punctuating yes. Deaths in all three cases were caused by hemorrhaging, massive perforating, penetrating as many arteries as possible; neck, heart, lungs, and aorta. My God how the Ghoul loves blood!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  -

  “The Mad Ghoul? Charlie the Choker?”

  Evening, Tuesday, August 1

  With his thick, grayish hair tousled, and a facial expression mired in what appeared to be a stormy somberness, Captain Oscar “Slim” Del Barbra of Company A, 1st Motor Transportation, Military Police, climbed into the jeep’s driver seat and drove himself the two miles back to the 1st Division’s Command Post.

  As he sped past sentries and bonfires through the occasional low island fog, he noted the rain showers and high moaning winds of both the Solomon Sea and the Coral Seas had ceased, as had the wild shrieks and shrills from the nearby Pavuvu jungles. With the blinking stars soon to fade into a near all-black gray, predawn hinted the last of the moving shower clouds would yield at daybreak a bright blue Pacific sky.

  Parking before the new Division Headquarters facility, still in the final stages of construction by the 19th Naval Construction Battalion, an attached unit known as the “Seabees”, Del Barbra walked rapidly past the armed sentinels of the temporary command post. A small pagoda-like temple built in the form of a two-story pyramid, the fully armored structure served as an aviation observation tower for light singled-engined reconnaissance aircraft. Hastily, he trotted up the steps and into his office.

  There were more than 25 phone calls he felt he should personally make, if he was to meet his designed 6:00am conference time. This, of course, meant postponing his sleep for an additional 10 to 15 hours, at least.

  Before anyone else, the captain chose to inform his own supervisor, Unit Commander, 1st Motor Transportation, Major Kimber H. Boyer, he worked closely with when the fledgling Military Police unit of the 1st Division was assigned to the 1st Motor Transportation in the recent Cope Gloucester “Backhander” Operation.

  Then, over the often-malfunctioning telephone wires, he alerted the Assistant Division Commander, Brigadier General Lemuel C. Shepherd, of the murder and forthcoming meeting. After his third phone call, a lengthy talk with 1st Medical Battalion Commodore Everett B. Keck, USN, he phoned in less than 90 minutes 13 unit commanders, 5 group colonels, 5 battalion majors, and 18 company lieutenants.

  In less than three hours, Del Barbra needed to conduct an informational meeting with all the major safety and security personnel on the island. With as many as 45 officers requested to attend the conference, the site for such a large gathering would have to be the open air dining patio of the recently completed sick bay adjacent to the Pavuvu Station Hospital. General USMC hospitals were large fixed installations that provided comprehensive care for severe wounds throughout a theater of battle. Station hospitals served a single post such as Pavuvu. Field hospitals were mobile, accompanying the troops.

  Attached to a partially destroyed Japanese-built warehouse, the 200-bed prefabricated station hospital was neither a tarpaulin tent with a sizeable Red Cross sign above the entrance flap, nor the traditional brick building type, the trademark of hospitals found at such military installations as Camp Lejeune. The large ward, located in between the Division Command Post of the pagoda-like temple and the original regimental Pavuvu sick-bay and dispensary, was established the year before. Despite the primitive environmental, technical, and utility conditions of the terrain, the tiny medical facility, per the traditional USMC manner, provided the best possible medicines, first-aid treatments, and relief from the variety of small wounds, illnesses, pains and suffering associated with the Russell Island Group. Its once-demolished roof was repaired with palm thatch in less than a day by a boatload of Guadalcanal natives nicknamed “Fuzzy-Wuzzies” because of their meticulously coiffured curly black hairdos.

  Nearing dawn and the 6:00am meeting, the attendees began arriving at the recently completed sick bay’s open air dining patio by jeep at approximately the same time. On the Division Command Post steps, Captain Del Barbra greeted each arrival and directed him to the sick bay adjacent the Pavuvu Station hospital fewer than 25 yards away, where hot coffee and freshly baked rolls awaited them.

  “Gentlemen, the meeting will be delayed until 0800 in the patio. The chairs are in a circle. If there’s a cloudburst, we’ll move into the facility. Enjoy the two hours with all the coffee and rolls you want.”

  The order had come down directly from 1st Division Commander Major General William H. Rupertus through his assistant, Brigadier General Lemuel Shepherd, that he wanted Chief of Staff Colonel Amor LeRoy Sims, as well as every psychiatrist on both Pavuvu and Banika to attend. The Banikin Island officers would be flown to Pavuvu, a flight time of fewer than 20 minutes.

  By 0745, everyone summoned was assembled and seated quietly in a large circle in the open dining area patio. The hoped-for bright sunlight that morning hadn’t materialized. Instead, a typical summer overcast, low with stiff breezes, brought comfortable cooling. As the minutes ticked down to the formal call for attention by whomever was chairing the session, top 1st Division commanders were seated next to company platoon leaders, and first Lieutenants next to unit, battalion, and group chiefs, all of whom were whispering, chuckling softly, and murmuring or muttering.

  Within seconds of precisely 0800, Captain Del Barbra, with several binders under his arm, stepped from the corridor of the sick bay onto the patio and edged himself through the seated participants into the center of the circle.

  “Gentlemen, I begin this call to order by calling your attention to four binder sets of murder scene photographs just received from the headquarters lab. Look carefully, officers of the realm, at three of our slaughtered boys who fought valiantly at Guadalcanal and survived, only to come to this homely, squalid, civilized-forsaken, eternally miserable sand hellhole islet ‘rest camp’ of rotted coconuts.”

  As the four binders were passed about the circle, the captain gazed upon the shocked facial expressions of the USMC officers. For a long moment, no one uttered as the death scene photos were passed from one to another. Then, Del Barbra said,

  “All of you who have been mustered and mobilized here this morning have heard, the rumors of the ‘Mad Ghoul’ and ‘Charlie the Choker’ from almost the first moment our old 1st Battalion, First Marine Area, arrived.”

  One of his officers raised his hand, adding, “Those a
re only two of at least a dozen of such names used to label our nocturnal visitor.”

  “I know. I know. The more the creature appears, the greater the dramatic name given. Some of our Marines who felt his fingers around their throats had more obscene, unprintable names thrown at him. I was on duty that night the first call came in that a rifleman in the Fourth Marines, 5th Division ripped off his mosquito net and dashed shrieking and screeching down the company street. I was the one who interviewed him at headquarters. He wasn’t intoxicated. We didn’t think at the time he had a dream or nightmare. He claimed someone attempted to stab him while he slept. He insisted he saw a face and a knife over him. He screamed over and over he wasn’t hallucinating. I had search teams scrambled and on grounds within minutes. I had my MPs posted around his tent. All regimental areas were scoured by as many as a hundred armed men. Nothing turned up. Nothing. But, then the same story happened again, and again. We all know that nothing happened, fingers around the neck, fingers on the face. But whomever it was doing these insane jokes, and trust me when I say I hope they were jokes, and nothing but jokes, and not something more sinister, whomever was doing those acts, has now suddenly carried the acts to a new level and we now have a multiple slayer on our hands, a lust murderer who enjoys killing.”

  “Well,” a battalion commander said, raising his hand and standing up, “What’s happening is that the whole Division, more than 16,000 troops are upset, uneasy, agitated. And, this slaughter of three fellow Marines is going to really discompose them.”

  “Well,” confirmed Del Barbra, “We’ve learned just recently on the Eastern Front in Russian, the most stealth in the Soviet armies were taught to slinking across the lines in the darkest hours before dawn when soldiers were more apt to be sound asleep. They find the foxhole pinpointed earlier in the day, then cut the throat of one of the four or five occupants in deep slumber. Just one, not all!The assassin would sneak back across the lines to his side. That one act of slaughter, without the others waking up, would terrify a whole army!”