by Don DeNevi
Continuing their hurried pace down the indoor canvas-tent corridor to the murder scene of the nurse, Peter and Maxwell paused a moment to gaze into Ward B, the 160-bed malaria unit.
“Sad,” commented Maxwell slowly, deliberately. “Out of 1,000 beds here, we have over 160 men down with that disgusting infectious disease. The number is considered excessive compared to other combat zone hospitals in the Pacific. But, fortunately, our station or base hospital is considered excellently staffed, programmed, and administered. So said the Inspector of Medical Department Activities, Pacific Ocean Area. We’re proud. But, spoiling our pride and recognition is a lunatic Mad Ghoul.”
“Yes, ‘Charlie the Choker’. Very humorous,” Peter responded despondently. “Furthermore, I detest this part of my work. I hate walking past the wards along here, seeing so many of our healthy men feeble, shivering, perspiring profusely, and all with horrendous, splitting headaches.”
Lingering another moment, Maxwell concluded,
“Well, they serve as a lesson why you must take your Atabrine pill, as well as wear all-body-covering clothing, regardless of the heat and humidity, that covers every aspect of flesh, especially the neck to protect you from the anopheles mosquitos.”
Past Ward C, they skirted, housing another 100 or more men down with equally debilitating illnesses, such as typhus and amoebic dysentery, then Ward D, with less than 75, bedding the Marines in shock, exhaustion, malnutrition, and the perennial, unidentified “jungle fever”.
“Luckily, no battle-wounded on these premises. After Guadalcanal and Gloucester, they were all shipped stateside by hospital ship. Even those two or three who have since been shot accidentally,” commented Maxwell, casting quick glances down each ward.
Then, amid an assembling group of ambulatory patients out of bed peering through the line of windows between Wards D and C, Maxwell commented softly,
“They’re peering at the nurse’s corpse on the patio leading to the alley. She’s still there at the murder scene, under blankets. So, so sad. She couldn’t have been more than 30, and now all we see of the poor thing is her blood slowly oozing out from under the blankets. Right now, I could kill the Ghoul with my bare hands, personally, all alone.”
“I know…” Peter said softly, in tears.
For him, the moment of truth arrived. Beyond the windows in the patio stood Major General Rupertus in a circle of six or seven members of his staff. At their feet was the blanketed body of his very heartfelt friend, Ellen. Now, having to survey her stab wounds as factors of medicolegal importance was going to require mustering courage he was certain he didn’t possess. How could he possibly not flinch, or succumb to grief, while following the wound track, number of wounds, width of the knife, depth of penetration, and murder instrument(s) used. He would have to answer whether a serrated knife was used, and how were angulated wounds achieved, by two or more separate thrusts, whether by the assailant twisting the knife, or whether the nurse twisted herself after the instrument entered the body.
Of all the data he had to collect, the most difficult would be defining the cause of Ellen’s death: (1) hemorrhaging by massive perforated penetration, such as arteries of the neck, heart, lungs, and aorta severed; (2) air embolisms; (3) pneumothorax; (4) infection; (5) asphyxia due to blood aspiration. And, to determine the answers to these issues, he would have to multiple measure every wound to increase the death wound accuracy.
Gazing through the windows at the Rupertus group in quiet discussion, then the two blanketed deceased victims, Peter was in no position, psychologically or physically, to conduct two such surface autopsies, especially the stabbing on Ellen. He faced the most unsettling situation of his life.
As he turned away from the window and the gruesome scene, Peter cast about where to redirect or disperse the increasing ambulatory crowd. As he did so, sweeping the corridors and open adjacent rooms, he noticed in sheer relief whom he thought was his buddy, Bill Lundigan, seated at a table down the hall with a nurse heavily bandaged around the right shoulder. They sat leaning forward toward each other in what appeared to be a serious conversation, as medical staff, visiting military personal, and the usual amble patients in pajamas leisurely roaming the corridors without purpose.
In the only two wicker chairs leftover by the Japanese occupation months earlier, Bill and the bandaged nurse sat comfortably only a few feet from the entrance to the large nurses’ station where all medications, drugs, and assorted remedies were maintained and dispensed. In addition to supply records being maintained in the inner office, fresh bed sheets were issued when either new arrivals were assigned their wards, or routinely once a week.
With an agonized pained smile, Peter motioned to Bill, commenting to Maxwell,
“Other than you, that’s the most important man in the world to me. I’ll be back in a moment. I need to say ‘hello’ to him.”
“Take your time. If Rupertus or Sims needs you right now, I’ll come and get you. Meanwhile, you may want to talk to the nurse who actually fought with the Ghoul. She can identify him. How is it he allowed her to live?” After a slight pause, he continued,
“She screamed so loudly that half of the Corps came running down the corridors from all over, inside and outside, the hospital. He ran like a frightened rattler.”
“At last a witness!” exclaimed Peter, then called out,
“Bill!”
As Bill and the nurse turned to see who was approaching their table, Peter continued, extending his hand,
“Always have time to say hello to an actor friend! Didn’t expect this! How’d they let you in here this morning? Thought you’d be sleeping off ‘Bring on the Marines’, or whatever that movie was named you saw last night.”
Bill, now standing bolt upright, laughed,
“Well, lookie here! No less than Sherlock Holmes! I searched for you after the movie. Was told you were strolling around Tent City, looking or someone appearing sinister.”
Peter stood for a moment, puzzling over Bill’s jovial tone. How was it possible he hadn’t heard about Ellen’s cruel death?
Just then, the usual August corpulent tropical thunderhead burst open with a solid soaking of rain momentarily flooding all the Russell Islands. The pounding on the rooftops of the wards and their hospital was deafening.
“Better the downpour now than when Hope arrives with his entertainers. I was so tired trampling around Tent City with no sighting than rather than return to Banika, I simply walked up to the captain’s back office where he has an open cot. Later, I’ll have to tell you about a woozy of a nightmare I had. You’d have a good laugh, if it wasn’t all so tragic. Ellen…oh…Ellen,” his voice trailed off, a tear on his cheek.
Turning to be introduced to the seated, obviously frail, bandaged nurse sitting comfortably and relaxed, facing him with an ear-to-ear grin, Peter found his vision partially blurred from tears. Coupled with her face flushed with redness from a peculiar sort of guilt or embarrassment, and the orange-yellow pall cast by broken morning sunlight from perforated clouds passing overhead, seeing through the light dimness made the nurse appear much older than she was. Wearing an old-fashioned grey roughened fabric of linen, cotton wrap-around dress and dark blue sweater with a white blouse commonly worn by night duty ward nurses added to her stigma of aging. In fact, there was such aura about this silent, smiling, mysterious figure she almost appeared to emerge from some imaginary ether. Stunned beyond belief, Peter felt his knees buckle. His entire vision was focused upon the sedated nurse, all the flesh and blood of her, in a wicker chair directly facing him as he stood before her. A shimmering light had replaced the haze and dimness in the corridor, accentuating her splendid features and golden hair.
Although smiling, as were her clear eyes, the face was a puzzling mosaic of emotion. She stared at him, with a frozen smile. And, Peter, in sheer disbelief, as if he were seeing a ghost, stared back hard. With so much blood pounding through his heart and mind, Peter’s trance, his power of seeing at that moment, h
is cognition, intelligence, feelings of empathy were in hopeless bewilderment.
Although he was momentarily paralyzed, he saw all this in a single flash. And, now, as the eyes of Peter and the nurse met and locked, his widened in a mixture of incredulity and utter joy as he recognized Ellen.
“Ellen!! ELLEN!! I was told . . . I thought . . . I THOUGHT . . . I was told that the nurse out there . . . I . . . can’t believe this! . . . You LIVE! . . . BILL! SHE’S ALIVE!,... “
Ellen, with her heavily bandaged shoulder, struggled to stand, her other arm reaching up to him. The sunlight again lit her features as she whispered softly,
“Hello, Peter.”
“Tell me, Ellen…How? I was told…darn that Brigadier General Maxwell that, that... “
“No, Peter. It was my friend Pauline who was murdered. Apparently, she ran out from the corridor, probably this very nurse’s station, when she heard the sentry patrolling the back area scream after being knifed in the stomach. Pauline was on night duty like myself, she in wards D and E, and me with Rachel in A, B, and C. The Ghoul, about to leave after the murder of the Marine guard, saw that Pauline had bravely run into the patio. The dead sentry was at the end of the alley. He saw her and came back. I was approaching, hearing all the commotion, and as I entered the patio with poor Pauline already dead, and the Ghoul running halfway down the alley, he turned and saw me, ran back and took one swing, slashing my right shoulder. I fell, stumbled back, fell to my knees, and he raised what appeared to be a butcher knife or Ka-Bar. When he saw Rachael watching and screaming from the window inside the corridor and wounded patients coming up to the window as well, all in their issued pajamas and seeing the faces, he dashed off down the alley.”
Peter, standing next to Bill, who had resumed sitting, listened intently. Bill was wordless as he watched Ellen.
Peter, a cold anger sweeping over him, asked haltingly, “Did you see what he looks like?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, recalling the horror of the encounter, and swaying slightly lightheaded.
“His entire head under his cap was wrapped in a flesh-colored towel, as a mask. Its front had slits for his eyes, nose, and mouth. He wore khakis, like the other reports said, and his pants and shirt seemed perfectly starched and pressed, like an officer’s. From a distance, he looked normal, until you got up close and saw the face was only a wrap of sorts.”
Ellen’s eyes fixed narrowly on the door leading to the patio, as she continued,
“I’d say he was Bill’s size, not massive as some have insisted, medium build.”
Ellen paused, shifting her gaze to the increasing number of MPs and other military personnel crowing the corridor. Numerous officials, tense and conflicted, entered and exited the patio area.
Ellen continued, her voice growing softer and more steady,
“But what surprised me was despite his power and energy to plunge his dagger into the heart of victims, he seemed worn and tired. His striking me, my shoulder, his action of swinging at me with his slicing motion seemed pale. Rachael told Captain Del Barbra and General Rupertus that he was heavy-set, and that his officer’s hat had fallen off and was lying next to poor Pauline, in her pool of blood. I didn’t see it quite her way. She said his tan towel didn’t hide his sleek dark-brown hair, which glimmered in the broken moonlight. I agree with her that he moved quickly, smoothly, almost like an animal.”
Peter, heard Maxwell call out from the door of the patio-alley crime scene, “Lieutenant, General Rupertus is calling for you.”
As he turned that moment, he saw Chaplain Pinoe maneuvering down the corridor through the crowd toward Bill, Ellen, and him, as Dr. Schneidermann, about three yards behind him, waved at Peter but turned toward the patio murder scene.
“Ellen and Bill, I’ll see you at the Hope Show. The psychiatrist has just come up and I have my work to do. Ellen, you’re shaken and dizzy. Go and nap for a few hours. Come with Rachael to the performance. I’m so relieved there was a mix-up. I still can’t believe it. Two more dead, one a nurse. I’m so sorry. See you two this afternoon. Get there early for good seats to see better. The first row, if not reserved for the brass,” the reverend lisped, obviously distressed.
“Do you think the Ghoul will strike at Hope himself?”, asked Pinoe, as an afterthought.
“Yes, I do. If he succeeds, the whole world will know who he is. The USO provided murder - mad with a perfect opportunity. Now, I have to go.”
Reaching the patio door as it opened, Dr. Schneidermann greeted and opened it for Peter who turned for a quick glance at his three friends. Bill, with his head down, a grin on his face, stood by as Pinoe embraced Ellen despite her arm in a sling, whispering energetically in her ear as she nodded and smiled.
During the 90 minutes that followed, Peter hurried through his tasks. Standing before Nurse Pauline’s punctured corpse sprawled in a pool of her own blood, he met for a few moments with Division Commander Rupertus, Assistant Commander Shepherd, Chief of Staff Sims, and Nurse Rachael who fought the Ghoul.
“You have your duty to do, lieutenant,” the Major General said glumly as he gazed upon the murdered woman. You have less than 90 minutes. By 095, I want you to join us in the ride over to the Pavuvu hospital for our 1000 meeting. Although we’ll be going through all the last-minute safety and security issues of the USO people arriving, I’ll want you to say a few words about what happened here last night. My entire staff and all unit commanders will be present. Of course, you’ll address the question on everyone’s mind: Will that damn Ghoul, or the so-called Charlie, the Coker, or Choker, or whatever the hell name he has, go after Hope, or me and Shepherd, or anyone of my high officers this afternoon during the performance? After the meeting, you are to lunch with Shepherd and Sims, then meet and greet the arriving entourage and escort them to the amphitheater stage area where I’ll be waiting with the rest of my people.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be through within 90 minutes. I’ve already gotten Nurse Ellen’s description of the Ghoul. I’ll talk to Nurse Rachael in a moment.”
“Yes, and the Graves Registration lieutenant who is with the body of the sentry at the end of the walkway. I’m off now to my office next door. No matter where you are in your notes, stop at 0930, and leave. The three of us will be in my staff car waiting for you. At least, we’ll be back to heat and sweat. Thank God, Hope will be here. He’ll lift the sullen atmosphere around our boys. To have a 5 cent monster break down our morale is impossible to believe.”
As the commandant began to walk toward the patio door, he turned, and asked,
“Your impressions of Nurse Ellen, lieutenant? Is she doing well?”
“Yes, sir. She suffered a terrible laceration to her shoulder, the blade penetrating a depth near her rotary cuff. She was sutured, and has her left arm in a sling. It was Nurse Rachael here, who screamed for help, then staunched the flow of blood, saving her life, all by herself. Nurse Ellen lives thanks to Nurse Rachael.”
The 90 minutes that followed were a little less than a whirlwind. He interviewed Nurse Rachael; met with the Graves Registration lieutenant; perused the sentry’s personal belongings, emptied from his pockets; collected and identified scraps of paper and other unimportant items that may have spewed from the Ghoul’s pockets as he fought off Ellen and Rachael, then fled down the walkway; removed and secured the sentry’s cbg tags; met with Reverend Pinoe after he consoled Ellen and Nurse Rachael; called for the full names of the victims in order to write their next to kin; when questioned, sat with Captain Del Barbra, Sergeant Guidi, and Dr. Schneidermann and shared his thoughts about the misconceptions of multiple murderers, outlining who he believed were the four basic types, and the common psychological thread that connected them all, then, quickly found his way to the hospital mess for a late breakfast and a cup of coffee.
Then, within a few minutes of his scheduled appointment time with the major general, Peter returned to the crime scenes to sketch in his pocket notebook the positions of the dead and their wounds. As
he did so, Pinoe produced a shiny Leica camera and took a number of photos of the victims, including closeups of their death agonies.
Exiting the hospital, Peter saw the Commander’s staff car, motor running, less than 20 yards to his right, in front of the 1st Division’s Headquarters. As he hurried toward it, he could tell it was occupied by a driver and three officers, undoubtedly Rupertus, Shepherd and Sims. For the first time that windless morning, he felt the heavy moist heat of early August, which literally dripped from the body. The shadeless crushed yellowish red coral of the path connecting the hospital to the island headquarters was too hot to touch.
“Well, at least,” thought Peter, “the entourage won’t face tropical showers as they perform.”
A final glance around him before stepping into the backseat of the staff car told him that everywhere around the headquarters annex must have been at least 100 heavily armed Marines.
As Peter stepped into the vehicle, and took his seat in between Rupertus and Shepherd, there was nothing but a solemn silence. No one said a word. Peter could decipher anger in Sim’s face as he stared straight ahead on the passenger front seat. Shepherd sat frozen, looking out at the troops milling about, and Rupertus apparently preoccupied.
As the staff car pulled away and drove toward the pontoon bridge, neither word nor emotion was expressed. Finally, nearing the crossing, Rupertus said slowly,
“After Chaplain Pinoe left his chapel, one of our men kneeling in prayer was stabbed to death.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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Bob Hope Arrives
Restlessness was prevalent throughout the open dining mess patio area where more than 40 Division headquarters staff and unit commanders were assembled. Wordlessly, they awaited Commander Rupertus, Assistant Division Commander Shepherd, and Chief of Staff Sims. With the teeming shower earlier that morning over, heat-clouds so normal in the Solomon Sea climbed on the backs of other clouds, producing a withering heat, heavy and wet.
