by Don DeNevi
In virtual unison, more than 16,000 troopers stood up in unison and roared, “HELL NO!”
Pretending to stagger backward, Bob shouted indignantly,
“OK, OK, I can take a hint! I can take a hint! They’ll sing as a duet, even songs meant to be sung solo, ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’, ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’, “I’ll Never Smile Again’, ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’, ‘Fools Rush In’, ‘I’ll Walk Alone’, ‘Over the Rainbow’, and ‘Hooray for Hollywood’
As Hope moved off to the side, and Frances and Patty heartedly and lively stepped forward, the massive audience, still standing, raised a din that was so loud that Hope shouted, “Be careful, you just woke Tojo and Hirohito up.”
Meanwhile, in the jarring cacophony of approval, the two women stepped forward. Both were stunningly dressed, although skimpily and simply. Hope smiled broadly, thinking how wonderful it was for “the boys” to revel for a few moments in good, clean girls who spoke their language, thought as they thought, believed as they believed.
Then, as the two began to sing, accompanied by various band members and their instruments from the band, Hope quickly descended the side steps of the grandstand, nodding to Peter to follow.
The officer’s bright red and showy privy was some 35 yards behind the grandstand. Earlier, Chief of Staff Sims had assigned two officers armed with machine guns to guard it, one at the entrance, and the other at the back door, which led to the trail which wound its way down to the nearby channel beach.
As Peter and Hope walked side by side toward the recently-constructed privy, the comedian commented with a twinkle in his eye, “You know, I’ve peed in some of the best, and some of the worst piss-pots in the world. I couldn’t believe it when I saw that red outhouse as the sedans pulled up behind the grandstand. As I looked upon it through the staff car window, I thought to myself, ‘That has to be the happiest, and hottest, peepee hole in the Pacific’.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Peter. “With everyone watching the show, you’ll have it all to yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t mind someone watching. I always pass on to whoever is standing, or sitting, next to me what an old, old professor told me as we urinated side by side in a university urinal. ‘Pee now that you can, my boy, because soon enough you won’t be able to. Enjoy, enjoy!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
-
Yuck-a-do
Surprisingly to Peter, neither of the two sentries were evident in front or in back of the officer’s lavatories, especially since the Commander of the 1st Division personally assigned the men and their weapons to their exact positions.
“Both will catch hell, if they left their posts to watch the show,” Peter said, an angry edge in his voice.
“Well, if you like, lieutenant, I can hold my yellow river and yuck-a-do until we’re back on Guadalcanal tomorrow.”
Peter chuckled.
“No, not necessary, even though I don’t holster up until we get back to Banika and your performance there at 7:00pm tonight. Besides, we have patrols all around us in the nearby jungles, and treetops, coconut groves, and on the perimeters of the baseball field. Up on the ridge we have three 155mm guns manned by fully armed artillerymen. Four light machine gun nests, partially hidden, are within shouting distance once I blow my whistle. In fact, if I do, that whole mass of manpower will come running because I’m certain everyone knows what we’re expecting to happen.”
“Besides,” added Hope, the Ghoul told us himself he would strike by midnight on Banika. By then, me and my Gypsies will be in the air back to Henderson Field.”
Peter said nothing.
Then, outside the latrine, Peter said quietly,
“I’ll go in first, Mr. Hope. You follow me, about 10 to 15 feet from behind. I’m certain the facility is vacant, but once I check out the interior, I’ll also take a moment to glance around in the back area. The officer sentry assigned there has probably joined his buddy guarding the entrance and the two now arguing who’s going to take my empty seat to view the legs of the girls better.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, lieutenant. I told you officers I know how to fight, and win. Remember, I’ve made five pictures with the ‘Big C,’ fighting him on everything.”
“Yes, but we can’t be cautious enough. If you have to be murdered, Mr. Hope, please arrange to have it done on someone else’s watch. Who would take your place with the ‘Big C’ in the ‘Road’ series?” Peter chuckled.
“Hey, kid, no problem. My choice is the obvious one: Gregory Peck. If worse comes to worse, then the other ‘Big C’, Colonna. His moustache alone would smother the little dwarf with no voice.”
Entering the darkened foyer of the latrine, Peter, with Hope a dozen feet behind him, silent and serious, flipped on the door’s battery operated light. The lobby was vacant, and not a sound could be heard other than muffled applause, singing, hollering and laughter from the audience on the field. A string of ceiling light fixtures running the length of the foyer was switched on by Peter, providing a subdued glow which reinforced the dim light overhead. Under the golden glow were several long tables, countertops with simple faucets, mirrors, and more than a dozen chairs. Coat racks were strategically placed all around the anteroom.
The overall impression of the entryway was aesthetically pleasing.
“It’s the easy accessibility that appeals so much,” Hope commented.
Peter responded,
“You know, of course, that diseases cause more casualties than bullets. Hygiene is stressed over and over and over. Even during combat shell trenches are always dug when practical; if not, each Marine has to dig his own hole and then cover it.
When Peter shoved open the double-doors leading to the lavatories, Hope exclaimed,
“Wow! Would you just look at the big potty room! It’s a wonderful resting, lounging place, really for presidents. What an imposing impression it makes, and all constructed without stonework and modern steel. Just old-fashioned plywood, common nails, and inexpensive, ordinary hardware store-bought enamel paint. This fancy hall of toilets doesn’t advertise glitter, but a relaxing ambiance. It’s the best one I’ve been in during my travels.”
“Yes, especially when we’ve been so used to filthy bamboo water closets built on crushed coral you could see through, wooden toilets without seats. Look there in the stalls, each toilet is new, with fly-proof seats, and falling lids on each pail!”
For a long moment, each man stood in marvel appreciation as he gazed upon the best restroom facility of the entire Pacific War. The officers’ Little Red Painted House was comfortable, safe, and private, with clean, attractive stalls, all as hygienic as any found stateside.
“It’s so clean it could be part mess hall, part potty,” Hope offered. “Just look around you, nothing broken, everything in near-perfect sanitation, no bad smells, no dirty wash counters, no empty or jammed toilet paper dispensers, no trash on the floors, no empty soap or paper towel dispensers, no wet floors, and I bet no need to stand or wait in line. What I like the most is, I bet, no hideously stained seats, or Out of Order signs, The only thing missing are female attendants to help your unzip your pants.”
“Everyone knows we’re doing all we can to inhibit the spread of germs and bacteria. Upkeep is important for building morale. Poor restrooms set a negative tone. Privacy, safety, cleanliness, and hygienic add to health. And, we had it built without a budget, from bits and pieces, leftover materials. We’re very proud we have eliminated the horrendous!”
“Well, it sure strikes me as an intelligent toilet house, one I’m certainly happy to put to use!”
After verifying that the dozen or so swinging-door stalls were empty, Peter glanced into the small storage closet with several ceiling-high windows. Located behind the mirrored urinal wall, the storeroom had sufficient space to locate the facilities’ cleaning materials and assorted stage equipment, including marquees and wall posters.
The room was so crowded with theater furniture. Items and scenery, lights, a
nd low scaffolds that in a quick, furtive peek, Peter realized it would be next to impossible for the Ghoul to lay in wait within such a limited confinement.
With that, Peter hurried to the back door of the facility in order to exit and locate the second Marine officer assigned to guard the back of the officers’ privy.
Thrusting it open, he was partly blinded by the mid-afternoon sunlight. For a moment, Peter considered what was in front of him. First, he saw a path leading down to two trails, one, rather obscure, proceeding, directly toward an empty channel beach, the other past a raw, unsophisticated verdant with hundreds of different types of fern.
Peter was fascinated. It was an area of the island he was unfamiliar with. Beyond the verdant was an old corrugated heavy, leaky tin-roofed warehouse no longer in use. Until the Japanese had occupied the island a year or so before, it had stored Polynesian war canoes, and before that, served as a meetinghouse. Until the new iron shelters for munitions and light machine guns and other small weapons had been completed five months before, the 1st Division had to store and canvas the items in the ancient structure. Some 50 yards away, Marines interested in ornamental horticulture volunteered to maintain formal flowerbeds, gardens, and lawns. All were irrigated by Pavuvu’s only volcanic spring, the island’s main source for pure water. Across a small palm grove was the huge coral quarry, the only sourced of coral rocks to be crushed and used in all building.
As Peter turned to his right to gaze down the straight wall line toward the baseball field where barely audible strains of Frances Langford’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” could be heard, he noticed a green canvas tarpaulin covering a large lumpy mass of what appeared to be gravel or small irregular debris. Unable to continue his scan of the panorama from the edge of the structure to the distant palm groves and jungle to his left, he momentarily studied the lumps and humps under the waterproof tarpaulin. It was then that he noticed what resembled half a boot protruding from under the wide canvas cover.
Suddenly, fearing the worst, Peter jammed the back door with a nearby rock to keep it from shutting, and ran over to it, knowing what was there before lifting the canvas.
Despite being forewarned by his intuition, he was jolted by the sickening sight of two dead Marines heaped haphazardly, one on top of the other. Both were still bleeding from huge protrusions to their stomachs. Their machine guns and holsters .45s gone were missing.
Horrified, Peter noted the facial expressions on each of the young dead officers’ faces. Their eyes were wide open, so frozen in stupefied astonishment as to who was killing them that each was utterly defenseless at the murder weapon plunged repeatedly into their abdomens or hearts. Peter had studied each of the Ghoul’s murdered victims, the cadavers with the same surprised questioning looks. These two unfortunate Marines had looked into the eyes of pure evil and before they could raise their weapons in defense, they were already dead. The sight was the grimmest and most grisly the lieutenant had yet seen.
In a flash, Peter veered and literally hurled himself back toward the rear door of the facility, which to his relief was still slightly ajar as he left it. Now, completely lynx-eyed, in the dim golden light of the interior, he first noticed that the door of the storeroom behind the wall of the urinals was also slightly open. Obviously, someone had been hiding in the ordered chaos of the room when Peter had first glanced in.
Turning his greatest fear toward where he left Bob Hope, he saw that the comedian was talking to someone, his voice asking,
“ . . . well, before you murder me, will you kindly tell me if Crosby sent you?”
The nonchalance tone of the question, the measured movement of his words, and rhythmic flow of their sounds, was so bizarre and unexpected that the shining Ka-Bar fighting-knife poised to plunge into the face of Bob Hope quivered for less than a second, allowing Peter to scream frantically, “No!”
Between the astonishing question and the sudden reality that he had been discovered by an adversary, the murder-mad Ghoul was momentarily disoriented.
Peter, with a barely audible profanity, then clenched teeth, sprang toward the would-be slayer, stretching out his right hand for the Ghoul’s wrist holding the long, thick battle knife. Reeling from his own diving force and simultaneous striking blows to his head, Peter’s bitter fists found the murderer’s face, nose, and jaw. The assassin, staggering and sagging, nonetheless remained on his feet. Clearly, Peter now recognized the assailant. For a moment, he froze in utter shock and agonized disbelief.
“PINOE, YOU! NOT YOU? Oh, my God!”, he thundered, “HOW COULD YOU! OF ALL PEOPLE??” YOU? ALL ALONG? NO! NO!”
Then, as the Ghoul clenched his teeth, he attempted to spring forward. In his mind, he knew MPs were undoubtedly on their way. If he didn’t kill Peter now, he was finished, either by a USMC firing squad, or if unlucky, by the military’s hangman’s noose.
Believing he could make fast work of the lieutenant who he perceived as “puny”, he figured he could dash down the back trail of the facility to the channel beach where his private Micronesian dory could be retrieved from its hiding place amid the flora. Within minutes he would paddle across the channel to the Banika hospital where he could claim he was administering to the ill. Without a gun, he would have to kill Toscanini with the Ka-Bar he still held, or if lost in the struggle, strangle him to death with his hands.
Although the grim, sneering Chaplain was some 20 feet away, ambling toward him, the fighting knife firmly grasped in his right hand, Peter remained perfectly calm. Without further shouting, he studied every muscle, every moment in Pinoe’s body. The lieutenant’s life was on the line, within seconds of obliteration, and, without his usual holstered .45 automatic at his waist, he was defenseless, other than his brilliant mind and the surefootedness and nimbleness that emanated from years of playing singles in tennis.
In the minute or so that transpired, the Ghoul had not uttered so much as a word, grunt, snarl or scoff. Then, he spoke, lisping more than usual, the sounds of which Peter understood so clearly just hours before,
“You’re sure making a lot of fuss over a few worthless Marine deaths. But you and Mr. Hilarious there will be joining them on the slabs soon enough.”
“Mr. Hilarious, that would be me, you son-of-a-bitch. That is, unless you’re referring to my sidekick, Mr. Colonna,” Bob Hope commended somberly as he stepped closer to the two. “Remember, lieutenant, I know how to fight. Let me take him down.”
“No, no!” shouted Peter. “Run for help. Run! Run!”
“The audience can wait. I want to help you nail this bastard.”
“Go get help! That’s a direct order. Get help . . . Go! Go! Damn it, GO!”
As Hope finally whirled and darted toward the lavatory outer entrance doors, Pinoe, although more than a dozen feet away, panicking in fear the few minutes he allocated for murder were evaporating now that the comedian was exiting the facility for assistance, leaped forward the best way he could with a limp, waving the Ka-Bar in repeated slicing motions. Peter, sidestepping the swinging arm, then dodging and evading the Ghoul as he pressed forward, a hateful, sickening smirk on his face. Ka-Bar or no Ka-Bar, the pudgy chaplain was no match for the young lieutenant, strong-framed, athletically svelte, in near-perfect condition with ideal weight, height, and strength, and obviously a man of far higher intelligence.
By a narrow margin, and a certain amount of acrobatic skill, Peter eluded and averted the Ka-Bar, parrying and warding off the knife blows and left-handed fist. Peter, with the cleverness of faint attacks was able to hold off the Ghoul’s arm holding the large knife. His right fist managed to thrust upward and into the Ghoul’s midsection. Despite blow after blow, the burly murder-mad Marine, smirking maliciously, managed to break away from the tight embrace a few feet and in savage rage lunge back again.
Breathing heavily, Peter, aroused by passionate hatred to near violently explosive action, remarked implacable with his hard-hitting punches.
“So you’re the vile, bestial creature that al
l brave men despise, nothing more than a thug assassin who strikes in the black of night. I would never have guessed the venomous snake was you.”
Stepping back, Peter observed the Ghoul, slightly stooped from the repeated blows to his belly, cursed gutturally through his clenched teeth.
Pinoe, his cold, merciless deep-set eyes glittering with rage, snarled in his imperfect, falteringly pronunciation,
“If I die, I’ll come back and destroy you and the whole 1st Division.”
Angrily, Peter retorted, hoping to stall for time,
“The hell you will. If you don’t drop that Ka-Bar and submit to the court-martial, I’m bound by duty to kill you here and now, which I will surely do.”
Meanwhile, with a “Damn it, GO!” still ringing in his ears, Hope, surprisingly agile for his age, was racing well down the walkway toward the grandstand MPs assembled in small groups watching the performance. When he ran past a nurse hurrying in the opposite direction toward the officer’s restroom facility, he shouted.
“No! No! Don’t go over there! The Ghoul is fighting with Lieutenant Toscanini! Help me find armed MPs!”
“Yes, yes,” she responded, continuing on.
With animal ferocity, Peter and the Ghoul again embraced each other in a life and death struggle, the lieutenant as yet having unsuccessfully yanked or grasped the fighting knife away from the murder-mad marine. Peter, with one hand now on the Ghoul’s throat, strained with all his might to get his other hand on it. Meanwhile, Pinoe fought with such ferociousness that he was able to thrust a thumb on the lieutenant’s face in order to gouge an eye out, while simultaneously endeavoring to get the large knife high enough to thrust down into Peter’s face.
Then, both managed to break away from one another. With several deft movements, Peter, being far more fleet of foot, again dodged the swings of the sharp weapon. Peter was a few inches shorter than Pinoe, although the two were more or less the same weight and strength. All in all, it was a fair fight for each. The Ghoul had fighting lessons as a youth in a Boston boxing club, while Peter was learning the basic strokes of tennis; i.e. forehand, backhand, lob, volley, serve and drop shots. Each shot required a different footing.
