Pacific Nocturne, 1944

by Don DeNevi

  “Well,” responded Peter, “I now know, having seen it for myself, why the men love him so much. Of course, there are several reasons. But, underneath them all, there is a genuine man who’s good, who’s kind, who cares. We could both go on about his generosity, spirit, and love for us all. He gave us all something we’ll never, ever forget.”

  After a moment of reflection, Peter added,

  “Bob Hope gave us soldiers a laugh and a grin as our lives are changing forever. Even for those of us who are fortunate enough to live through this war to tell the tale, our lives, for the rest of our lives, will be changed, vastly changed. For a mere fraction of a moment in time, Bob Hope, and all his gags, monologues, and soliloquies, made us smile and forget how awful war is.”

  During the several long days that followed in mid-August 1944, Peter, ‘feeling stuck’ in the officers’ wing of the Banika hospital, surrendered to formal interviews, USMC reports, and teasing ridicule, especially by his closest friends, Bill Lundigan, Dr. Larry Schneidermann, and Oscar Del Barbra, and a host of others.

  Ellen’s warranted death wrought havoc on the hearts of both Peter and Bill. Each “loved her” in his way, akin to the platonic, the inevitable intimacy between two fine, healthy men and a kind, gentle, beautiful American nurse. It was still impossible for Peter and Bill to believe Ellen was intent on killing the lieutenant to save Pinoe. For Peter, it was difficult to believe that he fought a desperate life and death battle in which, for all intents and purposes, he lost. He was within two or three seconds of certain death from the plunging arm’s raised Ka-Bar until a single bullet from Bill’s .45 entered the back of Ellen’s head.

  In attempting to explain how and why Ellen joined Chaplain Pinoe in multiple murdering fellow Marines, Peter could only repeat what little was known about the profile of the woman criminal. The lieutenant said,

  “We know so little about her. And, even less, actually nothing, about the female multiple-murderer. We know that since 1900, during the past 44 years, the patterns of female crimes have been growing more violent. The popular myths about the women of crime don’t apply in Ellen’s case. Today, about 10% of all women criminals are convicted of murder. Before 1900, it was less than 1%. Because of the women’s movement? No. Money crimes count for at least 40% today. Usually, it was cocktail waitresses with kids, who became prostitutes and drug-dealers. Forgery, larceny, and embezzlement are doubling. Those women don’t need to be punished, they need to be rehabilitated. Women accomplices in petty, even major crimes, are pictured as the ‘dumb broads’. And, the woman who murders by herself, without an accomplice, male or female, rarely commits it for money. She doesn’t murder for stolen goods, check forgery, and embezzlement. She doesn’t even murder as a head of a household to help support her children without the aid of husband or parents. Economic crimes have little importance. She, and include Ellen with her, for some deep monumental reason deeply buried in her psyche, a damage that occurred so long ago in her life that she has more or less forgotten, murdered for an unconscious hatred even she doesn’t understand. Early in her life an occurrence occurred that wounded her so that she sought revenge. In Ellen’s case, PFC Houser abandoned her. And that abandonment echoed her abandonment as a child. She asked Pinoe to commit the act for her. And, thus the spree of killing was so relieving, and thus enjoyable, why not kill the same man over and over again?”

  On the fifth day of Peter’s “confinement”, during which his wounds were healing nicely, Major General William Rupertus arrived for a visit, in addition to handing him orders for a new assignment. He was accompanied by virtually the entire 1st Division Headquarters Command Organization, including Brigadier General Lemuel Shepherd, the Assistant Commander, his soon-to-be replacement for the “Stalemate II” Operation in the Palaus Islands; and, Chief of Staff, Colonel Amor LeRoy Sims, along with the four Division colonels. Also, in tow were a few of Peter’s favorite officers, Commander Everett Keck, USN, of the 1st Medical Battalion; Colonel John Selden of the 5th Marine Battalion, and five or six nurses.

  Peter, in the tradition of Bob Hope and Jerry Colonna, quipped,

  “Is the war over, or did Sharon from back in 12th grade of high school finally turn me in for having roving hands when I parked dad’s car on the levee?”

  After the nurses abruptly halted, roaring with laughter, and the officers, including Commander Rupertus, ceasing their soft chuckling, guilty grins, and shy smiles, the major general said, as he handed Peter an official 1st Division Headquarters envelope,

  “Son, your new orders were drafted in Honolulu for special assignment Stateside. You are not to open the envelope until your fifth day at sea then destroy it by fire or disintegration by the ocean itself. The letter is to be presented to the captain of the USS Morgan, who will maintain it in the ship’s vault in his Captain’s Quarters. The letter is sealed and ribboned. No one else is to read it. Neither are you to discuss its contents, by written word or verbal, of the letter’s content. Are you clear on all this, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter smiled broadly.

  “Quite frankly, Lieutenant Toscanini, I don’t know what your new assignment is. Neither does Commander Keck.”

  “In addition,” Rupertus continued, “the request for air transportation to San Francisco, California, is being typed as I stand before you now. At midnight, a Piper Cub will arrive from Guadalcanal to fly you to Henderson. There, you’ll board a transport returning to Melbourne. Upon arrival, you’ll taken to a stripped-down B-29 to fly you and a dozen or so others also assigned for special duties to the McClellan Airfield near San Francisco, California. There, after a series of meetings and in-service sessions, you’ll begin a long furlough, a leave of absence for 18 days. Upon your return to the Frisco Presidio, you’ll begin a series of simultaneous recovery reassignments, and retraining sessions. General Shepherd has a number of administrative issues paperwork to go over with you following our little celebration in a few moments. He is to remain behind with Commander Keck. Together, they will draft a request from me that you be nominated for no less than the Navy Cross. As you know, it’s the highest decoration, other than the Congressional Medal of Honor, for extraordinary heroism in operations against an armed enemy. They will write the first draft, I will edit it, adding and deleting here and there, then send it up the USMC chain of command to the Commandant for recommendation that he send it onto Frank Knox, the Secretary of Navy. I will add a personal note saying that only around 60 have ever been issued, but you deserve to receive one for your investigative work and final confrontation with the multiple-murderer. If he is not in agreement, and only Heaven would know why because you’re a Navy Lieutenant, not a Marine Lieutenant, then would he consider recommending you for the Distinguished Service Medal, of which only three have been granted. If not that, then certainly the coveted Navy and Marine Corps Medal of which there are only 15. I will argue for the Navy Cross most vehemently. Now, with all this said, young man, and prior to preparing for your departure this evening, we have concocted a celebration, an old-fashioned toast for who you are and what you’ve done.”

  With that, the doors of the officers’ recovery ward swung open, and leading a parade of officers, hospital patients, and medical personnel four abreast, filed in. Bill Lundigan and Nurse Heather Gordon led the way, Bill carrying a huge punch bowl fashioned from the Plexiglas bubble of a B-17, undoubtedly filled with a drink, a combination of various fruit juices and odd alcoholic beverages.

  Heather Gordon, the R.N. who was most responsible for Peter’s recovery, sitting with him next to his bed on a daily and nightly basis, carried several tin platters with recently baked cookies. Behind Bill and Heather, Captain of the Military Police Del Barbra and Sergeant Guidi followed, the captain playing a violin and the Sergeant strumming a guitar, with others behind them at work on a variety of small musical instruments, all struggling to perform in unison, “Thanks for the Memory”, Hope’s signature tune. By mid-afternoon, many, other than Commander Rupertus’ st
aff, found themselves inebriated beyond delirious. As Heather carefully packed his duffle and satchel bags for departure to Anderson by Piper Cub on the Pavuvu road air strip, Peter huddled with Bill, Oscar, Leo and others finalize the life and death encounter with the Ghoul and to say a temporary aloha to each.

  Smothering humid heat and the Pacific’s seasonal summer winds floating equatorial clouds northward led to teeming rains early that afternoon, so soaking that Pavuvu was virtually flooded. Just as the arrival time of the Piper Cub was about to be postponed, the ocean sun, as usual, broke through, ensuring a dry crushed coral road-runway. The inescapable heat and humidity would return within minutes.

  Climbing aboard the Piper Cub and gently settling himself comfortably in its single passenger seat with a movable back, Peter waved farewell to Bill Lundigan, Oscar Del Barbra, and Leo Guidi who accompanied him from the officers’ sickbay on Banika to the main airfield departure area. As the small observation aircraft lifted off, and the friendly drone of the motor kicked in, the lieutenant, encouraged into drowsiness, fell asleep for the entire hour flight to Guadalcanal’s Henderson Airfield.

  Awakening from his nap just as the Piper Cub began its descent to Henderson, Peter reflected for a moment on how the 3,600-foot airstrip had been the primary objective for the Japanese invasion of the island on August 7th, 1942. Below him now were the clearly defined defensive positions consisting of trenches and antiaircraft emplacements, well-built and equipped, several hangars, numerous auxiliary machine shop buildings, circular revetments, taxiways to the main runway, and the original pagoda-type control power that was set up by the enemy to control their airfield operations.

  The short flight arrived long before sunset, allowing Peter several hours of liberty before reporting to Lunga Point for embarkation aboard the USS Morgan transport at 10:00pm that night. Refusing the opportunity to rest and relax at either the barracks near the airfield, or the docking facilities, Peter requested a guide and jeep to tour the major battle sites, Mount Austen, Alligator Creek, the jungles and terrain of Matanikau, the beaches at Tenaru where the Japanese made their desperate suicide changes, and, most important of all to him, the infamous turning point in the Guadalcanal Campaign, the Battle of Bloody Ridge.

  Just after dusk, Peter was driven to the Officer’s Club near Guadalcanal’s General Headquarters less than a mile from the wharf. The best the Seabees could offer in the way of a structure was a large split-bamboo building hastily constructed with a thatched roof.

  Nonetheless, Peter enjoyed an unusually fine dinner, and the continuous singing of the Andrews Sisters from one of the few American jukeboxes to be found in the South Pacific. His favorite song, “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You,” sung by the three sisters, and accompanied by Bing Crosby, was repeatedly played since it brought him all the closer to his beloved, Joan Ikeda.

  Arriving by jeep a few minutes before 10:00PM that night at the long pier, Guadalcanal’s main passenger landing-docking wharf, embarkation of passengers had apparently begun after the arrival of a three-freighter convoy two hours before. A light drizzle which had begun around twilight for the second time that day turned into a 20 minute torrential downpour of horizontal sheets.

  Escorted by his captain-ranked driver to the waiting launch at Guadalcanal’s primary pier’s ramp, Peter had to maneuver between the native “fuzzy-wuzzy” waterfront workers piling and unpiling, stacking and unstacking boxes and crates, empty and filled, with every imaginable resource needed by men at war preparing for invasion. Lined up on stretchers under rain-protecting tarpaulins were more than 100 severely wounded Marines readied for relocation at Army-Navy hospitals in Melbourne. Corpsmen were milling about. Some were actually dressing wounds that had opened while transported from both the main hospitals of Banika and Guadalcanal. Peter overheard a Navy doctor sadly pronounce that one man with severe abdominal mortar wounds had passed away en route.

  It was at that point that Peter learned he would not be boarding the transport USS Morgan but the USS Pinkey, an evacuation transport, a combination troop transport and hospital ship with an augmented medical staff and wardrooms for casualties.

  It so happened that Peter, to expedite his journey Stateside was ordered to board the USS Pinkey, one of the smaller ships among the four transport groups of Task Force 71 assembled at Lunga Point’s long pier. The USS Pinkey was assigned to join Transdiv. 12, the destroyer transport group, Five of Task Force 71 destroyers were ordered to the U.S. Naval installations in Melbourne for refitting of the newest, most advance radar system equipment, and retraining of each destroyer’s personnel in its use.

  After being escorted to his private single-berth quarters with a bolted-down waiting table, Peter was delighted. It was a far-superior stateroom, in space, cleanliness, and minor conveniences, than any he had occupied in his Pacific War travels thus far. Placing his duffle bag on the tautly stretched Navy blanket of his bunk, Peter, deeply curious about the unusual medical tender he was sailing upon, wandered the vessel at will. Invariably, an officer, corpsman, or gob in blue shirt and dungarees asked Peter jokingly,

  “Are you one of those raggedy-ass Canal boys?”

  Grey-hulled, the USS Pinkey was neither painted white nor displayed a Red Cross. It was not a “non-combatant” since it carried various small cannons and heavy machine guns. Its complement was 12 officers and over 60 corpsmen. The Pinkey’s role was mainly to transport Marine regiments from Australia, unload their weapons and munitions, then return with serious casualties. It was staffed by five surgeons, an otolaryngologist and urologist, with assorted American and Australian nurses. Since it had numerous operating rooms, emergency operations were conducted on board.

  Fortunately, the entire 6½ day journey occurred without mishap or misfortune. Indeed, the convoy of Task Force 71’s four transport groups, more than two-dozen ships escorted by seven destroyers, one of the largest convoys to set sail to Australia from an advance battle zone in the summer of 1944, sailed under a protective overcast and not once were challenged by Japanese naval, air force, or submarine forces.

  At precisely 0100 on the morning of August 21, the convoy was well on its way, and during the week that followed, Peter again experienced the tedium of ocean travel in the vast South Pacific. The dark, cloudy, gloomy weather encouraged remaining below deck, usually playing cribbage, blackjack, or poker, the medical personnel’s favorite card games. On deck, the infinite sky above was a monotonous blue, the ocean waters intensifying the tiresomeness of it all. Even an occasional glorious sunset couldn’t alleviate the “Long Sail”, as the wounded 1st Marines on their way to Australian and Stateside hospitals facetiously referred to the journey.

  Meanwhile, a budding camaraderie quickly developed between Peter and the officers of the medical staff. They discussed all military issues pertaining to their involvements, politics and sports at home, as well as plans after the war. There was plenty of good food to eat and snack upon, Peter feeling the strength returning to his muscles. On the third day out, the USS Pinkey made a sweeping turn to the southeast, skirting New Caledonia then passing the Loyalty Islands. Soon, the Task Force would be leaving the southern Coral Sea and gliding parallel to the northern Great Barrier Reef.

  On that fifth day, just after supper, while at the railing toward the stern of the Pinkey observing a brilliantly colorful sunset, Peter carefully opened the sealed letter and read the official stark, blunt, two sentence typewritten order:

  “Lt. Peter A. Toscanini, USN (MC) temporarily assigned to the 1st Medical BN, 1st Marine Division (REINFORCED), Cape Gloucester (“Backhander”) Operation to Palaus (“Stalemate II”) Operation, is formally detached for pending assignment. He is to report no later than 20 days from this date forward to Comdr. Emil E. Napp (MC) USN at the Oakland-Alameda Naval Air Station, San Francisco for Redesignation Communique 174 RM13SXT1446, with 18-day furlough granted.”

  Of course, Peter had no idea what the Redesignation Communique would contain, and he would have to await
arrival in the San Francisco Bay Area to find out, but he was delighted about the number of leave days ordered, sufficient time to travel by train to the Rohwer Interment Camp in Arkansas, four days to and four days back from the air station.

  Meanwhile, the monotony of five additional days and nights aboard the Pinkey would have to be endured. And, adding annoyance to the wearisomeness, lifejackets were mandatory, even within sight of Eastern Australia’s Great Dividing Range. Few were bothered that deck space was virtually nonexistent. Off-duty sailors, relaxing corpsmen and other medical staff, as well as anxious “hitchhikers”, such as Lieutenant Peter Toscanini, simply sprawled themselves everywhere, and anywhere playing cards, sunbathing in the ocean air by the Pacific sun. Occasional training classes i.e. “Know Your Enemy - How to Recognize a Jap” and the two hot cafeteria-style meals a day were the certainties of the routine, although every other night offered a movie or special performance or two. But even these were difficult to endure due to the overcrowded conditions.

  Although Lieutenant Toscanini was a deeply emotional man, he was writhing psychologically, unconsciously under the grip of an intuitive feeling he couldn’t define, classify, or understand. And, the qualm was intensified during the journey’s lazy days of rest, white sunshine breaking through the low, gray overcasts, stretched out on blankets on deck “shooting the breeze” and “scuttle-butting”. While the deep wounds on his body and the bruises that marred his face inflicted by Pinoe slowly healed, Peter’s thoughts of the Mad Ghoul and his accomplice intensified, assailing his consciousness. His confidence in the tragedy’s conclusion decreasing, Peter’s vague doubts and disquiet turned into terror. In the final throes of the hand-to-hand struggle, Pinoe had muttered something gutturally and profanely that bitterly poisoned his positive emotions about the outcome.