by Don DeNevi
What was it?
Why couldn’t he remember what was said? Was it too painful to recall?
As the USS Pickney sliced its way through the lapping Australian waves, and he was as relaxed as if he were at home on his front porch, he simply couldn’t recollect the lisped words. No amount of deck skylarking could convince his memory to bring back the utterances. Repeatedly, he recalled and relived the scene in the lavatory, its silence, gloomy dimness, the atmosphere of solemnity stiffened his determination to get to the bottom of it.
Ellen’s attempt to murder him left him in a strange cold calm, less wary, more implacably irresolute. For her, he felt more pity than condemnation in his heart than he did for Pinoe. Yet, the chaplain deserved a bare touch of compassion. Yes, he multiple-murdered young Marines. But, Pinoe insisted he be in the first wave ashore during the invasion of Guadalcanal when he could have waited for the third and fourth waves when there was no longer the threat of being killed while wading ashore. Later, when asked about his determination, he said simply, “It’s always in the first wave ashore when the boys need me.”
Although Ellen would have plunged the Ka-Bar into the deepest part of his face, reflecting about her brought a sympathetic, almost kindly, glow in his eyes. Because he liked her the moment he met her months before, he would have easily fallen in love with her had it not been for Joan Ikeda. Even now, he was still haunted by the fury in her wide blazing eyes as she lifted the Marine knife over her head. How could he erase the image, her hair disheveled, her frozen face chalk white, every fiber in her young body intent on killing him. Even now, the tornado of the life and death struggle with Pinoe was less important than what she meant to him, even now.
Past Cairns, Townsville, MacKay, Rockhampton, the Curtis Islands, Fraser Island, Brisbane, Southport, Sydney, the Task Force sailed until midmorning of the sixth day when shouts were heard throughout the USS Pickney, “Melbourne! Melbourne!”
Appearing to rise out of the sea were the modern high-rises of a beautiful Australian city. Its harbor was crowded with warships from all the allied Pacific nations since by August of 1944, a number of island invasions were pending. Later, after the USS Pickney dropped anchor, Peter awaited a launch, or landing craft, to transport him ashore, heard his name announced over the ship’s intercom system to report to the bridge cabin where Captain Henry Fallon was expecting him.
Hurrying up the steps to the bridge in a drenching shower, he was greeted with a smile and handshake,
“Lieutenant, a radio signal arrived moments ago. Air transportation to the McClellan Air Base is available within the hour. A launch is on the way, and the Military Police is already at the pier waiting your disembarkation. There, you’ll be met by G-4 Lieutenant Colonel Harold Deakins, 2nd Provisional Military Police Battalion, 1st Marine Division, who will read your new assignment to you. He will take no questions. Your flight will last 22 hours, arriving at the McClellan Air Base by 0300 day after tomorrow, stateside date and time. Your duffle bag has been packed and awaits you at the boarding ramp. The launch, I see, is arriving just about now. Good bye, lieutenant, and good luck whatever your new assignment is.”
Within minutes, Peter was in the launch and less than a half hour later, in the backseat of a military police staff car alongside of Lt. Col. Deakins.
“No one knows your full assignment, lieutenant, or to whom, how, and when you’ll report your results. My orders are to ensure you arrive at the airfield and that the departure is on schedule and routine.”
With that, Peter smiled, turned away, and enjoyed a final glimpse of the city of Melbourne, his thick duffle bag in between his legs.
CHAPTER TWENTY
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Headed Stateside
To Peter, Melbourne at the end of August 1944, the end of winter below the equator since the Northern and Southern Hemispheres were reversed, was a wonderful sight to behold. A stopover for a few days would have been a pleasant “tag” to his 18-day furlough. A city of more than a million, the Aussies were known throughout the Allied forces for their generosity and hospitality. A fighting American like himself was not regarded as a foreign troop, soldier, or sailor, but a “hero” like every member of the Australian military. But, for Peter, there was no time for such a relaxing pause.
For his two-stop, 33-hour journey aboard a stripped-down B-29 “super fortress” to the only airfield in Northern California capable of accommodating such a large bomber, the McClellan Field closer to Sacramento than San Francisco, Peter was driven to the Point Cook Base of the Royal Australian Air Force for a back seat. More than 60 other military passengers would be returning stateside with Peter; Army, Navy, Marine, and Air Force officers, along with representatives of various Intelligence Services, Technical Divisions, the American Red Cross, etc. Two air groups occupied the aviation parking lots next to the “Superfortresses”, 30 in all. They were the newly arrived 374th Troup Carrier Group and 60th Air Depot Group. Since the summer of 1942, the American Airforce (USAAF) and the Australian Airforce (RAAF) had shared the base. On the fringes of the base were parked US A-20 Havocs, A-24 Dauntlesses, and worn-out, virtually obsolete, B-17 Flying Fortresses.
Peter, now standing on the edge of the runway, marveled at the sight. On the opposite side of the field were over 100 C-47s of the 54 Troop Carrier Wing and some 80 CG-4A gilders in preparations for whatever island invasions were being planned. Behind all these planes were parked troop carriers and huge storage dumps of gasoline, ammunition, and other supplies. Suddenly a roar overhead forced Peter to look skyward, and there, flying low, four P-51s flew past, perhaps on a mission since their route was upward. What part of the field they emanated from, he had no idea.
Then, a welcome sight was gazed upon: four Australian-affiliated Red Cross women dressed in clean, starched uniforms walked forward from the nearby terminal kitchen with trays of pastries, doughnuts, and warm enthusiasm. Peter hadn’t eaten since the night before on the USS Pickney. The large coffee container a young lieutenant wheeled up behind them was welcomed even more.
As Peter munched upon a small tasty Australian pastry, a cup of hot black ‘Joe’ in the other hand, as one of the Red Cross teenage girls referred to American coffee, two of the Seventh AAF Command staff cars pulled up and parked on a rise of reserved ground area some 20 yards from the tarmac. Peter, standing adjacent to his duffle bag, conversing with an officer also waiting instructions to board, knew the several officers emerging from the vehicle were coming to direct his departure.
A tall, slender captain with a thin toothbrush mustache below a perplexed, quizzical expression, asked,
“Where can I find Naval Lieutenant Toscanini?”
“Here, sir. Would salute if I didn’t have my hands full,” Peter responded with a smile.
“Sorry for not being present upon your arrival at the pier. We were informed earlier this morning you were to be handed a memorandum, sealed and confidential, from Headquarters, 3rd Marine Division, Fleet Marine Force, revising your previous stated orders unopened until read a few days ago aboard ship. Per instructions on the face of this dispatch’s envelope, you are not to open or read until your arrival at the McClellan Field in California. If I may suggest, lest you lose it during your 5,000 miles of flight, stopovers, and possible change of planes, you tape the envelope to your leg,” the captain said somberly.
Peter nodded without comment.
“You are to be seated,” continued the captain, “among four officers of the Pacific Aviation Engineer Battalion. They design and construct our airstrips, island to island. They are not Seabees, but the instructors of those who instruct the Seabees. I believe I see them to your left, approaching from the little-used emergency landing grassy field. Come, I’ll introduce you to them now.”
Just then, however, a minor pandemonium broke out among the scattered assembled six or seven groups totaling more than 60 as the B-29 “Superfortress” taxied toward them from one of the dozen hangers at that end of the runway. En masse, some 60 officers
carrying their various bags and briefcases surged toward the embarkation stand and ramp. A staff sergeant holding a pen and clipboard quietly asked the first arrivals to begin lining up. He immediately started checking their names off.
Amidst the continuous din of the four-engine propeller revolving hubs, the thinly mustached officer who saw no point in even introducing himself promptly yelled,
“Sorry, Lieutenant, the airman aboard will show you the cabin area assigned to the Pacific Aviation Engineers. You’ll have to introduce yourself. They’re on their way to McClellan Field, too. Stay close to them. They know their way around the in and outs of the journey. Although I’m not positive, and even if I were, names and personnel change at the whims of whoever happens to be writing or typing the orders. But as far as I know, you’ll be greeted and whisked away from McClellan to the Oakland-Alameda Naval Air Station, an hour’s drive away, by Colonel Logan Gaulding himself, of the MPs, Force Special Troops (FFACF), Marine Garrison Force Pacific. Apparently, you’re V.I.P. stuff, to have him not only pick you up, but personally drive you 80 miles to the Alameda Naval Station. In our office, the speculation is that he will be your mentor on a special assignment for the 18th Service Battalion of the 1st - 3rd Base headquarters III AC-VAC. You are holding the envelope, witnessed by six of my officers. My responsibility was to see you board, which you are about to do. And, now, lieutenant, you are on your own. Good luck to you, sir.”
With hand waves and their abrupt departures, Peter turned to stand in line to board. He was in a near-perfect position to study the Boeing B-29, “Superfortress”, or “Flying Fortress”, or “Superfort”, the familiar names of the American public for the spectacular aircraft.
“My God,” he thought, “for all its massive potential for death and destruction, it’s the most beautiful machine for war ever created: A shiny, flush-riveted, non-camouflaged silver aluminum monster. And, damn, look at those four Turbosuperchargers, probably more than 2,000 horsepower each with four-bladed propellers capable, I’ve heard, of flying well over 4,000 miles without bombs. And guns! Look at ‘em! At least a dozen .50-caliber machine guns and, look-at-it-there, in the tail, a 20-mm cannon! Supposedly, the airship has remote-control turrets. Supposedly, one of these returning from a bombing mission a month ago fought off more than half a hundred Jap fighters, Zeroes, Bettys, black, shiny Zekes, Vals, Tonys, etc., every one of them with large red rounders on its sides. All the way to California, more than 7,800 miles away, there will be no need to anxiously search the skies for fast single-engine Jap fighters. They’ll be afraid to attack!”
With that, Peter stepped up and into the aircraft. There, an airman issued him, and everyone else who boarded, a parachute and a long-billed flight cap. He was told the Pacific Aviation Engineers were to sit near the stern gun tub. Although the 60 or more officers quickly climbed aboard, putting out their cigarettes, they continued to talk loudly, some even excitedly. Behind them followed various ground crew inspectors checking, double-checking, and triple checking all the exterior props, gun emplacements, etc. Crew members checked the interior for overloading, power failure possibilities, safety of fuel tanks, the props that prevent against burnt-out engines, the central fire-control system, adequacy of the newly-installed radar equipment, and all other intricate, complex instruments, devices, machines, and systems pertaining to the safety of flight control. The final inspection was conducted by the ground crew who surrounded the Fortress, listening nervously for any sound suggesting a troubled engine.
As command staff cars, jeep, aircraft prime movers, supply trucks, and gasoline tanks began dispersing from on and around the main runway, final preparations were made for liftoff.
Having introduced himself to his four traveling engineering-officer companions, Peter leaned back, gazing out the small window. He thought to himself, “The Central and South Pacific they would be flying over was the largest water theater in the world, 16 million square miles, five times the size of the United States. They would be flying at more than 20,000 feet over thousands of miles of emptiness. At times, there would be nothing but ocean for over a thousand miles. The feeling of being left alone would be overwhelming for the new aviation passengers.
It was with a wonderful feeling of suspense combined with exhilaration that Peter, sitting back, felt the B-29 “Superfortress”, with a mild lurching, take off. Now airborne, he wondered how the 38-ton bomber would handle the soft, moist air of the Southern Seas. He wondered, then smiled remembering someone back in line say that its pilots were recipients of the Distinguished Flying Cross Awards for previous B-29 missions over southern Japan. Furthermore, they were employing the newest navigational technology. No, traveling at 360 miles per hour with several stopovers for most refueling was of little concern.
The entire furlough, despite the promise of being marred by constant nagging by the memory of the multiple murders of The Ghoul, was a welcomed rest and opportunity for relaxed visits with Joan in Kansas and his parents, as well as extended family later in California.
So it was that during the long hours that followed, with the exception of a brief stopover in Wellington, New Zealand, to pick up officers awaiting passage to San Francisco, that the droning sound of the four Wright R-3350-23 Turbosuperchargers put Peter to sleep. When he awakened hours later, islands were before him, broken rings of coral built on the peaks of submerged volcanoes. Virtually all were bare, white, and treeless. They belonged to the southernmost group of the Tuamotu Archipelago. By morning, the B-29 would be well past the Christmas Islands, a large number of them, less than an additional seven hours to the Hawaiian Islands.
Wide awake, and with nothing to read, Peter became acquainted with his four new friends.
“So, you are the guys who build the bases for these big things,” he said, pretending sarcasm.
“Yes, sir,” a young USAF captain smiled. “At least five dozen on the drawing boards throughout the greater Pacific, plus a dozen for Formosa alone. Brand new B-29s, that’s what going to win the war for us. They’ll be staged, along with long-range single-engine aircraft, on new runways, in such a way that no part of the Rising Sun will escape being bombed to Hell. We’ll be able to have these Superforts on bases between New Caledonia to the Marianas, all the way to that little spec of volcanic ash called Iwo Jima, the one with the reputation of being the most unpredictable target in the Pacific. All stepping stones to downtown Tokyo. All 30 VHB groups under the auspices of the Seventh Air Force.”
“Nice,” nodded Peter, an ear-to-ear grin crossing his face.
The captain continued,
“Lieutenant Wayland, here, answers directly to CINCPOA. Sergeant Jackson is adjutant to Vice Admiral J.H. Hoover, Commander, Forward Area. I can’t share with you what I do, or who I report to.”
“Certainly. I understand. I only know the geography of the Western Islands, the Solomons, Canal, and the Russells. Our Henderson Field is the longest runway in that part of the ocean. But it’s less than 3,000 feet, only for single fighters. On my Pavuvu Island, the only runway we have there is a rarely-used dirt road with crushed coral.”
“Well, we’re all headed to San Francisco, and, upon landing, off to our separate assignments in different directions, to meet and confer with civilian engineers and manufacturers regarding a number of technical and logistical issues. For example, I fly down to Downey, California, near Los Angeles for a meeting with the big-shot executives and engineers of the Consolidated Aircraft Company that made the popular Liberator and is now making at that huge plant the B-29s. And, by the way, Hoover, my boss reports directly to Admiral Chester Nimitz.”
“Listen, Lieutenant Toscanini, make the Marines aware that our guys work 24 hours a day supervising the Seabees, overseeing the Seabees while they construct the airstrips and runways, hard stands connecting the taxiways, service aprons, various roads, low-project warehouses, storage sheds, underground facilities for bombs delivered to be used by heavy bombardment units, housing for personnel, mess halls, latrines, was
hrooms, etc. etc. Very few in the Armed Forces know the extent of what we do to help win this war in the Pacific,” interrupted Sergeant Jackson the adjutant to Vice Admiral Hoover.
“Peter”, added Lieutenant Wayland, who answered only to CINCPOA, “We’re so pleased that the first 12 groups, 30 B-29s per group, are in the air, on their way to our advanced bases to replace, relieve, and add to what obsolete bombers we already have attacking every day. In fact, we’ll wave at them as they fly past in the opposite direction in our flight path tomorrow around noon. We’ll leave Hickory Field in Honolulu on our long final leg to Frisco.”
The relaxing camaraderie between Peter and his new-found buddies would last until the five clasped hands to bid au revoir on the McClellan tarmac until they met again somewhere in the Far Pacific. It wouldn’t be easy. For seemingly endless hours, they had explored and conversed about a kaleidoscope of subjects, issues, military victories and defeats, including personal joys and tragedies. And, while they spoke quietly and dispassionately under the great rumbling noise of synchronous propellers, they drank can after can of tomato juice. Since smoking wasn’t allowed, they sucked different colored candy “Lifesavers”, as they gossiped and shared rumors, about mechanics and crew chiefs to the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Meanwhile, vibrations and reverberations seemed to accentuate what was beneath them--the eternal, empty, covetous sea, and above them, ice-cold overcasts.
Across the wide Pacific they flew, hour after hour, napping, lost in thought, each to his own, reflecting, ribbing, and surprisingly for grown men, debating the pros and cons of World War II’s comic book heroes such as Captain Marvel, Joe Palooka, Terry and the Pirates, Boy Commandoes, Superman, Boy Submariner, Dick Tracy, etc. etc., as each hero fought Tojo, Mussolini and Hilter. Unless asked directly about the rumors already circulating throughout the Pacific bases about the attempt on Bob Hope’s life, Peter would not utter a word about the Mad Ghoul and his involvement in capturing the murder-mad Marine.
