by Buzz Harcus
Chapter 6
THE MP INVESTIGATION
By mid-morning two truckloads of MP's had arrived and sealed off the barracks. No one in; no one out. Shorty Donelson set up his interrogation room in the guard shack located just inside the main entrance to the building. Word spread quickly that he had a long list of Marines to interrogate, although scuttlebutt indicated only a few were prime suspects. Within fifteen minutes, the first man was called down to the guard shack.
"Harry," Joe said in a sneering voice, after having walked past his bunk several times before stopping, "If they ask ya' anyting 'bout me, tell 'em I was down at th' ballpark all mornin' Saturday, 'n I was at th' slopshoot all afternoon. Ya remember, don'cha?"
Harry looked up from the book he was reading. Joe seemed unusually nervous. "No. Can't say I did," Harry replied "I saw you and Stan gassing up a couple of trucks over at the motorpool Saturday morning —"
"Naw, ya din't!" Joe snapped, cutting him short. "We wasn't anywhere near th' damned trucks."
"Well, I was just coming out ofTarver Gym. I could have sworn -" He stopped. Joe's dark, glowering face sent a warning of danger. "Well, yeah, maybe I was mistaken, looking into the morning sun."
"Take it from me, you was mistaken!" Joe's finger was jammed close to his face. "You jus' tell Shorty what I told ya' 'n everyting will be jus' fine."
He turned abruptly and stalked off to the far end of the room joining Stan, who had been keenly watching them. Harry watched the two for a moment. They were having a serious discussion. Stan suddenly glanced past Joe, glaring at Harry. With a shrug of his
shoulders, Harry settled back on his bunk, his attention once again focused on the dirty book currently making the rounds of the barracks. Shit, he thought, no sense in making waves. Anyways, he knew he'd seen them at the motorpool, but, ah, to hell with it.
Harry hadn't realized how keyed up he was about the investigation until an MP stuck his head through the doorway and barked, "Martin, Corporal Harry Martin!" Harry literally leaped to his feet. He felt the eyes of Joe and Stan following him as he left the room.
He was ushered into the first floor guard shack where he stood at attention before the desk, his eyes riveted on a picture of President Truman hanging on the wall above Shorty's head. Shorty was intently reading a file and didn't bother to look up.
"Be seated, Corporal Martin," Shorty said after a moment, more a command than a request. Harry sat stiffly on the hard wooden chair. His stomach was churning. He was innocent, but he felt guilty as sin. He glanced around the small room. It was sparsely furnished: a scarred old wooden desk, two old wooden chairs, including the one he was sitting on, a filing cabinet and, in one corner, a cardboard box that served as a wastebasket.
The room had been repainted. About a month before he had arrived on base, according to one of the "old-timer's," a Corporal of the Guard had received a "Dear John" letter from his girlfriend, got really depressed, stuck the barrel of his duty .45 in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It took a couple of days to clean up the gore, and the room was repainted.
Shorty pulled out his familiar MacArthur corncob pipe, filled it, tamped the tobacco snuggly into the deep bowl, and then, with the help of three long kitchen matches lit it to his satisfaction. He took a deep puff and blew out a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. It hung in a layer just above their heads.
Shorty's eyes riveted on Harry's. "You have a good service record, Corporal Martin. I see you made corporal's rank shortly after you arrived in China. That's good. You must be pretty sharp, pretty knowledgeable about a lot of things to get your stripes that quickly."
Harry nodded. Why that comment? Dammit. He earned his stripes and was even being considered for sergeant's examination.
"I understand you were the one who found the lock cut, noticed the missing stacks of cigarettes."
"Yes, sir."
"Even the guard patrols hadn't noticed the cut lock. Pretty dumb, don't you think?"
"Yes, sir." What was the point? Harry wondered.
"Who was driving the trucks last Saturday?" Shorty asked leaning across the desk, his eyes boring in, unwavering. "Stan and Joe?"
The question caught Harry off guard. He paled. He felt suddenly clammy. His stomach warned him he might vomit. His eye contact broke from Shorty's as his gaze fell to his hands. They were trembling.
"Who drove the trucks?" Shorty's voice was soft, but firm.
"I-I -" Harry stammered. If Shorty yelled at him right then he'd either puke or shit his pants.
"Now, son, we have witnesses who saw two trucks leave the motorpool early Saturday morning. We're sure it was Stan and Joe. We also know you were at Tarver Gym that morning and would have been passing the motorpool about the time the trucks were getting gassed ready to leave." He took another long drag on his pipe. "Are you a member of the gang?"
"No sir!" Harry retorted, sitting bolt upright in his chair. "I'm not a part of that gang, nor do I want to be identified as a part of that gang, sir."
Shorty grinned. "I didn't think you were, but you do know who the drivers were. It was Stan and Joe, wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Harry responded hoarsely, clearing his throat, suddenly relieved.
Shorty sat back in his chair. He made several penciled notations on a pad before he looked up again.
"What did they tell you to do, lie? Tell me."
"Uh, Joe, uh, he said to tell you he'd been down to the ballpark all morning and at the slopshoot that afternoon."
"The damned liar," Shorty snapped. "But you did see them driving the trucks?"
"Yessir. They were gassing them up and then drove them out the back entrance by the Third Marine barracks. I just thought they
were on some kind of special assignment."
"Thank you, Corporal Martin. You're free to go."
Shorty stood up abruptly ending the questioning, extending his hand. Harry shook it; it was tough, leathery. Harry did an about face and left the room.
An MP intercepted him outside the guard shack and directed him to the lecture hall where other 12th Service Battalion personnel were seated. There was no talking. All eyes faced front. Harry was surprised to see Joe and Stan seated in the front row facing a low stage. The scene was reminiscent of the harsh regimentation he had endured during boot camp at Parris Island. A boot was nothing more than a piece of dirt to be stomped on by an overzealous drill instructor.
Chapter 7
BLACK MARKET THIEVES NAILED
Time dragged by slowly. Except for an occasional muffled cough, there was almost absolute silence. Harry glanced down at his watch. He'd been there almost an hour. The room was becoming unbearably hot. Sweat trickled down his face. It reminded him of the day he arrived at the 12th Service Battalion. The commanding officer had stood on this very stage and warned them that they were only guests in this country, and to respect the Chinese. He also warned them that this battalion had the highest venereal disease rate on the compound, and expected the new men to bring that ignominious recognition to a halt. Four more Marines were ushered in by the MP's. Time marched on.
Suddenly the door at the side of the room was thrown wide. An MP called out, "Ten Hut!" The men jumped to their feet, erect, shoulders squared, eyes front. Shorty Donelson strode into the room and up onto the stage. He turned, his eyes scanning the roomful of Marines. He puffed on his corncob pipe. After a minute or so had passed, he nodded to the MP, who called out, "At ease!"
"You men have been sweating today because some son-of-a-bitch decided to make a profit off Uncle Sam, and in the process, each of you suddenly became a suspect, many of you with excellent service records, cited for heroism under enemy fire during the war, giving your best to make the Marine Corps the best outfit in the world," Shorty began.
He took several more puffs, blowing clouds of aromatic smoke out across the audience. His face was hard, emotionless.
"You should all be pissed! You should all be really pissed ofP. One of your fellow Marines let you down. You, h
is buddies, the guy
you work with, break bread with, drink with and bunk with. He let you down to make a fast buck off the black market."
He turned and tapped his pipe on the edge of an ashtray on the small desk behind him. The burned ashes fell out. All eyes followed his every move. His timing was superbly dramatic, Harry thought.
"Actually," Shorty Donelson continued, turning back to the attentive Marines, making a slight nodding motion with his head to several MP's, who started moving down the aisle toward the stage. "We have two sons-of-bitches!" His finger pointed directly toward Stan and Joe. "Joe Gionetti and Stan Drezewski!" A murmur raced across the room at the disclosure.
"Arrest those two men!" Shorty snapped. Quickly, the MP's moved in grabbing the two startled black marketeers and took them into custody.
"Take those scum out and handcuff them to my jeep," Shorty commanded. Then, he turned back to the audience, holding up his hand for silence. "For those of you who don't know what the hell happened, we found the shipment of cigarettes that were stolen over the weekend from the Old Japanese Compound. We got lucky. We caught the damned gooks with the loot as their ship tied up in Shanghai this morning. These two bastards made $30,000 dollars on the deal. We'll get that back, too."
As he spoke the MP's were dragging Joe and Stan toward the door. Joe turned, catching Harry's eye, and screamed at him, "You squealed on me! You squealed on me! I'll kill you for that! You ain't seen the last of me. I'll kill you one of these days!" Still screaming, he was yanked from the building.
The trial was short, the evidence overwhelming. Two key witnesses, Ming Lee and Harry, tied Joe and Stan indisputably to the crime. Harry's testimony placed Joe and Stan at the motor pool; furthermore, Harry had seen them drive the trucks off the base. During his testimony, Harry felt Joe's eyes boring into him, deep with hatred, his sunken face a constant scowl. Stan fidgeted, glancing at Harry occasionally, then glancing away. He seemed anxious to have the trial over with. As he left the witness stand, Joe pointed his finger at him and bent it as though pulling a trigger.
"One of these days, Harry, I'll get'cha," he said as Harry passed close by him.
Ming Lee took great interest in the trial. He willingly gave detailed testimony about the events of that Saturday, the two trucks entering the compound, the use of a Chinese coolie workforce he was unfamiliar with, noting the trucks left and returned to the compound twice. He explicitly identified Joe and Stan as the drivers of the trucks. No amount of haranguing or badgering by the defense attorney could shake his story. Harry had smiled at the time; Sergeant Rupp had called it right; the batu would have his day.
The two were convicted of masterminding a black market operation and found guilty of grand theft, the unauthorized use of military vehicles, breaking and entering a military facility, theft of supplies and the sale of those supplies to known black market agents. Additionally, they were charged with forging an officer's name on the military pass to gain access to the Japanese Compound.
On an overcast, drizzly Wednesday morning during the first week of May, the 12th Service Battalion stood at attention in front of the barracks listening as Sergeant Rupp read the trial details. The severity of the sentence sent a shock wave through the ranks. Twenty years for both with not less than fifteen being served at the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth.
The reading concluded, Sergeant Rupp gave the command "Right Face!" and the men marched up the hill to the messhall. Except for the rattling of metal trays and cups, and the slap of "shit on a shingle" hitting the cold trays, the messhall was deathly somber.
Within days rumor spread that the black market money had not been recovered, that it was hidden somewhere on the main compound. Feverishly, almost 2,000 Marines scoured every nook and cranny of the base, digging into the old Japanese gun emplacements on the back hills, around the perimeter of the ball diamond, everywhere, but nothing turned up. Like the others, Harry spent his remaining time in China looking for the money. He finally headed home empty-handed, got discharged from the Marine Corps at the Great Lakes Naval Station and, except for an occasional thought of the threat made by Joe, thoughts of China soon faded as life as a civilian saw a new set of demands placed upon him.
Suddenly Harry shivered in the darkness of the unheated car. Several minutes had elapsed as he recalled the trial. Joe's threats had always been there, tucked away in the back of his mind, but still there. During the first few years as a civilian, he had expected to be cut down brutally one day by an avenging, escaped Joe, or by one of his underworld accomplices. However, as time passed, the threat faded.
There had been college, marriage, raising a family, seeing them through twelve years of grade school and then college, and the divorce. Now, finally, he had found a semblance of happiness in his present job, and in the warmth of Sandy.
He smiled when he thought of the countless hours spent learning Karate, advancing to a black belt, capable of protecting himself in any event. His instructor said he had a killer's edge, that he should never be afraid; he was one of the best. Now, he was going of his own volition to see the man who had vowed to kill him thirty years ago. He shook his head. The whole damned thing seemed absurd.
Chapter 8
VISIT TO THE V.A. HOSPITAL
Harry jogged across the parking lot deftly following the footsteps of someone who had preceded him through the deep snow. He felt a chill running up his back. Was it the cold, cutting wind, or was it facing Joe Gionetti?
The Veteran's Administration Hospital was built in the typical bureaucratic architectural red brick style of the late '40's, replete with huge lampposts standing rigidly, much as soldiers at attention, on either side of the entrance, a large cement arch. Harry yanked the door open, packing new snow against the arch, and stepped inside. There was a hushed quietness in the reception area. The faint scent of disinfectant filled his nostrils. The reception area was dimly lit, more than likely to eliminate non-essential lighting and conserve energy, he thought, reflecting on the current energy shortage.
Harry moved quietly over to the reception desk, stopping to peer down at a white-haired volunteer who was obviously unaware of his presence, busily continuing to work on a visitor report sheet.
"Pardon me, mam," he said softly, clearing his throat.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, startled, glancing quickly up, clasping her hand to her chest. "Oh, Lordy! I didn't see you there. You gave me quite a start!" Slowly the color returned to her blanched face. "What can I do for you?" she asked, a slight tremor evident in her voice.
"Sorry," Harry offered in the way of an apology. "Didn't mean to scare you." He gave her a warm, friendly smile. "I'd like to see one of your patients"
"Who do you wish to see?" she asked generating a weak, flustered smile in return.
"Joseph Gionetti."
"Joseph Gionetti. Certainly-" she repeated. She began fumbling through an archaic filing system mumbling to herself, "Gionetti, Gionetti, Gionetti, oh, yes, Gionetti, Joseph. He's in room 302."
"Thank you," Harry said starting toward the elevators.
"Sir. Your name, please," she called after him. He turned back. She was holding up a pen and a visitor's log. "Mr. Gionetti is in intensive care so we must keep accurate records of all visitors." He signed the log and passed it back across the desk. Laboriously, she wrote his name on a visitor's pass before handing it to him. "There," she smiled, "now don't stay too long. He's a very sick man. Visiting hours end at 8:30."
Harry acknowledged with a nod, thanked her, and started for the elevators. He looked down at the card he held. ROOM 302 GIONETTI, JOSEPH. He stuffed the card in his pocket.
Reflections from lights at the end of the hall danced snake-like across the highly polished linoleum tile floor. The interior of the hospital was spotless considering the age of the building.
Harry pushed the up button. He could hear equipment clicking and the whirr of electric motors as the elevator approached. The doors opened and he stepped inside, moved to the b
ack of the car and turned around facing forward. As the doors started to close, two men quickly stepped on board. One was a tall thin man, bearded, wearing a white doctor's coat. The other, an older, portly man, also obviously a doctor as he was wearing a stethoscope around his neck. He was puffing on a large cigar. Harry crinkled his nose at the noxious smell. He looked above the man's head. A sign stated SMOKING PROHIBITED BY LAW VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO $50 FINE OR 90 DAY IMPRISONMENT. Harry looked back over at the doctor; he winked, amused.
The doors opened at the second floor and the two doctors stepped off, but not before the fat one took a deep draw on his cigar and blew a huge cloud of acrid smoke inside the elevator as he stepped off.
"You son-of-bitch," Harry said in a quiet, even voice as the doors closed. He pressed three and the cables clattered, the motors whirred and in moments the doors opened onto tjie third floor. Harry stepped out and stood for a moment letting his eyes adjust to the low intensity lighting. Gotta conserve energy, he thought, especially now-a-days.
He made his way down the corridor, his rubber heels squeaking on the highly polished floor. An attractive nurse wheeled a pill cart past him. He took a moment to glance after her. Not bad, he grinned. The nursing station was quiet. One nurse sat with her back toward him monitoring an electronic board. He was about to interrupt her when he spotted the corridor sign: Rooms 300- 320. He headed down the corridor and located Room 302. It was the second room off the nursing station. The door was open.
Harry paused outside the door and listened. He asked himself for the umpteenth time what the hell he was doing here? Joe was a no-good scum. Why was he here? Even as these thoughts crossed through his mind, he was unzipping his jacket, easing his hand inside under the edge of his turtleneck shirt, closing over the cold steel of his .22 automatic, his index finger curling around the trigger.
