Pacific Nocturne, 1944 Read online

  PACIFIC

  NOCTURNE

  Pacific Nocturne

  by Don Denevi

  Published by Creative Texts Publishers

  PO Box 50

  Barto, PA 19504

  www.creativetexts.com

  Copyright 2018 by Don DeNevi

  All rights reserved

  Cover photos modified and used by license.

  Cover design is copyright 2019 by Creative Texts Publishers

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual names, persons, businesses, and incidents is strictly coincidental. Locations are used only in the general sense and do not represent the real place in actuality.

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  PACIFIC

  NOCTURNE

  CREATIVE TEXTS PUBLISHERS

  Barto, Pennsylvania

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “No one, absolutely no one, is who he or she seems to be. All humans, without exception, wear the mask of the actor to hide the true face. If evil exists beneath the face, hidden in the deep unknowable clefts and crevasses of the unconscious mind, it must be engaged and pondered for the world at large. We need more understanding of evil’s existence, and potential for murder, in human nature, because the only real danger that exists is man himself.”

  “If in his abysmal darkness he has acquired a nauseating taste for blood, murder further kindles murder. The natural man, with all his wholeness, is in great danger, and we are pitifully unaware of it. We know nothing of the evil murdering man. Far too little. His poisoned mind must be studied, because we, too, on the borderline of madness, are the origins of all coming evil.”

  C. G. Jung 1977: 436

  “What Is the Source of Evil?”

  in “Jung On Evil”, selected writings,

  Introduced by Murray Stein,

  Princeton. University Press, 1995

  INTRODUCTION

  In a nationwide broadcast to the American people on V-J Day (Victory Over Japan), September 2, 1945, the day of formal surrender on board the U.S.S. Missouri, Douglas MacArthur, General of the Army, a vanquisher with sincere compassion for the fallen foe, began,

  “Today, the guns are silent. A great tragedy has ended. A great victory has been won. The skies no longer rain death—the seas bear only commerce—men everywhere walk upright in the sunlight. The entire world is quietly at peace . . . I speak for the thousands of silent lips, forever stilled among the jungles and the beaches and in the deep waters of the Pacific . . . a new era is upon us . . . the survival of civilization . . .”

  Admiral Chester Nimitz, Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Fleet and Pacific Ocean Areas, also a kind man a with strong feelings of empathy and mercy, and fully aware millions of lives were doomed because an ambitious, reckless military clique forced a good people into war throughout Asia in the 1930’s and Pearl Harbor in 1941, followed with,

  “On Guam is a military cemetery in a green valley not far from my headquarters. The ordered rows of white crosses stand as reminders of the heavy cost we have paid for victory. On these crosses are the names of American soldiers, sailors and Marines—Culpepper, Tomaino, Sweeny, Bromberg, Depew, Melloy, Ponziani - - - names that are a cross-section of Democracy. They fought together as brothers in arms; they died together and now they sleep side by side. To them we have a solemn obligation - - - the obligation to ensure that their sacrifice will help to make this a better and safer world in which to live.”

  With the long and bitter struggle at an end, and a spiritual recrudescence underway for all that is virtuous, moral, and exemplary in Man, who would remember, let alone believe, the inexplicable, unfathomable deaths of nine Marine privates and nurses at the hands of a multiple-murdering fellow Marine? With Armageddon averted, the fear of world destruction superseded by the dream and hope of a new emancipation for the enslaved, who was to flash a glance at rumors of a deadly terrorizing week-long killing spree on a far-off islet in the South Pacific basin? Granted, murders of defenseless Marines by a fellow Marine in an orderly, systematic manner are so horrifying a betrayal of brothers-in-arms, combat chums, and fellow Americans that they defy belief. Few soldiers, sailors, airmen, or Marines of all the world’s armed forces can fathom killing one of their own.

  No, best to allow the intelligent mind, both individual and the official collective, complete its conscious work of focusing upon the utter destructiveness of an ocean war to blot away a series of unsubstantiated nocturnal episodes trifling in the loss of life, especially in a ridiculed, now abandoned airbase, depot, staging and rest area.

  Although based upon several actual unresolved mystifying incidents stealthily insinuating serial murder, the following pages are full of unadulterated fiction. This “whodunit” detective story challenges the reader not only to determine who the imaginary sanguinary slayer is, but also to decide if the Mad Ghoul, or Charlie the Choker, even existed.

  In the December 1947 issue of the USMC “Leatherneck Magazine”, a letter appeared in the column, “Sound Off”, edited by Sgt. Harry Polete, written by Mike Nelson of Minneapolis. It was entitled, “Choker vs. the Ghoul”, and read,

  “Sirs:

  In the August issue there was an article called ‘Pavuvu Nocturne’. If my memory serves me right, I believe this creature was called the ‘Mad Ghoul’ and not ‘Charlie the Choker’. I may be wrong, but in the old 1st Battalion, First Marine Area, it was called ‘The Mad Ghoul’.

  Otherwise, the story is absolutely true and I’m sure many of the fellows from the old First can substantiate this.”

  Sgt. Harry Polete responded, “Charlie the Choker and the Mad Ghoul are but half a dozen names used by Marines to describe their nocturnal visitor. ‘Leatherneck’ used Charlie the Choker more for its dramatic sound than anything else and did not intend to imply that it was the only name Charlie was known by. Some of the men, especially those who felt his fingers about their throat, probably had some names that we would not be allowed to print.”

  Fourteen years later, Russell Davis, in his memoir, “Marine At War” (1961), devoted 19 pages to a chapter entitled “Rumor and The Mad Ghoul” which described how the “creature” was “born” and “walked by night among the men of the First Marine Division” then “confirmed” by having been seen on several occasions, chased and shot at. According to the reports of sightings by sentries and others, “the Ghoul loped like an animal, his hands almost touching the ground”. The PFC then concluded his chapter with an appraisal of the Ghoul’s “demise”. He wrote,

  “There was no proof that such a creature as the Ghoul ever existed. But I believed in him at the time, and so did most of the Marines. Loneliness and a life in which rumor served as a morning newspaper could have created the
Ghoul, spread his fame, and killed him. No one will ever really know… But in time one character will always stand out in my memory—the Mad Ghoul. He was the dark spirit that was in all of us then.”

  That island of Pavuvu in the Russells during mid-year, 1944, is now a vanished world. No crossing, no number of words or photographs, except imagination can carry us back to the months the fighting men of the 1st Division experienced it as little more than a rat’s nest. Palm trees with their forest-green fronds are still there, as well as well-groomed coconut plantations and wide coral-crusted asphalt roads. Cobalt-blue white-crested ocean waves still crash the rugged coasts and there has been no letup in the daily torrential rains pounding the islands, just as they have for thousands of years. Today, tourists line up to sightsee the rusting World War II ocean and land wrecks, both American and Japanese. Visitors house in prestige apartments, waterfront villas and bed and breakfast flats. Although not exactly a Pacific jetsetter’s playground or exclusive island of costly resorts, it is nonetheless an island featuring a plethora of land and water sports; peace and tranquility are its major attraction. The major caution: falling coconuts capable of causing serious concussions.

  Pavuvu of the Pacific War almost three-quarters of a century ago will never come again. It resides and breathes in a historical yesterday. Time has erased much, and virtually obliterated the handful of references to the Mad Ghoul and Charlie the Choker.

  As this is a work of historical fiction attempting to follow historical fact, it is necessary to remind the reader that it is within the purview of the novelist the task of portraying in detail what might have happened if the full story unfolded to its natural conclusion. Storyline and personality are subordinated to setting—in this case, the small island of Pavuvu deep in the Ocean of the Southwestern Pacific.

  CHAPTER ONE

  -

  Pavuvu Island

  “Since the last war many mysterious tales have come of the Pacific Islands. One of the weirdest of these accounts found its origin on Pavuvu Island in the Russell’s Group.

  Marines of the First Division, stationed there during the spring of 1944, called it ‘the island the good Lord forgot’. And, not without good reason. The continual rain and sweltering heat were almost unbearable, but these seemed to be minor plagues when compared to an elusive creature which stalked the night.”

  So wrote Corpsman Donald H. Edgemon in one of his monthly columns, the August 1947 issue of USMC “Leatherneck Magazine”.

  For the first time in public print, mention was made of a series of nocturnal visits in which several battle-worn veterans of the 1st Marines from the Guadalcanal campaign who swore someone had cut through the mosquito nets in their pyramidal tents and tried to stab them while they were asleep. Each suddenly-awakened rifleman in various areas of the 600-acre Tent City pledged that he had observed a face and a shiny butcher knife over him. Two insisted they felt fingers on their throats with attempts to strangle them.

  While guards were posted throughout the Regimental areas during the late Spring, of 1944, most of the officers of the 1st Division were somewhat skeptical. Some openly accused the victims of hallucinating, delusional dreaming, and concocting “frightening demons” in order to be shipped stateside to mental hospitals. Most officers shouted the same insults at the hapless, according to Corp. Edgemon,

  “Who ever heard of big Marines complaining of something as silly as this? Get your assess back to your tents and stay away from the raisin jack or bug juice or whatever else you knotheads have been belting at.”

  Within days, an uneasiness spread among the 16,000 recuperating, relaxing, refitting Marines on Pavuvu, and an additional 5,000 serviceman on Banika across the narrow channel. Few slept peacefully. Some were angrily agitated, others quietly anxious. Not until several weeks had passed without a further incident did the officers and troops begin to relax.

  “See, you dumb sons-of-bitches,” shouted sergeants throughout the training and rest-camps, “Not a scratch, let alone a wound.”

  By mid-June 1944, however, with everyone relaxed and at ease, “that thing” resumed prowling the arteries, byways, lanes and shortcuts of Tent City and its adjacent tent camps, searching in the soaking midnight showers for a defenseless victim.

  Over the span of a week, four more assaults occurred. Two of the victims were alone, while the other two were asleep with as many as five tentmates. More impudent than brave, insolent than audacious, the offender seemed mindless, suggesting a harmless, asocial, battle-scarred Marine with a severe mental disorder. Eye-witnesses observing the culprit fleeing could only identify him as either a savage jungle “tree-hanger”, a wild “two-legged animal”, a drunken Polynesian from Banika. One who had his throat fondled insisted it was the revered Youza, the Fuzzy-Wuzzie native of Guadalcanal who served as scout for the 5th Marines captured by the Japanese during the final stages of battle at Cape Gloucester; he was nearly beaten to death and severely bayonetted by a Japanese Naval Officer proud of his shiny antique sword. Refusing to point out Marine positions, Youza was left for dead. Marine advanced pointmen found him bleeding profusely and managed to save his life. Later, in a small ceremony, riflemen unofficially promoted him to Major General Youza. Corpsman Donald H. Edgemon commented,

  “A few of the ever-present sea lawyers, however, maintained that it was a time the creature had been named ‘Charlie the Choker.’”

  Apparently, the 1st Division officers of high rank grew less and less skeptical. With continuing complaints, most were convinced. Then, one night, the Choker truly attempted to end the life of his latest victim. Deep, long scratches around the unfortunate Marine’s neck and throat convinced the brass to issue orders tripling the guard. “If there are any Jap or Marine sleepwalkers, stragglers, or assassins on this godforsaken island, shoot to kill.”

  According to those who were most involved in the matter, its verity and veracity, no number of precautions restrained the prowler from his nocturnal greetings, or as Edgemon phrased it, “sack-time visitations.” Dashing and darting through the usual rain-drenching nights, he was fired upon, rifle bullets whizzing around and past him.

  “The bastard has some mighty moves, all right. Can’t really recognize who or what he is,” said one night duty sentry.

  “For sure, it’s not our Youza. He’s so riddled with wounds and in so much pain, he can’t even walk.”

  Whether it was Youza, the Mad Ghoul, or Charlie the Choker, no one cared. At the expense of fellow Marines, someone was enjoying the fears and anxieties of the 1st Division personnel, and, as staff officers argued, only a personality formed by the island of Pavuvu could be so mean.

  CHAPTER TWO

  -

  A Stench of Death

  Poor Pavuvu.

  Promoted as a panoramic “rest camp paradise playground” by the staff officers of Major General Roy S. Geiger’s USMC III Amphibious Corps for the First Division’s 16,000 officers and enlisted men after their fierce fighting for Guadalcanal, the tiny fabled island proved upon the first moments of arrival everything but.

  The selection had been made during a flight over the Russell Group when someone noted Pavuvu’s graceful shoreline and prewar symmetrical rows of palm trees suggesting prim and trim tidiness as the groundwork for rehabilitation, relaxation, and refitting. After the Guadalcanal campaign, and that of Cape Gloucester which immediately followed, the Marines were combat-spent, fatigued, and lethargic. By December of 1943, having set sail from San Francisco in June of 1942, the Division’s losses were 621 killed in action, 1,517 wounded, and 5,601 stricken with malaria.

  As the First Division boarded the troop ships for departure from Cape Gloucester, rumors were rampant their destination was Melbourne, Australia. Officers who supposedly had the straight scoop were quoted that the Marines were headed stateside. When at sea in the Coral Islands, men were informed they were headed for reposeful play and soothing tranquility at an unheard of isle amid more than 50, each smaller than the other centered around
the two largest, Banika and Pavuvu; the former approximately eight by two miles, the latter, eight by seven.

  Allied strategists planned the Russells, Banika and Pavuvu, in particular, as forward operating bases and staging areas for invasion throughout the northwestern Pacific, the New Georgia Islands and the drive on Rabaul, first in a series of successions eastward. Banika was projected as a primary supply base with a 6,300-foot-long runway servicing both F4U Corsair fighters and torpedo and dive bombers, while suitable as a PT boat base, was seen as a training center.

  No fewer than 16,000 service personnel were on the Russells at one time or another after April of 1944. By August of that year, the number had reached more than 60,000.

  And, every single one of them assigned to Pavuvu felt the same way; it was the most God-awful, inhospitable environment they endured outside of combat itself.

  At first glance, Pavuvu appeared to be a tropical picturesque isle, with lush foliage, large groves of coconut palms, coral-covered copra plantation roads, battle-surviving cattle roaming freely, dense tropical rain forests yielding logging, rugged coral coastlines, and beautiful blue ocean waves. On a clear day, one could see the crests and peaks of the Guadalcanal Mountains without binoculars. To the 1st Division officer corps gazing from the railings of their troop transports sailing but 30 miles W by N of Cape Esperance, the resting, recuperating troops would soon be proud to call the forever muddy, rain-soaked Pavuvu the “Home of the 1st Division”.

  Hidden deep among the southeastern Solomon Islands less than 125 miles directly east of the New Georgias, Pavuvu’s locale and bearings were ideal for safety and security from both the Japanese naval bombardments and air force bombings.

  In fact, air raids and attacks upon ships anchored off Pavuvu, the nearby storage facilities, and aviation-gasoline tank farms of eight 1,000-barrel tanks, barge landings and landing docks diminished considerably by late June. By the first of July, the air raids ceased after the last attack, which resulted in only three hits on American ships, with little damage and no casualties.