Moore was very fortunate to find a spare bunk in the ship’s three-hundred-bed hospital. This allowed him some privacy, and kept him from having to mix too closely with the crew. As it turned out, an unsuspecting member of the infirmary staff provided him with his first real clue in the case.
Moore’s “official” job on the Iwo Jima was as a clerk in the hospital’s supply department. He did his best to fit in as one of the gang, and to not call any undue attention to himself.
One of the primary assets that allowed him to make a success of this undercover assignment, was his rather bland physical appearance. Thomas Moore’s average looks fit his role perfectly. He was the type of person who could blend into a crowd. Of average height and a bit overweight, he could readily pass as the typical guy next door.
For as long as he could remember, he had kept his brown hair in a crew cut. He had his father’s chubby face, and could easily go several days without needing a shave. Like his mother he had blue eyes, capped by thick, blond brows, that merged together on the bridge of his flat nose. By habit, he tended towards the sloppy, and it was an effort for him to keep a clean uniform, or for that matter, even to keep his shirt tail securely tucked in place.
When not on assignment, this tendency often got him in trouble with his superiors back in Washington.
Far from being the perfect example of an officer and a gentleman, he was more like the U.S. Navy’s version of detective Columbo. And much like Colunbo, his ability to crack a difficult case where others had failed, forced his superiors to overlook personal traits that they found distasteful.
The door to the infirmary opened from the inside, and out walked the two marines, with a single, balding individual between them. This sailor wore handcuffs, and as he passed by Moore, he said, “I didn’t mean any harm. Chief. The guys needed something to stay awake, and the captain came down on me like I was a heroin dealer.”
Before Moore could reply, one of the marines forcefully intervened.
“Keep your mouth shut and those eyes straight ahead, sailor! And no more talking until we reach the brig.”
The prisoner did as ordered, and Moore silently conveyed his pity with a solemn shake of his head. Two weeks ago, Moore had learned that this sailor was stealing amphetamines from the hospital pharmacy.
As a pharmacist’s mate, his job had been to dispense potent drugs for the treatment of such maladies as hay fever and severe head colds.
By faking the symptoms of a bad sinus infection, Moore sought treatment. His prescribed medication, an amphetamine derivative, had been replaced by a simple aspirin compound. In such a manner, the pharmacist’s mate had been able illegally to accumulate hundreds of pills, which he efficiently resold on the ship’s black market.
It took Moore fourteen days to uncover the distribution network. It extended to almost every department on the Iwo Jima, including the embarked marine battalion.
Misuse was especially prevalent amongst the engine-room crew and the helicopter mechanics. Often called to duty for exhausting twelve-hour shifts, they used the amphetamines to help them stay awake.
Also known as speed, the amphetamines could have dangerous physical side effects including dizziness, dry mouth, and increased pulse rate. Such drugs could also lead to dangerous mistakes in judgment, a disruption in normal sleep patterns, a decrease in one’s appetite, and even paranoia and other serious psychotic behavior. Although the military often used speed to keep pilots and combat soldiers alert during long missions, this was an exception rather than the rule, and such use was always closely monitored by attending physicians.
When drugs were misused, Moore knew that there was almost always an increase in the accident rate.
Carelessness prevailed in such an atmosphere, and untold lives could be endangered. Thus, with a minimum of misgiving on his part, Moore sought out not only dealers, but users as well.
All told, his list implicated over three dozen men.
They ranged in rank from lowly seamen second class, to an ensign in the air wing. All would receive severe reprimands from the Iwo Jima’s commanding officer, who per Navy tradition served as both judge and jury.
Sentences would be issued to fit the crime, with the dealers being hit the hardest. They could look forward to actual jail time, while the users would be punished by a loss of rank and privileges.
Recently, the Navy had instituted a treatment program, whereby all those convicted of substance abuse would be required to undergo therapy in a support group environment. This novel program showed great promise, and Thomas Moore sincerely prayed that the sailors that he had busted would take this opportunity to get their lives in order, before they were ruined for good.
It was with this hope in mind that Moore looked at his watch, then returned to his bunk to pack up his belongings.
He didn’t have to go far to reach his locker.
The hospital ward where he had been sleeping was currently empty of patients. It reeked of disinfectant, and he couldn’t wait to return to shore and enjoy the luxury of a real bed.
The Iwo Jima was currently transiting the Ryukyu Islands, and he hoped to spend the night at Sasebo Navy base, on the Japanese island of Kyushu. Tomorrow, he planned to take the bullet train to Tokyo, and begin a long-anticipated five-day leave in the capital city, before having to return to his office at the Washington Navy Yard.
He was in the process of stuffing his seabag with socks, when the ship’s supply officer entered the ward.
Lieutenant Roger Samuels had been Moore’s division officer while on the Iwo Jima, and a pain in the behind from the very beginning.
Known as spic-and-span Samuels to his subordinates, the supply officer demanded that proper naval etiquette be applied when in his divine presence. He was the type of stuffy, abusive, know-it-all officer that Moore couldn’t stand, and he braced himself for the worst as Samuels greeted him with his nasal voice.
“So, you’re leaving us already. Chief. I cant say that we’re going to miss you. Hell, half the time you were out on sick leave. And from what I understand, when you were on the job, you depended upon others to do the work for you. Who gets the honor of your company next?”
“I can’t really say, sir,” answered Moore without emotion.
“My new orders merely send me as far as Sasebo.”
There was a look of disgust on Samuels’s pinched face as he inspected Moore from head to foot.
“Put a shine on those shoes in the meantime, and tuck in that shirt! Take some pride in that uniform, sailor, and perhaps the Navy can make something out of you yet.”
“Yes sir,” returned Moore, who practically had to bite his tongue to keep from revealing his true rank.
“I understand that we have a fink in our midst,” commented Samuels as he eyed Moore suspiciously.
“Though I certainly don’t condone drugs, a little speed never hurt the Navy. Why we practically run on caffeine as it is.” Moore kept packing as Samuels continued.
“In my department, I like my men coming to me first with their suspicions, before running off to tattle to the CO.
Do you read me, sailor?”
Moore shook his head.
“I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Come now. Chief,” said Samuels.
“Scuttlebutt has it that you were seen talking with the captain in private on three separate occasions. Unless the old man’s a long-lost uncle of yours, I’d say that’s a bit unusual.”
With great relief Moore packed away his last item of clothing, sealed shut his seabag, and slung it over his shoulder.