Pacific Nocturne, 1944

by Don DeNevi

  “Boys, Frances already serenaded tens of thousands of our troops with ballads like ‘You’re My Lucky Star’ and ‘Hurray for Hollywood’. She’s more a singer than dancer and actress, and her legs are more beautiful than her voice. ‘Mother’ Langford, as you’ll see, knows just how much sex to pour and still be dignified. I can tell you fellas that the girls back home are encouraging her to represent them as the ‘All American Girl Waiting At home’. And, I can tell you on the sly that neither Frances Langford nor Patty Thomas have any problem raising your ‘morale’ and keeping it hard, I mean high, not hard but high,” Hope said somberly, fighting back a sheepish grin.

  “Which brings us to the second beauty of my Gypsy Six, Patty Thomas. Why do I keep saying, ‘hard’?”

  As the modest number of servicemen began to hoot and applaud, General Rupertus flinched, and turned, eyes flashing, so much so, there was instant soberness.

  Hope chuckled,

  “I get it, men . . . Well, as you can see, fellas, Patty, who is only 22 years old, is what you’re fighting for. When she’s on stage, and in her flimsy outfit, you won’t be able to take your eyes off her legs. This dedicated, sincere young woman is more a dancer than singer and comedian, proven by her dedication. She dances on hoods of jeeps in the rain, she dances on boards over mud, and especially looks forward to being near the front lines and emergency wards of hospitals. Like Frances, she is made of the real stuff. She doesn’t show off her legs, she flaunts them in order to get your guys for a few moments to not only forget what you’ve seen and experienced, but also what you’re about to see and know . . . Patty’s a real sweetheart, men. She lives to entertain you.”

  “And now, for the professor, 40-year-old Gerardo Luigi Colonna of Boston…” as Hope continued his introductions, as Peter, with natural curiosity, mused for a moment over Frances and Patty,

  “The younger woman is giggling openly to herself because some of our younger fellas are starting to behave ridiculously. Sure, they haven’t seen the uncovered legs of women in more than a year, but they don’t have to act like teenage boys. Patty is at least 10 years younger than Frances. Hope is right. She is calm and womanly. Patty is almost a teenager herself. I wouldn’t say that the two are beautiful, but they certainly come down on the side of being good-looking rather than plain appearing. Each is beaming, suggesting self-reliance and quiet confidence. It’s obvious both want to be among us. They care. They weren’t assigned to visit troops. And, look at how they adore their boss, Bob Hope.”

  Hope continued,

  “Jerry Colonna is one of my three original Gypsies; Frances and Tony Romano, our guitarist, standing there, hands in his pockets, being the other two. You may have seen my pal, Professor Jerry Colonna, in ‘Naughty But Nice,’ made in 1939, and ‘Sis Hopkins,’ the year later. His trademarks are wide, rolling, bulgy eyes, those plus his walrus mustache and bellowing opera-lampooning voice. If we perform before the Navy, he dresses as a sailor. If we appear before the Army, he dresses as a soldier; then the Air Force, he’s a pilot. That’s how loyal he is. He’s one with all the armed forces. He’s a great entertainer, a better comic actor than I am. He was so bulgy-eyed in my movie ‘Road To Singapore,’ made in 1940, and Crosby’s ‘Star Spangled Rhythm,’ that Bing asked if he buy could those eyes. Everyone loves them! Wait until you see them at work this afternoon!”

  “Tony is special. He’s been with me the longest. He arranges all the music, and accompanies our singers when you boys request various songs. He knows them all. He’s only 29 and, as a guitarist, he can play jazz as well as classical, new or ancient. Tony is our musical sideman, a more loyal man you could never find. Because he loves me so much he works cheap, and I take advantage of it.”

  “Jack Culpepper, the homely one over there, is the oldest of the lot. He’s 41, and performed as a dancer, singer, radio comedian. He teamed with Ginger Rodgers as a dancer, then had the gall to marry her. Their team was known as ‘Ginger and Pepper’. Like ‘The Professor’, he was in our ‘Road to Singapore’ and with Bing in ‘Rhythm on the River’ and Crosby asked him if he could have Ginger. Cul popped him on the nose. You think you can ski down mine? Try his new slope!”

  “Barney Dean, standing next to me, is ‘my man Friday’. He’s 40 and a gag writer. Some of his stuff is good. He was writing for Crosby, got bored with his crooning, and joined me. He broke into show biz as a dancer in minstrels, vaudevilles, and was in my 1941 movie, ‘Louisiana Purchase’ where he embarrassed everyone because he couldn’t take his eyes off Vera Zorina, my co-star. He can’t get her out of his system. Walked around in tears. His other problem is that he hates flying in PBY’s Catalina Flying Boats. Throws up all the time.”

  With that, the troupe waved and the men and officers of the 1st Division welcoming committee howled and spontaneously applauded. Then, with everyone mingling about and talking to the Hope performers, General Rupertus asked “Stash” Colonna,

  “How was your flight coming in on the Piper?”

  The “Professor” answered,

  “The Cubs we came in on apparently are used by the Army for spotting Jap artillery. This was fine with us as long as the enemy knew we were just visitors. After riding in that bouncy PBY, the Cub seemed so slow it would just hang up in the sky and rock in the slipstream made by the seagulls whizzing by. It gives you the feeling that you’re riding a kite with no strings attached.”

  “Mother” Langford, with her bright, endearing smile, added,

  “Waiting for us on the beach waving were at least 18,000 Marines, all veterans of Guadalcanal, I was told in my plane, veterans also from the fighting on Munda and Bougainville.”

  “Yeah,” added Colonna, “my pilot told me that the Marines below us on the beach had gathered on landing crafts which had been drawn up from Banika, and other islands. The riggings and every vantage point on the ships were filled with hundreds of men.”

  Patty Thomas chimed in, to the delight of the circle of Marines around Colonna and Langford, “In my Cub, we circled low, including our Corsair and P.38 escorts, and buzzed them a couple of times before being set down on that rocky road over there near the baseball field and stage area near the beach.”

  Colonna interjected,” . . . and the pilot I was riding with yelled, ‘Okay, pile out!’ I answered, ‘Out?’ I’ve been out since the first bump back at Henderson Field.’”

  Patty chimed back in again, “It was a rough landing. Bob shouted to me a moment after landing,

  ‘Fancy meeting you here! You’d think Pavuvu airport could afford a better waiting room than a parking lot with no buildings.’ ”

  “As for me,” smiled Colonna, “I hope no one starts throwing rotten coconuts, if he doesn’t like our routine.”

  “Well, Gypsies, let’s go see Pavuvu, with the emphasis on ‘P U’ warned the boys back at Guadalcanal when we told them we were coming here today.”

  Rupertus said, “Throwing coconuts will get a Marine a month in the brig. It’s serious business around here. This past spring, two of our boys assigned to cleaning them out of the swampy area were killed when they were hit on the head by natural falling coconuts.”

  Hope responded,

  “We’re used to troops throwing things at us; believe me, general. Even their shoes and boots.”

  “Have your audiences always thrown things at you while performing?” asked Assistant Commander Shepherd, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yes, sir, and Thank God they did, especially in my early years. I wouldn’t have had anything to eat if it wasn’t for the stuff the audience threw at me.”

  With the young Marines from the military police security detachment, drivers’ pool, and Piper Cut pilot unit lining up before Bob Hope, Jerry Colonna and Frances Langford for autographs, virtually everyone talking at once, ignoring Patty Thomas, Tony Romano, Barney Dean and Jack Culpepper, the day suddenly turned dark gray and within moments as the Pavuvu installations, facilities and palm groves began looking unusually bleak and ill-tented, it st
arted to sprinkle.

  “The shower’s nothing, certainly drenching, but fast-moving. What I fear for your show is the inferno that is certain to arrive in the next half hour,” said Chief of Staff Sims.

  “Inferno? What inferno?” asked Colonna. “Japs are not invited. If so, I’m going home.”

  “The increasing tropical heat, the blowing tropical sand and the biggest pain in the a-double-s there is--the tropical torridity, the hot moisture, or humidity,” responded Sims.

  While Hope, Colonna, and Langford chitchatted, gossiped, and talked idly with the men, they scrawled away their autographs. Meanwhile, the six Cub pilots, and six drivers of the staff cars prepared their engines for departure. As the drivers pulled the cars around, the Piper Cubs began taxiing toward the narrow road for departure to the Banika Airfield for a late evening flight back to Henderson Field on Guadalcanal. Major General Rupertus had ordered them to do so since Peter, with an armed vehicular escort, was to drive the Hope entourage over to the Banika amphitheater for the evening performance.

  Soon, all staff officers and entertainers were climbing into the cars and making themselves comfortable. The tropical shower ended and the early afternoon sun burst through the cloud cover. Inside their respective staff cars, everyone fastened their seat belt. One after the other, the cars were driven down the road of the airstrip to a side road that led directly to the baseball field which would serve as the Pavuvu amphitheater. Marines here were already pouring onto the field, finding for themselves whatever seating pleased them. In certain stretches, the drivers slowed down to less than 15 mph, peering through the thick Jeep windshield. Peter, marveling at the banter, was in a perfect position to observe Hope sitting in the front seat next to the driver. He sat in the back seat next to the window with Rupertus between him and Shepherd next to the far window.

  “Well, Mr. Hope,” smiled General Rupertus, “if you and your troupe choose to remain overnight on the island of Banika rather than return to Henderson Field on Guadalcanal, you’ll be given V.I.P. rooms at my general headquarters, rooms for each of you with fresh sheets, new blankets on actual beds instead of used cots. Plus, as V.I.P.s, each of you can take a ‘real bath’, not having to use helmets as your washbasins. Now, I’ll be on the same second floor as you, and available at any time of the night or morning. If you want to talk with someone here on Pavuvu, the hook-up is done manually by telephonists sitting in front of switchboards 24 hours a day in the three 8 hour shifts. Only one line is available on this island, down the hall from my office.”

  “Well, we’ll see, general. The standby pilots can find lodging on Pavuvu?”

  “Why, of course!”

  “I’ll let you know halfway through the performance.”

  During the 20 minute journey to the Pavuvu baseball field, no faster than 15 to 20 miles per hour, the conversation was primarily between Bob Hope and Major General Rupertus, with Peter, the driver, and Assistant General Commander Shepherd absorbing every word. The comedian was somber as he showed an amazing acumen regarding both theaters of war.

  “We’re already agreed, the seven of us. If we all go down together, we’re certain we’re going to Heaven together to perform before all the religions of the universe. That’s why we’ve done benefits for all religions, starting five years ago. We decided that by doing all religions, we wouldn’t blow the Hereafter on a technicality, having missed, or ignored, a religion. And, no matter where I am entertaining the troops, and I’m killed there, somebody or other will ask me,

  ‘Where do you want to be buried?’”

  “I answer, ‘Surprise me.’”

  “We will! We will!” laughed Rupertus. “Did you hear that all organized resistance on Guadalcanal is ceased as of this morning?”

  “No! That’s good news. I also heard on Guadalcanal this morning that Tinian was declared secure last week. By the July 4th last month, I heard our troop strength in the Pacific reached 475,000, which included 33,000 officers and 443,000 enlisted men and women. How are we going to lose this war with manpower like that?”

  As the comedian and the commander bantered back and forth with Marine Corps campaign chronologies since February 1st, 1942, Peter enjoyed sizing Hope up.

  “And for all four of you here with me now, please get the word out how much the Marines on Pavuvu meant to me less than an hour ago. You see, these two shows we’re doing today, one here now, and the other back on Banika tonight, aren’t on the schedule. Our little band of Gypsies flew over here in those model toy airplanes; the cute Piper Cubs, because the recreation coach over there asked if we wouldn’t mind the extra show. You provide an audience of our fighting boys, even if we have to go to Purgatory, then Hell, we’ll go.”

  “Well, we were told your 1st Marine Division men were preparing for the invasion of the Palau Islands. That’s all we needed to hear. We were coming over here, even if it meant the show was scheduled at 3:00am. On our short flight to your landing strip road, we buzzed the baseball field next to the beach, rapidly filling up with young fellas from all over the island. Imagine, six Piper Cubs, all in a row, circling the baseball field, tripping our wings to say ‘Hello, you lucky fellas! We’re here, and we’re going to make you giggle and laugh.”

  “Well, buzzing that stadium with 16,000 guys looking up, cheering, and waving at each plane then flying toward the landing strip road is by far the most exciting thing that has happened so far on my USO tour, in Europe and North Africa, and the Pacific - - probably even the whole war. My pilot said as many as 40% of the men waving and cheering will never be seen again. I’m sure the other 60% I’ll see again in the recovery hospitals stateside, such as the new, modern one in Oakland, California. On Banika this morning, just before we flew over here, we visited the guys in its hospital. The wall behind one fella’s bed, a recovering veteran from Guadalcanal, had so many pinups of Betty Grable, and now Patty Thomas and Frances Langford, on the wall the land crabs and mosquitos were drooling. Another guy had only pinups of Betty Grable. Many were duplicates. You know the one I mean, her back to you, as she turns her head with a wicked smile and gleam in her eye. Every American fighting man, no matter where he is in the world, has the same photo on the wall or in his helmet. Who can resist an a-double-s like that? I said to him, ‘Don’t you know Betty Grable is married to Harry James, the band leader and famous trumpeter?’ The wounded Marine answered, ‘Who cares? After the war, we’re going to kill all the buglers anyway. Especially, the early morning ones!”

  As Peter listened and watched, he rapidly came to the conclusion that Bob was a genuinely an affable man, approachable and sincere. Because of his fame and wealth, the comedian was not a “stuck-up”. His legend was justified. While treating throngs of troops to laughter, he was gracious, kind and generous with his time. In 1941, even before World War II broke out, he received an Oscar “for humanity”. It was no accident or whim that he was the first entertainer to perform for the armed forces.

  And, he was as fearless as he was tireless. The fact that two USO performers, including the popular Tamara, were killed in a Lisbon Clipper airline accident en route to perform at a Mediterranean base, was non-deterring. Everyone enjoyed his gags, the endless ad-libbing, his timing, and coordination of vaudeville pantomime. Peter believed the comedian when he said, “When I get home one of these days, my kids will think I’m been booked there on a personal appearance tour”, and “When this war ends, it’ll be an awful letdown for me personally.”

  “No,” thought Peter, “it’s impossible to dislike him, on the radio, the screen, the stage. He’s himself, real, a kindly man with a soft heart, which makes him all the more endearing. He’s one of America’s great treasures, and he’s here in this car, with me assigned to guard his life from the Mad Ghoul.”

  Suddenly, from far in the rear at the intersection where the dirt landing strip road met the long roundabout side dirt road leading to the baseball stadium temporarily converted into the day’s amphitheater, a heavy roar could be heard rapidly
approaching. Emitted from an armored three-seat reconnaissance vehicle with an open top racing after them, the roll and rumble of the accelerating noise was accentuated by a horn blasting violently.

  As everyone in the general’s lead staff car, including Hope himself, turned their heads to see who was chasing them, the cyclist waved for the driver to slow down, then pull up.

  “Urgent dispatch, urgent from general headquarters at Banika. Dispatch! Stop!!”

  As Rupertus’ car abruptly skidded to a halt, the brakes screeching loudly, the cyclist of the scout car pulled ahead by 10 or 15 yards, then kicked the foot brake, parking the vehicle in the middle of the narrow pounded earth and coral road, blocking further movement in both directions.

  “Did you see that? How the driver handled the three-seater?” asked Shepherd, amazed. “He was ripping it, wasn’t he? Zipping past us, skidding on the crushed dirt-coral, bouncing into the air, while in total control passing us, then cockily planting the scout car in front of us so we can’t move forward or backward. Who is that guy?”

  “Crosby evading one of his Internal Revenue Service tax collectors,” quipped Hope.

  Removing his goggles, the driver stepped from his driver’s seat and stood silently next to his vehicle for a long moment, peeing long and hard at the squad car’s front window.

  “My God,” Hope exclaimed as everyone in the staff car sat in stunned silence. “Is that a .45 sagging at his right hip, or could it be his…”

  Even Rupertus had to smile, as the others in the car, including the driver, chuckled knowingly.

  “I think it’s ‘Old Clodhopper’, Del Barbra’s favorite MP now assigned to the second shift guarding headquarters on Banika,” smiled Shepherd.

  “Yup,” responded Rupertus. “Clodhopper is the biggest, most massive, almost jauntily conceited MP in the whole South Pacific. Right now, the way he’s approaching us, I’d say he’s aggressively self-confident.”

  Peter, unusually quiet being the lowest ranking officer in the staff car that afternoon, spoke up.