by Don DeNevi
“I know him. A good MP, in fact, one of the toughest we have here. But he’s usually stone-cold calm. Now his eyes are bristling with anger, even disgust. Something is up, General.”
Old Clodhopper, handsome in a heavy fashion, a bearing of mannerisms that boasted he appreciated himself very much, reflected by his carefully groomed coal-black hair, close-cropped and wavy, slowly walked up to the driver’s window and motioned for the driver to roll it down.
“Commander Rupertus, I have an urgent confidential communiqué form General Headquarters, Banika. For your eyes only, although permission is granted to share it with proper staff.”
With that, he stretched through the car window and handed the major general an envelope. Rupertus reached across Peter and accepted it. With that, cyclist Clodhopper saluted. Turning, he trotted back to his scout car, swung himself into the driver’s seat, kicked the handbrake off, and started the ignition, triggering the engine to throb jumpily. After a sputter or two, the fast, armored reconnaissance open-topped vehicle turned around, and roared back the way it came.
Meanwhile, Rubertus ripped the confidential envelope open and read the single sheet of buff-colored paper. As Hope chatted with Assistant Commander Shepherd, Peter studied Rupertus’ facial expression as he read the contents. His face was ashen and contorted, his eye softening into narrow slits. With his mouth slightly open and ajar, his lips appeared crusted. He attempted to clear his throat, which resulted in an unintelligible hoarse whisper.
Eyes now wide, sitting upright, staring out his side window, the Commander of the 1st Division tried again, speaking to no one in particular.
“In a linen closet, far back of the Banika hospital in the hall behind Operation Room 2, Nurse Marguerite Chapman, who, disappeared near the end of her third shift. Everyone believed she returned to her room and bed ill. They just found her in a corner of that obscure room behind boxes stabbed to death, frontally, drenching in her own blood.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
-
The Happiest (and Hottest) Potty in the Pacific
After a stunned silence, Rupertus ordered the driver to proceed on to the stadium amphitheater. Then, he leaned forward and asked,
“Bob, you’ve heard of our trouble?”
“All Banika is talking about us.”
“And, yet you stay with it?”
“Of course. There won’t be any gags, wisecracks, jokes, witticism, or quips, if I can get my hands on his throat,” Hope answered solemnly, staring straight ahead, teeth clenching.
Again, a brief silence. Then, the commander of the 1st Division said softly,
“Few men have earned my admiration for kindness, ability, and courage. You are one of the three I’ve encountered in my lifetime. God Bless you, Bob Hope.”
Rupertus glanced across from him at Peter and Shepherd, then added, “A copy of the note the Ghoul pinned to Miss Chapman’s breast was included in the dispatch envelope. Read it out loud, Peter.”
The young Lieutenant accepted the envelope and retrieved the note. It read,
“Hail Commander General Rupertus - - grieving over you and the droll jester begins before midnight, twilight to the very dark; courtesy of an anomalous Mad Ghoul Marine. What a piece man is who relishes murder. A very odd creation. Neither animal, who knows not how to murder, nor the earth’s outer reach inhabitant who has no word for it, I am human, one of the supposed civilized of the civilized, and therefore capable of unimaginable horror. What a wonderful mystery I am, enjoying the pain in your eyes as my shiny blade plunges to your bone this night.”
Without comment, Peter and Shepherd perused the murder note. Peter noticed the grim expression on Hope’s face as he handed the Ghoul’s murder message back to the major general who, continuing to look straight ahead, was still sitting bolt upright.
As the small caravan of six staff cars and security guard motorcycles following from behind entered a clearing that had once been a coconut grove behind left field of the Pavuvu baseball stadium now serving as the temporary site for the afternoon’s performance, Rupertus, calmly, commented,
“Three months ago, this island began an amazing transformation overnight, from unworked plantations of rotting coconuts to a thriving military seaport. Under Seabee guidance, the Pioneer Battalion of our 1st Division did virtually all the construction. The field we’re coming up to was leveled in less than two days. Now, it’s covered with a thick grassy turf where our boys play baseball on a diamond; football; rugby; on a real field; and even soccer. As we drive to the parking area behind the small grandstand, and the facility to change in, you’ll see how we built a boxing ring, handball court, volleyball area, bowling alley, and basketball court adjacent to it. We’re so sports-minded it pays off both in combat and rehabilitation, we of the 1st are renowned for our athletics program. We engage in regiment-sized competitions against Army, Navy, and Seabee Teams. And, I might add, we always win.”
Hope, with his eyes wide, could hardly believe that suddenly he was in the middle of a mass of Marine humanity. With perhaps more than 20,000 assorted troops at leisure waiting for the performance to begin, the amphitheater was a noisy, restless, thriving center of agitated combustible activity.
Level as a plate of glass window or a wooden tabletop, the huge field stretched to the edges of a short rise, which then, in a carpet of green-grey-brown vegetation, slumped down to the cold channel water separating the two islands.
At the far end where the hastily constructed makeshift stage had been built, the view of the channel, beaches, and beyond the Pacific was partially blocked at the neck of the wide basin by small tents, tent houses, and minor metal huts. One was conspicuous because it was so pretentious, having been painted blood red and trimmed in white. Gingerbread architectural moldings and projections serving as showy and tawdry decorations painted in light pink adored the doors and windows.
The building, a new officers’ latrine painted in the bizarre colors with the grotesque ornaments, was designed by a Seabee sergeant as a practical joke. His explanation,
“Low level USMC officers are known to have difficulty finding privies, thereby winding up messing themselves. My color combination will guide them to the proper pee hole.”
As Hope listened to the explanation, he laughed aloud,
“Exactly the kind of explanation I would offer . . . if I didn’t like the Marines.”
Everyone laughed, General Rupertus the loudest.He added, “We’ve come to love that little ‘pee hole’. Truth of it was that he was being facetious. Those colors were the only paint colors the Seabees had in the Solomons. We also liked the wooden structure because it had two back doors leading to a small channel beach that’s private and quiet.”
After a long silence during which the staff cars wound their way through the multitude rushing to the caravan and surrounding it, applauding and cheering, Peter addressed the comedian who was thoroughly, deeply engrossed enjoying the spectacle,
“Mr. Hope, as General Rupertus mentioned earlier, I’ve been assigned to linger and over you throughout your stay on this island. I am not to leave your side regardless. You are free to perform, eat, nap, and relieve yourself, but only with me at your side. Not for an instant are you to be out of my actual eyesight. And this at the risk of court-martialed. While you are on stage, I’m to be no less than 25 feet from you.”
And, Peter, at the risk of insulting Mr. Hope, thereby incurring the wrath of the Commander of the 1st Division, couldn’t help himself,
“ . . . and should you wish to engage in intimacy with one of... “
“All right, lieutenant,” laughed Rupertus, Shepherd and Hope.
“Sorry, sir, couldn’t help myself.”
“Hey, no issue with any of that, including the ‘intimacy’ part. What you’ll really enjoy,” exclaimed Hope with a wide grin, “is being present when I relieve myself. Even mom objected to that. She complained she always had to wear a gas mask when she changed my diapers. The first words I heard while
being born were, ‘Just look at the sizes of his yuck-a-do’s. God, what did you bless me with? And their smell! We could have won World War I in the first days, if we had a smell like that bottled and released at the front. Churchill told me he heard about the smell when Parliament began debate for its use in the House of Commons after that fateful May 29, 1903, day in Eltham, London.”
Everyone giggled.
“But in all seriousness, lieutenant, I’d love to meet and then be left along with that son - - - for a minute or two. Don’t forget I was born with timing and coordination. That’s what makes me a great, great comedian. But I was born with no looks, except a ski-slide nose, with no personality, no courage or bravery, no ability to write, no special speaking gift, no art for pantomime, and no character.”
“But the timing and coordination helped me in the prize fighting ring. I learned how to fight in a house of six brothers with only one bathroom. We didn’t stand in line. We fought it out. The winner went first. But I will say that having one toilet and six brothers, plus mom needing to use it, taught me how to dance.”
“Were you much of a prizefighter?” asked Shepherd.
“Not bad. I’ll prove it, if you turn the son - - - over to me. I learned the skill of punching and art of the knockout at Charlie Marotta’s Athletics Club on 79th Street in New York. I wanted to enter the featherweight division of the Ohio State Amateur Boxing Matches with my best friend, Whitey Jennings, under the name of Packy East. I was certain my fists fit the ring. I won my first official fight with a lucky punch, when the other guy turned to ask the other corner for advice. Then, in my second fight, I faced a more seasoned fighter. He made a quick end of my career in the first round. It was also an abrupt end of my two fists. But, I’ll take them out of cold storage for Mr. Mad Ghoul.”
“Then you went into showbiz?” asked Rupertus.
“Oh, something like that. I always had a touch of hankering for the burlesque music hall, vaudeville. When I was born, the doctor said to my mother, ‘Congratulations, you have an eight pound ham’. And, when mom felt the sizes and smells of my ‘yuck-a-do’s’ she said, “he’s proven by this he’s slated for showbiz and stardom.
“And I’ll say one last thing on the subject. Jack Benny is always bugging me for a turd lump to place around his money under his bed. ‘Why pay a bank to guard my cash when no one will get near your smell?’”
Outright laughter rocked the staff car as it entered the edge of the outskirts of the open field. Meanwhile, hundreds of Marines dressed in the A-1 class khaki shirts and pants and caps, all starched, pressed, and neatly folded, with shoes just polished, hurried for bench seats cut from trunks of palm trees, or the long rows of sandbags to sit upon. Fortunately, the earlier showers hadn’t affected the baseball field-amphitheater, other than leaving behind puddles and mud. Hope smiled broadly at a glimpse of the huge mass of men already seated, the wounded who could walk and amble from the Pavuvu hospital commingling with staff officers on comfortable cushioned chairs.
Then, skirting the edge of left field, the commander’s car in the lead of the small caravan proceeded cautiously through arriving Marines toward the back to the temporary stage that had been constructed atop home plate. Among the hundreds of grinning soldiers seeking places to sit, Peter recognized innumerable men he knew, as they in turn saluted Commander Rupertus and acknowledged Bob Hope with thumbs up, cheering, and otherwise hooting it up.
Parking in an area behind the makeshift stage, no more than a roofless platform now roofed with a stretched waterproof double-canvased tarpaulin, Peter, upon climbing out of the staff car alongside of Hope, saw a hodge-podge of 16 square foot tents, small Quonset huts, and other recently constructed structures, all connected by wooden plank walkways because of Pavuvu’s eternal seepage and mud.
Although several latrines accommodating large numbers of Marines were positioned around the open field, only one medium-sized privy with three urinals and twelve stalls was available for the officer staff. It was a red-painted framework with two small windows at each end. As elsewhere around the field and stage, red, white and blue bunting decorated the facility. Above the entrance was a permanent large sign that read, “All USMC Officers Wash Their Hands After Handling Danger.” A second sign, leaning against the outside wall next to the entrance, recently painted with perfect lettering, black on grey, read, “Make Us Laugh, Bob, Make Us Laugh.”
The area was familiar to Peter. Recently, he had joined the 1st Division ‘Mudhens’ softball team. With a sidelong glance, he noticed Chaplain Pinoe, laughing alongside Jerry Colonna, as the others of the troupe exited their staff cars. Remaining by Hope’s side, Peter waved, and motioned Pinoe over. As Hope engaged in conversation with a number of officers while Commander Rupertus looked on, Pinoe led Colonna through the mingling crowd to Peter’s side.
“I just asked ‘the Professor’, or ‘the Mustache’ “, said Pinoe with his excited lisp, “if that was him when his Piper Cub circled the field, and the pilot switched off his engine for a few moments. Someone put his head out the window of the plane and screamed a famous cry,
‘Yee-oww-oww-oww-oww!’
“You weren’t here, but our men already here went crazy with laughter, cheers, applause, hollering and... “
At that point, Colonna, tweaking, pinching and twisting his mustache, said,
“What’s wrong with that? I say hello to everyone that way.”
Just then, Captain Del Barbra and Sergeant Guidi shoved their way through the crowd and approached Toscanini and the others.
“All is well, I presume,” he said laughingly. “I’m very pleased you were selected, lieutenant, to watch over our honored guest.”
“Thanks, Captain. I truly appreciate that compliment. Meet Bob Hope and Jerry Colonna. That’s Barney Dean over there, Bob’s gag-writer. The other fellow is Tony Romano, Bob’s guitarist.”
“And, both my best chums out here... “ smiled the comedian.
“Well, Mr. Hope, welcome! We certainly hope the 113-degree heat and humidity don’t bother you. Our men are so appreciative, as much, if not more so, than our officers. Men started arriving here by late morning as the rumor of you coming over here spread like wildfire. You saw them on the channel beach by the thousands waiting for the Pipers to fly over. They knew the direction from which you would come, your flyover route. And, they started assembling on the beach over there at 1100. We estimate that at least 80% of all the Marines on Banika and Pavuvu are out there waiting for you.”
Serious for a moment, Hope placed his hand on Captain Del Barbra’s shoulder, and glancing at Rupertus and Shepherd, said quietly,
“I’m sure it will be one of the most pleasant memories I’ll have in this war . . . now, let me on that stage!”
Rupertus waved for two Marines each carrying a 5’ by 6’ signboard to walk over and positioned themselves before Hope and himself. One board posted read, “First in the hearts of all servicemen,” the other, “The Bob Hope Show.”
Smiling, Rupertus glanced at the comedian, who he saw was beaming from broadly, and said,
“These two fellas with their signs will go first. The Marine band, our own 1st Division boys, is seated and awaiting the signal to play your theme song, ‘Thanks For the Memory’. When they start playing that, we’ll follow the sign-carriers and we’ll stop under the huge marquee hanging from the roof over the stage that reads, ‘Hiya, Bob!’You’ll step forward with me and I’ll say a few words of introduction and when the huge acclamation that’s sure to come simmers down, I’ll hand you the microphone. By the way, I’m sure that sooner or later, you’ll have to pee. Remember, and I’m very strict and will hold you to it, you are not to do so unless Lieutenant Toscanini is at your side, watching every dribble. Are we in agreement, absolute, total agreement?”
Hope, realizing the sincere solemnity of the commander’s tone, nodded appreciatively.
“O.K. Shepherd, signal the band and we’ll go, twos following twos, me and Bob, first, Peter, and
Shepherd, second; then two women next, Patty and Frances following, etc.”
As Shepherd started toward the steps leading to the bandstand, Chief of Staff Sims broke into the surrounding observing crowd, raised his hand, and asked,
“Commander, can we hold off for a few minutes? The final contingent of our headquarters personnel and hospital nurses not on duty are headed this way in a dozen trucks as we speak. They’ve just been waved across the pontoon bridge. Less than 15 minutes, I’d say. It’d be nice if they could see the performance from the beginning... “
Rupertus glanced at Hope, eyebrows up. Hope nodded, “It’ll allow us a few moments to become acquainted with your cute little red outhouse.”
The major general smiled, then asked Shepherd if he would take the stage and “Tell the boys we’re waiting for the Banika crowd to arrive. Less than 10 minutes, that’s all.”
Then, the commander turned to Peter, “Lieutenant, take me, Hope in tow, and the Miss Langford and Miss Thomas, as well as the others, and introduce them to our price and job, yonder. Since there are no facilities for women, they should use it first, followed by their leader. Quickly. We begin in 15 minutes, whether the staff is here or not. Make certain our sentries assigned there are up to the task. No one is to enter when anyone of this team is in there. When the nurses get here from Banika, I’ll assign one or two to stay with the ladies.”
Sims added,
“I had a cleaning crew in there this morning scrubbing the dinginess and dampness out of the crappy officers’ toilets.”
Amid the ongoing whirlwind of activity and emotion going on behind the stage, including chanting, hooting, and hollering of the impatient thousands in the waiting audience, to say nothing of the arriving Banika trucks, and their disembarkation of administrative personnel and hospital nurses, Peter led the way. He turned toward Hope, with the rest of the procession following, and said,
“It might be painted an embarrassing red, but the officer’s latrine is better than anything I’ve used in the South Pacific. No mildew, I’m told, between the tile cracks. Rupertus says that while he’s in charge, there will be no ‘potty hells’ for any of his men, officers or not.”
