Thank God and the USO that we got to see those variety shows specially brought over from the States for us between campaigns. After Husky ended, I remember Al Jolson performing on a little makeshift stage in Sicily. Jolson was fabulous. He made us forget the war and feel like we were part of the human race again. It was heartwarming to see all our wounded soldiers in front of the stage, listening to Jolson crooning, "Mammy, how I love ya, how I love ya, my Dear of Mammy."
One of the soldiers near the stage had lost his right hand. Another soldier sitting next to him had lost his left. When Jolson finished his medley with "Alexander's Ragtime Band," these two delighted dogfaces jumped up and used their two good hands to clap as one. The sight made tears come to your eyes.
After Jolson, the actor Adolphe Menjou got up on the stage to give us a pep talk. A ham actor who'd never been on any front line was the last per son we wanted to hear from after surviving all those vicious battles around Troina. "You have to destroy the Nazis," preached Menjou. "Don't ever give an inch to the fascists."
In his sixties when he sang for us in Sicily in 1943, Al Dobson (born Asa )oelson) was at the tail end of a glorious career that brought him from Saint Petersburg, Russia, to the pinnacle of'Broadway success by way of vaudeville, then Hollywood stardom in the first talkie, The Jazz Singer (1927).
His silver-tongued speech was the most inappropriate bullshit I'd ever heard. Who the hell was that goddamned actor to get up and give us his stupid patriotic palaver? We were the ones doing the fighting. A drunken dogface was so infuriated by Menjou's speech that he raised his rifle and aimed it at the phony sonofabitch while he was speaking. No one made a move to stop the soldier from pulling the trigger. It seemed the only way to shut Menjou up. He left the stage to overwhelming boos and catcalls. Lucky for the thespian, our dogface never took off his safety.
The next time I ran into Adolphe Menjou, it was at a special screening of Park Row in 1952. Everyone in the world of publishing was there, William Randolph Hearst's son, representatives from over a hundred newspapers, plus special guests President Herbert Hoover and General Douglas MacArthur. I didn't know who let Menjou into my event, but there he was. The smug bastard would soon be giving a memorable performance before the House Committee on Un-American Activities, pointing an accusing finger at a number of Hollywood colleagues. That day he came over and sat on the other side of General MacArthur. Menjou started raving about what a beautiful film I'd made. I said nothing. Coming from him, the compliment meant less than nothing. Then Menjou leaned over toward me and asked if I'd been in the service.
"Hell, yes!" I said, feeling all the cockiness and satisfaction of having produced Park Row with my own dough. "North Africa. Sicily. France. Germany. Czechoslovakia."
"Army?" asked MacArthur.
"Yes sir."
"Which division?"
"First," I said proudly.
"Ah!" said the general. "Another one of Terry Allen's men!"
MacArthur started reminiscing about Terry de la Mesa Allen at West Point, where they were cadets together.
"I was in Sicily with our boys," said Menjou, butting in.
"I was one of the boys," I said with unmistakable contempt. "You almost got yourself shot that day, Mr. Menjou, but not by the enemy."
Menjou laughed, a slimy, yellow laugh, then shut up. He knew I knew that his presence in Sicily had been ridiculed and disprized by "our boys."
At that same USO show in Sicily, after Jolson and Menjou, the master of ceremonies introduced a British actress named Anna Lee. A young woman came up on the stage in a magnificent green gown. She was the most beautiful creature we'd seen in a long, long time.
"I can't sing," Anna Lee announced, embarrassed at her predicament. "I can't dance. I don't know what to do up here."
She was so sweet. All we wanted to do was feast our eyes on that heavenly creature.
"JUST STAND THERE!" we all shouted. "JUST STAND THERE!"
She did. There was a wonderful, indescribable moment of silence. Then we started cheering wildly for Anna Lee. After Torch, I came across a "stories-wanted" offer by the GI newspaper. I wrote a piece about Anna Lee and how much her "performance" on the stage in Sicily meant to us. Years after the war ended, I was visiting John Ford on one of his sets, I think Fort Apache. Ford introduced me to one of the actresses who'd become a fixture in his movies, Anna Lee.
"I know you," I said. "From Sicily!"
We had a great reunion. Anna said she'd kept my article from the GI magazine as a precious souvenir of the war. I was very moved to meet up with her again. She'd been a big star in Great Britain before relocating to Hollywood in the late thirties with her husband, director Robert Stevenson. In 1958, I had the pleasure of working with Anna when I cast her as Mac, an alcoholic artist in The Crimson Kimono. She appeared in over seventy movies, including What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962) and The Sound of Music (1965). In the seventies, Anna got married to Robert Nathan, a dear friend and great writer, author of Portrait of Jenny and The Bishop's Wife, and we were able to share some more good times. What a lovely spirit she was!
Our outfit boarded a British troopship, the HMS Maloja, one night in mid-October and shipped out of Sicily. No one would tell us where we were going. For days on end, the Maloja cruised back and forth in the Mediterranean, feinting a landing next to General Mark Clark's Fifth Army at Salerno as part of the invasion forces on the Italian mainland. Then we turned and sailed west, which meant they weren't sending us into Italy after all. We lingered at sea for a week near Algiers, then sailed east, back toward Italy, our hearts sinking. We really weren't going back into battle. At least not yet. The maneuvering was meant to mislead the enemy. Finally, the Maloja headed for the Atlantic, passing through the Strait of Gibraltar. Along with the open seas came the soaring hope that, after two successful amphibious campaigns, we were being sent back to the States. But Eisenhower had other designs for trained and experienced combat infantry like us.
Confusion buffeted every man on board when they made us take off all the Big Red One shoulder patches on our uniforms and remove the insignia from our helmets. All identification had to go. The ship was taking us back to Britain, where we were to spend many months in secret preparation for another amphibious assault, the biggest ever undertaken in history. We didn't know it yet, but we had an appointment on the beaches of Normandy on Tuesday, June 6, 1944.
Impossible to
Feel Blessed
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You are in Liverpool," announced Major General Huebner, the new commander of the First Infantry Division.' We'd just debarked from the Maloja on the foggy night of November 5, 1943, jammed into a gigantic warehouse. Now we knew where we were. But why back to England?
"We will not participate in the invasion of Italy," announced Huebner.
We cheered the general like crazy.
"You were ordered to remove all insignia because we don't want the enemy to know we're here. We're a battle-hardened amphibious outfit, and they think we're still in the Mediterranean preparing to hit someplace in Italy. We want them to keep thinking that. The more false rumors, the better we like it. A year ago, we invaded North Africa, four months ago, Sicily. I am as sorry as any man here that our battle dead and wounded are no longer with us. But their job's going to be finished by you."
We looked at each other like prisoners waiting to hear our death sentences.
"You're going to train like you've never trained before. You won't like what I'm going to say-I don't like it either-but from this moment on, you are not the First Division, you never heard of the First Division, you haven't fought in North Africa or Sicily. As far as anyone, and that means anyone-military or civilian-is concerned, you men are all green troops just arrived from the States. If anyone asks, you tell them that you belong to the 315th Anti-Airforce Regiment. If they question you about how long you've been here, you answer three days. That's the only way we can keep Hitler guessing about what the First Division's going to do next."
A low grumbling swept across the warehouse.
"And remember this," added General Huebner. "I'll personally shoot any man who gives away our cover."
Our division was transported down to Dorset and bivouacked near a town called Bridgeport, not far from Exeter. For the next seven long months, they drilled the hell out of us. Training with our outfit were other U.S. divisions, as well as soldiers from France, Poland, and Hungary. We were allowed to go into Bridgeport once in a while. In a pub there, I heard a local woman tell one of our boys, "You Yanks have endless dollars and endless hard-ons. Bless you, dearie!"
It was impossible for me to feel blessed. Like many members of our outfit who'd survived the campaigns in North Africa and Sicily, I was in a foul mood when I got to England. My nerves were strained to the breaking point. I'd had my fill of combat. Now, there was more backbreaking training. Then, once a month, they loaded us on trucks and took us to a beach in Devon called Slapton Sands where we rehearsed amphibious maneuvers, with British soldiers on the cliffs playing the role of defending Germans. I was fed up with jumping off landing boats into the surf and crawling up beaches on my belly.
My bitterness would be replaced with pride. Battle-tested men were needed for their skills and more, as morale-raising symbols. We had plenty of replacements to fill up the Division, but one combat veteran was worth twenty greenhorns. My sergeant saw I was bitter. He told me I was an essential link in the next campaign. It was easy to say, but true. I bought the sergeant's read on my sour state of mind and accepted my predicament. Wherever the Big Red One was going to invade next, I had to be there. Most likely I'd die in combat. Okay. So why not call a ceasefire with my self-defeating scorn? What choice did I have? A Nazi bullet during the next campaign or an American bullet from a firing squad for desertion? With survival my only motivation, I began to enjoy mastering our practice sessions at Slapton Sands, conducting myself like the experienced soldier I was.
Real ammunition was used in the training sessions. That was another good reason to concentrate. Plenty of dogfaces were wounded or killed in training. I've always wondered about their families back home. How would they react if they found out that the "Killed in Action" telegram they received was only half true, that the bullet or shrapnel was "friendly fire"?
The pubs in town, with their warm beer, did not interest me. I had no patience for gibble-gabble or drinking myself into oblivion. I spent free time writing letters to my mother, which I usually began with "Darlink Flop," drawing cartoons all over the place to reassure Rebecca that I was in fine spirits. Guys in my outfit caught me drawing those cartoons, so they asked me to draw funny scenes on their V-mail, too. I wish I'd charged a nickel for every cartoon I scratched on dogface correspondence during the war. I'd have been the richest soldier in the infantry!
Throughout the war, my mother sent me care packages via APO with Optimos, Garcia y Suares, or maybe Pancho Arangos, kingsize, which shell get me at the WaldorfAstoria Hotel. God bless that woman!
Rebecca's letters reached me regularly, usually accompanied by a box of Optimos. She wrote me in 1943 that she'd succeeded in selling The Dark Page to Sloan & Pearce without even a rewrite. They were going to publish it in hardback. I was thrilled, especially because Rebecca would have some dough to live on, thanks to the publisher's advance.
The local grocery store in Bridgeport, run by Mrs. Gibbs, was my favorite hangout on weekend leaves. I met some of the townspeople and. found out how much they'd suffered since the beginning of the war. Mrs. Gibbs was very sweet to me. She cultivated roses, and, when I told her I was crazy about them, she showed me around her greenhouse. It smelled like a little piece of paradise. I couldn't discuss anything with Mrs. Gibbs about our military mission in England, but I could chat with her about movies.
"My cousin Alfred is in the movie business, too."
"Alfred?" I said. "Not Alfred Hitchcock?"
"Why yes," she said. "Do you know him?"
"Hell, yes!" I said surprised and delighted. "Just his work. I'd love to meet him. Maybe he'd like to direct one of my yarns."
"All right," said Mrs. Gibbs, always so kind and civilized. "I shall arrange it the next time you have a weekend furlough."
In May 1944, 1 finally got leave to go to London. I was to have tea with Cousin Alfred at the Claridge. I was also hoping to catch up with my old friend Hank Wales. Since I'd first gotten to England, I'd looked for signs of Hank in London, one of his stomping grounds. By calling an editor at the London office of the Chicago Tribune, I was able to locate Wales. He was waiting for me at Victoria Station the morning I came in from Devon. It was cold and rainy, classic English weather. I wore a plain army uniform, without any insignia. Hank showed me all over town. He took me to Fleet Street, the RAF Club, the Savoy. We walked along the Thames, through Hyde Park, on Grosvenor Road. For the first time, I saw locations we'd utilized for Confirm or Deny. I loved London and temporarily forgot about foxholes, mess lines, machine guns, and amphibious invasions.
With his broad experience as a war correspondent, Hank was an eminence grise for the Allies. They'd given him privileged access to sources in the U.S. high command. He took me to the George Club for lunch. Waiters were hurrying around tables filled with reporters, military brass, and government officials. They served every brand of whiskey ever made. As soon as we sat down at the polished wood table in the red leather booth, Hank peered at me hard and shook his head.
"You know, Sammy," he said quietly, "your life's at risk in the next Allied operation."
"Same as in the last," I said.
"What's your rank now, Sammy?"
"Corporal."
"That will work."
"Work what?"
"Look, Sammy, you don't have to explain anything to me about the First Division. You were on the front lines in Torch and Husky. All right. Now listen to me. You're a dead man if you continue with this soldiering game. You've got plenty of stories to write for years to come. That's enough! Basta! I'm going to get them to take you out of the infantry and put you in the news service department. You'll cover this damn war as a journalist from now on and save your own ass!"
"Holy shit, Hank! Hold on!" I said. "I could have done that from the very beginning. I was already offered that behind-the-lines crap. But when I'm at a typewriter, I like to write my own material."
"You don't understand, Sammy. All the glory, that heroic stuff, is over. Don't be a stubborn fool."
"My life was on the line in North Africa and Sicily."
"I know. I know. But this is different. This is big. Very big. Eisenhower has the leadership to open the new front everyone's been blabbing about. He's been at general headquarters for final planning sessions. Rumors are flying around but it's really going to happen, a gigantic operation like nothing anyone has ever imagined."
"They've got me crawling around beaches to get ready for it."
"Sammy, I'm asking you for the last time. Just say yes. If you think too much, you'll miss your only chance to survive this damn war. There are plenty of soldiers, but there are few correspondents with your talent. Most of the reporting doesn't have any punch. It's cold, impersonal, distant. You'd be great, Sammy. We need you!"
"Hank," I said, shaking my head, "you're awfully sweet to try. My answer is still no. I'm going to get the story-my story of the war-from the front lines."
Wales and I never said another word about it. He accompanied me over to the Claridge at tea time for the meeting with Alfred Hitchcock and waited for me outside. I don't think Hank wanted to explain to Hitch why he didn't care for Foreign Correspondent (1940)-remember, the film was supposed to have been based on Wales's career.
My encounter with Hitchcock was something out of the theater of the absurd, with a helluva lot of quid pro quos. I called his room from the lobby. He said he'd meet me in the bar. I sat down in one of those Queen Anne chairs and waited. Queen Anne must have had a very small ass, because when Hitchcock arrived, he could hardly squeeze into the damn thing.
"Bless you, my lad," said Hitchcock.
We found a quiet corner with larger chairs. I launched into praise for his work. I especially loved The 39 Steps (1935) and Secret Agent (1936). I told him that I'd worked in Hollywood, mentioned some of my scripts, talked about The Dark Page getting published. We chatted a little about John Ford and Raoul Walsh, though Hitchcock didn't seem to have any interest in talking about movies.
"How long have you been in England?" he asked me.
"Three days."
"Which outfit are you with?"
"Anti-Air Force."
Hitchcock gave me a little skeptical smirk. "Where are you really based?" he asked.
I stopped cold and looked sternly at Hitchcock's pudgy face.
"I could be executed for answering that question," I said sarcastically. "And you could, too, just for asking it."
He turned as white as a ghost.
"No! No! You don't understand!"
"Yes, I do."
"Look, my lad," said Hitchcock. "I'm here making documentary films for England. We're fighting this war together."
"I can't talk about where I'm stationed."
"I had no right to ask you," said Hitchcock. "Forgive me. Can I invite you for supper?"
"Thank you, but I can't. I have to go soon. A friend is waiting for me."
I asked Hitchcock if I could eventually send him a script or an original story. Relieved that I was showing due respect and soliciting his expertise, Hitchcock gave me instructions about forwarding my stuff to his producer, David Selznick. He seemed pretty interested in a story I pitched him called Command Post. I stood to say good-bye, and he shook my hand cordially. That first encounter with Hitchcock, though full of wartime tension and miscues, was memorable. Unfortunately, we never worked together. Years later, whenever we ran into each other in Hollywood, Hitch and I always greeted each other warmly. We always laughed about our first meeting at the Claridge, where my mix of American bluntness and his proud British manners had blended like oil and water.
A Third Face: My Tale of Writing, Fighting and Filmmaking Page 16
