Rally Round the Flag, Boys!

by Max Shulman

  Isaac Goodpasture rose and fixed Guido with a hard glare. “What you say is very impressive, young man. But I’ve been digging back in some old newspaper files. Isn’t it a fact that in 1954 at Fort Meade, Maryland, a Nike took off all by itself and crashed right in the middle of the Washington-Baltimore highway?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s a fact,” admitted Guido promptly. “It’s a one-in-a-billion chance, but you’re right—it happened. But I’ll tell you two things: first, we’ve taken elaborate precautions to see that such a thing can never happen again. Second, when that runaway Nike landed on the Washington-Baltimore highway, it did not explode. A Nike will never explode unless it is sent up by radar control. It is not a weapon that detonates on contact. So in the fantastically unlikely event that a Nike ever gets loose again, you can be sure it will land without exploding.”

  “All right,” said George Melvin, realtor. “We’ll take your word for it that Nike isn’t dangerous. But you can’t tell me it’s not dangerous to property values. Here in Putnam’s Landing, we’ve got some of the finest, most valuable real estate in the whole country. What happens when the Army moves in with a big, ugly, noisy camp?”

  “Sir,” said Guido, “I can assure you that property values will not suffer one bit. You will hardly know the Nike base is here. The buildings will be neat, low, and inconspicuous. We will landscape the base to blend with the surrounding countryside. We will only have one hundred troops. There will be no noise, no smoke, no fumes, and no dust.”

  David Coleman got up. “Okay, Lieutenant, so Nike isn’t dangerous and it won’t hurt real estate values. But what good is it? I’ve been talking to some of my friends in the Air Force, and they tell me Nike couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”

  “With all respect, sir,” said Guido, “I beg to differ. Nike is a very effective weapon. I saw it with my own eyes bring down a B-17 at Red Canyon, New Mexico.”

  “Yeah?” said David. “But what if the Russians don’t come in B-17s?”

  “Nike can overtake and destroy any airplane in the world today—Russian, American or British—no matter what speed and altitude the airplane is flying at,” said Guido flatly.

  “What if the enemy plane stays out of range?” asked David. “What if it comes to about one hundred miles off the coast and sends in a guided bomb?”

  “The Air Force is supposed to take care of enemy planes one hundred miles off the coast,” countered Guido.

  “All right,” said David. “What if the enemy sends an intercontinental ballistic missile?”

  “Then we’re dead,” admitted Guido. “Look, sir, Nike doesn’t pretend to be anything but an anti-aircraft weapon. And it’s a good one, no matter what the Air Force says. Sure, there’ll be better missiles later, but meanwhile, Nike is ready.”

  “Why not wait for the better missiles?” said Isaac Goodpasture. “Why waste all that taxpayers’ money?”

  “Because, sir, the enemy may not be willing to wait,” answered Guido. “And besides, as weapons go, it isn’t all that expensive. A Nike base—complete with buildings, launchers, rockets, radar, everything—does not cost very much more than one single jet airplane. And if an enemy attacks, one jet is in the hands of one man and can make one pass—while a Nike base has a hundred men and can send up an unlimited number of rockets.”

  Laura Beauchamp rose. “Lieutenant, I must be blunt,” she said. “This is a quiet, homey village. Our daughters have been gently reared. What will happen to these pure, innocent girls when the town is full of soldiers?”

  “Ma’am,” said Guido mildly, “are you under the impression that a boy turns into a sex fiend the minute he puts on a uniform? Look at the kids who’ve gone into the Army from Putnam’s Landing. Have they become rapists? Of course not. Well, the kids who are coming here will be American boys, just like yours, from American homes, just like yours. If your daughters have been brought up properly—and I know they have—you haven’t got a thing to worry about.”

  Laura Beauchamp sat down, and nobody else got up. Guido looked intently at his audience. Their faces were no longer hostile; they were thoughtful now, wavering, even abashed. He decided the time had come to make his move.

  “Folks,” he said with great sincerity, “I know how you feel. I’m from Putnam’s Landing too, and I don’t like to see our town changed any more than you do. But, friends, our country has to be defended, and we all must do our bit.

  “And besides,” he continued, directing his glances at the merchants and tradesmen in the audience, “it won’t be too bad having these kids around. Remember, they make pretty good money, and they’ve got nothing to do except spend it. Fatso, I’ll bet your diner will be doing more business than you ever dreamed of. Hank, you’ll be moving used cars that have been sitting on your lot for ten years. Sol, that movie palace of yours will stop looking like a haunted house every night. Mr. Melvin, a lot of the guys are married and they’ll be needing houses off the post. And, Mrs. Beauchamp, you can stop worrying about those amateur theatricals of yours. If you need anything at all—actors, props, stagehands—just call me.

  “So what do you say, folks? Will you make these kids welcome and show them that you’re good sports and good Americans? I know it means sacrifices on your part, but think of the sacrifices the soldiers are making. They’re leaving their homes, their families, their schools, their girls. How will they feel if they come into a town full of hate and hostility? How would your own kids feel? Folks, listen to me. I grew up here, and I know you. You’re fine, decent, generous people. I’m sure you’re going to open up your hearts to these lonesome American kids far away from home … Thank you.”

  Guido smiled sweetly at the audience, and suddenly everybody in the hall was smiling back. Then the applause began—a ripple at first, then a wave, then a thundering tide. Maggie Larkin bounced up and down in a transport of pride. Vittorio di Maggio turned in all directions, shouting, “Atsa my Guido! Atsa my boy!” Everybody rose and gave Guido a standing ovation.

  When order was restored, Grace Bannerman stepped forward. “Lieutenant,” she said, “I’d like to thank you. I’d like to thank you for giving us a clear and interesting description of Nike, but more than that, I’d like to thank you for opening our eyes. We’ve been fools, all of us—selfish, inconsiderate fools—and I think I speak for everybody here when I say that we are thoroughly ashamed.”

  Heads nodded agreement all over the hall.

  “And,” continued Grace, “I want to assure you, Lieutenant, that when the soldiers arrive, we will do our very best to make them feel at home—to make them a real part of our community!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bannerman,” said Guido. “And now, as a citizen of this town, I think I’m entitled to make a motion at this meeting, which I herewith do: I move that we appoint a Nike Hospitality Committee, and I nominate Mrs. Bannerman for chairman.”

  “Second the motion!” cried Maggie Larkin.

  “Oh, no, no, no!” said Grace hastily. “I couldn’t take the job. I have so many things already.”

  “Nonsense!” said Laura Beauchamp firmly. “All those in favor?”

  “Aye!” came a resounding cry.

  Grace flushed with pleasure. “All right,” she said laughing. “My husband will kill me when he finds out, but thank you. I accept.”

  A mighty cheer was led by Maggie Larkin.

  “Move we adjourn,” said Manning Thaw, first selectman.

  “Oh, darn!” cried Betty O’Sheel, plucking frantically at Grace’s sleeve. “How about my garbage disposal plant?”

  “Not tonight, dear,” said Grace. “Some other time. Okay?”

  “But I’ve waited so long,” complained Betty, biting her lip.

  “Tell you what,” said Grace. “I’ll put you on my Nike Hospitality Committee.”

  “Well, all right,” said Betty, by no means mollified. “But when can I bring up the garbage?”

  “Soon,” said Grace, “soon.”

  “Second,” said Isaac Goodp
asture.

  “A motion to adjourn has been made and seconded,” said Guido. “All in favor?”

  “Aye,” said everybody.

  “The meeting,” said Guido, “is adjourned.”

  14

  A group of American boys sat in a troop train bound from Fort Bliss, Texas, to Putnam’s Landing, Connecticut. They were young—eighteen or nineteen, most of them—and their eyes were bright, and their bodies were fit, and as they sped to their new assignment in a faraway place, a sense of adventure filled all their stout young hearts, a single question gripped all their keen young minds.

  The question was voiced by Private William O. Wambess, a stalwart youth from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. “What,” he asked, “are we going to do for broads in a jerkwater town like Putnam’s Landing?”

  “Let’s face it: we’re dead,” said Private Roger Litwhiler, a broth of a lad from Boulder, Colorado. “It’s tough enough getting broads in any small town, but in a New England small town—let’s face it, boys: we’re dead!”

  “What a cruddy thing to do to us!” said Private Gustave Morrissette, a well-favored stripling from San Diego, California. “Sending us to a cruddy no-action dump like Putnam’s Landing!”

  “Yeah,” said the others and sighed and shook their heads mournfully—all but one. He laughed out loud. His name was Corporal Opie Dalrymple, and his home was Altus, Oklahoma. He was eighteen years old, five feet eleven inches tall, and growing. His hair was a tumble of chestnut curls; his face was fresh and full of wisdom.

  He sat now among his colleagues, sprawled comfortably on his seat, his feet propped up on a barracks bag in the aisle. Slung around his neck was a six-string Gibson guitar splendidly adorned with silver trimming, a picture of a palomino horse, and a legend in sequins: “MOTHER, I LOVE YOU.” He struck a chord on the guitar, frowned slightly, adjusted the tuning pegs, tried the chord again, and nodded with satisfaction. Then he looked up at the distressed faces of his fellows and once more laughed out loud.

  “What are you laughing at?” said Private William O. Wambess resentfully. “I don’t think it’s very funny—getting stuck in a hick town with no dames.”

  “Frinds,” said Opie in accents that recalled hominy grits and sidemeat, “lemme tell you about hick towns. Ah ben in Nyawk, Nawlins, St. Louis, Chicago, and Hollywood, and Ah tell you the mortal truth, mah frinds, you’ll find more poon per square inch in hick towns than in any big city on God’s green earth!”

  “Yeah?” said the others, crowding eagerly around Opie.

  “It’s a fack,” Opie assured them. “You take a big city gal now. Night-time comes, she’s got thangs to do, places to go. But you take a little ole country gal. She ain’t got but one thang to do at night: Ah mean poon.”

  “Maybe down where you come from,” said Private Roger Litwhiler. “But we’re heading for New England.”

  “Country’s country,” said Opie flatly. “Ah ben pickin’ and sangin’ all over these United States—north, south, east, and west—yeah, and Canada too—and wherever I ben, them little ole country gals all had the same thang on their mind.”

  “Poon?” asked Private Gustave Morrissette hopefully.

  “Poon,” affirmed Opie.

  The young warriors, much heartened, returned to their seats. In the months of basic training, they had come to know that Opie was a man to be trusted. Here was no ordinary G.I.; here was a man broadened by travel, richened by experience, sharpened by show business—a man who, had not the Army nabbed him in mid-career, would surely today be a star of the magnitude of Ferlin Husky—or possibly even Ernest Tubb.

  It had been, as a matter of fact, Mr. Tubb who first put Opie’s feet on the steep, hard path to stardom. Mr. Tubb and a troupe of supporting artists gave a recital one evening in Altus, Oklahoma, and Opie, then six years old, was taken along by his mama and daddy. It was his first look at country music, and the effect was overwhelming. He sat through the concert as if in a trance, bulge-eyed and open-jawed. Only his little foot moved, solemnly beating time, and occasionally his tiny fingers twitched at the strings of an imaginary guitar.

  At the end of the show his mama and daddy, in the friendly manner of country folk, went up to tell Mr. Tubb what a heap of enjoyment he had given them. Opie, hiding behind his mother’s skirt, suddenly found courage, emerged from the dirndl, plucked at the white leather fringe on Mr. Tubb’s handsome red and yellow cowboy jacket, and asked in a quavering but determined treble, “Mr. Tubb, how do Ah get to be a big stor like you?”

  “Now, don’t you bother Mr. Tubb,” said Opie’s daddy, fetching Opie a smart clout in the ear.

  “Shucks, folks, Ah don’t mind,” said Mr. Tubb with a kindly chuckle. He tousled Opie’s chestnut curls. “So you want to be a big stor, do you?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said Opie fervently.

  “Well, boy, here’s what you got to do,” said Mr. Tubb. He laid his hand over his cardiac region. “You got to sang from the hort, boy, you got to sang from the hort!”

  Opie never forgot this fine advice. Whenever he sang, it was from the heart—direct from his heart to the hearts of the audience … But, of course, it was many years before he had an audience. In fact, it was many years before he even had a guitar. Opie’s daddy, though mighty fond of country music, was not of a mind to encourage Opie’s artistic aspirations. There were, after all, 15 acres of unbounteous red dirt to farm, and only one son in the house. But Opie’s mama, watching the boy sitting transfixed by the radio each night listening to the country disk jockeys, was filled with pity and saved her egg money and on Opie’s tenth birthday presented him with his very own Gibson guitar.

  It cannot be said that Opie taught himself to play the guitar. The fact is, he never had to learn at all. The guitar was placed in his hands, and he straightaway ran off eighteen choruses of My Bucket’s Got a Hole in It.

  It was scarcely a month later that Opie wrote his first song. Standing in the half-filled silo where the acoustics provided a pleasant echo, he picked and sang a little ditty entitled You Lied to Me Oncet Too Often. It went like this:

  You lied to me oncet too often,

  You broke off a piece of muh hort,

  You watched me rot and soften,

  You thought you was awful smort.

  You lied to me oncet too often,

  Muh love, it made you laugh,

  You near put me in a coffin,

  You branded me like a calf.

  You lied to me oncet too often,

  You never thought no more of me,

  Than a dirty old pig in a trough an’

  The fishes in the sea.

  You lied to me oncet too often,

  And now Ah hate your guts,

  Ah may be weak and coughin’,

  But Ah ain’t completely nuts.

  Though Opie, at age ten, had no intimate acquaintance with the sorrows of love, he did sing his song from the heart, and his mama allowed that it was right pretty. His daddy was less impressed. “You keep out of that goddam silo, hear?” he said.

  But Opie returned to the silo at every opportunity. In the next six years in addition to going to school, milking, plowing, planting, haying, and chopping cotton, he wrote upwards of three thousand songs, including On the Banks of the Fort Supply Reservoir; Red Eye Whiskey Is My Buckler, but the Bible Is My Shield; Daughter’s Gone to Dallas, a Car-Hop for to Be; and Dear God, I’m Glad You Took My Ethel, She Was Much Too Good for Me.

  Opie picked and sang his songs (from the heart) at dances, hoe-downs, barn raisings, and all other fiestas around Altus, Oklahoma, and the folks enjoyed them mightily, but no talent scouts came through town, and he finally decided that since fame was not coming after him, he would have to go after it. On his sixteenth birthday while his mama wept and his daddy hit him with an ax handle, he took off for Oklahoma City to seek his fortune.

  In the metropolis Opie discovered that he was not the only prodigy who had come boiling out of the hills. The waiting rooms of the radio stations
were jammed with hundreds of guitar-slung young men, each with a huge repertory of home-made songs, each singing from the heart, each clawing for a chance to be heard. But Opie persisted and after several hungry months got an audition. The station manager and the station manager’s assistant listened and looked at one another and nodded wisely. No doubt about it: this boy had the stuff—the twang, the whine, the heart.

  From this point Opie’s rise, if not meteoric, was certain and steady. He played around Oklahoma City for a while, then moved on to the other country music centers—Little Rock, Shreveport, Richmond—and finally he received the accolade: a booking at the Grand Old Opry in Nashville, which is to country music what the Palace was to old time vaudeville.

  In Nashville, Opie was truly initiated into the country music business—a fabulous business which accounts for forty percent of all phonograph record sales in the United States; a business whose stars—people like Ernest Tubb, Ferlin Husky, Red Foley, Carl Smith, Webb Pierce—are almost unknown in New York and Hollywood, but who nonetheless manage to earn a hundred thousand dollars and more every year; a business where every performer composes his own songs and then delivers them to the publishing house on a tape recording because not one of them can read or write music; a business where everybody drives a Cadillac, not for reasons of ostentation, but because it is quite common on tour to travel five, six, and seven hundred miles in a single day.

  Opie’s first tour (he got fifth billing in a troupe of five) took him north from Louisiana to the Dakotas, then into Canada to Winnipeg, Calgary, and Edmonton, then down to Bozeman, Montana, west to the State of Washington, south to California, and east though Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. In all, he sang from his heart in forty-five towns, and in each of them the audience response was immensely gratifying.

  Particularly the response from the girls in the audience. Young female fans of country music are not to be confused with their metropolitan sisters. The bobby soxers, for instance, who used to mob the Paramount to hear Frank Sinatra were filled with adulation to be sure, but adulation was all they had. Frankie to them was a star and, like a star, distant and unattainable; the best they could hope for was a shred of his clothing. But the girls at country concerts feel no such separation between themselves and the performers. That boy up on the stage singing to them from his heart is clearly country, even as they are, and they find it not at all unthinkable that he might be available for some close work after the show.