Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1952)

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She wouldn’t even let me get the doctor, until she knew my brother was on his way home. Farmersville is fourteen miles from Greenville, and Audie made it in ten minutes. He didn’t leave Mother’s side for three days and nights. Audie’s laughter seemed to die with my mother. We put our sisters and younger brother in the Boles Orphans’ Home in Greenville, as our mother had wished. And Audie, restless and unhappy, kept trying to get in the service. He was underweight, but the Army finally accepted him. Because he was still seventeen, I had to sign the necessary papers. I didn’t want to, and I thought about it all night. But Audie said, “If you don’t, somebody else will. Besides, they won’t send me across until I’m eighteen.” Immediately he was in the Army he volunteered to go overseas. I found out later that a commanding officer had suggested that he be sent to the cook and bakers’ school stateside instead, but Audie had said that in any such case he would have a preference for the guardhouse. When he had come home on leave before shipping out, his goodbye had been, “I’ll do my part in winning the war.” I believed him, and I kept watching for some mention of him in the papers. This may sound strange, but it’s true. When my husband brought a newspaper home one evening saying, “Here’s something about Audie,” I was so excited, but I wasn’t too surprised to find that he’d received the Bronze Star for bravery on Anzio. Throughout the four campaigns in which Audie worked his way up from private to company commander and got twentyfour medals and decorations, he always brushed off any suspicion of bravery, and made light of his wounds. Many things could make a man win a medal, he wrote — “Cold, anger, hunger, discomfort, and loneliness. The way I figure, every step is putting me closer to Texas.” My brother appreciates how lucky he’s been. And that certainly includes being in motion pictures. “I must be lucky — I can’t act,” he often told me, although I can’t say I concur. His luck really deserted him when he hoped to get back from overseas without fanfare. When he heard of the home-town celebration that was planned, he threatened to “sneak in by the back door.” “If he does, we’ll nab him sooner or later, and he’ll get what’s coming to him,” the mayor said. “He’ll just have to take it, that’s all. When a boy from Farmersville wins medals all over Italy and France, stands off a German Army singlehanded and gets the Congressional Medal of Honor — he just has to count on making a few sacrifices when he gets home.” That was a day I’ll never forget. I stood on the porch of our house waiting for my first look at Audie in three years. When I heard the honking caravan coming down the road from McKinney to Farmersville, I ran down the steps and across the yard. Audie jumped out of a car, and we met under a hackberry tree at the edge of the road. I didn’t even see his medals. All that mattered to me was that he was back safe at last. He soon had his decorations distributed among m sons and the other children. “Weren’t you ever scared?” Weldo wanted to know. “All the time,” Audi) said. But the parades and speeches an1 lionizing that followed scared him mo.< i of all until he was driven to saying, “I the next war I’m sure not going to d anything.” Then promptly he became captain in the Texas National Guard. When Audie got out of the service, an thought of being a motion picture sta was the farthest thing from his mind. Th first thing on his mind was getting th children out of the orphanage. He bough i a two-story house in Farmersville, larg enough for all of us, and he got us a cai His heart’s always been bigger than hi body — and usually it exceeds his pocket book, too. When he keeps making ments budgets now about the funds he’s goin to accumulate, saying, “I’ve got to star saving money for my son,” — well, I’] have to see it. Money runs throug! his fingers and into the hands of other who need it. Typically enough, he didn’ even let me know when he had t scrounge around for sandwiches and roon rent in Hollywood. When Audie came home he didn’t knot/ what he wanted to do. He talked of com pleting his education, of taking a bus! ness course, of studying radio and o having his own radio shop. As he put il he hadn’t “majored in much of anythin] but the Army,” and he didn’t know wha would be best for him. When James Cag ney became interested in his life stor; and his potentialities as a film person ality and sent for him, this seemed ai answer out of the blue. But alway, Audie has had to work hard for anythin] he’s ever gotten, and I guess it was par of the pattern for him to have to worl his way up in Hollywood too. My son Weldon has been known to sei . a Murphy picture some six times. Mi husband Poland is a faithful follower too And “Uncle Audie” is my Charylene’: “favorite cowboy.” She lives every picture right with him. When he gets hur on the screen, she cries her heart out She sits tense and still until he’s out o danger, then she relaxes and says, “Let’i see it again!” Audie’s always been si thoughtful with the children. He sent thi big black hat he wore in “The Kid Fron Texas” to Weldon, making my son thi envy of every kid in Hunt County. Thi kids knew Weldon would wear his nev souvenir when the picture played Farmersville, and they all wanted to go to thi show with him, so they could sit nea’ Audie’s hat. From the first, Audie liked working ii motion pictures. “It’s an interesting buck,’ he would say. But I still worried abou him. Until he met and married Pam, hi never felt at home in Hollywood. Hi kept Highway 80 hot between Californi; and Texas, always dreading the hour hi must go back. Now, when he come back home on business, he can’t returi fast enough. When he brought Pam over to meet us I felt immediately that she belonged ir the family. And Audie was way ahead o; me. She’s such a wonderful girl, and s( right for him. I sensed from the first thai Pam, and time together, would heal thi “scars” that were deep inside Audie when they didn’t show. Since Terry Michael Murphy, Audit has even more to be thankful about. 1 thank God that he wasn’t denied this fulfillment. He now has a great personal happiness. I can’t think of anybody whc deserves it more. The End I 78