Modern Screen (Dec 1942 - May 1943)

we can usually stir up some excitement," the doughboy said. "But if we stick around camp, there's nothing much to do. Gosh, what we wouldn't give for some decent sports equipment — boxing gloves, tennis and badminton racquets, handballs— stuff like that. A bunch of us guys have been putting a certain amount in a camp kitty every pay day, just to buy equipment later on." Bob asked, "Doesn't that run you a little short?" "So what? So we keep out of mischief." "Will you be able to take the junk with you when you move out?" Bob wanted to know. "Nope. We're going to leave it for the next bunch of jeeps," said the soldier casually. Bob, in repeating this incident to a publicity man at the studio added, "How's that for patriotism? Here's a guy who's almost through with his training, but he and others like him are giving up part of their pay for the comfort of future trainees. Isn't that a red-white-andblue deal!" With the help of this publicity man, Bob bought equipment for the camp and sent it down without one word of identification. No card, no note, no smallest effort toward thanks. the great gamble . . . Not satisfied with this effort, Bob decided to turn the enormous, rambling Stack house into a hospitality headquarters. He talked it over with his mother one night. "My idea is to have a gang over every Wednesday afternoon," he said. "Would that be okay with you?" Mrs. Stack belongs to a sea-going family, and she knew that Bob was chafing against the delay that was keeping him out of skivvies and blues. "Do whatever you want to, dear," she said. "I'll arrange for cakes, sandwiches and coffee. And, Bobby, don't get impatient. Everything works out if you can wait with confidence." "Have I told you lately that you're kinda cute?" demanded Betzi Stack's admiring son. The Wednesday afternoon parties became so successful that Saturday afternoon was also drafted for a service swimming, tennis, gabbing and gulping session. The Stack house gradually attained rendezvous proportions. Once a man had been there, he was told on leaving, "Drop around whenever you're in the neighborhood on Wednesday or Saturday afternoon." Bob was the soul of courtesy to each of his guests, but he managed — somehow — to spend a lot of time with the bombardiers or any visiting naval gunners. He quizzed them about their training, their courses in cartography, range finding and all the rest of the technical accomplishments indicated by a pair of wings. / After one of these seances one day, a bombardier happened to wander into the Stack library where Bob's trophies for his marksmanship are displayed. "Hey," he called to his buddy, "come check the hardware. This guy has more loving cups than the ocean has fish — and almost as big." "I got lucky once in awhile," Bob told them. Then he added, tapping the insignia on a blue sleeve, "I wish I could turn them in on some of this kind of hardware." There was a moment of uneasy, sympathetic silence before one of the boys said, "Boy, I'm sure glad you're going to be behind one of our triggers, instead of running up the Army Air Corps score. Anchors Aweigh!" His calm assumption that Bob would be accepted by the Navy did more for the Stack morale than a dozen reassuring statements could have done. That night Bob made a momentous decision. Instead of waiting for the knee to heal gradually, he was going to try the dangerous route of surgery. While he and his mother were having a quiet dinner, he said, "I can't take it any longer. I'd rather know where I stand . . . or rather, how well I can stand. This waiting is getting me down. For months now I've been going down to the doctor's once a day, and I can't see that I'm getting anywhere." His mother hesitated. "Why don't you go down to the Navy recruiting station and talk to those men who were so encouraging to you before? Why don't you ask them to give you another physical exam? It may be that your knee is in good enough condition for them to accept you." Bob spent most of the next day stepping off and on scales, saying 'ah' and doing stunts that required the leg stamina of Whirlaway. He was tired and pessimistic when he came home. "No use waiting for them to tell me 'no'," he groaned. "I think I'm sunk. The old knee didn't act up . . . but somehow that doctor just didn't look too happy. I turned over all my marksmanship records and everything, but I don't think I shot six o'clock." He telephoned his doctor. "I've decided to gamble with you," he said. "Fix up an appointment with ether for me in about five weeks. I'm going out on a bond tour, but as soon as I get back I'll be ready for your great experiment." "Did the Navy actually turn you down?" demanded the incredulous physician. "Nope, but I don't have any confidence in myself, I guess." "Your leg is fine for the job you want to do," the doctor insisted. "I could give you all sorts of certificates to the effect that you can't do an adagio, but that you can run, jump, swim and dance moderately without ill effect." "It's that word 'moderately' that gets me," grumbled Bob. "We've got to change it to 'perfectly.' That's the ticket — either I'm Superman, Jr., or I'm a Long John Silver landlubber." Someone suggested to Bob that news of his impending hospitalization would make a good timely story for one of the columnists. He almost went through the roof. Usually Bob's conversation is brief and to the point; he can say "Yeah" about fifty different ways — each with a different meaning. He can even describe a souped-up motor in half a paragraph so that the average mechanic knows the Stack secret of speed. to him who waits . . . But this time he had plenty to say, plus. He explained that he was just an ordinary joe who happened to have been born in Los Angeles where motion pictures are made. Because he had come from a long line of theatrical people, it had been perfectly natural for him to get into said pictures. But, as far as he was concerned, that didn't make him any more interesting or remarkable than any other man in America, who happened to want to serve his country. A studio publicity representative said, "But, Bob, you're taking a long chance on this surgery. You may be fixed up fine, sure; but you may spend the rest of your days on a cane. I think there's a whale of a story in it." "Look! I've met guys who have been invalided home from Hawaii and Dutch Harbor. I've talked to guys who were in the battle of Midway, and some who got shot up in the Solomons. Talk about chances! Talk about guts! Talk about serving your country, doing your bit or any of the rest of it! There's your whale of a story — not here, not from me. From guys who have seen service." Yet the courage of the Bob Stacks, as well as the Bill Smiths, is what makes this country what it is. Some of us do small, brave things that can't be discussed— as Bob was doing — and some do spectacular, public things that win medals. Each of us has to do his part in his own small way. That's why Bob Stack's jStory needs to be told. After making his hospital date, Bob went on his bond tour. He had reached Houston, Texas, when he received a long distance call one night. He had been signing autographs in the lobby when he was paged. He excused himself from the group of uniforms, muttering something about wondering who in the world could be telephoning him. "If it's Ann Rutherford," one of the boys yelled, "tell her she's the girl I'd like to be shipwrecked with on a desert island." Another of the group added, "If it's Diana Barrymore, tell her I just saw 'Between Us Girls,' and any time she wants to do a picture called 'Between Us Boys,' she can come out and live in our barracks." But it wasn't any of Bob's casual friends, it was his mother. "Is this Ensign Stack?" she asked. "Oh, sure," grinned Bob, not paying much attention. "How are ya, Mom?" Mrs. Stack did a retake. "I asked you if I were speaking to Ensign Stack." Bob got it. He let out a yell that could have been heard at Bremerton. "When did the papers come through?" he demanded. "This afternoon. You passed your physical 100%. You're supposed to report in two weeks," she said, adding as any mother would, "Darling, I'm so glad for you. And so proud." "Gosh, thanks, Mom," said Bob, his grin coming right over the telephone wire. "Well . . . thanks for calling. I'll be seeing you — in blues." Bob Stack has told intimates that he feels certain his film career is over. He comes from a salty race, and he expects to follow the sea, barring some unforeseen circumstance. So, if his tousled head and infectious smile never again flash from a silver screen, Robert Stack still won't have passed beyond the knowledge of his fans. You will be reading about his exploits in the navy. That's both a cross m' heart promise and a prediction. I SAW IT HAPPEN One day in a Chicago railroad station, a young soldier was telling his troubles to the ticket agent. Frances Dee, who happened to be standing in back of him, asked what was wrong. He told her he'd missed his earlier train and was trying to book passage on this train, but didn't have enough money. She said, "Don't worry, soldier. I'll take care of everything." And she not only paid his fare, but asked him to have dinner with her on the train! Jacquelyn Biavardi 244 W. Ill Place, Chicago, Illinois. 82 Printed in the U. S. A. by the Art Color Printing Company, Dunellen, N. J. MODERN SCREEN