Modern Screen (Jan-Jun 1945)

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"It can wait." Good old Paramount put up an argument about million dollar schedules and things for Betty's next, "Duffy's Tavern," but they weren't really serious — not when they saw Hutton's jaw. In no time flat she was woozy with twelve different kinds of shots — for every foul affliction from the craw-craw to housemaid's knee. That's when Hutton first realized she was in the Army now— although maybe the light dawned a little more officially up in San Francisco, where she hopped off. the once-over . . . Because when a Hollywood star sets out to send overseas, she gets her orders straight from headquarters like the lowliest Sad Sack. Betty arrived at the Golden Gate full of beans and rarin' to go. She was a dazzling blue dream dish in a beautiful USO uniform creation by Schmidt, Hollywood's swankiest tailor. She sported a studio hair-do out of this world with every trick curl in place. She was showered, shined and shampooed. She dragged five big bags jammed with fine feathers and enough glamour items to stake an expedition of Earl Carroll cuties. The bags went first. "You can take one," allowed the brass hats. "Now there's the little matter of permits and passports and — er — a few questions." Well, Hutton stewed around San Fran four days while Uncle Sam gave her the once-over. Wires whipped back and forth to Washington, clearing her with the FBI, the IOU, the FHA, WCTU and the SPCA. Meanwhile, interviewing officers chopped down her family tree and examined the pieces. They traced her every move since the days of Public School No. 12. They wanted to know all about her intelligence quotient and her batting average in the Three-I League Ladies Auxiliary. Betty told them how she liked her oatmeal, and her personal reaction to Frankie Sinatra. She revealed that her name backwards, spelled "Nottuh," and that she was allergic to gefuelte-fish. Of course, I'm pouring it on a little. But the point is that if Betty had the impression she'd already told all to the Hollywood gossips, she was just living in a fool's paradise, that's all. By the time the Army got through with Hutton, they had her on paper for keeps. And by the time it was clear she was no Jap spy, but a nice girl with something for the boys, the beautiful USO deal was a little baggy behind, the studio hair-do was wilted, her manicure was chewed off, and the Mrs. General MacArthur outlook Betty sported when she hit Frisco had shriveled down to size — around the Mrs. Private Hargrove division. Of course, all that's necessary and right and proper, and Hutton had no kicks. But what touched off the thermite was a parting word of wisdom breathed in her ear at the take-off. There a USO lady, trying to be helpful, came up to Betty. "My dear," she whispered in a between-us-girls voice, "Be sure and take enough personal things along. You can't get them out there." "Like what?" asked Betty. "Well," said the lady, with a significant glance, "Like peroxide — for your hair." Betty controlled the impulse. Instead she drew herself up in her best Queen Victoria manner. "We are not amused," she said icily. "For your information, my blonde hair is not out of a bottle!" Maybe all that deglamorizing effect of Army processing is what put Betty on her P's and Q's when at last she soared out over the Golden Gate. Maybe it was the squawks that had just seeped back to the States from Pacific GI's about temperamental Hollywood stars on jungle battle front tours. Maybe, too, she was all wrong about it, but Betty felt a little on the pastes best, of course/* says JUNE HAVER See June Haver in iBBli*1*1"^^^ . -n paper cups, I .After trying ^^Cola *£? f " g£ voted for R°H°Sr Try RC for^fh round <<f ^f^ses in each 5* botfly start today 1 2 tuU 8 ^^^J i BUY MORE WAR BONDS!