Modern Screen (Jan-Jun 1945)

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It meant she worked twice as hard, wisecracking alone with Art Herbert, jit— terbugging around while Costa's guitar throbbed, shaking hips to Guidotti's accordian — even doing a few nip-ups with Ginny Carroll. All in addition to her own gymnastic jive numbers, which you can hardly call relaxed and easy. the jap menace . . . The going started getting rough the minute Hutton hopped off from civilized Hawaii into the setting sun. Her first stop, Johnson Island, for instance, was just a chunk of sand dropped into the drink — no trees no animals, no nothin' — except a garrison of lonely Yanks and a few tired seagulls. They'd never dreamed of anything like a Hollywood show before, let alone Hutton. They almost ate her up. But the butterflies didn't really flutter around inside Hutton until she boarded the plane that was to zoom her out to the Big League Jap hunting grounds. Not till she left Johnson Island did Betty have the exact dope on her own travelogue. She had a good idea, but it really didn't smack her right between her eyes until she asked this pilot, "Where are we headed?" and he rattled off a bunch of names that wrote headlines in blood only a few weeks ago — "Saipan, Kwajelein, Tarawa, Guam." Betty's bright remark was, "But aren't there Japs still hanging around there?" "Sure," agreed the pilot. "That's what makes 'em interesting." The news was no gag, either. On the hop out, over the Marshalls and the Gilberts, a plane crew GI had handed Betty one of those Yank newspapers the soldiers seem to get out wherever they stop overnight. This one was strictly AllPacific and loaded, of course, with the gripes and gaiety of guys who develop senses of humor based on things that aren't necessarily such a laugh at bottom. She'd laughed herself silly at one cartoon. It showed two Nips perched in palm trees watching an American camp movie. Said one monkey to the other — "Nuts — it's just a 'B' picture — Let's get out of here." The funniest part about that was that it wasn't funny — if that makes sense. On half the conquered islands of Betty's trip there were still plenty of these snakes around, ready to do a drill with a sniper's bullet — and just as close as that, too. First night Betty played at Saipan, she'd barely got into her first number when what sounded like a giant cornpopper went off a few yards away. Nobody in the audience budged, so Betty just swallowed hard and kept on shouting. But after she ducked off, she whispered to an officer, "What in the world was that?" "Oh," he yawned, "some of the boys found some Japs down the road." That's why a squad of MP's had to march her around every time she budged alone outside her quarters. It was a little — er — embarrassing to have an honor guard every time she powdered her nose, but it was a lot better than a bullet. Once, on Guam just as she was climbing up on the platform to start a show, Betty almost tripped in the dark over a bump on the ground that turned out to be a little brown brother recently gone to meet his gods, courtesy of the U. S. Marines. Somebody'd planted him, but not quite deep enough, and the rains had brought the brother to light again. Betty almost swooned, naturally, but a GI cov ered him up decently. "Well," he drawled, "you really can't blame the little rat. He heard Betty Hutton was here, and he wanted to come up and see the show!" But nasty Nip stinkers weren't the worst part by far. The things that get a girl set to commit mayhem to her best friend on a Marshalls-Marianas tour are the torturing annoyances of daily life which every soldier who's served there, guy or gal, knows only too well. It's better if you can just relax and suffer in silence, but remember, Betty had to be bright and gay, night and day — because how can you expect a GI to get all worked up over a sour, Sad Sack puss? First, it seemed, she was always landing at some new island around 3 o'clock A.M. after a bumpy attempt to sleep without a mattress on a C54 steel floor. Then she'd try to snatch some shut-eye in a tent Jupe Pluvius was doing his best to drown. It rains all the time in the Pacific, as near as Betty could figure. And the showers just make it hotter and steamier than a summer greenhouse. Before every show Betty, Virginia and the gang would have to mop their tiny plank stages so both gals wouldn't dislocate a hip when they danced. What those torrents did to Betty's beauty tricks, too, was a caution. The first time the skies opened up in the middle of an act Hutton and Company ducked for cover. But there was such a disappointed yowl from the soldiers who had only that one chance to see Betty (remember those guys are busy) that they all ran right back, but with GI raincoats wrapped around. Well, what's Hutton sacked up in a slicker? More yowls. From then on they just rose above it, and kept singing in the rain. Of course, a hair-do wouldn't last a minute with treatment like that, and the climate steamed out everything anyway. So Betty put lacquer on her hair and swept it up to some false top curls that she could hang out and dry between shows. She used other make-up by the box-fulls, because no sooner would she get set with powder, mascara, rouge than a cloudburst washed it right off. As for lipstick — well — as I said, the boys took care of that. But her worst casualty was clothes. No dress made can take beatings like that. Tropical rots get busy, too, and if you haven't got a dress handy, they'll go to work right on your skin. One kind of island fungus will make you grow a tree if you don't watch out, complete with leaves, blossoms and everything in no time at all. It's amazin'. Betty's duds dropped off her like Gypsy Rose Lee's used to before she got artistic. It Betty had stayed out there a week longer, she'd have had to sing and dance in a barrel. The gorgeous USO uniform lasted just one hop after Hawaii. One by one her ten little dresses crumbled away, and you couldn't even have given Betty to the Good Will hour by the time she got home. The only time on the trip she really got sore, incidentally, was at the last island she visited, Canton, where a wise guy GI observed her last vanishing frock, ripped, tattered and mouldy at the seams, and her last pair of slippers with heels busted off. miracle girl . . . "For gosh sakes, Hutton!" he cracked after the show. "Next time you come down here, bring along some decent clothes. You sure look crummy!" Betty bit her lips and counted ten. She didn't bother to explain how she'd worn herself ragged. There's always one smartie like that — even in the Army. Betty knew she wasn't half as bushed as most of the boys. She'd sing for them after they'd (Continued on page 92)