Modern Screen (Dec 1949 - Nov 1950)

Audie grinned. "You should've used the past tense," he said. And then he explained what had happened to him in Hollywood. He had arrived a year before and Jimmy Cagney had signed him to a contract at $75 a week. He'd been dined and wined by industry big shots, rushed by celebrity hunters, given the Grade A treatment. But then Cagney changed his plans and dropped him — and suddenly, Audie was just an exveteran like ten million others. He couldn't find any place to live unless he paid an exorbitant bonus. He had very little money, because he was using the $59 per month he got on his disability pension to support his young brothers and sisters whom he'd taken out of the orphanage in Texas. "To be absolutely honest," he said, "I'm living on a cot in the back of Terry Hunt's gym and Terry is staking me to food money while I'm trying to write a book about my war experiences." Well, when I heard this from one of the greatest war heroes of all times, my insides tangled into one big knot. "What a sweet way," I said to myself, "we have of showing gratitude to our war heroes. What a great way for this kid to spend Christmas." I reached into my pocket and took out a twenty. "Take this," I said. Audie pushed my hand away. "No," he said. "I don't need it. I've got enough money. I've got 11 bucks. Terry gave it to me yesterday. It'll last the week." I tried to get Audie to accept my money. I told him it wasn't a hand-out. It was a loan. He could pay it back any time. "Take it," I said, "and have a Merry Christmas." "Don't worry," Audie said. "I'll have a Merry Christmas. Could you drop me at Earl McCaskell's filling station? It's near here." I drove into Earl's filling station on Sunset Boulevard. As Audie got out, two little kids belonging to Al Foster, the mechanic, jumped all over Audie. "Hey, Audie, look what we got for Christmas!" they shouted. And they began to pull guns from holsters, puzzles from pockets, and all sorts of little toys from their persons. Audie joked with them, and in a minute their father came out and shooed the kids inside. As he did, one of the boys dropped a miniature plastic airplane on the sidewalk. A freckle-faced urchin suddenly dashed from somewhere across the station, picked up the airplane, and started to sprint off. In three strides, Audie caught and collared the kid. He brought him back and sat him down on the fender of my car. The kid couldn't have been more than eight or nine. "Why'd you take that plane?" Audie asked. "You know it doesn't belong to you." The freckle-faced little redhead began to whimper. "You know the penalty for stealing?" Audie asked with mock seriousness. The kid began to cry. "I didn't mean to take it," he bawled. "It's just that all the other kids around here always get somethin' for Christmas. And I don't never get nothin'." "Where's your folks?" Audie asked. "My ma works in a laundry on week days," the kid sobbed, "and in a drive-in on Sundays." "Where's your old man?" Audie asked. "I don't know," the kid cried. "He just ran off last year and he never came back." And then tears started to cascade down that dirty little face and the little body shook with sobs. Whereupon Audie slid his fingers into his cash pocket and came up with two bills, a 10 and a one — all the money he had in the world. He pressed the 10 into the kid's palm. "Here — go buy yourself some toys," he muttered. The kid stared at the 10-dollar bill in disbelief. He wiped away his tears with a motion of his sleeve. "No, Mister," he said. "I don't need all this." Audie looked down at the little fellow. I'm sure he saw in him the poor, deserted ragamuffin that he himself had been a dozen years ago. His eyes were misty, and he swallowed hard. "Take it and spend it," Audie said gruffly. "Today's Christmas. Everyone should have a Merry Christmas." The End i ____________________________ E You won't want to miss the complete screen story of Audie Murphy's newest movie, The Kid from Texas, in the entertainment-loaded January issue of Screen Stories magazine. THE PRIVATE LIFE OF BURT LANCASTER {Continued from page 28) is still taking all her meals privately. But that still counts up to seven sitting down to a meal — which will have been completely prepared by Norma herself. There is a maid in the house and a woman who comes in by the day to help out, but Norma does all the cooking. She loves to fix food, and so does Burt. Unless otherwise directed he will make the salad before dinner, with his favorite dressing consisting of olive oil, vinegar, grated Parmesan cheese, dash of lemon, a raw egg and a touch of Worcestershire sauce. However, his culinary art doesn't go much beyond salads. Burt's last fling at making the more important ingredients of a meal happened just recently when Norma was in the hospital having Susan Elizabeth. Burt decided he'd feed Jimmy and Billy, though the maid stood ready to take over. "Nothing to it," Burt told Nick Cravat, reaching for a box of cereal. "You just pour this stuff in water and boil it a while and it's all set." "I dunno," said Nick, looking a little worried. "Isn't there more to it than that?" "Nah," said Burt, pouring until the pot was almost full. The water boiled. The cereal swelled and swelled. It began rising over the edge of the pot. Burt clapped the cover on and held it down tightly. It was no use. The stuff began to work its way out anyway. "Where's it all coming from?" the astonished Burt wanted to know. "I told you," said Nick. "There's more to it." Eventually Burt got the stove more or less cleaned off, filled two dishes and called Jimmy and Billy to the table. Jimmy tasted his and said, "I don't like it." Then find the two he wanted. "No good!" he pronounced. Burt made way for the maid. Following breakfast, Burt will leave for the studio if he's making a picture. Otherwise he may have an acrobatic work-out with Nick or else decide to fix up a few things around the house. In this last decision he never gets much encouragement. Because of his work with acrobatic gear earlier in his career Burt can splice a wire cable or a four-ply rope most expertly. But, he has found, there is remarkably little need for this sort of skill around a home. And Burt doesn't do too well at what is required — simple stuff like wielding a paint brush, repairing a light socket, or beating a nail with a hammer. He paints and he repairs and he hammers, but invariably the paint job is streaky, the fuses blow and the hammer mashes his thumb. This is where Nick has to come to the rescue. Burt's last attempt at being handy saw him erecting a fence to keep the boys from wandering away or tumbling down the hill. After finishing the job and discovering that the fence sort of weaved around the house, instead of taking straight lines, and also that in places it gave like a springboard, he took the usual step necessary to save the day. He went to the phone and called Nick. While he may not shine at carpentry, Burt has other duties around the house which he performs most proficiently. Norma, for instance, thinks his judgment about her clothes is infallible. And up to about a year ago Burt was most honest in his pronouncements of that kind. Then it came to him one day that whenever be said he didn't like something Norma had bought, say a hat, she would never wear it again. She'd go out and buy another pered with the truth slightly. He almost always likes Norma's hats now. And : whatever other purchases she comes home with. It is also important that Burt be present when the children play their records. 1 He is expected to sing along with them. Burt, in the opinion of experts, has a J pleasant singing voice — but no more than : that. There is one man though, who stands in open defiance of the experts. He is Burt's ~\ father. James Lancaster thinks his son has an excellent voice. To quote him exactly: "Not bad, not bad at all. If Burt took up singing he would be better than any of them, Tibbett, John Charles Thomas. Crosby, any of them!" Burt will wink to his friends at this exhibition of fatherly pride. But what, confuses these same friends is Burt's opinion of his singing of his son, Jimmy. Jimmy's voice, according to impartial critics, is loud and clear and youthful — j but no more than that. Says Burt, however: "Listen to him' That's really good! I'll bet that if Jimmy] takes up singing when he grows up he'il [ be better than . . ." et cetera and et [ cetera.' So father is proud of son, generally f around the Lancaster home. But only j lately have the younger sons been im1 pressed with their father! Not that Bun 4 hasn't tried to win a little standing with ;l his boys. It was just that he didn't quite know how to accomplish it. He learned some time ago that his picture work means nothing to Jimmy. (As for two-year-old Billy, very little means anything to him as he is still far toe active physically to hold still for any contemplative moods.) Once Burt took Jimmy and Billy to a showing of hi;i