Modern Screen (Jan-Nov 1956)

ttle fun as anyone else. Besides . . ." e distant rumble of big guns grew er. The band swelled its music to er the annoyance, and the boy and girl in this strange setting danced on. Terry was thinking that it was mighty tough that all the men in this miserable outpost couldn't be with their wives or sweethearts on this night before Christmas. The drummer, well aware that the eyes of all the officers in the place were on him, decided not to think at all. Girls who are born rebels like Terry uan understand her feelings. She'd known the drummer back in Hollywood, and she iidn't intend to let a little thing like \rmy protocol prevent their having one lance together. Except for one lieutenant who chose to give Terry a short ecture on the inadvisability of dancing vith enlisted men in the officers' sanctum, 10 one objected. Nor was there any proest when Terry and the troupe adjourned i few minutes later to the non-com's club, vhere the scrawny Christmas tree was lecorated with bits of paper, cut-up beer ians, and surgical-cotton snow. "Someone dug up a tape recorder," ?erry remembers, "and we made musical ristory that night. We called the band ?he Crazy Combo. A crazy combo it was aid still is. I've never heard such crazytone arrangements dreamed up on a >ass, trumpet, drums and accordion, and don't think that anyone who was there rill ever forget that Christmas." Those who really appreciated what erry and the troupe did for the fighting len that Christmas were the wives and others back home. All the performers 1 treasure the dozens of thank you tters they received from them for months Eterward. Friendships formed during lat Christmas still exist. The Crazy ombo for instance is still alive and kick\g the musical gong around. Drop in at Frascotti's restaurant in bllywood any night and ask for Al ellow, the drummer. He'll testify to that facky night in Korea. And he can tell you, too, how Terry and sr mother, without a wink of sleep, imbed into a jeep and bounced out to ]angerous fox holes in the hills Christmas orning to sing and talk to the men. :0n the way home, Terry began to realize >w much she had experienced in real iring on this Christmas. "It is difficult to put into words," she ys now. "I felt, somehow, that I had ;en given a great gift. To be honest, I id been reluctant to go. Christmas has ways been a very special day in our mily, with relatives from Utah and San rancisco gathering at our home each ;ar. I felt cheated because my holiday the ;ar before had been a miserable one. I id been sent out on personal appearances ith a picture, and 111 never forget my neliness on Christmas Day of 1952. I ent to church in Nashville, Tennessee id when I had to walk back into the >tel alone, I was almost crying. Every>dy in Nashville was snug and happy at ime." After that experience, Terry vowed that e'd never be away from home at Christas again. She was doubly determined st year, having made what she thought as one last exception with the Korean ip. But, just as the 1954 holiday season proached, she received a long distance lephone call from Washington, D.C. >lonel Joseph Goetz was on the line, viting her to go to Iceland for Christmas a special guest of the Air Force. ' It was such an honor to be asked," rry says, "that I simply couldn't say • I told Colonel Goetz I'd be delighted." The choice of Terry Moore was de>erate on two counts. First, in an innnal poll of Air Force men, she was far and away the actress they wanted most to see. Secondarily, the Air Force was not insensible to the nearly tragic injustice that had faced Terry the year before in Korea, when only the personal intervention of General Maxwell Taylor saved her from being sent home in disgrace. This time Terry was asked to form her own troupe, which she did, starting with Gil Lamb for the master of ceremonies. Then she looked for girls of different types, trying to figure which would appeal most to the Air Corps men. Among the volunteers was Angie Dickinson, a tall, lovely girl with a face like Ava Gardner's and a figure that would cause Jane Russell to turn around and stare. For added excitement, plus plenty of action, she invited Faye Nuell, the promising young dancer. For still more spice, she enlisted Bonnie Lee Sloan, the terrific hillbilly singer. Then, to round out the bill, music was provided by the sharp combo which is now playing at the Plymouth house on the Sunset Strip. On December 22nd, 1954, the little group of sixteen, including Terry's mother and dad, clambered aboard an Air Force DC-6, which would normally carry about seventy people, and took off on a nonstop flight to the base at Westover, Massachusetts. Here they stayed overnight while Terry and her gang entertained at the hospital. Next morning they were airborne again, headed for Iceland. Because their number was so small, they were able to convert a large part of the plane into a rehearsal hall, and Gil Lamb and Terry whipped the show into shape. At 2 a.m. the day before Christmas, they landed at the Iceland air base to find nearly 3,000 soldiers milling around, waiting in the icy, ten-degree weather. "I don't know what we expected," Terry says, "unless it was igloos, but we found really nice hotel rooms at the airport, all decorated for Christmas. And someone had scrawled Yuletide greetings across the face of the mirror in my room. The officers and their wives gave us a nice party, but they cut it short so we could spend the lion's share of our time with the enlisted men. Those guys marched out on parade on Christmas Day in a 110 milean-hour wind, which is really something in that treeless part of the world. Nevertheless, we managed to throw snowballs to work up an appetite. Lucky for us we did, because we ate Christmas dinner at jour mess halls, and every time we sat down we ate like we hadn't seen food in days. "During one of the shows I had a wonderful surprise. As a part of the act, I sang 'Gimme A Little Kiss. Willyu, Huh?' to one of the men— Gil Lamb would pick one from the audience — and I got the kick of my life when Don Morris, a big guy from Grand Rapids, Michigan, came up on the stage. He brought a copy of his home-town paper, The Herald, which had a picture of me kissing his best friend, Corporal Jack Sawinski, in Korea the Christmas before. He'd been toting the picture around with him, but he never expected to ever see me in the flesh. In fact, he very nearly didn't, because in his pocket he had orders for his transfer to Orly Field in Paris. That kiss was really something! The rafters shook for ten minutes after." Next morning the American base at Prestwick, Scotland. Terry and the other girls were showered with gifts, from expensive cigarette lighters to souvenir trinkets. The GIs simply had to do some Christmas giving in person. When Terry said to one of them, "I don't know how to thank you, and I don't have a gift for you in return," he replied, "You kids being here is plenty." From Scotland, they flew oh to the Azores where they performed for the world's most exclusive television station, erected on the Air Force base there with a radius of only one mile. After a roaring good time Terry's troupe was off twentyfour hours later on the longest leg of their ocean hops — to Bermuda. On the way, the Captain passed back word that they would soon pass over a Navy weather ship, a tiny bucket of a boat on which men were stationed for thirty days at a time in one area to provide constant weather information for American planes. The Captain had radioed, telling the Navy men who he had on board, with the result that he had an urgent request for special musical numbers and pleas from sailors to have just a couple of words with Terry. "It was the darndest experience any of us had ever had," Terry recalls. "Here we were 4,000 feet in the air, cruising at 300 miles an hour, putting on a show over the radio for Navy boys on a ship which, when we dropped down below the overcast, looked like a cork bobbling in a rippling stream." New Year's Eve was spent at Kindley Air Force Base in Bermuda. Then it was on home again, by way of Westover Field. This time Terry's return was not heralded by any headlines suggesting that she'd taken the trip for publicity purposes. Those who had stirred up the big squawk the year before, if not a little ashamed of themselves, were strangely silent, for there was not one feminine star of Terry Moore's calibre who had given up Christmas for so unselfish a project. When the point was brought to Terry's attention, she changed the subject. "Remember all that fuss about the bikini bathing suit?" she grinned. "Well, I'll let you in on a little secret. On this last trip I had a shimmering, black-sequined evening gown that made that little ermine job look like a pair of coveralls." And now it's Christmas time, 1955. For weeks, Terry has been busy furnishing her beautiful new home in Coldwater Canyon. This time, she and her family and all their relatives are planning Christmas at home. "But I'm not so sure," Terry says. "I'm getting used to not being home for Christmas. You see, I've been spoiled. I'm getting used to having dozens of Christmas trees and dozens more kisses under mistletoes all over the globe. Any day now, I expect a telephone call from some branch of the service, asking me if I'd mind a little round-the-world holiday. When and if that happens, I'm afraid I won't be able to resist!" Terry Moore is in The Best Things In Life Are Free, a 20th Century-Fox Production. EDITOR'S NOTE: There is no better way to express the thoughts of thousands of men and their families than to publish the following letter: Headquarters Iceland Air Defense Force Army Air Transport Service Mr. Harry Brand, 20th Century-Fox Studios, Beverly Hills, Calif. Dear Sir: On behalf of the officers and enlisted personnel of this base, I am enclosing a letter of appreciation to Miss Terry Moore for her appearance at this station. The performance of Miss Moore and her cast more than offset the dejection experienced by each of us in not being able to be home for Christmas. The conduct, both personal and professional, of each member of the troupe was excellent and reflects much credit upon themselves and their profession. Sincerely, (signed) J. C. Bailey, Col. USAF, Comm.