Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1958)

and everything I’d discovered about myself, it seemed as if I’d come out of a dark place into sunshine. I liked to horse around with the crew between takes. Sometimes I’d challenge the guys to a broad-jumping contest. Or I’d swing myself up on the scenery, climb around on top of it and along the catwalks. But believe me, I wasn’t taking foolish chances; I knew what I was doing. The producer relaxed when he found that out. The picture calls for some tricky acrobatic routines, and I had to keep in practice. In the story, I’m supposed to be only five inches tall, so they built the sets twelve times normal scale. By the time I got back to Hollywood, the Army had given me a definite date to report for duty. But I was happy to find that I could get in another picture first, “High School Confidential!” I went to Fort Ord keeping my new attitude firmly in mind: Take things as they come; try to learn from each new experience. At first, frankly, I didn’t know what to expect. I found a lot of things in the Army that at the beginning I considered unnecessary, superfluous. I had come to learn how to defend my country. 1 was determined to do that, but I didn’t exactly understand how cleaning latrines, mopping, scrubbing, polishing would help me be a good soldier. It was perhaps harder for me to adjust because — let’s face it — the secret of a successful personality in the entertainment world is individuality, doing something not like everyone else in your own unique way. The Army isn’t the place for individuality. You aren’t supposed to be independent. At first, it was a little hard getting used to the idea. I’ve been acting since I was a kid; I was used to a great deal of freedom, used to saying and doing what I felt like when I felt like it. Now I was Private Tamblyn, with a serial number and forty-three guys sharing my bedroom. Then, too — let’s face it again — I have been in the public eye. If I didn’t admit that, I’d just be putting on the old “modesty” act, strictly for hams. The Army makes nonentities of all its men. You may be a private or a corporal or an officer; but, whatever your rank, you’re part of a team — not an individual. So, despite what you may have read, it was not the razzing I got when I came to Fort Ord that really jolted me. It was a whole new way of life. One of my first days in the Army, I was standing at attention in line when a sergeant came by and said, “Which one’s the movie star?” I retched inside, but I stood at attention and kept still. Then, too, some of the boys gave me the business — nothing I couldn’t take, but oh, you know, goodnatured razzing. Every new recruit gets it. I just got a little more, that’s all. Actually, I was in this position: If I did something good everyone knew about it — I got more praise than I deserved; but when I did something wrong everyone knew about it, too, and perhaps I got into more trouble than I deserved. When I first got to Ord, one of the officers called me in and said, “Tamblyn, you’re the only one in this company whose folder has ‘VIP’ on the label. But let me tell you— you’re just like any other guy here and you’ll be treated like any other GI! Understand?” I just stood at attention, and when he was through telling me that I was no different from anyone else I said politely, “Well, sir, then why have you sent for me if I’m not different?” Since that time there have been very few occasions when who I was in civilian life has made very much difference. I admit those gossip-column items about my “troubles” with the Army have got me sore. Let me say that my record since I’ve been in the Army is pretty balanced. I’ve done some things wrong — and lots of things right. I’ve tried as hard as I know how, and, honestly, I feel as well-informed, as well-trained, as competent in military courtesy, weapons or any other phase of our training as any guy in my company. About the third week I was at Ord, I missed what they call bed-check, which means that when the man in charge checked the barracks after lights-out I was not in my bed. Where I was or why isn’t important. The important thing is that the papers got hold of this incident and blew it up until it sounded like I was to be shot at sunrise or something! Actually, I received an “Article Fifteen,” which is Army talk for two weeks of extra duty given as punishment for less serious breaches of the rules. This meant that every day for fourteen days, after evening chow, I scrubbed pots and pans or washed dishes or mopped floors, or washed latrines or whatever other dirty job had to be done. That was my punishment, and I accepted it and did whatever I was ordered to do. One item also said that I wasn’t at camp when I should have been because of a girl by the name of Barbara Luna. That just isn’t true. Where I was or why is nobody’s concern except my company commander’s, and I served my fourteen days long ago, so I don’t want to discuss it. But I will tell you that Barbara, who’s a new actress in Hollywood, had been up here visiting me just before I was unavoidably absent during bed-check; she had just left. So I had no need, as the paper erroneously said, to remove myself from the post in order to see her. Another thing that has been written is that I was mad because I went to the Army medico with a sore throat and he didn’t believe me. That’s not true. The real truth is that I was sick; in fact, I had the flu, a mild case of pneumonia and the measles all at one time! But I did get medical care; I was in the base hospital for a week. I discovered I was sick the night before we were to be tested in marksmanship. I felt sick and I knew I had a temperature, but I also knew that if I missed the firing test, I’d have to take it later, adding time to my eight weeks of training. So I went on the firing range, took the test, passed well enough to get a sharpshooter’s medal and then checked into the hospital. Okay, now if you’re interested I’ll tell you a few other details of my life in the Army. I get up at 4: 30 in the morning. Since there is a rule against lights-on in the barracks before 5: 30, all of us get dressed, make our beds, clean up whatever we’re assigned to clean and do it all in the dark pretty much. Then finally the lights come on and the sun comes up and we’re ready for morning formation. At 6: 10 a whistle blows and we all fall out for formation — roll call, that is. Then we go in and eat chow (breakfast) . After chow we fall out for inspection of our barracks, at which time everything is in perfect order — it better be! At 7:15 our work day starts (!): We go to classes on things like military courtesy, weapons-handling, map-reading, first aid. Then, of course, we run up and down hills and march and march and march. We have chow again at 1:00, then resume classes or drilling or marching. Get back to the barracks about 5: 30, but it’s really no rest period, because we’re expected to be clean and neat-looking at evening chow. We wash up, have dinner at 6:00, and then after that we go back to our room and clean our weapons, change our sheets, do our personal laundry. At 9:00 it’s lights-out in the barracks and then from 9:00 to 10:30 most of us sit on the floor in the hallway and polish our boots by the hall light. And with guard duty and maneuvers tossed in they keep us pretty busy. Hey, you’ll never guess my nickname! The company commander calls me “Smiley” ’cause I’ve always got a smile on my face. Imagine Tamblyn called “Smiley” — I bet a lot of my friends in Hollywood won’t believe it! When I first got to Ord, one of the officers used to call me Russ. I guess it bothered a few of the boys in the platoon, because, as I said, in the Army everyone is supposed to be pretty anonymous. I’m sure the officer didn’t think anything about it; he knew who I was and hadn’t yet learned the other guys’ names, so he just called me Russ. Then one day he got a letter from one of the boys, saying that a lot of the guys resented him calling me by my first name. He no longer calls me anything but Private Tamblyn — or maybe a few things less printable. I’m proud of two distinct honors that have come my way since I’ve been a GI. Every week the company commander picks what is called the “trainee of the week.” He picks one man from each platoon, which means there are five of us picked each week. The man picked represents the other forty-three guys in his barracks. He is called upon by the commander to answer a variety of questions pertaining to all the work our platoon has been assigned to learn that week. Then, of the five, the best is selected as the company’s outstanding trainee. I didn’t win that title (I came in third), but still it was a distinct honor to have been picked out of the forty-three men in my own platoon to represent them. Then there’s my trophy. We had an intensive series of tests in all phases of physical fitness. I scored the highest mark in our company (more than 400 men) and at Open House Week I was publicly awarded the trophy. The only other new GI to be singled out was the company’s outstanding trainee, so I guess that was pretty fair, huh? See, I’ve had my share of both honors and latrine-cleaning, and all in all I’d say that Private Tamblyn is holding his own. After I was finished at Fort Ord, I was assigned to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, as a radio operator. I may get to do a few local deejay-type chores, too, but that isn’t definite — and I have not requested duty in Special Services. I figure that they have my background on file and that if they want me in the entertainment division they’ll ask me. But I’ll level with you. Before I got in, some of my friends said it would be easy for me to pull strings; that, since there was no wartime emergency, it would be possible for me to make a few requests and get a soft assignment. Look, I’m no martyr. I don’t enjoy crawling around in mud and marching with a heavy pack any more than any other guy in his right mind. But I know one thing; I’ll be darned if I’ll ask for any special favors from anybody! I don’t know and I don’t want to know if it’s even possible to make a request for any such favors. Even if other guys do pull a few strings — and I’m not saying it’s right or wrong — even if they do, nobody hears about it. Right now, I don’t want to make any sort of front-page item. I just want to do the work that’s assigned to me the best way I possibly can. But I’ll have to be honest and say this: I hope the fans don’t forget me; I want to keep in touch with them. I’m not any different from the average GI in this respect. When he finishes his hitch in the Army, he hopes he’ll be able to get his civilian job back— if he liked it. I liked my job. The End