Swing (Feb-Dec 1951)

THE CREAM OF CROSBY 333 I explained that I was in a little seaside ^ resort called Knokke, a sort of Flemish Fire Island, that a good deal of my activities were shrouded in a sort of haze that envelopes me from time to time and that my demeanor, while not entirely above reproach, was hardly subversive. "You weren't in Czechoslovakia? Poland?" "Why would anyone want to be in Czechoslovakia? Who in his right mind would want to go to Poland?" "You're sure?" I said I was absolutely positive. There was an occasion when, to my very great surprise, I woke up in Providence, R. I. ' But I have never wakened up in Czechoslovakia or Poland and I hope to God I never do. My man appeared unconvinced. He ruffled through the passport — there are pathetically few stamps in it — and then gave up. I was released into the protective custody of the Customs people. The Customs officials have all your luggage neatly arranged alphabetically. I found my bags under Q, removed them to the C counter and waited. An hour passed. Customs officials passed. No one tarried except the passengers — the Cs, the Bs, and one lone Q whom I suspect of being a misplaced C. Finally a man appeared before the woman next to me — a B girl — and gave her a bad time over a watch she had procured in Switzerland. I had better luck. The Customs man took one look at the dirty shirts, decided not to soil his hands on such alien filth and shot me through. Well, I suppose it's a good system. We I can't go letting American citizens back i into the country indiscriminately. They might come back harboring germs or conceivably even opinions. But don't look at me. I tossed all my opinions overboard at the three mile limit. They sank like stones. In a bar that night, I had my first look at American television in a month. Bert Parks in "Stop The Music." A longlegged girl was tap-dancing. This gave me an excellent opportunity to compare European culture with our own. In Paris • the showgirls are in general draped handsomely from the waist down to the toes, undraped from the waist up. Here we drape them topside, undrape them extensively from there down. Bert Parks, I'm happy to report, is still draped all over except for his teeth, which appear to be in wonderful condition except for a slight discoloration on the ulterior bicuspid. Anyhow, it's nice to be home! The Serviceman IF ANYONE should ask me what I find most conspicuously new on American television after a month's vacation from it, I should say it is the serviceman. The Army, the Navy, the Marine Corps, the Air Force are as ubiquitous on television now as they were on radio during the war. You find the gob on the quiz program, handily winning the jackpot to the accompaniment of tumultuous applause. On the interview programs you come upon the generals issuing their carefully prepared ad libs about our prospects for victory in Korea, or ultimately in World War III. Each week Vaughn Monroe salutes different camps with the favorite melodies, determined by poll, of the recruits. The serviceman is all over the place — winning things, telling the true story for the first time anywhere on how he won the Medal of Honor, or just appearing gracefully and modestly on the screen while the emcee tells him and us how grateful the nation is to him. In many ways, this is as it should be. The nation's debt to its fighting man, the popular interest in looking at him, the world situation all demand that we pay not only deference but respectful attention to our soldiers and sailors. I just hope our serviceman doesn't get exploited or misrepresented. There are evidences already of both. A couple of weeks ago on the Stork Club show, a woman was talking to the noted innkeeper, Sherman Billingsley, about a lovely party given at the Stork the night before for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Wasn't it splendid, asked Mr. Billingsley, the way the Duke went over to the two Medal of Honor winners and spoke to them?