comment caught me off-guard. Prejudice had raised its ugly head again.
“Okay,” I assured him, “you’re on.”
Our conversation, over Mexican beers and margaritas, was warm and interesting. Jack told fascinating stories about his assignments in the Deep South at the height of the Depression. He talked about pictures he had taken that were sad, heartwarming and sometimes uplifting. He was proud of his work. When I asked questions about his family or personal life, he always found a way to turn it back to me. That part of Black Jack Malone seemed to be a closed book.
With all of his questions about my life, he seemed genuinely interested and so, for the first time since joining the Marines, I told him a little of my story of survival. He loved the part about Laura giving birth in the wilderness, and about my dog, Gus, and my horse, Blaze. But one thing was unusual. He never asked me why I spent that year in British Columbia. I guess he thought that would be prying into my private business.
He had been right about the restaurant: its patrons were of all races, and the food was even better than the drinks. The Mexican meal I had was the best ever.
As we were getting ready to leave, I remembered a question I had forgotten.
“Where should I take the film to be developed?”
Leaning back in his chair, he sipped the last of his margarita and replied, “You have three choices. The Navy has a small lab in Cottage Four, but I wouldn’t trust the Signal Corps with my film. You can drive it over to Ed Cameron’s. He has a good lab in the back, but he’ll charge you an arm and a leg. Or you can try Paul Barnett, who runs the still lab for the studio. He really knows his stuff. If you decide to ask him, tell him we’re friends and take a bottle of Chivas Regal. He loves that Scotch.”
As usual, Black Jack Malone was a fountain of knowledge.
First thing Monday morning, I took four film holders containing eight sheets of exposed film to Paramount’s Still Photo Lab. The front office was small and had a bittersweet smell of photographic chemicals. Here I met Paul Barnett. While dropping Petty Officer Malone’s name, I asked him if he’d consider developing my film.
“The Signal Corps has a tank over in Cottage Four. Why don’t you ask them?”
“Jack tells me you’re the best,” was my reply.
“You just don’t trust the swabbies, do you, Lieutenant? Don’t blame you. Okay, I’ll soup ’em for you and make the proofs.” He took down my name and phone number and told me they would be ready the next day.
Just before leaving, I slid a brown paper bag across the counter top.
“What’s this,” he asked.
“Jack tells me you like Scotch whisky, and I had an extra bottle of Chivas Regal.”
With a large smile on his face, he replied, “That PO is always right.”
Colonel Ford was in the office all week, making final preparations for the big event on Saturday night. Maggie and I were kept busy, making phones calls and running errands for him. Monday afternoon, I was sent to a print shop in downtown LA, where I picked up the final program for what the cover called ‘The Marines Invade the Hollywood Canteen.’ It was a small, four-page booklet that outlined the evening’s rules: no booze, no broads, no fighting and no swearing. Menu: donuts, hot dogs, Cokes and coffee. Entertainment: A half-dozen Hollywood stars were listed. And, on the back cover, a list of thirty volunteer hostesses who would be serving the troops.
The Colonel had a thousand copies printed, but only expected about five hundred Marines to show up at the event. The USO used the old Madonna Dance Hall each Saturday night as the ‘Hollywood Canteen;’ on the other six nights, it was a dime-a-dance joint.
The next morning, Maggie gave me six hand-addressed envelopes that I was to deliver to the invited celebrities. Taking out a city map, she marked each star’s address with a red pen.
“More than likely, they won’t be home, or you won’t get by their ‘gate keepers,’ but try. It’s very important that they show up for the event. Each envelope has a program and a personal note from the Colonel, thanking them in advance for their appearance. If you get a chance to meet any of them, please stress the event and our thanks.”
The stack of envelopes read like a Who’s Who of Hollywood: Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Red Skelton, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich and Carole Lane. It took me almost three hours to find the addresses and deliver the envelopes, and in the end Maggie was right. I didn’t personally meet any of them.
Late that afternoon, Paul Barnett called to tell me that my film and proofs were ready. After picking up the pictures at the lab, I rushed over to the cafeteria to show them to Black Jack.
He was on the phone, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at a table to look at the proofs. Laying the pictures of the penguins beside the photos of the peacocks, I did see the difference the Chief had talked about. Looking down at my first professional pictures, I felt a sense of excitement and pride.
Just then, Jack approached my table. “Hi, Dutch. Hey, you got the proofs! Let me take a look at the negatives.”
Holding each negative up to the overhead light, he examined them without comment. Then, putting them back into their clear little sleeves, he said, “Not too bad, for a first timer. Did you notice that only the negatives where you used flash are in focus? The others are out of focus because of camera shake. We’ll work on that problem in our next lesson.”
Looking down at my proofs, I could see that he was right. “Gosh I didn’t spot that, at first. Should have I used the tripod?”
“Yeah…but you can’t always use one. You have to learn to keep your arms tight to your body. It’s just like the way you were taught on the rifle range, only now you’re shooting with a camera.”
I felt some of the wind leak out of my sails, but I knew I would improve with time. “Thanks Jack…I’ll remember that.”
The next morning, the Colonel called me into his office to talk about my photo assignment. There would be a reception line, just inside the front of the hall. He wanted four or five pictures of General Small, the area commander, Glenn Ford, our movie-star-turned-Marine, and the Hollywood Mayor as they greeted the arriving troops. Then a few pictures of the troops, eating, drinking and having a good time. Next, seven or eight pictures of the celebrities entertaining the men. And, most importantly, he wanted twenty-five to thirty group shots of the celebrities with four or five different Marines. After taking each picture, I was to use a little book he gave me to write down the names and hometowns of each Marine. After the event, we would send out press releases, along with pictures, to each of the Marine’s hometown newspapers. Or, as he put it, “Here’s local Marine hero Joe Blow hobnobbing with Marlene Dietrich at the Hollywood Canteen. Now, what red-blooded American boy wouldn’t want to be in that picture? This will be just great for recruiting!”
Maggie had typed out the instructions for my assignment, which he handed to me. It sounded simple enough, but it wasn’t. The idea of taking twenty-five to thirty group shots, with four or five different Marines in each shot, would require keeping track of over a hundred names, hometowns and faces. And how could I identify the negatives to make sure that the right face went with the right name? It was a daunting task, and I wasn’t even sure I could take the pictures, let alone handle the logistics.
