WILD, HECTIC TIMES

THE LATE '40s were wild, hectic times for the Mitchum boys. In 1948 I worked at Columbia on "Knock on any Door" starring Humphrey Bogart and introducing John Derek. George Macready played a formidable prosecuting attorney, Derek a young man accused of killing a cop, and Bogart his--Qefense attorney. I was the jury foreman and spent much of my off-camera time playing chess with Bogey. He played one hell of a game.

Frank Wisbar used me several times in his television series, "The Fireside Theater," and I did a small role in John Ford's World War II comedy, "When Willie Comes Marching Home." On that film I made a mistake: I snapped back at the great Mr. Ford after he barked at me that I was being paid to be seen, not hidden by an actor in front of me. I told him that if the big bastard blocking me would decide where he wanted to be, I could adjust, but that if he kept gyrating, I'd have to slow him down. Ford stared at me for some beats, and started the camera rolling again. The moose in front of me simmered down.

Around that time I also attended the Herbert Wall School of Music under the G.!. Bill, finding it to be a well-staffed establishment. The owner was a big Texan, Major Herbert Wall, also the head voice coach of the school. He was a magnificent teacher and, to this day, is remembered by his students, many of whom are still in show business.

The school boasted an excellent all­male chorus that enabled me to put on a well-reviewed concert at the Wilshire­Ebell Theatre. My friend, Dick Hunton, was the main soloist. As a result of our success, we were hired to appear at the State Fair again in 1949. The emcee for the Fair's last week was Rudy Vallee, the "My Time Is Your Time" singer from Yale University. He was a belligerent rascal, albeit charming.

One night, after a long, tiring re­hearsal, Rudy invited a station-wagon load of us to a 2 a.m. breakfast in the old Lenhardt's Cafeteria in Sacramen­to. My friend AI Wadsworth, accom­panied by three young female dancers, rounded out the party. AI and the girls went immediately to the food line while I waited for Vallee. He was talking to the help so he waved me on.

When I had my food and went to our booth, three strange men were sitting with Wadsworth and the dancers. The girls looked very uncomfortable at their obvious passes. I heaved a sigh. I knew it was going to happen.

I addressed the three invaders: "Gentlemen, this is our booth. Since the girls seem upset that you're in it, I suggest you fmd another one." I delivered my little speech matter-of-factly and wasn't a bit surprised when their ringleader became insolent.

"Well," he purred, "where are you from? Hollywood?" He looked at his two buddies for support.

"As a matter of fact, I am." I put my plate on the table.

"Well, Hollywood," he snarled, "let's go outside and talk about it."

The four of us got up from the table. As I stepped outside, I tumed and swung as the first one-"Loudmouth"-came through the glass door. The solid punch took him right out. The other two didn't proceed beyond his sprawled form. I went back to the booth in time to hear one of the girls scream, "But he's out there with three of them!"

Wadsworth-6-foot-5, 240 pounds in weight-was coolly munching on a piece of ham. He sputtered out, "Son-bitch can take care of himself."

Just then, Vallee came roaring up to me. "You got in a fight!" he yelled. "Don't you know it's your duty to call on your fellow performers to help you? You've no right to keep us out of it."

Jesus, I thought. This man is serious.

Then I mumbled out loud, "Sorry, but it's all taken care of."

All the way back to our hotel, Val­lee harangued me about my lack of faith in my peers. "It's not that, Rudy," I finally said. "It's just that I've never asked for help in a fight in my life. I just don't know how."

Later, when I told Robert about the incident, he heaved a deep sigh. "No, Brother John," he said, "they just don't look at us."

***

"Guys who pick fights are a pain in the ass," roared Big Tim Wallace. A huge Brooklyn Irishman, Big Tim was Bob's stand-in and friend for many years. He was a powerful fighter and a "no-nonsense" man who could put you straight in a hurry. It was Tim who once made the relevant observation to me that al­most all men who pick fights can't fight. Really experienced fighters have nothing to prove; it's the ban­tam roosters who have to show their spurs.

One day, Bob and Tim were walking down Hollywood Boulevard when three men began heckling Bob. His hackles rising, Bob began positioning himself. Streetwise Tim saw the whole thing shaping up.

"Bob!" Tim, who is hard of hearing and feels he has to speak up, shouted

his flat, nasal voice into Bob's ear.

"I'll handle this. You gotta stay out ofit."

The ringleader stepped up to Tim, eyeing him amusedly. "Now you're

gonna take care of it. Well, supposing we've got something to say about that?"

Tim hit him so hard the idiot sailed over the hood of a parked car. He landed in a heap on the boulevard and was out. Tim took Bob by the arm, leading him toward Las Palmas. In his loud, nasal voice, he let the world in on his philosophy.

"They gotta prove somethin" They feel that they ain't nothing, so-if they can punch out Bogart, Mitchum, Cagney or the 'Duke,' they're really important." He shook his head sadly.

Bob nodded in agreement. "They see a screen image. It's too bad they never really look at us."

James Cagney, though short, was a very physical man. Brother Robert stands 6-foot-l at a cool 205. John Wayne was 6-foot-4 and about 235. His trainer once told me in awe that John threw the straightest, hardest right hand he'd ever seen. He was of the opinion that John's right would kill most men. But John's pet word was "responsibility." Responsible men are loathe to misuse others.

Bob was right again. They never look at us.