Yes, thanks
for the memory
Commentary by Pat Murphy
Measure America’s love affair with Bob
Hope this way: count the number of people over 20 years old who never saw or
heard Hope perform somewhere and add the number of people who couldn’t stand
him.
The numbers would be so imperceptible as
to be impossible to read.
No other figure comes to mind whose
presence touched so many Americans through so many decades. More about my luck
with Hope in a moment.
Bob Hope performed for 80 years in every
setting in show biz--vaudeville, Broadway stage, radio, television, movies, on
location with the troops, personal appearances in venues ranging from modest
hometown charity benefits to glittering White House dinners, and, of course,
pro-am golf tournaments he sponsored to raise millions of dollars for health
causes.
But it was wartime performances for
ordinary troops over 50 years that transformed Hope into a celebrity of
extraordinary stature.
Hundreds of thousands of GIs became
lifelong fans after seeing Hope on stages within earshot of combat gunfire.
Films of his USO tours on TV attracted more millions to Hope’s wholesome
one-liner jesting.
He also is the acknowledged father of
stand-up monologue comedy.
Hope also carried through life a
reputation for decency--a genuine Brit-cum-Yankee Doodle patriot and a husband
of 69 years to wife Delores.
Count me among lucky ones with an
unforgettable memory of Hope during the Korean War.
Several sergeants in the First Cavalry
Division--Chuck Barbour, Bobby Rushing, Archie Ashworth, Bob Sykes and me--were
plucked out of the crowd to escort women in the Hope USO show (including blonde
actress Marilyn Maxwell) when it flew in to the devastated North Korean capital
of Pyongyang in November 1950.
While Hope’s troupe was there, war was
forgotten as I escorted Patrice, one of the Taylor Maids singing trio.
(Patrice, a grandmother, widow of a
wealthy businessman and a friend since Korea, lives in Pebble Beach, Calif.
Beverly, who married a trombonist in Hope’s Les Brown band, lives in Ocala, Fla.
Jinny died last year.)
The 1950 show could’ve been a World War II
throwback: a stunning movie actress, three glamorous young singers and leggy
dancer in skimpy costume that Hope told troops "remind you of what you’re
fighting for"; Brown’s band, gags belittling commissioned officers that
delighted GIs, one-liners tailored for the locale, and no off-color humor.
But we also saw another Bob Hope.
He wanted to visit wounded soldiers. So,
at a nearby makeshift hospital, Hope popped in unannounced to cheer up wounded
GIs brought from the front. Their smiles told of their delight.
Hope’s cheery mien quickly dissolved into
grimness, however. Tears welled up as he moved to the bedside of a Korean child
who’d lost a hand to an exploding shell.
He glanced around, helplessly and
wordlessly searching for some explanation that none of us could give—why such a
tiny victim of war.
All we could do was to muffle our own
anger and shock and hold back tears.