Colonel Beech stared up at Captain Winters and said coolly, “Right, Captain. Send me a memo on it.” He watched as Captain Winters walked out the door. Colonel Beech was a professional soldier, a West Point man. The Colonel despised all civilians, and to him, Captain Winters was a civilian. Putting on a uniform and captain’s bars did not make a man a soldier. When Colonel Beech received Captain Winter’s memo on Toby Temple, he glanced at it, then savagely scribbled across it, “REQUEST DENIED,” and initialed it.
He felt better.
What Toby missed most was the lack of an audience. He needed to work on his sense of timing, his skills. He would tell jokes and do imitations and routines at every opportunity. It did not matter whether his audience was two GIs doing guard duty with him in a lonely field, a busload of soldiers on their way into town or a dishwasher on KP. Toby had to make them laugh, win their applause.
Captain Sam Winters watched one day as Toby went through one of his routines in the recreation hall. Afterward, he went up to Toby and said, “I’m sorry your transfer didn’t work out, Temple. I think you have talent. When the war’s over, if you get to Hollywood, look me up.” He grinned and added, “Assuming I still have a job out there.”
The following week Toby’s battalion was sent into combat.
In later years, when Toby recalled the war, what he remembered were not the battles. At Saint-Lô he had been a smash doing a mouth-sync act to a Bing Crosby record. At Aachen he had sneaked into the hospital and told jokes to the wounded for two hours before the nurses threw him out. He remembered with satisfaction that one GI had laughed so hard all his stitches had broken open. Metz was where he had bombed out, but Toby felt that that was only because the audience was jittery about the Nazi planes flying overhead.
The fighting that Toby did was incidental. He was cited for bravery in the capture of a German command post. Toby had really no idea what was going on. He had been playing John Wayne, and had gotten so carried away that it was all over before he had time to be frightened.
To Toby, it was the entertaining that was important. In Cherbourg he visited a whorehouse with a couple of friends, and while they were upstairs, Toby stayed in the parlor doing a routine for the madame and two of her girls. When he had finished, the madame sent him upstairs, on the house.
That was Toby’s war. All in all, it was not a bad war, and time went by very quickly. When the war ended, it was 1945 and Toby was almost twenty-five years old. In appearance he had not aged one day. He had the same sweet face and beguiling blue eyes, and that hapless air of innocence about him.
Everyone was talking about going home. There was a bride waiting in Kansas City, a mother and father in Bayonne, a business in St. Louis. There was nothing waiting for Toby. Except Fame.
He decided to go to Hollywood. It was time that God made good on His promise.
“Do you know God? Have you seen the face of Jesus? I have seen Him, brothers and sisters, and I have heard His voice, but He speaks only to those who kneel before Him and confess their sins. God abhors the unrepentent. The bow of God’s wrath is bent and the flaming arrow of His righteous anger is pointed at your wicked hearts, and at any moment He will let go and the arrow of His retribution shall smite your hearts! Look up to Him now, before it is too late!”
Josephine looked up toward the top of the tent, terrified, expecting to see a flaming arrow shooting at her. She clutched her mother’s hand, but her mother was unaware of it. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright with fervor.
“Praise Jesus!” the congregation roared.
The revival meetings were held in a huge tent, on the outskirts of Odessa, and Mrs. Czinski took Josephine to all of them. The preacher’s pulpit was a wooden platform raised six feet above the ground. Immediately in front of the platform was the glory pen, where sinners were brought to repent and experience conversion. Beyond the pen were rows and rows of hard wooden benches, packed with chanting, fanatic seekers of salvation, awed by the threats of Hell and Damnation. It was terrifying for a six-year-old child. The evangelists were Fundamentalists, Holy Rollers and Pentecostalists and Methodists and Adventists, and they all breathed Hell-fire and Damnation.
“Get on your knees, O ye sinners, and tremble before the might of Jehovah! For your wicked ways have broken the heart of Jesus Christ, and for that ye shall bear the punishment of His Father’s wrath! Look around at the faces of the young children here, conceived in lust and filled with sin.”
And little Josephine would burn with shame, feeling everyone staring at her. When the bad headaches came, Josephine knew that they were a punishment from God. She prayed every night that they would go away, so she would know that God had forgiven her. She wished she knew what she had done that was so bad.
“And I’ll sing Hallelujah, and you’ll sing Hallelujah, and we’ll all sing Hallelujah when we arrive at Home.”
“Liquor is the blood of the Devil, and tobacco is his breath, and fornication is his pleasure. Are you guilty of trafficking with Satan? Then you shall burn eternally in Hell, damned forever, because Lucifer is coming to get you!”
And Josephine would tremble and look around wildly, fiercely clutching the wooden bench so that the Devil could not take her.
They sang, “I want to get to Heaven, my long-sought rest.” But little Josephine misunderstood and sang, “I want to get to Heaven with my long short dress.”
After the thundering sermons would come the Miracles. Josephine would watch in frightened fascination as a procession of crippled men and women limped and crawled and rode in wheelchairs to the glory pen, where the preacher laid hands on them and willed the powers of Heaven to heal them. They would throw away their canes and their crutches, and some of them would babble hysterically in strange tongues, and Josephine would cower in terror.