John Wayne

by C McGivern

  As the first rumblings of public criticism started he refused to discuss it with the press. Many columnists alluded to old football and surfing injuries, and also to a severe ear disorder picked up during the filming of Reap The Wild Wind, assuming these ruled him out of the war. Perhaps he could have made more of a push to join the fray, but he had just signed a new contract with Republic, and Yates, having heard of his attempts to enlist, threatened him with a law suit if he didn’t honor his contract. The studio head had no sympathy for Duke’s plight, “You should have thought about that before you signed a new contract. If you don’t live up to it, I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got. Hell, I’ll sue you for every penny you hope to make in the future. God Damn it, nobody walks out on me.”

  He was trapped. Because he was exempt he thought Yates might win a court battle and take him for everything he had achieved over the last thirteen gruelling years. Legally, if not morally, Yates was in the right; Duke could have walked out on his contract and marched straight to the nearest recruiting station, but he had worked harder than anyone in the business to get where he was now; on the threshold of success; not quite there … but only a breath away. Deep down, he knew he ought to tell Yates to go to hell and take his chance against any case the old man might raise. Because he had known what he should have done, and didn’t, he went on torturing himself with ever-mounting and unforgiven guilt. It was true he avoided making a concerted push to join up, but did what he could to get into the Navy. The fact of not going to war tormented him for the rest of his life. It was brought up and thrown in his face regularly later, but at the time it meant he was one of the few marketable leading men left in Hollywood. His way was clear to finally and fully establish his place in the consciousness of the movie-going public when there was no opposition in sight, when there was no competition left.

  The Hollywood leading man had become a rare breed, in need of protection, and Yates looked after his most valuable asset in every way he could, using any dirty trick to keep John Wayne out of harm’s way, determined to keep his only star out of uniform and in front of the camera where he could continue to make money. Duke was afraid of losing his new status, still too unsure of his own worth to risk doing battle with the boss. He wasn’t afraid to go to war; rather, he was afraid of Yates finishing him off. As the image shone and grew through the war years, the man shrank a little inside. He had never spoken to anyone about this period of his life, but his third wife, who he met ten years after the war ended, said the guilt he felt over his rejection by the navy and his own failure to push for enlistment in another of the armed forces, never left him, “He would become a “superpatriot” for the rest of his life trying to atone for staying at home.” He had slaved for over ten years to reach the summit of his profession. Having finally got there he found the prize to be worthless and the taste of success tainted.

  He suffered a terrible and silent embarrassment over his war record, but did everything he could to contribute to the effort, frequently visiting the war zones and making several USO appearances. He never mentioned his rejection and instead he went on to serve as an air raid warden in Los Angeles.

  Nothing made any difference and the war led to a crippling fracture between his screen roles and his reality that never healed, and shaped his life. A devastating blow had been struck against his image and he found it so hard to bear. At the very time he could have become a real hero, he was the one that the forces didn’t want, it was hardly surprising that he never spoke to anyone of the searing disappointment he felt then. When he was criticized for avoiding the war he never defended himself, believing his attackers had right on their side. He could not defend the indefensible and it wasn’t in his nature to explain, believing it belittled him further to try.

  When he visited a military hospital and some youngster asked what unit he had fought in, he had no answer, either for them or himself. To the man who believed life was about testing oneself to the extreme, his ultimate test remained un-taken. Even his little brother, Robert, served in the navy, exacerbating his raw nerves and leaving him wide open when his Mother sarcastically commented, with perfect truth, that her Robert was the one, not the big tough guy, who served his country. Mary vividly recalled the look of thunder on the sensitive face as he told her how sick he felt when Bobby was drafted.

  He couldn’t sit back and take everything thrown at him, for that wasn’t in his nature either. He began working harder than ever to serve his country, turning out films that paid his own heartfelt tribute to those who were fighting in his place, “Mine became the task of holding high and ever visible the values that everyone was fighting for.” He decided to get on with his job as best he could; becoming a one-man propaganda machine, making the films he hoped would keep Americans at home happy about what was going on overseas. They were more than propaganda; he believed there was a continued need to provide entertainment and light relief during those darkest of days. He exchanged his saddle for cockpits and ships decks, his carbine for cannon and machine gun.

  He was an honest man and the issue of the war came to be the most painful episode of his life. It forced him to live a lie and for the first time he couldn’t relate to the image or to any of the films he was making. Playing the role of the war hero who never went to war changed him forever. It was a debilitating blow to someone who hated to make a mistake. From then on he carried an obvious flaw, a weakness he couldn’t hide. He made the most of a difficult situation by reinventing the image to reflect what he now felt himself to be. He put the flaw to use and his war hero adopted what became a characteristic self-derogatory pose which remained part of all his future performances, he never allowed himself to be seen as a flawless hero again. He was shocked to discover that the uncovering of weakness had the unexpected effect of strengthening the image. His willingness to admit imperfection and weakness became central to the public’s perception of his character and was undoubtedly the reason he was accepted as a hero at all, despite his obvious vulnerability. Just as he had epitomized the rugged, lonely westerner, he now became the ultimate warrior involved in the “Just” war, the defender of his nation and the whole of the free world.

  As one of the only stars left in Hollywood he found himself in a good bargaining position and he negotiated ten per cent of the gross of each picture he made during the war. His share of the profits alone on The Sands of Iwo Jima was three hundred and eighty thousand dollars; wealth unimagined by him just a few years previously. He had never been in greater demand, an ideal situation for the man who used work to escape from reality he hated. He was unable to make peace with inactivity and the war meant he could work as often and as hard as he liked. Mary said he never learned to do anything but work, that he was a slave to his energy. He had no hobbies and never found anything to replace work; it was his escape, his relief, his pleasure and his passion. Whilst he was on set he lost all sense of reality and was able to immerse himself completely in the part he was playing. He deliberately exhausted himself before the cameras so he had no energy left to give to his physical restlessness or to the thoughts that tortured him. He couldn’t stop and he didn’t want to.

  On location his pattern of work shattered everyone else; it merely kept him ticking over. He was always up by 4.30 am, and Mary explained, “He just never, ever slept in late. Once awake, he had to get up, his body simply refused to lie still. He drank his coffee and was then raring to get on with the day, determined to make the most of every hour he had.” It was too bad for those around who didn’t wake at dawn. He might let his family sleep until 6.30 but after that he began to get irritable. He had been up with energy pumping for two hours by then, and if the day’s action hadn’t already started he would be badly in need of company and diversion by that time. If he wasn’t on location, where the working day traditionally began at 6.30, he endured long hours of boredom and loneliness in the early hours of the morning until he could persuade someone to get up and take breakfast with him. His family resented being dragg
ed out of bed in what they considered the early hours, but he needed them. He didn’t like the loneliness of first light when he had no day’s work to anticipate and he dreaded periods of inactivity, as did all his friends and family.

  In the early days of the war such times were mercifully few. His home life was empty, as was his social life, his marriage was over and his friends were mostly overseas, there was no structure to his day when he was not on location. However all through 1942 all the studios wanted him and in that year he made five A-films, and two others were premiered. Each one consistently portrayed the philosophy of the “right of might in the just war.” He hoped they gave encouragement and hope, and in fact the power of the message he generated in his work then was awe-inspiring to a public craving comfort during dark times.

  The characters he played added to his personal image of dignity and strength. The fact that the reality was different seemed not to detract from them in the least and from a crisis that almost destroyed him as a man; the biggest star the world had ever seen was born. He found more than emotional relief in the enormous power and wealth that came his way as a result of his work. The world had suffered agonies and so had he, but just as it now began to emerge into a period of reconstruction, so too did John Wayne.

  Still he worried that the time was fast approaching when he would no longer be in demand. Once the war ended, and the big stars returned to their deserved heroes’ welcomes he fully expected to be thrown back onto Poverty Row and he planned for that time, earning as much as he could for as long as he could.

  But however hard he worked, however much he earned, it never seemed to make any difference, he still never had any cash, and despite earning millions of dollars during the war he remained insecure. Marlene Dietrich was horrified by his inability to handle his capital. He lived a simple life, was never flashy, but equally he took no care with money, spending it on anything or anybody that he felt was a worthy cause. He supported not only his estranged wife and four children but his brother, his mother and her new husband, his father and his new wife and her daughter.

  After his father’s death he continued to look after Florence and Nancy, who were accepted members of his family by then. He liked buying people presents and though he rarely went shopping he loved browsing through catalogues, choosing gifts for family and friends. He always picked up the tab whenever he was out drinking, often leaving a blank cheque behind the bar when he left so everyone else could continue drinking at his expense. He had perhaps been too generous a human being to ever have saved money. It had no meaning for him as a symbol of power, it was only for spending, and he enjoyed every penny he earned. He fell for every hard luck story and those who had ever helped him along the way when things had been tough were more than repaid now. Marlene estimated he spent millions on handouts to down and outs over the years. He lost further millions on the dubious investments and enterprises of friends. He was unable to say “no” to anyone. He never told anyone that he was giving his money away, and to a large extent he never knew himself where it disappeared to; all he knew was that he never seemed to have much in the bank.

  Marlene told him he needed a business manager and suggested Bo Roos, who handled many Hollywood star’s finances. Duke admitted, “I had tax problems like any other business. I had to bring my expenses into line with how much I was making. Roos wanted to put me on a budget, but I wouldn’t go for that. However he made a lot of sense and I trusted him.” He signed no contract, he rarely bothered to put pen to paper, a handshake was usually enough for him, and on the basis of that particular handshake, he handed over every penny he had made, and would make in the future, to a man he didn’t know. His money was invested in projects that interested Roos. Duke had little or no interest at all in what he did with his cash.

  The only investments he ever did find any interest in all happened to be in Mexico. Together they started going south on long business trips, Roos always at Duke’s expense. He spent much of his hard earned money in Mexico, but was also introduced to the country he fell in love with. He was so impressed with the interior landscape that when he started producing his own pictures he shot many of them there, rather than in America. He had been to the west coast many times with Coach of course and had always enjoyed it, but what he discovered across the border with Roos exactly suited his tastes. He began to holiday there regularly, particularly enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and the peaceful lifestyle he found. It was one of the only places he ever found real happiness; it was the one place he could sit back and relax, even rest a little. For two years he had worked with complete indifference to his health. He had pushed himself too hard, glad to be in such demand, and afraid to slow down. 1942 had seen the release of seven of his films, and by January 1943 he had not only exhausted everyone around him, he had wiped himself out too, which became evident when he collapsed on a film set and was rushed to hospital. Doctors told him he needed rest.

  Roos introduced him to many Mexican attractions, and primarily Esperanza Baur Diaz Ceballos, known to everyone as Chata. Roos cost Duke millions of dollars over the years, but Chata would cost him a whole lot more than that. John Wayne was no longer the inexperienced boy he had been when he fell in love with Josie, still it was a shame he had forgotten the words he had uttered so long before, “Why does no one ever tell you how much it hurts?” when he was first introduced to her. And as for Roos, most people went to great lengths to avoid his company, why had none of them warned him how much he could hurt either? His clients rarely liked him but unfortunately Duke did, and he had a disastrous tendency to trust anyone he liked.

  He had known of Roos from a time long before he had any money to manage. The accountant was a fringe member of The Yachting Association and he accepted him now as a kindred spirit, another heavy drinking and powerful man with several top Hollywood stars for clients. Duke dreaded a return to poverty and knew he had to start making some return on the capital he was now making. He trusted Roos, a man he could share a drink with, and unfortunately, as always with Duke, the first order of business was to have a little fun. Like all big stars he enjoyed and valued his time away from the public. Roos took his clients to Mexico to have fun; he always put the trips onto their accounts. In August 1941 Duke, Roos, Ray Milland, Fred MacMurray and Ward Bond went together to Mexico City on a business trip. Duke had been advised by his doctors to rest and he went along with the others only with the idea of relaxing. He felt too ill to join their partying.

  He planned to sit in the sun in Mexico, drink tequila and not even bother talking to anyone. He was worn out, and, for the time being at least, he intended to avoid women at all costs. When his friends tried to persuade him to go out with them they found him in anti-social mood, and he was furious with Roos when he was told he had to attend a function with them. He never stopped moaning that he would rather be anywhere than at a business lunch as he changed into a white suit. He felt obliged to go but when they entered the reception he hung back, dragging his heels, still complaining loudly, saying he wanted to go back to get some much-needed beauty sleep.

  Then he was introduced to Esperanza by Ray Milland. She was known locally as Chata, Spanish for “pugnose” but translated as “cutie.” Duke didn’t take any obvious notice of the dark, sultry woman gazing so intently at him. She was exotically beautiful, but that had more to do with her personality than physical perfection. She had bad skin which was covered with thick make-up. She had long black hair, and white teeth. When she laughed anything that wasn’t perfect seemed to vanish and as soon as she flashed the brilliant smile at Duke, he forgot his aching tiredness. She whispered to him in broken English that she was an actress. In fact she was a high class call-girl, born in the slums of Mexico City, and everything about her was blatantly sexual. She had noticed John Wayne the instant he walked in although she had been waiting at the bar for Milland who had already paid for her services for the evening. Chata lost interest in the man who had bought her, and she made sure she was seated next to Duke a
t lunch. Milland was furious with her and his long friendship with Duke was about to end abruptly. When they got back to Hollywood they never worked or socialized together again and they didn’t contact each other again until 1969, when Milland wrote to Duke to congratulate him on winning his Oscar for True Grit.

  Esperanza was instantly drawn to Duke. He fascinated her when he made no apparent move toward her. In fact of course he had taken note; as he had already pointed out on more than one occasion, he was just a normal red-blooded male. As they ate lunch he spoke to her in halting Spanish, and she was charmed by him. She knew all about John Wayne and had recently read an article about him saying how devoted he was to his wife and children! She had no reason to doubt the things she had read about him, particularly as he seemed polite but distant, even shy. In fact he and Josie had already been living separate lives for two years when he met Chata.

  Mary commented later, with a hint of bitterness, “In every man’s life there is a woman who other women do not understand. Chata was that woman in Duke’s life.” Almost immediately after their first meeting rumors began flying round Hollywood. Duke had heard about her past but, always the romantic at heart, he fictionalized and romanticized her. She told him about her childhood and he believed her when she told him with great sincerity that she wanted to put everything behind her. He didn’t care what had happened before he met her, and believed that a man in his position had no right to pass judgement on another human being.

  If he had been exhausted and irritable before meeting her he soon found his energy levels miraculously restored and his temper steadily improving as the trip took on a life of its own. Needless to say he didn’t follow doctor’s orders, and he didn’t get his much needed rest in Mexico. Like Marlene before, Chata satisfied his needs, and he felt blessed. He had fallen in love again and ten years later, when they were going through a messy public divorce, he still thought of her as the love of his life. She was mesmerized by him; while Milland had treated her as a possession, Duke was consistently courteous, kind and gentle. He treated her like he did all women. No one had ever put her on a pedestal before, she liked the way he made her feel. Everyone who saw them together, with the exception of the furious Milland, found the situation sweetly reminiscent of the scenes in Stagecoach where Ringo softly courted prostitute Dallas. Like Ringo, Duke only saw in Chata what he wanted to see. He needed her, and was overwhelmed by her. How easy she had been to love and he had been swept away on a tide of uncontrolled emotion. He couldn’t put her out of his mind, and Duke always had his obsession with Latin women, “I’m a guy who likes girls, all kinds of girls. No nation has a monopoly on beauty. But I consider the women of South and Central America to be unusually warm and lovely. They have a good feeling for family life - and so have I. I’ve always liked taking vacations in Mexico. I work so hard when I work. But down there they lose track of time. They know how to relax. Hell - when a guy is on vacation there he meets Mexican girls. I happen to like brunettes.”