Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  My mind went numb as an emergency crew arrived on the scene. Moments later, after the cloud had settled some, the crew’s frantic efforts to contain the damage and rescue the pilot were lost on me, too. I was in a sort of shock.

  Slowly, I turned to face Sam. “Frankie?”

  He nodded stiffly.

  “Hair-raising stuff, no? Lights, Farella.”

  Novara’s voice and the sudden brightness snapped me out of my trance. I blinked several times. How could he sound so flip? Frankie had been in that plane. Couldn’t he show some compassion?

  I fought to keep my composure. An emotional outburst now would almost certainly obliterate any future chance I had for steering the film in the way we wanted. Part of me hated Miss C for placing me in this den of goons, part of me was stirring with the challenge of outsmarting them.

  “What do you think, Derrick?” Novara asked Colonel Brody. He gave a heh-heh, then added, “That clip could put a little samba in your flick, don’t you think?”

  I cringed.

  Brody turned to his sidekick. “What do you think, Lieutenant? Can we use it?”

  Lieutenant Rask, elbows on the armrests of his seat, his chin resting on the peak of his hands, folded steeple style, thought a moment. “Uh-huh,” he replied at last, straightening up in his chair. “And don’t toss the piece with the gal sobbing. I want that, too.”

  I clenched my fists. They wanted the clip of Frankie coming out of the hangar, crying? Why? And how exactly were they planning to use the scene with her crashing?

  It was the kind of thing Miss C feared most.

  Major Beacock was first to leave; the technical crew followed. Brody and Rask lingered in front, talking with Novara, while Sam and I hovered near the door. Sam had offered to do the honors in finessing the overdue introduction between Novara and myself.

  After a while, a tall and well-built Lieutenant Rask wandered our way. My gaze veered to his face and I was struck once more by his strong and handsome features.

  I straightened my shoulders. Stop it, Pucci. Good-looking or not, Rask was out to hurt Frankie, destroy the WASP program.

  Rask, smiling his easy smile, put out his hand to Sam. “Hey, Sam.”

  They shook hands, then Rask turned to me. My sensibility gave way.

  “What are you going to do with the crash scene?” I demanded. “Attack our safety record? Ridicule our flying ability? And, what’s with wanting that clip of Frankie coming out of the hangar blotting her eyes? Sobbing, you called it. You want to show how emotional women pilots are? Make a statement about how cry babies shouldn’t be trusted with our military’s valued planes?”

  Rask lost the smile. “Easy, lady. Shhh.” His tone was soothing, the kind one used when trying to calm an animal or a small child. “You’re a little quick on the draw. Maybe you’ll find a beef with how Novara plans on using those shots, but my intent is honorable.”

  I didn’t like his placating tone, I didn’t like the amusement in his eyes, and I didn’t believe for moment he could distinguish an honorable intent from a hole in the ground.

  “Oh sure,” I spouted, before I could get my lips clamped shut again.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Pucci, say hello to Gunnar Rask. Gunnar, Pucci Lewis.”

  Gunnar, how appropriate. Aerial combat photographers recorded the enemy forces in action—showing their tactics and type of equipment used—as well as Allied raids on enemy installations. But they didn’t just shoot film. They were also required to man a waist gun on missions.

  I nodded, coolly ignoring the hand Gunnar offered. There was an awkward silence as his hand hung mid-air.

  Sam gave me a pleading look. “Gunnar’s okay, Pucci.”

  Reluctantly, I reached out and gave the hand a limp shake.

  Gunnar, an amused smile on his face, acted as though everything were hunky dory. “You’re one spunky gal, aren’t you?” He glanced over at Sam. “Did you tell her about my injury?” Sam nodded. Gunnar turned back to me. “Just the right ear’s bad; other one’s fine.”

  I was still fuming but I had to appreciate the way he was handling things. I was also mesmerized by his eyes. They were a gorgeous shade of gray-blue, like a sky at dusk.

  I blinked, dismissing the distraction.

  “Funny thing is,” Gunnar was saying, “the eardrum was already damaged. Result of some high fevers and infections when I was a kid.”

  “And you passed your induction physical?” Sam asked. “How’d you do it?”

  Gunnar gave a sly wink. “There are ways. Actually, a punctured eardrum is not that big of a deal. Did you know that Stuka pilots intentionally perforate their eardrums?”

  What a sad sack. Was he trying to impress me? First he’d called attention to his hearing to be sure I knew the heroics behind how it’d been damaged, now he wanted us to think he had something in common with Stuka pilots, the terror of the Eastern front. Stukas were highly maneuverable dive bombers. For psychological effect, they were fitted with a wind-driven siren to enhance the natural scream of their high speed maniacal attacks. Some thought the pilots fearless, I thought them crazed.

  “Why deliberately poke a hole in your ear?” Sam asked.

  My eyes swung to Sam’s face. What a disappointment. He seemed genuinely interested.

  The corners of Gunnar’s mouth turned up a little. “Some brainy someone figured out that equalization of air pressure occurs through the perforation. Without the pain and distraction of pressure on the eardrum—or, worse, a mid-air rupture—they’re able to concentrate more intently on what they’re doing during a dive.”

  Part of the swagger associated with Stuka pilots was their ability to withstand the inevitable blackouts caused by the intense centrifugal pressure of their steep pullouts. I hadn’t heard about the deliberate eardrum piercings, but I wasn’t surprised.

  “But now the ear is bad enough to keep me stateside,” he added. “On the bright side, I discovered I could transfer what I knew behind the camera to film editing and still do my part.”

  “Gunnar’s developed a knack for splicing actual footage into studio-made training sequences, Pucci,” Sam said. “He’s absolutely the best when it comes to cutting deadly realism into what otherwise might be a mind-numbing piece. What he does grabs a soldier’s attention. Helps get him to do his job right, first time.”

  “No room for second-guessing when it comes to air warfare,” Gunnar added, solemnly.

  I nodded in agreement. But we’d veered off track. “Your intentions regarding Frankie’s crash clip? Can we get back to that?”

  “We’re doing a short training piece to demonstrate a new foam that’s come out for extinguishing fires. We need to show what the foam can do and how to use the new equipment necessary to apply it. Preparing ground crews saves lives, too, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.” I was being deliberately vague. The cause might be worthy, but I wasn’t convinced our WASP reputation, or Frankie’s, wouldn’t somehow suffer as a result of his creative efforts. Who could blame me after what I’d just witnessed on the screen?

  The door swooshed open and the projectionist entered the theater to speak with Novara. He waited while Novara wrapped things up with Colonel Brody.

  An awkward silence hung over our threesome.

  “How ’bout I give you a tour of the cutting room?” Gunnar suggested finally. “You really should see for yourself how we’ll use the crash clip. I could show you a couple of other instructional pieces that could use its boost, too.”

  Just what I was afraid of. Monitoring the additional ad hoc uses they’d find for the segment would be impossible. Still, why pass up a chance, no matter how slim, to influence how it would be used?

  “That’d be swell. When?”

  His reply had to wait.

  “Watch your flank,” Sam whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  I turned as Novara, adjusting his cravat, swaggered up to me.

  “May I?
” he asked, stopping nearly toe-to-toe with me.

  Not bothering to wait for my reply, he lifted my chin with his fingers, angling my face this way and that. “Porcelain skin, good cheekbones, nose…hmm, bump on the bridge.” I cringed under the spray of a surprise raspberry. “And, what pray tell, happened to the hair?”

  I gave Novara’s hand a firm shove.

  Sam, who must have been a diplomat in another life, jumped in with introductions. “Roland, say hello to Pucci Lewis. She’s here to fill in for Frankie Beall.”

  Novara looked at my pilot’s wings. “Who?”

  He knew, the phony. I fought to keep my voice and tone level, matter-of-fact. “Frankie Beall. The pilot who was flying the A-24 up there on the screen.” I clenched my teeth against tagging on: The human being in critical condition, you insensitive louse.

  “Right. Well, the timing’s piss-poor. Clark Gable’s gonna be here in just two days to do the voice-over for an OCS recruiting film. I’ve got to have a rough cut ready. We haven’t even started shooting yet. Cochran be damned. That’s my priority. You’ll have to get in line.”

  I thought fast. “There must be something I can be doing in the interim. You only got a few seconds of target towing in the can, right? What about reshooting the sequence?”

  I swallowed hard. It was a desperate offer. I’d only towed target once. Afterwards, I’d vowed to dodge the duty if ever asked again. But if Novara had a new segment on target towing, he wouldn’t need to use the one he had—the one with Frankie’s accident—right?

  Novara’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Hmm…maybe. Film could use a few more flying scenes.”

  No kidding.

  Novara’s follow-on thoughts snowballed. “Cochran said you’re a ferry pilot, that right?”

  I gave a wary nod. He turned to Sam. “We haven’t shot the ferrying sequence yet, eh, Sam?”

  Sam nodded. Novara glanced back to me. “Okey dokey then, Lewis. Talk to the boys out at March. Set up another target towing shoot. And while you’re at it, try to finagle one of their fancy fighters or bombers, would you?”

  Before I could respond, he pulled a pocket watch from a trouser pocket. “Gotta dash. We’ll get a film crew out there once you’ve got everything locked up. Keep in touch.”

  A small sigh of relief escaped my lips as he headed for the door. We hadn’t locked horns, he’d been receptive to refilming the target towing segment, and I’d been given some responsibility. Not a bad start for a rube!

  Quick as my optimism blossomed, it withered.

  At the door, Novara turned. Eyes narrowed, he shot me an even look. “The crash segment stays.”

  Sam and I stood in silence for a moment, watching the heavy door inch shut.

  During the time Sam and I were engaged with Novara, Gunnar had been locked in a private confab with Colonel Brody standing a few paces away.

  “Might be useful for you to meet Brody,” Sam said softly. “Want to stay an extra minute or two?”

  I nodded. The wait gave me a chance to observe the colonel more closely.

  Lieutenant Colonel Derrick Brody had a wiry build, and thin, dark hair that was graying and receding. His disposition seemed to work off of Gunnar’s. While he talked, the colonel, as though animated by a force of nervous energy, sliced the air with his hands and his body shifted constantly. Gunnar on the other hand remained silent, hands crossed over his midriff, his head angled toward Brody, as though using the stoic exterior and the occasional nod to deflect the tension Brody threw off.

  When we were at last being formally introduced and shaking hands, I noticed that Colonel Brody had self-manicured fingernails, chewed to the quick. Brody clasped his hands behind him almost before I’d let go.

  “Your boss’ husband, Floyd Odlum, is a friend of mine. Invested in one of my pictures a while back.” He rose up and down on the balls of his feet a few times. “Got another one coming up I’d like him to consider.”

  Before I could formulate a reply he’d unclasped his hands and begun edging toward the door. “Well, men,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth between Gunnar and Sam, “there’s work to be done. Sam, don’t forget we’re meeting with the OWI rep this afternoon, after lunch. Wilma Wallace. She’s got ideas for improving the script.” He stuck his index finger inside his shirt collar and whisked the back of his neck. “’Fraid you’ll be doing some tinkering afterwards.”

  Sam’s top lip curled in a surly manner, but if he had a notion of objecting, he dropped it. He adjusted his glasses. “’Course I’ll be there. No problem.”

  “Good.” Brody placed his hand on the door.

  “I have some free time this afternoon,” I interjected hastily. “Miss Cochran, uhm, Mrs. Odlum, would be grateful, I think, if you’d let me attend your conference. I’ve got lots to learn and the experience, I’m sure, would be ideal.” I gave him an imploring look but expected the Odlum name had already worked its magic.

  The colonel’s eyes met mine for the first time since we were introduced. “Sure. Why not?”

  With a shove to the door, he made his exit. Gunnar, following in his wake, assured me he’d be in touch soon regarding my editing room tour. “The flower’s a nice touch,” he said smiling at me before the door could close.

  Chapter Three

  Sam left the theater with me.

  “You were smooth in there with Brody,” he burbled.

  Sam’s buoyancy surprised me. I looked up into his face. He was staring back at me with truly flattering appreciation. My face got warm under his gaze, and I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Figured it was too good an opportunity to miss. And, if I didn’t invite myself, who would?”

  Sam returned the smile. “Me. If I’d thought of it. But good for you. I like the way you asserted yourself. Just like Frankie—” He started to smile, but this time the effort seemed too great. His expression turned suddenly glum. So glum, I nearly reached over to pat his arm.

  “Where you heading now?” Sam asked.

  “Base orientation.” I grimaced.

  “Ugh.” Sam chuckled. “Say, how ’bout I walk over with you?”

  “I have a car, but it’s parked near Stage 5. Think it’d be quicker to hoof it?” The lot, I’d noticed, was more active than when we’d entered the rushes theater earlier.

  “Definitely. Things tend to heat up this time of day.”

  Sam wasn’t referring to the weather, though even by Los Angeles standards it was balmy for early November. Balmy enough for the oversized doors of a nearby Quonset building to be left wide open. An invisible buzz saw screamed, seasoning the air with pine. I looked around, orienting myself and trying to determine in which direction to head.

  Sam noted my momentary confusion. “Seriously, I’d like to escort you. My office is near headquarters anyway.”

  At that, hand at my elbow, he began steering me along a broad street dividing the sound stages. We strolled past the Shop Building, a sprawling garage-like structure with tall doors and walls of paned glass windows. A soldier carrying a faux section of brick wall rounded the corner. We ducked sideways to avoid becoming part of the set.

  Sam’s eyes filled with concern. “You all right?”

  I laughed and assured him I was. “Can’t help it, but I’m half-expecting that the next corridor we take we’ll see Laurel chasing Hardy with a cream pie.”

  Sam laughed and began steering me again.

  “I hear Ronald Reagan is base personnel officer.”

  Sam nodded. “Uh-huh, but I don’t think you’ll meet the lieutenant. At least not today. Bumped into him leaving his office earlier this morning. Off to the recording studio.”

  Sam chatted it up with Reagan? I tried to sound casual. “Another Recognition picture?”

  I’d seen Recognition of the Japanese Zero Fighter, starring Reagan, a year ago. The film had been rushed into production because the Zero and the P-40 look so much alike—practically indistinguishable
at 1,000 yards—that some of our boys in the air and on the ground were shooting down their own buddies. Up until then, I’d only been exposed to uninspiring nuts and bolts training shorts. But this had been like watching a big screen feature with Reagan playing a U.S. flier who nearly downs a colleague’s plane after misidentifying it.

  “Nah, Reagan’s not being cast in instructional films any more. Base commander decided he’s too famous a face.”

  “Too famous? But the movie was effective. No more reports of confusion after its release.”

  Sam shrugged. “I’m just a lowly scribe. And for the duration, Reagan is Fort Roach Personnel. No cushy job. Post roster’s up to nearly a thousand men. He’s still called up to do the occasional voice-over though. Like this morning.”

  An Army transport truck barreled toward us. Sam, gripping my elbow, herded me to one side. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have put up with a man nudging me this way and that. While some women considered the gesture gentlemanly, I thought it patronizing. But I let it go. Other matters were pressing in on me, like my initial meeting with Novara and the growing awareness that I was operating in an industry completely foreign to me.

  The truck, an Army six-by-six, roared past, its warm slipstream washing over my face. I stared. The tarp closure was open in back and two soldiers sat opposite one another on side benches. Their uniforms were that nasty field-grey color we’d all come to despise—not khaki; on their heads, the distinctive coal-scuttle helmets. What was this? Two Nazi prisoners of war being transported to some desert prison camp?

  Something fired them up. They stood—displaying more of their offensive German-issue outfits, complete with belts, daggers, and tall black boots. They shook knotted fists. Angry guttural curses spewed from their ugly twisted mouths.

  Shocked, I turned to Sam. He was laughing. My gaze whipped back to the truck. It was nearly out of sight, but I could see the Nazis laughing too.

  “Couple of writer pals,” Sam said. “Real cut-ups. Must have been recruited as extras over at MGM. A top-secret project’s being shot on a special set over there.”