Edge of Valor (46 page)
Authors: John J. Gobbell
23 November 1945
Church of the Good Shepherd, Beverly Hills, California
S
ix crossed swords formed an archway outside the Church of the Good Shepherd. At the head of the detail was Jerry Landa's best man, Cdr. Todd Ingram. Across from Ingram was Rear Adm. Theodore R. “Rocko” Myszynski, commander, Destroyer Forces, Pacific Area. Standing beside Ingram was Cdr. Oliver P. Toliver III, an old friend stemming back to their Corregidor days, now with the Office of Naval Intelligence. Flashing his sword across from Toliver was Cdr. Howard Endicott, commodore of Destroyer Division 77.2. Beside Endicott was Lt. Cdr. Eldon P. White, recently appointed permanent commanding officer of the USS
Maxwell
, to Landa's apparent chagrin.
Across from White was Lt. Walter M. Tothe, the bug-eyed operations officer of DESRON 77 and Landa's personal punching bag. Tothe, a ninety-day wonder, had made the mistake of saying he knew the drill for crossed swords. Their practice in the parking lot, however, looked more like a Keystone Cops short than a proper crossed-swords ceremony.
At that point GySgt. Ulysses Gaylord Harper, resplendent in his Marine Corps dress blues, stepped up and bellowed, “Gentlemen! If you'll allow me?” In less than five minutes Harper had the bemedaled sextet drawing their swords smartly and crossing them with precision at a 45-degree angle. When Harper was satisfied, Myszynski exhaled loudly and said, “Looks like we'll be okay as long as we don't stab each other.”
The sword detail, beautifully turned out in dress whites, slipped out of the wedding mass five minutes early to be ready when the newly joined Captain and Mrs. Jerome Landa burst through the Church of the Good Shepherd's double doors. The crowd poured out behind and cheered as the Landas passed through the glittering ceremonial arch on their way to a midnight blue 1939 Brunn body Packard cabriolet parked on Santa Monica Boulevard. Their job complete, the detail returned their swords to their scabbards with precision and remained at attention.
Radioman First Class Leo Pirelli stood at attention at the Packard's rear door. The cheering crowd pressed in, showering the bride and groom with rice as they eased through the throng.
“Hut,” snapped Harper.
Pirelli yanked open the Packard's door and, with the panache of a vaudeville actor, bowed, whipped off his white hat, and waved them inside. Dark looks caromed among the sword detail. Ingram and Harper slapped hands over their eyes.
Tubby White said conversationally, “Last one in's a rotten egg.”
Pirelli slammed the door closed and snapped to attention. The car started and the crowd roared as the Packard pulled away, with Landa clearly visible in the rear window kissing his wife.
At the behest of Maestro Arturo Toscanini, Roberta Thatcher, the business manager of the NBC Symphony Orchestra, had been placed in charge of the Landa-West wedding arrangements. Among other things she had arranged for the rental of the Packard, along with the driver, five-foot two-inch Augusto de la Torre, scion of an Argentine road-racing family and now a leading stunt man at Twentieth CenturyâFox.
De la Torre pulled the Packard smartly away from the curb as the bride and groom were locked in an embrace in the backseat. The diminutive driver was barely visible above the windscreen of the enormous car, even though he was perched on a thick Los Angeles white pages phone directory. Hunched behind the wheel of the enormous Packard, Augusto was supposed to tell his passengers about the champagne in a bucket on the floor, but the two ignored him as they embraced, the only sound the rustling of her off-white satin gown.
“Hell with it,” muttered Augusto. He punched the button and raised the privacy window between the driver and the main compartment. Then he goosed the Packard's throttle, tooted his horn, and waved. Immediately, four Beverly Hills Police motorcycle officers roared into place before the Packard with wailing sirens and flashing red lights. Augusto hit the accelerator and popped the clutch, unleashing all 175 horses of the Packard's mighty V-12 engine. He roared up right behind the police, leaving behind a heavy cloud of blue smoke that drifted over the crowd and pitching Captain and Mrs. Landa against the backseat. The screeching sirens and red lights parted a path through the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard for the Packard. A ragged wedding entourage followed, honking their horns and ignoring other cars and angry drivers shaking their fists.
Following the police, the cabriolet swooped right on North Roxbury Drive, its gears whining as Augusto stomped it, heading toward Carmelita Avenue. At forty miles an hour, Augusto downshifted and turned right on Carmelita, throwing his passengers across the seat against the left panel.
Landa yelled, “Hey!” But the window was up. Landa could barely see Augusto's head.
“It's all right, Jerry,” Laura laughed. “Oh, look,” she squealed, trying to distract him, “look at that house, just what we wanted.”
Ignoring the two-story Mediterranean-style villa, Landa fumed, “I survived a war for this? Where's the damned . . .” He fumbled for the microphone. The Packard flew along Carmelita, madly downshifting for stop signs. De la Torre and his escort “rolled” each of the intersections, bottomed through dips, and jerked into second gear before slowing again. Suddenly Augusto shoved in the clutch and jazzed the throttle, the top of his head tilting toward the left.
“Shiiiiit. Hold on, honey.” Landa grabbed Laura just as Augusto downshifted, braked, and cut left onto North Crescent Drive. Bride and groom ended up in a heap against the right side of the compartment as the cabriolet followed the motorcycles up magnolia-lined North Crescent, their sirens ripping at the sundrenched Southern California afternoon.
At Sunset Boulevard the entourage jumped the red traffic signal and zipped over the equestrian path, ignoring riders who had been stopped by police five minutes earlier. With great panache, Augusto again downshifted to second gear and ascended the sweeping driveway of the Beverly Hills Hotel. With the skill of a jeweler cutting a twenty-carat diamond, Augusto de la Torre eased the Packard to a graceful halt at the hotel's entrance.
Landa tapped on the window.
It eased down.
Landa snarled, “Hey, pal.”
Augusto turned with a bright smile. “Welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel, Admiral. And congratulations to you both.”
Landa said, “You ever decide to join the Navy I'll have you cleaning latrines and bilges.”
“Oh, no, no, no, Admiral. I will drive your speedboats,” he said, white teeth flashing in a smile to rival Landa's.
“PT boats,” corrected Landa.
“SÃ. PT boats. They are the same.”
A uniformed doorman opened the car door and took Laura's hand. “Captain and Mrs. Landa, welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She stepped out into an explosion of reporters and popping flashbulbs.
Landa drummed his fingers for a moment, then caught Augusto's eye. “I'll keep it in mind. From time to time, we do need good PT boat drivers.”
“You make me U.S. citizen?”
“We can do that too.” Landa got out.
Captain and Mrs. Landa stood at the head of a reception line before the double-door entrance to the Grand Ballroom. Laura looked beautiful in her off-white wedding dress; Landa countered with his glittering Pepsodent smile.
Invitations had gone out to four hundred people, and it seemed to Landa that all and perhaps more had shown up, including more than one hundred
officers and men from the ships of DESRON 77, now moored in Long Beach. Both sets of parents were dead, so Maestro Toscanini had given away the bride at the wedding. Now Toscanini had stationed himself beside Laura in the receiving line, introducing guests to her. Landa retaliated by posting Rocko Myszynski on Toscanini's left to introduce the U.S. Navy guests to him. The line began with Todd and Helen on Myszynski's left. Waiters carrying silver platters flitted along the reception line offering champagne and light hors d'oeuvres. Roberta Thatcher paced behind, checking her watch and keeping things moving with military precision.
Most of the guests had gone through the line when Helen turned to her husband and asked, “Can you believe all this schmaltz?”
“It's not over yet.” Ingram nodded to a tall, distinguished-looking man with a mustache, waiting to take her hand.
“Hello.” Helen gave a broad smile as the man took her hand and kissed it in grand European fashion. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ingram. And welcome to my hotel.”
Helen laughed. “Your hotel?” Her tone was “Ah, come on.”
He clicked his heels and said, “Hernando Courtright at your service, madam.” Again he kissed her hand and looked deep into her eyes. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make this special event better for you.” Then Courtright shook Ingram's hand. “You are most fortunate, Captain, to have such a beautiful wife.”
“And you have a beautiful hotel, Mr. Courtright. Thanks for letting us be here.”
Courtright bowed again. “It's the least I can do for our victorious sailors of the Pacific war. Thank you for all that you have done.” Courtright moved on to shake Myszynski's hand.
Helen turned pale and mouthed, “I'm sorry.”
Landa grinned.
The next three guests were friends of Toscanini's, their gathering a rarity. First was Dimitri Tiomkin and his wife, Rose. Tiomkin was a Ukrainian who had found his way to Hollywood in the 1920s. Laura whispered to Helen Ingram that Tiomkin was an up-and-coming musician who had written the scores for
Lost Horizon
and
The Bridge of San Luis Rey
.
After the Tiomkins came thirty-eight-year-old Miklós Rózsa, a Hungarian who had moved to the United States in the 1930s. Laura whispered behind the admiral's back to Helen that Rózsa had just scored the movies
Double Indemnity
and
Spellbound
using on the latter a revolutionary instrument called a theremin.
“A what?” whispered Helen.
“A theremin. You know, spooky music that makes your hair stand on end.”
“Spooky?”
“Scares the daylights out of you.”
“Oh.” Helen wasn't sure she wanted to be scared that badly. But when she glanced again at Rózsa she saw embers in his dark eyes.
Ferde Grofé and his wife, Ruth, were next. Toscanini and the NBC Symphony Orchestra had just performed Grofé's
Grand Canyon Suite
in Carnegie Hall with Grofé in attendance. “I think MGM flew him out here to score a movie,” Laura said to Helen, adding, “You know, the maestro, the Tiomkins, and Rózsa are all refugees from Communist or Nazi countries.”
To the other guests the three musicians were formal and congenial if rather stiff. But with Toscanini they were jocular and loud with a lot of handshaking and backslapping.
When everyone had been properly greeted, the reception line moved into the crowded ballroom to join the guests enjoying drinks and light music. The Landas were chatting with Todd and Helen Ingram and Rocko Myszynski and his wife when Roberta Thatcher walked up and took Laura's elbow. Roberta was a slender woman more than six feet tall with blue-gray eyes and silver-blonde hair pulled back severely into a bun. Her tortoiseshell glasses muted the fact that she had been a knockout in her younger years.
“What?” demanded Laura.
“Honey, your face is falling.”
“That bad?”
“Just a quick re-do before you go on.”
“Okay.” Laura smiled at the Myszynskis and followed Roberta to the ladies' room. Helen trailed behind. At Toscanini's behest, Roberta had arranged for a makeup professional to attend the bride. Lorraine Simonds of Twentieth CenturyâFox waited for them in the ladies' room. Laura sat before a large mirror while Lorraine fussed and spritzed, a long Pall Mall dangling from her lips.
Roberta paced back and forth. “We're ten minutes behind schedule.”
Laura stood and held up a hand mirror. “Who cares?”
“I do,” replied Roberta. She stooped before Laura and smoothed her wedding dress. “I must say you look wonderful.”
“I feel wonderful.”
“I'm very proud of you.”
