"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald (22 page)

Rosselli had particularly appreciated the hand held camera-work and sudden, abrupt editing style. Apparently, this approach had been done on purpose in
Breathless
, borrowed from the unique style Johnny Handsome initiated at
Mascot
and
Monogram
twenty years earlier. That incidentally had been what Johnny's friend meant when he mentioned this film had been dedicated to Rosselli if indirectly: before the story started, the frog, a guy named Godard, paid tribute in a title card to those lowest of the
companies. Their output had been considered so much junk—many critics didn't even bother to pay these pictures the respect of reviewing them
negatively
—when the little films were initially released. So now, they are ... what ... considered art? More influential on movies yet to come during the Sixties than respected big pictures from the likes of Warner Bros. and MGM?

Jeez! What goes around really does come around.

In Johnny's case, he hadn't had his crews film in such a manner owing to any desire to create a radical directorial style in defiance of a more sedate old Hollywood order. The case had been more simple and reality-bound: mostly, they couldn't afford tripods. Even when the Poverty Row filmmakers had them, there wasn't enough time to set the cameras on the devices, so tight were the shooting schedules. As to the ‘aesthetics' of editing back then, this did not derive from an experimental artist's desire to break the rules, only the necessity of stitching a story together from bits and pieces of film.

The French guy who wrote and directed this new flick had obviously, in his impressionable youth, seen and adored the ones Rosselli and his gang haphazardly created; today, yesterday's lowbrow junk had been transformed into tomorrow's high art.

When the show let out, Rosselli placed a call to Bryan Foy, oldest son of the showbiz legend Eddie Foy, one of his famed Seven Little Foys in vaudeville days. It was Foy who, as an indie producer, had helped Johnny get started in the business, before word reached Rosselli from Al Capone in Chicago to get to the Windy City fast, his unique services required at once.

Foy got a charge out of hearing about the tribute, then shared some good news of his own. If this Jack Kennedy guy won the upcoming presidential election, Foy would get to co-produce a movie about JFK's wartime experiences to be titled
PT-109.

“Alright, marines:
Saddle up!
Let's get back into this war.”

—John Wayne as ‘Sergeant Stryker'

in
Sands of Iwo Jima
(1949)

 

“Hello, fellas. I'm John Wayne! Pleased t' meet ya.”

Momentarily, Lee believed he might be hearing things. Perhaps too many hours of mess duty scrambled his mind as Lee prepared eggs others would consume. To keep from going mad owing to the dull daily duty, the only work he'd been assigned since his outfit disembarked on Corregidor a week and a half earlier, during the pre-dawn darkness of January 15, 1958, L.H.O. applied arch rationality to turn drudgery into a game. ‘Ozzie' devised a unique system, inserting one side of the large rectangular hand trays under bubbling eggs on the grill, flipping this concoction high into the air, catching everything as it fell back down without spilling a drop.

John Wayne? Here? I'm losing it! Maybe somebody dragged a TV set into the bombed-out WWII-era hospital we employ as our mess? I didn't know there was one on the island but ...

From his position in the adjoining kitchen where Lee had been supervising clean-up following morning meal, he slipped out the rear screen-door, ambling around to get a look inside the cavernous building. Incredible but true, the greatest movie star ever (the only exception, at least for Lee, Frank Sinatra) stood in its center, all 6' 5 ¾" of him, smiling graciously.

Yup. Hard as it was to believe, John Wayne held court to the delight of about thirty marines, mostly officers. The Duke jauntily shook hands with one after another. The majority made an attempt to present themselves with some
semblance of normalcy in spite of this sudden happy shock to the system. Those still seated were uncertain as to whether they should rise in the presence of Hollywood
royalty. Wayne would have none of
that
. Motioning for the boys to remain where ever they were he would humbly come around from table to table.

“Hello, marine. Great t' meet ya.” Those majestic, world-weary eyes made clear Big John meant every word he said.

The star had never been a member of the military. Not even when others among Hollywood's living legends rushed to enlist in 1941. Wayne confined his fighting to the silver screen. A wide gallery of glorious portraits established him as the ultimate movie symbol of American patriotism.

“Hello, Duke. The pleasure's all ours!”

One marine hurried up with a breakfast tray. Wayne politely thanked the fellow, sitting down randomly beside two officers.

“Well, I'll tell you,” Wayne explained when one asked how he happened to be here, “I was flying overhead, in a copter on my way to a location shoot for
The Barbarian and the Geisha
, when I realized: that's Corregidor below. I'd always wanted to visit the island since ... oh, I don't know, ten years now ... I did a film set there,
Back to Bataan
. Shot in Hollywood, as we mostly did it back then. Ever since, I wanted to visit.”

Everyone smiled and nodded, reiterating their admiration and appreciation. This was something each would tell his kids about. Their grandchildren, too, if they lived that long.

Part of Lee burned to step in, head on over, introduce himself. Mention he'd prepared the food, hoped Mr. Wayne enjoyed it. Explain that he, Lee Oswald, worshipped the ground Wayne walked on. Yet he held back, hovering in the doorway as others took advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The problem was, the other marines knew Lee not as the super-patriot he was but as the communist sympathizer, according to Lee's “legend,” he performed at all hours of the day. What if one said something to The Duke about Ozzie being the squadron's Soviet Fifth Columnist? Why, Wayne might slap him around, as he had done to more than one commie in his 1952 film
Big Jim McLain
.

If Lee were to say, ‘Oh, how I loved
Hondo
!' others might realize that what Lee offered was nothing but a created character. Everything he and George had developed could be lost.

I'm wearing only a T-shirt, whereas the men in there look natty in uniform. I don't smell so good. So near, so far ...

“Hey, Mrs. Oswald. What's a matter? Not man enough to go on in and say ‘hi' to John Wayne?”

Lee turned to see Perry Sommers hulking behind him, flashing the nastiest grin he could muster. Sommers rudely brushed by, purposefully banging against the slender marine.

That's it. The final straw. A man can take only so much!

*

Lee had hated Corregidor from the moment the marines first landed. Almost every waking hour was spent on mess duty while others set up a radar command post, spending free time swimming or sunbathing. Even George could not, from behind the scenes, do anything about that. This bored Lee worse than the routine in Atsugi, where he had been assigned to stare into Crystal Balls. That was their nickname for radarscopes, the basic equipment for men assigned to this specialty. Every radio communication from base to a flyer had to be carefully monitored. Their duty was to oversee the area stretching from the South China Sea to Korea and ascertain that things above remained normal.

If any questionable plane, perhaps a MIG flown by some Red Chinese pilot, was spotted, popping up first as a dark glitch, this followed by a loud beeping sound, Lee alerted the Tactical Air Control Center at Iwakuni. Moments later, interceptor jets would take off to head-on meet any potential threat.

All had not been easy there, however. Perry Sommers was the catalyst for friction between Lee and the others. Relentlessly, Sommers questioned Lee as to his status: “Still our ‘cherry virgin?'” In response Lee grinned, saying nothing.

Mostly, in situations involving Lee with the squad members, including those who treated him with respect, he remained mum as to his personal life. Which only piqued their interest.

On other issues, Lee proved to be the most talkative guy around. He would leap whole-hog into rap sessions on movies or music. When talk turned to politics, Lee would suddenly tear off on a tirade against the American right wing.

Most bizarre were those occasions when the marine called Oswald the Rabbit would transform himself into an imitation of an even more famous cartoon bunny. At odd, unexpected intervals, Lee would step into their work-bubble and shout, “What's up, Doc?” Some marines began referring to him as Bugs.

Initially, Lee laughed along with them. Things took an ugly turn when Sommers, having appointed himself Lee's nemesis, decided that “Mrs. Oswald” ought to be his new identity.

*

“We gotta get you laid,” Gator Daniels announced
two days later. By ‘we' he referred to himself and two other marines who had befriended L.H.O. These were Gordy Wilkins, an upstate New York native whose sophisticated views were obvious whenever he spoke, and Wilkins' foil, Zack Stout, a lovable rube from the heartlands who joined the Corps less owing to patriotism than boredom. As for Gator, he had wrestled with the beasts deep in
the Everglades since childhood. They were the four musketeers, Lee functioning as the innocent young D'Artagnan.

Oswald and Gator constituted the unlikeliest of odd couples. They first became chummy while crossing over from California to Hawaii aboard USS
Bexar
. That transport departed San Diego on August 21, 1957. Assumed by most onboard to be a moronic giant, Gator-—who had never even heard of chess—was impressed that Ozzie, the undisputed champion, would take time out from reading his latest favorite,
Leaves of Grass
, to teach this supposed Neanderthal how to play.

Lee's initial fear of another betrayal proved unfounded, as he would soon discover. Not only did Gator turn out to be a true friend; he also happened to be as innately intelligent as Lee. Gator's ignorance was due to an upbringing in which he'd barely been taught to read and write. Though Gator's language remained modest and crude, his thoughts at last began to take shape.

“Y'know, Lee, yer right. This Marx makes some sense.”

Following a brief stay, The
Bexar
left Hawaii and continued on to Japan, arriving there during the first week of September. As all the men learned upon arrival at Atsugi, directly across the rice fields from the base, several night clubs beckoned to marines when they secured passes. There they could enjoy liquor, gambling, and the flesh of Asian ‘hostesses'.

“Whether you partake or not,” a lieutenant explained, “is your business. Understand this: under no circumstances should you talk with any of the girls about anything that occurs on base. Most of them are precisely what they appear to be; whores who want only your money. On the other hand, one in a hundred is a spy for the Reds. It's impossible to tell these apart from others who hope to trade their bodies for American dollars.”

Initially, Lee let on that he was too shy to go along when his buddies headed out. Radical politics aside, Lee remained an old-fashioned moralist who didn't approve of giving in to one's vices. Sommers stirred the others up against Lee. If at first the term “cherry virgin” (now applying only to Lee's ”legend,” not his secret self, thanks to Honey and other willing teachers) irked Lee, his nemesis pumped up the volume on his harassment.

“The problem with Mrs. Oswald ain't that he's a cherry virgin. It's that he don't wanna do nothin' about it.”

Why do some men assume I'm a queer? A cherry virgin is bad enough. Until not so long ago, that's what I was. But how does that translate into homosexual? Why would they suspect me?

I've been with Sara, the best-looking woman on this base. Honey, the Mob's dream girl. A Marilyn Monroe look-alike. If only I could tell them ...

Funny, as this is what I wanted for so long. Keep a veil between me and everyone else. Now, I'd love to tell all. The real L.H.O. is not only a highly accomplished cocks-man but has bedded some of the most beautiful women in the world.

Yet that must remain secret, the legend—based on the L.H.O. I once was—accepted by all as my reality.

Oh! The
irony
of it all ...

*

Perhaps the ugliest moment for Lee occurred shortly before Christmas. Marguerite had sent him a Care Package filled with assorted goodies. What Lee most appreciated were the red and white holiday candies, round little suckers that tasted like candy canes. Minding his business, Lee sat on a bunk, sorting them for himself and friends. Sommers happened by and, with a ham-like fist, smashed them into bits. Lee snapped.

“You bastard. You no good freakin' son of a bitch!”

As Sommers attempted to force Lee into a corner, Lee's giant of a protector hurried over. “You wanna hit Ozzie,” Gator howled, coming up from behind and slugging Sommers hard on the spine, “why not start with me, you friggin‘ prick?”

Once recovered, Sommers quickly backed off, trying to make light of the whole thing. “Hey, Gator, I was just joshin'—”

“Josh with
me
,” Gator continued, closing in, Sommers now backed against the barracks wall. Gator shoved his huge chin forward. “Take the first shot. Go on! Then it'll be my turn.”