Heroes of Vietnam: Bob Hope—The GI’s Best Friend

This article and other features about America in Vietnam can be found in the Post’s Special Collector’s Edition, The Heroes of Vietnam. This edition can be ordered here.

—Originally published March 12, 1966

The band played “Thanks for the Memory,” and he sauntered onstage — a stocky, brown-eyed man wearing an orange shirt, black dancing slippers, and the green beret of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces. In one hand he held a golf club. For a few seconds he stood there, unsmiling, and surveyed the audience. Then a shark-like grin began to spread across his face.

“I’ve never seen such happy servicemen,” he said, “and why not? This is the only country in the world where the women come out to meet you in pajamas.”

Overhead, like aerial scorpions, armed helicopters circled the camp. Out on the perimeter, 1,000 yards away, infantrymen crouched behind machine guns and scanned the clumps of elephant grass for a sight of the Viet Cong. Up on the stage, comedian Bob Hope was delivering his rapid-fire monologue — and bringing laughter to thousands of U.S. servicemen who hadn’t had anything to laugh about in a long time.

In 12 days last December, Hope and his troupe of entertainers traveled 23,000 miles to visit four hospitals and put on 24 shows for U.S. military personnel in Thailand, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Guam. As the war in Vietnam has escalated, other entertainers have traveled overseas to lift servicemen’s morale. For many of them, it was a new experience. For Hope, it was almost routine.

Twenty-five years ago this month, at March Field, California, the seemingly indefatigable comedian staged his first show exclusively for servicemen. Since then, under the joint sponsorship of the USO (which was celebrating its 25th birthday that year) and the Defense Department, he has flown more than 2 million miles to entertain 11 million soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen. In the process he has become a sort of jet-propelled national institution. To these servicemen, as columnist Irv Kupcinet once pointed out, “He’s Uncle Sam, Santa Claus, and a letter from home all wrapped up in one neat package of hilarity.”

Though Hope is pushing 63, there is an ageless quality about the man — many of the servicemen applauding his performances today are the sons of GIs he once entertained in places with names like Palermo, Tarawa, and New Caledonia.

One morning, just before Christmas last year, I joined the troupe in the cabin of a U.S. Air Force C-141 as it streaked at 27,000 feet toward Saigon. In the past four days, the comedian had staged five full-length shows for U.S., Thai, and Australian servicemen at airbases in Thailand. But now, as the plane began its descent into Saigon, he seemed apprehensive. “This is where the trip really starts,” he said to singer Jack Jones. “If you want to be nervous, now is the time.”

Landing at Tân So’n Nhu’t Airport, the giant jet taxied to a halt, and the door was opened. Clutching a golf club, Hope stepped off the plane first, followed by a retinue of performers, including Anita Bryant, Diana Lynn Batts (Miss USA), Joey Heatherton, and Les Brown and 14 members of his “Band of Renown.”

“What’s the golf club for?” a reporter asked.

Hope grinned. “Well,” he said, “that’s just to keep my grip in shape until I get back, and also for a little protection.”

“From whom, Bob?”

“From both sides.”

“They blew up the Brink Hotel (an officers’ billet in Saigon) the last time you were here,” another newsman said. “Are you scared this time?”

“Not at all,” Hope replied. “In fact, I may even sleep on top of the bed.”

Like a master conductor leading an orchestra, Hope dominated the press conference. For more than 20 minutes, he parried questions with gags, not only because he seemed to believe that this was what the newsmen expected of him, but also because he seemed genuinely wary about expressing personal opinions.

“Bob doesn’t like to talk about his health, politics, religion, or his adopted children,” explained Jan King, a bubbly woman who serves as his “secretary for movies.” Nor does he like to talk about himself. Questioned on personal matters, he becomes fidgety and either changes the subject abruptly or turns and walks away.

Inside his dressing room behind a knock-down stage at Tân So’n Nhu’t Airport that afternoon, Hope put on his own makeup, then turned to review his cue cards. For the past few weeks, his seven writers had been concentrating on gags for this tour, and here — stacked on the floor of the dressing room — were the results of their efforts: 800 large, rectangular cards, each containing one or more jokes. The gags were broken down into such loose-knit categories as “traveling with pretty girls,” “remote bases,” “bad food,” and “excessive security.” As his chief cue-card assistant, an affable Irishman named Barney McNulty, flipped the boards, Hope decided that he would emphasize the security theme on this show. Up onstage, Les Brown’s musicians were playing “Fly Me to the Moon.” Hope was due to go on next. Grabbing his golf club, he waited in the wings to be introduced, and then strolled out to the microphone amid a burst of applause from 12,000 servicemen.

“I want to thank the provost marshal for the wonderful protection we’ve been getting,” the comedian declared. “They have 25 men with machine guns guarding the girls, and for the fellows, they have a midget with a slingshot. … No, security here is really sensational. I’ve been frisked so many times, I’m even beginning to like it.”

At every punch line he lowered his jaw, and his face took on an expression of feigned anguish. The mannerism never failed to provoke laughter.

The show continued for more than two hours, and Hope was onstage constantly — both as a performer and as master of ceremonies. The crowd roared when Hope brought Carroll Baker onstage.

“That’s a nice gown you’ve got,” the comedian began. “Is it a Schiaparelli?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Bob,” Miss Baker replied. “I’ve forgotten where I bought it.”

“Well, can I check the label?” With a knowing wink at the audience, Hope stepped behind her and pretended to examine the manufacturer’s tag. “What does it say, Bob?”

“Off limits,” Hope replied.

He kept up the comedy routine for another 10 minutes, danced a soft-shoe number called “Will You Still Be Mine?” with Miss Baker, and then took a break as actor Peter Leeds stepped forward to tell a few gags about U.S. television commercials. But soon Hope returned to the microphone to introduce Joey Heatherton, a 21-year-old blonde who burst onstage wearing a black-sequined leotard and waving a feathery white boa. A grin spread across his face as he sat in the wings and watched her stomp through a wild Watusi with volunteers from the audience. “What a kid!” he said. “Isn’t she great?”

Ten minutes later, Hope was back onstage for a final produc­tion number with the entire cast, and then, as the show closed, he asked Anita Bryant to sing “Silent Night.” It was Christmas Eve, and many of the servicemen had tears in their eyes.

After the finale, Gen. W.C. Westmoreland, chief of the U.S. Military Assistance Command in Vietnam, presented a plaque to each member of the troupe and called Hope “the best friend the serviceman ever had.” He went on to quote the comedian as having said, “I’ll stop going overseas only when they stop having Christmas.” The audience applauded resoundingly, and Hope seemed embarrassed. But now a limousine was waiting to speed him to a nearby military hospital. Followed by the rest of his troupe, Hope moved through the wards at a brisk pace. He asked each man how he got hurt and how he was feeling. He told a few jokes and signed autographs. But he never expressed any sympathy.

“That’s the last thing these guys want,” he says. “If you give them sympathy, they’ll turn away. You gotta be clinical about it and talk to ’em on an honest basis. All these guys in traction, I say, ‘Don’t get up, fellas,’ or ‘Okay, somebody get the dice and let’s get started.’ In the old days, [Jerry] Colonna and I would even get in bed with the patients.”

“You have to show them that you’re really happy to see them,” Colonna says, “and in some cases, it’s really tough. You know how they feel and they know how they feel. I choke up and get a lump in my throat and I have to walk away. But Bob — he’s learned how to hold back his emotions.”

He hasn’t always succeeded. Once, on the island of Espiritu Santo in 1944, Hope stopped by the bedside of a severely wounded soldier who was receiving blood transfusions. “I see where they’re giving you a little pick-me-up,” the comedian declared. “It’s only raspberry soda,” the boy replied, “but it feels pretty good.” Two hours later, Hope was told that the boy was dead. “I thought about how in his last moments he’d grinned and tried to say something light,” Hope recalls, “and I couldn’t stand it. I had to go outside and pull myself together.”

At nine o’clock next morning, three Chinook helicopters lifted the troupe from Tân So’n Nhu’t Airport to the First Infantry Division’s base at Di-An. It was very warm and the sky was clear, and because it was Christmas Day, a truce was in effect. Yet most of the 3,200 men in the audience were carrying weapons. Only a few hours ago, four GIs had been killed when their Jeep struck a mine just north of the base, and now an escort officer was saying that extensive security precautions had to be taken because the Viet Cong were known to be less than a mile away.

The temperature at the airbase that afternoon was a blistering 98 degrees, but the 7,000 servicemen in the audience didn’t seem to notice the heat. They roared their approval as Hope ridiculed the peace demonstrators on U.S. college campuses: “Our government’s got a new policy about burning draft cards,” he announced. “Now they say, ‘If he’s old enough to play with matches, draft him.’ … You’ve seen some of these guys with the shoulder-length hair. I guess they’d rather switch than fight.”

At 1:45 next afternoon, Hope was onstage again — this time at Cam Ranh Bay, a sandy supply depot on the Vietnamese coast 200 miles northeast of Saigon. “What is this,” he asked, “a rest-and-recreation area for camels? A supply depot for the Sahara?” The servicemen whistled and applauded.

A few minutes later helicopters whisked the troupe to the U.S.S. Ticonderoga five miles offshore. Hope had never put on a show from the deck of a carrier engaged in combat operations, and the prospect clearly excited him. After dinner with Admiral Ralph Cousins, he climbed up to the bridge to watch a squadron of F-8 Crusaders return from a mission over enemy territory.

By 2 p.m. the next day, all air operations had ceased and carpenters were driving the last nails into a makeshift stage on the flight deck. As the show began, Hope took a practice swing with his ever-present golf club. “I’ve played water holes before,” he began, “but this is ridiculous. … And it’s amazing what you can rent from Hertz these days. What a raft this is — it looks like Jackie Gleason’s surfboard.”

That same afternoon, the troupe flew to its second show of the day in Nha Trang. For security reasons, the Marines had not been told in advance when Hope would arrive. As he walked on the stage, a mammoth cheer erupted from the audience. Hope didn’t disappoint them.

“This is the most secret base I’ve ever visited. Everything’s strictly hush-hush. At dawn, the bugler just thinks reveille.”

As he left the stage, a sergeant cracked, “You look tired. Why don’t you send for the troops next Christmas?” Hope grinned, but when the show was over, he lay down on a wooden bench in the dressing room and, within two minutes, was fast asleep. But he didn’t have long to rest. There was another show to do that afternoon.

Bob Hope Jokes about Bob Hope

Adapted from a series by Pete Martin that ran in 9 parts from February 13, 1954 through  April 10, 1954 in The Saturday Evening Post.

This article and other features about the stars of Tinseltown can be found in the Post’s Special Collector’s Edition, The Golden Age of Hollywood. This edition can be ordered here. 

One of my writers, Larry Klein, looked at me one day and said, “You know, if you had your life to live all over again, you wouldn’t have time to do it.” The truth is I wouldn’t want to live it over again. It’s been pretty exciting up to now. The encore might not be as much fun.

By his crack, Larry meant, among other things, that I travel a lot. Hoofers, comedians and singers used to place ads in Variety that read: “Have Tuxedo, will travel.” This meant that they were ready to go anyplace any time; that they were available for a variety of engagements, and that they would be dressed classy when they showed up. I’ve been traveling ever since I can remember, and I’ve been available since I did my first Charlie Chaplin imitation when I was 9 or 10. But I haven’t always had a tux. I bought my first one out of my savings when I was 19. Although it was real sharp, it was secondhand and a tight fit. But what there was of it was all mine. It cost me 14 bucks at Richman’s in Cleveland. It would cost more than that now just to have it let out enough at the seams.

And I’m still traveling. My wife, Dolores, complains that I’m always taking off without giving her warning. I’ll say this for Dolores: No one can handle being married to a traveling-salesman type better than she. She’s very sweet about my absences. In fact, the towels in our bathroom are marked HERS and WELCOME TRAVELER. But when she gets a certain look in her eye, I take her on my next trip.

Last year the Friars threw a testimonial dinner for me in New York. During the evening several tributes were paid to me as a show-business pro. It was nice to hear all that flattery. I was glad Dolores was there to hear it too. Up to then, she’d thought I was a pilot for United Air Lines.

Another memory that floats into my head involves Joe E. Lewis, the nightclub genius. Once when I was in Chicago, I dropped in at a night spot, the Chez Paree, to catch Joe’s last show. I was too late for that, but I saw Dottie Lamour sitting at a table, and I sat beside her. A woman walked over to the table, took my chin in her hand and turned my face toward another woman she’d left back at her table.

“This is it, Julie,” she said, handling my head as if it were a cabbage. Dottie and I laughed so hard we almost fell under the table. The woman didn’t say, “Pardon me.” She just walked over and used me for demonstration purposes. She’d probably said to her friend, “There’s Bob Hope over there,” and her friend said, “I don’t believe it.” So she walked over, took my head and twirled it around to prove her point.

When I’d pulled myself together, I asked her, “Where do you get your material, honey? It’s great.”

“I listen to you every Monday night,” she said. I stopped laughing. I’d been on Tuesdays for four years.

Taking the memories as they pop into my mind brings up one of my first bookings for the William Morris office at the Chicago Palace. Because of a joke I did with Louise Troxell, I had a little trouble there. She walked on and said, “You’re very attractive,” and I said, “Yes, I come from a very brave family. My brother slapped Al Capone in the face.” This was during the time when Capone reigned as the czar of Cicero, a Chicago suburb.

Louise said, “Your brother slapped A1 Capone in the face?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’d like to shake his hand,” she said.

“We’re not going to dig him up just for that,” I said. I did it during my first show, and it got a laugh.

But the manager, Frank Smith, came up to me afterward and said, “If you’re wise, you’ll take that joke out.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The boys come down here from Cicero on Saturday nights,” he said. “They’re liable not to like it. And if they don’t like it, I feel sorry for you.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll mind,” I said. So I kept it in that Saturday night. I was living at the Bismarck Hotel, and on Sunday morning the phone rang.

A low, gruff-type voice asked, “Is this Bob Hope?”

I said, “Yes.” This voice—its the only voice I’ve ever heard with a flat nose— asked, “Are you the one who’s doing that joke about Al Capone?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“Do us a favor,” the voice said. “Take it out.”

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“Just one of the boys,” the voice said. “Take it out. We’ll be around to thank you for it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It’ll be out.” I never found out who’d called me, but to reach the Palace stage entrance I had to walk through a long, dark alleyway. A couple of actors had been held up in that alley, and it was a lonely place, especially if you were having a difference of opinion with the mob. I didn’t want to make that walk with that on my mind, so I replaced Al Capone with Jack Dempsey—“Slap Jack Dempsey in the face … we’re not going to dig him up just for that”—and it scored just as well.

A ROYAL AUDIENCE

Now here’s a story that fits into the “high points of my life” department.

In 1947, Dolores and I were invited to London to attend the showing of the annual command- performance film for King George VI and his wife, Queen Elizabeth. For me the high point of the expedition was the chance to kick the conversational gong around with the King.

Norman Siegel, who was then head of West Coast publicity at Paramount, chaperoned the tour. When Dolores and I boarded the plane in California, Jean Hersholt came to the airport and gave me a book to present to Princess Elizabeth, the gracious and high-hearted lady who’s now Queen of England. The book contained autographed photographs of every important Hollywood movie star. But when I arrived in England, Princess Elizabeth was in Scotland on her honeymoon, so the whole deal was temporarily lost sight of.

After the command performance, we visitors went into a room just off the foyer in the Odeon Theater to pay our respects to their majesties. Just then Norman Siegel came in and asked, “Where’s that book of autographed photographs? They’re waiting for it.”

After a frantic search, it was found in the manager’s office. I ran upstairs with it, handed it to Princess Margaret, said, “I think you’ll enjoy this,” and began to show her the photos.

The King watched me leaf through it; then slipped me the royal needle. “Look at him,” he said; “rushing to get to his own picture.”

I said, “Why not? It’s the prettiest.”

He grinned; then asked, “Is Bing’s autograph there too?”

“Yes,” I said. “ But he doesn’t write. He just made three X’s.”

“Three X’s?” the King asked.

“He has a middle name,” I said.

We kidded back and forth, and the next day headlines in the DAILY EXPRESS said: THE KING AD LIBS WITH BOB HOPE. That’s the only time I ever had a king work as straight man for me.

Still other great memories come from my family. Dolores has a wise and loving touch with our children. I’m lost in admiration of the job she has done with them, and with the job she’s done keeping me in line. A lot of children whose fathers are in show business grow up too precocious, too wise, too fresh, too unfunny. That’s not true of our four. Dolores sees to that. She also sees to it that they’re having a devout rearing. One day our neighbor, Mrs. Dailey, overheard our littlest one, Kelly, ask our next youngest, Nora, “Is everybody in the world Catholic?”

“Yes,” Nora said, “everybody but daddy. He’s a comedian.”

I was both surprised and pleased when I heard that. I have no trouble convincing them that I’m their daddy, but sometimes I have trouble convincing them that I’m a comedian.

This article and other features about the stars of Tinseltown can be found in the Post’s Special Collector’s Edition, The Golden Age of Hollywood. This edition can be ordered here.

Bob Hope on Golfing with the Presidents

Golf and presidents are no strangers. In this 1986 Post article, Bob Hope shares his stories of teeing off with the the linksmen-in-chief, from Eisenhower to Ford.

Bob Hope: 50 Years at the Front

Well, here we are ladies and gentlemen, at March Field, one of the Army’s great flying fields, located near Riverside, California.

And I want to tell you that I’m thrilled being here. But I’m really here on business. I came up to look at some of the sweaters I knitted.

And what a wonderful welcome they gave me. As soon as I got in the camp, I receive a ten-gun salute. They told me on the operating table.

When I arrived here I was dressed Hollywood style. I walked into the barracks wearing orange slacks, a lavender polo shirt, and blue beret. The soldiers saw me and that’s all I remember.

I watched them putting gas in one of the big bombers and boy what a big tank. It’s really remarkable. Just two pints short of W. C. Fields.

My brother is learning to be a flyer at a training field in Florida, but they must be having floods down there because in his last letter he said he’d just been washed out at Pensacola.

One of the aviators here took me for a plane ride this afternoon. I wasn’t frightened. But at two thousand feet my goose pimples began bailing out…

That was how it sounded 70 years ago on May 6, when Bob Hope gave his first USO performance. That show at March Field started a 50-year continuous run that appeared at combat zones and military hospitals across Europe, the Pacific islands, Korea, Vietnam, Lebanon, and the Persian Gulf.

In 1967, Post writer Trevor Armbrister followed Hope’s troupe during one of its tours of Vietnam, and captured a sense of the hard work and dedication Hope gave to this cause.

As the plane began its descent into Saigon, he seemed apprehensive, “This is where the trip really starts,” he said to singer Jack Jones. “If you want to be nervous, now is the time.”

Landing at Tan Son Nhut Airport, the giant jet taxied to a halt, and the door was opened. Clutching a golf club, Hope stepped off the plane first.

“What’s the club for?” a reporter asked.

Bob grinned. “Well,” he said, “that’s just to keep my grip in shape until I get back, and also for a little protection.”

“From whom, Bob?”

“From both sides.”

“They blew up the Brink Hotel (an officers’ billet in Saigon) the last time you were here,” another newsman said. “Are you scared this time?”

“Not at all,” Hope replied. “In fact, I may even sleep on top of the bed.”

[Immediately after finishing his show in Saigon,] a limousine was waiting to speed him to a nearby military hospital. Followed by the rest of his troupe, Hope moved through the wards at a brisk pace. He asked each man how he got hurt and how he was feeling. He told a few jokes and signed autographs. But be never expressed any sympathy.

“That’s the last thing these guys want,” he says, “If you give them sympathy, they’ll turn away. You gotta be clinical about it and talk to ’em on an honest basis. All these guys in traction—I say, ‘Don’t get up, fellas.’ or ‘OK, somebody get the dice and let’s get started,’ In the old days, [comedian Jerry] Colonna and I would even get in bed with the patients.”

“You have to show them that you’re really happy to see them,” Colonna says, “and in some cases, it’s really tough. You know how they feel and they know how they feel. I choke up and get a lump in my throat and I have to walk away. But Bob—he’s learned how to hold back his emotions.”

He hasn’t always succeeded. Once, on the island of Espiritu Santo in 1944, Hope stopped by the bedside of a severely wounded soldier who was receiving blood transfusions. “I see where they’re giving you a little pick-me-up,” the comedian declared. “It’s only raspberry soda,” the boy replied, “but it feels pretty good.” Two hours later, Hope was told that the boy was dead. “I thought about how in his last moments he’d grinned and tried to say something light,” Hope recalls, “and I couldn’t stand it. I had to go outside and pull myself together.”

At 10 o’clock next morning the troupe piled into a C-130 for the short flight to the marine base at Chu Lai. Hope has long had a special affection for he marines (During the Korean War he landed by an incredible mistake on the beach at Wonsan 20 minutes before the marines stormed ashore to occupy the place. “It’s nice to have you here,” he quipped. “You must come to all our invasions.”) and that affection is reciprocated.

“When I got off the plane this morning,” he said [in his opening monologue], “I asked a sergeant where the Viet Cong was. He draws wonderful circles…

“This trip. I’m traveling light. I just brought a toothbrush, a pair of black pajamas and a white flag…

“This is the most secret base I’ve ever visited. Everything’s strictly hush-hush. At dawn, the bugler just thinks reveille…”

Five hours later the plane landed at Guam. As Hope stepped down—his golf club in hand—a Navy band swung into Thanks for the Memory. Most of the entertainers went immediately to their quarters to get some sleep before the show. But when Hope learned that a squadron of 24 B-53’s was about to take off on a mission over Vietnam, he drove to the pilots’ ready room and—with Jerry Colonna and Carroll Baker at his side—performed for nearly an hour.

There was a show that afternoon for 12,000 servicemen at Andersen Field, then another banquet in another officers’ club. At nine o’clock on that final night of the tour, the troupe climbed into the C-141 for the long haul back to Los Angeles, and all the entertainers fell asleep immediately.

All except Hope. In the last 24 hours, he had had three rubdowns, but his legs still hurt and there were dark circles under his eyes. A special bunk bad been prepared for him in the cockpit, but he couldn’t sleep, and he stood now by the galley in the darkened cabin and talked about the special thrill he gets from performing for servicemen.

“It’s instant satisfaction,” he said. “You do a movie or a TV show and you have to wait to find out if it’s any good. But here, you go out and sock ’em and those guys applaud; it’s man to man and you have a feeling you’re really helping when you make those kids forget their own problems…”

“Aren’t you tired?”

For a second the comedian paused. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m happy tired.”

Shortly after the death of Bob Hope on July 27, 2003, CNN interviewed his grandson, Zach. When asked what he would remember best about his grandfather, Zach replied it was Hope’s laughter “until the end.”

“We asked him where he wanted to be buried, and he said, ‘surprise me.'”

Pure Hope.