The refurbishing had cost Oliver nearly eighty-five thousand dollars, most of it going to the carpenters and electricians they’d ferried over from Trondheim, but that sum was nothing compared to the sizable percentage of his bank account Pembroke and Flume had consumed in procuring the talent. The New York office of Actors Equity had sent two dozen ingenues and chorus girls, all of them more than willing to put on cocktail aprons and flirt with a bunch of middle-aged schizophrenics who thought they were fighting World War Two. From the William Morris Agency had come Sonny Orbach and His Harmonicoots, sixteen septuagenarian musicians who, when sufficiently plastered on Frydenlund, became a veritable reincarnation of Glenn Miller’s band. But the impresarios’ real coup was tracking down the amazingly gifted and chronically obscure Kovitsky Brothers: Myron, Arnold, and Jake, aka the Great American Nostalgia Machine — borscht-circuit mimics whose repertoire extended beyond such obvious choices as Bob Hope and Al Jolson into the rarefied world of female impersonation. Myron did a first-rate Kate Smith, Arnold a credible Marlene Dietrich, Jake a passable Ethel Merman and a positively uncanny Frances Langford. Fusing their falsettos in tight, three-part harmony, the Kovitsky Brothers could make you swear you were hearing the Andrews Sisters singing “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (with Anyone Else but Me).”
Oliver looked at his watch. Five P.M. Damn. Commander Wade McClusky’s portrayer should have reported in well over an hour ago.
“You know, I recently figured out that all General Tojo wants is peace,” said Hope. “A piece of China, a piece of Australia, a piece of the Philippines…”
By his own account, Wade McClusky was a crackerjack target spotter. While still an ensign, he’d become known as the man who could pick out a camouflaged aircraft factory from three miles up, though Oliver was unclear on whether it was the real McClusky, the real McClusky’s portrayer, or the real McClusky’s portrayer’s fictionalized version of the real McClusky who boasted this talent. In any event, ten hours earlier the stalwart leader of Air Group Six had taken personal charge of the reconnaisance operation, assuming command of the PBY flying boat code-named “Strawberry Eight.” An auspicious development, Oliver felt. So why wasn’t McClusky back yet? Was the Valparaíso armed with Bofors guns after all? Had Van Horne shot Strawberry Eight out of the sky?
Hope motioned for the gorgeous and curvaceous Dorothy Lamour — Myron Kovitsky in wig, makeup, evening gown, and latex breasts — to join him on stage. Smiling, blowing kisses, Lamour slithered across the canteen, accompanied by choruses of wolf whistles.
“Just wanted you boys to see what you’re fighting for.” Another Hope classic. “Yesterday, Crosby and I were—”
“Attention, everyone! Attention!” A breathless voice broke from the loudspeakers, popping and fizzing like a draught of Moxie encountering an ice cube. “This is Admiral Spruance on Enterprise! Great news, men! Barely four hours ago, sixteen army B-25s took off from the carrier Hornet under the command of Lieutenant Colonel James H. Doolittle and dropped over fifty demolition bombs on the industrial heart of Tokyo!”
Whoops and applause resounded through the Midnight Sun Canteen.
“The extent of the damage is not known,” Spruance’s portrayer continued, “but President Roosevelt is calling the Doolittle raid ‘a major blow to enemy morale’!”
The war reenactors stomped their feet. Bewildered but eager to please, the hostesses set down their sandwich trays and cheered.
“That is all, men!”
When the tumult died away, the spotlight pivoted toward the northeast corner, just as Sonny Orbach and His Harmonicoots, in full evening attire, launched into a spirited imitation of Glenn Miller’s “Pistol Packin’ Mama.” Leaping up, the Midnight Sun Canteen’s patrons began jitterbugging — with each other, with their hostesses, and, in the case of one fantastically lucky tail gunner, with Dorothy Lamour herself.
At the next table over, a perky redheaded hostess was busy earning her salary, sharing a Coca-Cola with a chunky sailor in his early forties.
“…not supposed to ask where you’re going,” the hostess was saying as Oliver tuned in their conversation.
“That’s right,” the sailor replied. “The Japs have spies everywhere.”
“But I can ask where you’re from.”
“Georgia, ma’am. Little town called Peach Landing.”
“Really?”
“Newark, actually.”
“Golly, I never met anyone from Georgia.” The hostess batted her eyes. “Got a girl, sailor?”
“Sure do, ma’am.”
“Carry her picture with you, by any chance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a sheepish grin the sailor pulled his wallet from his bell-bottoms and, slipping out a small photograph, handed it to the hostess. “Her name’s Mindy Sue.”
“She looks real sweet, sailor. Does she blow you?”
“What?”
At 1815 hours, the unmistakable roar of a PBY flying boat’s Pratt and Whitney engines passed over the Midnight Sun Canteen, rattling the Frydenlund bottles. A delicious anticipation flooded through Oliver. Surely this was Wade McClusky, heading for the nearest fjord in Strawberry Eight. Surely the Valparaíso had been spotted.
Glenn Miller followed “Pistol Packin’ Mama” with “Chattanooga Choo-Choo,” then the spotlight swung back to the stage for the Andrews Sisters singing “The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.” (At some point Myron had sneaked off and changed costumes.) Next came Bing Crosby crooning “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,” after which Hope sauntered over to his buddy. Swaying back and forth, the two of them offered their famous rendition of “Mairzy Doats.”
“Speaking of mares,” said Flume as Hope and Crosby welcomed Frances Langford on stage, “did you know our subs used to carry buckets of horse guts along on their missions?”
Oliver wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Buckets of… ?”
“Horse guts. Sometimes sheep guts. That way, whenever the Nazis dropped their depth charges, the sub commander could send the stuff to the surface, and the enemy would think he’d scored a hit!”
“What an amazing war,” said Pembroke, sighing with admiration.
“I’m in the mood for love,” sang Frances Langford.
“Baby, you came to the right place!” a randy sailor shouted.
“Simply because you’re near me…”
The front door flew open, and a small gale swept through the Midnight Sun Canteen. Blue with cold, Wade McClusky’s craggy portrayer strode inside and marched over to Oliver’s table. Ice crystals glittered on his flight jacket. Snow sat on his shoulders like a prodigious case of dandruff.
“Jeez, am I glad to see you!” shouted Oliver, slapping the group leader on the back. “Any luck?”
Smiling, blowing kisses, Frances Langford launched into her signature tune, “Embraceable You.”
“Gimme a lousy minute.” McClusky pulled a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint from his flight jacket, then slid a stick into his mouth like a doctor inserting a tongue depressor. “Hey, cutie!” he called to the redheaded hostess, who was still drinking Coke with the chunky sailor. “We’ll take a Frydenlund over here!”
“Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you,” sang Frances Langford. “Embrace me, my irreplaceable you…”
“You know, there’s a wonderful story connected with that number,” said Pembroke. “Miss Langford was visiting a field hospital in the African desert. There’d been a big tank battle earlier that week, and some of the boys were shot up pretty bad.”