 In Geraldine Fitzgerald, the an artist to the wounded. On the cavalcade of America, sponsored by the DuPont Company, maker of better things for better living through chemistry. Springtime is home decoration time. The time to use DuPont speed easy to brighten up those dreary winter weary rooms. Speed easy is an oil type paint. You thin with water and apply with a large brush or roller. It dries in less than an hour to a beautiful rich finish. Then you're ready to use your room again. No long wait for walls to dry. Use speed easy for your redecorating this spring. It costs you less than $3 for the average room. It's speed easy made by DuPont. The DuPont cavalcade presents Artists to the Wounded, starring Geraldine Fitzgerald as Anne Jordan. The day the bottom fell out of my world, I fell too, a long, long way. And I thought I'd never stand on my feet again. But I did, and that's my story. It happened early one afternoon in January. Miss Anne Jordan? Yes? Telegram for you. Sign here. Thank you. Thank you, Miss. Board apartment. Sergeant David W. Anderson. Missing in action. Missing. Dave missing. Gone. I realized only then how I'd clung to the thought of Dave all those 15 months he'd been overseas. My belief that he'd come back to me had made it possible for me to go right on working. You see, I'm an artist, a commercial artist, and I love my work. But without Dave, suddenly my work's without meaning. Nothing had meaning. And I needed desperately to talk to someone. So that night I went to see Helen. But you have to keep busy, Anne. What do you think other women do? I don't know. I only know I can't go on drawing senseless pictures of clothes and perfumes and... There's still plenty of war work for an artist. Elton Clark's been doing war work in the hospitals, drawing portraits of the wounded. Drawing portraits? Yes. He says it does wonders for their morale to get the portraits to send home to their families. Of course, Elton says it isn't an easy thing to see these boys. Crippled. Some of them suck on neurotics. Oh, I couldn't do that, Helen. But you've always wanted to do portraits. I could do the drawing all right, but you know how I am about talking to people. I never know what to say. Oh, you won't feel so shy, Anne, if you're doing something useful. Do you think so? Well, I think so. But why don't you try, Anne? Then if it's too difficult for you, well, give it up. I might try. Oh, but how do I start? You apply at the USO camp shows. And if you qualify, you could be on your way in a few days. In a week, I reached my first hospital. The special service officer took me to the traction ward. I went in nervously, clutching my pencils and sketch pad. And I suppose it was just bad luck that the first soldier I talked to was the cynic. Hello, soldier. Well, that's all. Would you like me to draw your portrait? Do you want to draw my mug? What for, are funny papers? No, you can have the picture when I finish. How much? Oh, nothing, it's free. I get it. The government pays you. No, I'm a volunteer. Yeah, sure, sure. That's right. The USO camp shows a range of diamond artists, and now I get a kick out of it. You're one of these lazy, no good things with nothing useful to do, so it gives you a cheap thrill to come around to hospitals and see us guys all smashed up. Oh, but you're wrong. Is your real brain... Now, this guy's got one leg killing us with no hands. No. Another one you can't see anymore. Oh, please stop. You know I don't feel that way. Sure, that's your racket. I ain't buying any, sister. Just go print your papers somewhere else. Well, don't you understand English? Yeah, what happened? It's that soldier in there. The big corporal? Has he been barking at you? Yes. I just asked him if he wanted me to draw his portrait. I know. He gets pretty rough sometimes. For these boys, we have to overlook a lot. You'll have better luck with some of the others. But I can't. I can't go back in there. It's up to you, Miss Jordan, but you'll feel better if you do go back. I know. Once you break the ice for these boys, well, you wouldn't trade the satisfaction for anything. I guess it's because I've always been shy. Well, I used to be shy too, but in wartime, I think shyness is the luxury we have to do without. There's just too much work to be done. You're right. There's so much to do. Thank you, nurse. I'll try again. You're looking for someone, ma'am? No, I, uh, no one's special. I don't be bashful. What do you do? You're not one of the nurses. No, I'm an artist. An artist? Really? Yes. Would you like me to draw your portrait to send home? Oh, ma'am, I just really appreciate it. And no, I guess maybe I'd better not at that. Why? What's the matter? I guess you'd better draw some of the other fellows. I'm sorry. I thought you wanted it. I do, but I wouldn't want... What? Ma'am, you wouldn't put my leg in, would you? I mean, would there isn't any leg? I saw, then. His right pajama leg was pinned back. Empty. Hit me hard, that sight. But I tried not to think about it as I began sketching. And then I became aware that an audience was forming at my back. A quiet, skeptical audience. Mostly on crutches, a few in wheelchairs. There were so tense I could scarcely breathe. Then one of the onlookers spoke, and the ice was broken. Hey, the girl's good. You said it, but ma'am, he's not that good. So what are you going to do with the pictures, Johnny? Are you framing? I never mind. How's it going, ma'am? Am I still sitting right? Oh, you're doing fine. Let me know when you're tired. Who are you going to draw when you're finished with him? Well, you don't have to figure that out yourself. Draw a straw or something. But I'll get around to all of you if you give me time. Time, ma'am? Well, we got all the time in the world. Hard day. From while I was finishing my last process, I realized it had been hours since I'd thought about days. Deep down, there was still pain. But it wasn't so sharp, so unbearable. And I was wonderfully tired. I knew I'd sleep that night. I felt suddenly grateful to the boys for still crowding around me. Don't tell me you're quitting after this one. What about me? I'll get around to you tomorrow. I think eight in one day is my limit. Are you finished with mine yet? I think it's finished. And can I get copies of it? Oh, yes. The U.S.O. will make a photostatic negative. Then you can get as many copies as you want. Would you do something else for me, miss? Would you write across the bottom of it? Sure. What do you want me to write? Write to the only girl in the world. I think to the only girl in the world. There you are, soldier. And now would you have 15 copies made for me? That's all, soldier. Good night, sir. Good night. I'll be back early. Good night. I had a busy day. Busy enough. Yeah, same. You had a great time with the Romeo's in this war, didn't you? Romeo's? Yeah, let me be eager beavers. You haven't tackled a real tough customer yet. Who are the tough customers? The Sykes. The guys who got what they call, uh, battle fatigue. I think they'd like the drawings, too. And I think it would help. Yeah? They'll take more than your doodling to help those boys. I just lay you plenty of odds, sister. You couldn't come within 10 miles of a guy like Harry. Who's Harry? It's my buddy. And I really need help, too. Isn't a psycho ward. If you can get him to like anything about you or your drawings or a world for that matter, I'll eat your little sketch pad without salt or pepper. That night, I thought about the cynic, his bitter voice, and his hatred of me. And I decided to take up his challenge. The next morning, I went to the head mess. Yes, I know who he was talking about, Miss Jordan. The corporal's very bitter about his friend. They were buddies overseas. Then can I see Harry? It wouldn't be any use, Miss Jordan. There's simply nothing he responds to. But could I possibly do him harm? No. No, but failure may depress you again. It's difficult for a layman to accept or understand a neuropsychiatric case. I think I can stand it. Please, let me try. Well, all right, Miss Jordan. I'll arrange for the doctor. You can see Harry right after lunch. Just open, Miss Jordan. There's a chair beside his bed. Thank you. Harry? Harry? There's someone to see you, Harry. I don't think you'll answer, Miss Jordan. It's all right now. If you leave me alone for a little while. All right. I think you'll be disappointed. But if you want anything, ring the bell. Thank you. The nurse told me you were from Minnesota. I started a picture this morning that's a little bit like Minnesota. The lake and the meadow and the hill. Would you mind if I finished sitting here? You know, I think there's nothing more beautiful than the big pine trees growing down to a lake shore. Like this. Or the green farms cleared out of the woods. Did you live on a farm, Harry? I sketched and I talked. And once in a while I looked at Harry, lying still as deaf with his eyes closed. He was a big growl bone blond boy. Very thin and pale. And he lay so quiet. It was difficult to know if he was even breathing. But I felt I believed he heard my voice. And I kept on talking about the flowers and the hills and the waters of the North Country and about the farms. Harry, I saw a place just like this. A little white house and then a corn field and then a patch of woods. See, I'm drawing it as if I were standing in the cornfield looking toward the lake. Let me... What did you say, Harry? I said, let me see. Of course. I'm drawing it for you. It's wrong. Wrong? I never saw corn. Anyway, we got all wheat. Back home. Of course, you're right. You see, you can help me, Harry. You can tell me what it's really like. Back home. You are listening to Geraldine Fitzgerald as Anne Jordan, in Artists to the Wounded, on the Cavalcade of America sponsored by the Dupont Company, maker of better things for better living through chemistry. As we come to the second act of our play, Anne continues with the story of her work as an artist, drawing pictures for and of the Wounded G.I.'s military hospital. It was evening again when I went back to the traction ward. The cynic was propped up in bed. His left leg and a cast held rigidly at a 30-degree angle. He watched me all the way to his bed, but he didn't speak. I...I saw Harry this afternoon. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Well? I heard all about it. Well? I know you think I've been a first-rate punk. No. I think I understand you, Corporal. Yeah, but I've been calling you all sorts of things and being mad and sore, and it was you that got through to having me. You know, you must think I've been a punk. No, I don't. Look, tell me all about your outfit, the one that you and Harry were in together. What was the year, 36th Division? The 36th? Yeah, the good old 36th infantry. Best outfit in the whole army, too. That's the one that...that he... Oh. Did you know somebody in the 36th? Yes. He's...he's missing in action. Oh, no, no. Wait a minute. Maybe the jury's talking about prisoner. Maybe he was wounded. No. They let me know of you in the hospital. What did you see in me? His name was... Sergeant David Anderson. He was in Germany. David Anderson. Tall, dark guy sort of thing. Yes. Do you know him? Do you? Wait up now. Don't blow your talk. Was he a tech sergeant? Yes. Yes, he was. Sure. He used to call me Old Picklepuss. That guy's not missing in action. I saw the medics carry him back from the lines. It was something to go on. It gave me hope. And with the cynics' help, I began my search. Who made all sorts of suggestions to whom I should write and what hospitals I should visit? But it was several weeks and many hospitals later before I knew. I'm sorry, Mr. Jordan. Sergeant Anderson doesn't want anyone to see him. But...but why? Is he crippled? Doctor, is it his eye? No. He's one of our neurosciatric cases, Mr. Jordan. Oh. He's deeply depressed. He believes he's mutilated. Is it? Yes, it looks like a pencil line. But his fears have made him believe that people will find him repulsive. Especially you, his fiancee. Oh, can't you make him see that... No, he won't listen. And he refuses to look in a mirror. His fears are deep-seated. Especially a fear of pity. If I could only tell him, maybe from me... No, you see, Miss Jordan, all we hope is that he completely trusts us. If we take you to see him, you'll think we betrayed him. You won't believe you, either. Doctor, I have an idea. I want you to let me try just one thing. Yeah? What's your idea? Is there any place where I could see Dave without his knowing that I'm there? Oh, no, really, Mr. Jordan... Oh, it's not morbid curiosity, Doctor. I want to draw his portrait. Draw his portrait? Yes. Every line of his face, the scar and all. And then... I want you or the nurse to show it to him. That's all. I think he'll accept a drawing. I don't know. I only hope. Since he won't look in a mirror. I don't want him there. I don't see how it could do harm. I'm sure it wouldn't. Well, Miss Jordan, you come along. If Sergeant Anderson is on the sun porch, you can begin right now. At the end of the corridor on the third floor, there were wide-glass doors. And beyond them was the sun porch for the wounded sat dosing in their wheelchair. The doctor and I went through the doors for the emotion for me to stop behind the screen. I don't think we can go closer than this, Miss Jordan. But...but where is he? I don't see him. Fourth man down. Looks as though he's sleeping. Tim, I'm terrified of him. Yes? Why can't I speak to him? I must speak to him. It was your own idea, Miss Jordan, to draw his portrait. Yes. But now... I want to injure him. Retard his recovery. Oh, no, no, of course not. Unless he's first convinced about his scar, seeing you will do nothing but harm. Now, you must understand this. Yes. Yes, you're right. You're right. I'll try. Peekbones stood out in his grand face and his eyes were deep in his head. And I could see the scar. A thin, but vivid line across his right cheek. His hair was uncoined. He hadn't shaved for days. And he was slumped in that lethargy I'd seen so often. The lethargy of a man who has accepted death in life. More than anything, I wanted to go to him. But instead, I sat down trembling and began to scare. I knew it was the most important portrait I had ever done. I worked carefully. And I didn't notice when the doctor went away. It was more than an hour later when he returned. Out through, Miss Jordan? I think I've finished, Doctor. It's hard to know. Let me see. Why say? That's a photographic likeness. It was difficult. It's hard for me to see in objectively. I tried to get it all, the scar. Certainly not flattering. Well, now we'll see. Yes, we'll see. But Doctor, let me take it to him. I must show it to him. I have to. He'll know it's my drawing anyway. He knows my work. So that if he sees me... I suppose he'll have to know you're here. We'll have to tell him. Farewell, Miss Jordan. Go ahead. But for his sake, keep cool. Oh, I will, Doctor. Thank you. Hello, Dave. Annie. Annie, how did you get here? How did you know? I looked for you and I found you. I... I don't want you here. I don't want to see you. You know that... No one wants to see me. No one. So go away. Please. Go away and leave me alone. Well, did you hear me? All right, Dave. I'll go. If you want me to. But first, I want to give you something. I don't want anything. It's only a drawing. Please, look. I've seen it. So what? Don't... don't you know who it is? It looks like... You're lying. It isn't me. Look at it. You're lying. Where's the scar? See? A line across the cheek. But my scar is bigger. This isn't me. I have a big scar. My face is worse than this. A lot worse. Dave, put your fingers on your scar. Feel it. Now, look at the picture. It was bigger, I tell you. Doesn't it feel the same as it looks in the picture? Just a line? That's all. Just a line. A thin line like that. What color is it? It's a little red. But it'll turn white. That's all? Look at the rest of my face. Look at me. What's wrong with you? Nothing, but...any. Tell somebody to bring me a razor. Can't you see I need a shave? I'll get you a razor. But...but even with the beard sergeant. Would you give me a kiss? Our thanks to you, Geraldine Fitzgerald. And to all members of tonight's stupa, Cavalcade cast. Here is Geng Whitman. The P-80 shooting star, the new jet plane developed at Lockheed for the Army Air Forces, is said to fly 700 miles an hour. 700 miles an hour is almost 12 miles a minute. Very nearly the speed of sound. At that speed, the air doesn't feel soft as it does when a summer breeze gently touches your cheek. It feels, pilots say, like ramming at full speed into a pile of cordwood. The pilot is bounced and banged around inside the ship. The plane itself takes punishment. Inside and out. This problem of moving objects through air at high speed is one our forefathers never anticipated. When the steam locomotive was invented, you may recall, it was gravely predicted that no human being would be able to live at the terrific speed of 30 miles an hour. Because speed that great would draw the air right out of his lungs. Today, man is traveling at more than 20 times the speed of the early locomotives through the air. You can prove for yourself that air resists an object moving through it. Make a ball out of rags, the weight of a baseball. Throw it as far as you can and then throw a baseball. The ball made of rags was on earth long before the baseball. Because it's rough surface, you might say, tears a rough hole through the air. To make its way through the air at high speed, the projectile must be smooth. An arrow is smooth. A bullet is smooth. For the same reason, the shooting star jet plane is smooth. As smooth as the finish on your piano. A special airfoil lacquer developed by DuPont Research based on the P-80, buffed and polished until it's so lustrous you can actually see your face in it. This new finish for the P-80 shooting star is only the latest of many special finishes perfected for wartime tasks by DuPont chemists and engineers and made with scientific accuracy by the men and women in DuPont plants. The team whose year in, year out effort to create new materials of old ones brings you the DuPont company's better things for better living through chemistry. Let us not forget in this hour of victory in Europe that our battle is but half won. There is much more to be done both abroad and at home before America can return to the ways of peace. Let us rededicate ourselves of the things we must do at home. Things that may have become commonplace in our thinking, in our success. Continue to be careful of the use of your car to save it from the scrap heap. Continue to save all the waste paper and fats and most important stick to your job. On this momentous occasion we at DuPont pledge that we will not slow our effort one minute until the last gun is fired and peace has once more returned to all the world. That is the pledge and promise of the men and women who work for DuPont. Mark Twain said everybody talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it. That was many years ago and Mark Twain can be forgiven for knowing nothing about the United States Army Forces Weather Service. Next week the DuPont Cavalcade will bring you an exciting new play about the AAF Weather Service and the vital part it played in the Battle of the Bowls. Next week's play is called Weather is a Weapon by Dana Andrews. The music for tonight's DuPont Cavalcade was composed and conducted by Robert Ambruster. Our Cavalcade play was written by Bernard Rans and was based on material supplied by USO Cam Shows. One of the vital agencies you helped to support by contributing to your local United War Fund campaign. This is Frank Graham inviting you to listen next week to Weather is a Weapon, an exciting play about the AAF Weather Service by Dana Andrews. On the Cavalcade of America brought to you by the DuPont Company of Wellington, Delaware.