Back to the future

Redefining the swinging 70s

By Tanya Whiton

SWINGIN COUPLE: Arthur Fredericksen and his saucy date.

A couple of years ago, I saw a tiny newsprint ad for a “USO style” dance in Falmouth, sponsored by American Legion Post #164. I envisioned a roomful of rowdy sailors, tap-dancing girls, local elders handing out popcorn, and gin being surreptitiously swilled from pocket flasks. My imagination was greatly influenced by a book I happened to be reading at the time: Home Away From Home, Julia Carson’s study of the United Services Organization — one of many outfits that provided relief for active duty personnel during the Second World War. The Red Cross, Salvation Army, and Nurses Corps ministered to those in need of medical assistance and supplies. But the USO took care of those other necessities: snacks, entertainment, and female company.

In airplane hangars, high school gymnasiums, grange halls, and impromptu venues built on the spot, USO Camp Shows kept the troops diverted and beguiled with music, dance, skits, puppetry, and, of course, young ladies. Makeshift stages, a transient population of soldiers, and a nationwide sense of urgency created a unique circumstance in which performers of every stripe suddenly had a gig, and an audience. And gender relations were rife with contradictions that would eventually transform the institutionsñof marriage and family: women worked at jobs previously done only by men, and had more influence on the infrastructure of industry and government than ever before, yet male/female relationships were in some ways at their most conventional.

And so the double icons of “the American gal” and “the fighting man” met on the dance floor at the USO. Fascinated, I wanted to go to American Legion Post #164 and see how a piece of stage history and sexual politic might be reinvented by a group of WWII veterans, now in their late 70s and early 80s. Unfortunately, prior commitments prevented me.

But a few weeks back, when I saw posters for the Veteran’s Stagedoor Canteen, the third dance hosted by Post #164, I arranged to take the night off from work, dug a red 1940s-era dress from the back of my closet and persuaded a friend to come along.

Apparently their first event was unexpectedly well attended; the swing-dancing underground (this I learned from avid swinger Andrea Helton, who helped organize the Stagedoor Canteen) caught sight of the Post #164’s ad and spread the word. Swing dancers in seamed stockings and swirly dresses descended on the confined space of the American Legion Hall. Post Captain Arthur Fredericksen had to turn people away. “The floor,” says Helton, “was bouncing.”

A relationship developed between the dance buffs and the veterans. Helton and her fellow After Five Swing Dancers began working with Fredericksen to put together a full night of what Fredericksen termed “nostalgical music and dancing.” They recruited the Victory Swing Band, and in true USO form, commandeered Falmouth High’s Plummer-Motz Gymnasium.

Two old soldiers greeted us at the door, and handed us programs and dance cards numbered 1 through 12. Banquet tables spread with paper cloths stood beneath an unfurled American flag, and smaller flags festooned the walls. The band was installed in the corner, and a microphone for emcee Fredericksen was set up in the center of the room. Elderly ladies from the community served up popcorn and root beer. (Dang. No gin.) An exceptionally nervous young woman warbled “God Bless America,” and exited the gym flushed and beaming, her braces glinting in the fluorescent hallway light.

And I danced. I mashed all over my partner’s feet in my too-high shoes, thumped him in the ribs with my elbow and accidentally scratched him. In exchange, he spun me around backwards until my eyes blurred and nearly chucked me into a table. The After Five Swing Dancers did a couple of numbers reminiscent of the unpolished charm I imagined many USO acts possessed, and a crowd of gray and white haired couples and veterans in full American Legion regalia applauded them.

But the best part of the evening was when former airman Larry Burns got up to tell a story about seeing Glen Miller’s last show.

“He played his last song for the Eighth Air Force,” Burns began, standing uncomfortably at the mic, facing the rows of tables. “We were stationed at a base in England, and Glen Miller came to play. [The USO] went to the surrounding towns and gathered up lots of girls — which I liked,” he added. “Then they cleared out a hangar, and the band set up. Well, we had a good time — and the girls loved it.”

Burns paused. “Then that next a.m. Glen Miller got on a C47 and nobody ever saw him again. Either the Germans shot him down, or something happened with the aircraft — nobody ever found out.”

I realized that what I’d come to the event hoping for was more than a brief passport back in time via Tommy Dorsey and Duke Ellington numbers, and more than a chance to observe a re-enactment of an era in which the concepts of patriotism, valor, and chivalry seemed simpler, less contested, and more clear. What I wanted was to hear some stories, to access the memories of a generation that is swiftly disappearing. For me, the dresses and the dances of a bygone era conjure up an imagined reality — for the veterans who belong to American Legion Post #164, they conjure the past.

“I’ve got a philosophy about music,” Arthur Fredericksen told me. “It stores up the wonderful memories one collects over the years. That’s what dancing and music is all about — it keeps us alive.”

Tanya Whiton can be reached at twhiton@ime.net.