This is from an unknown movie magazine from about 1943.
They shot the works that night, he and Barb. Flung a big, gorgeous, noisy party. Got mellow and made speeches. Yard-long speeches that ended in a toast. Then glasses clinked and they sat down for long enough for everyone to toast them back. “To your fourth anniversary!” “To your health!” “To your Navy blues!” “To the best darn couple of joes in Hollywood!” It was a good party! A thing to remember! “Yes, but let’s not get down to past tenses,” Bob says. “Makes things sound so final, and they’re not. They’ll all be there when I get back. The house–and the lawn knee-deep in crab grass. The brat (Dion) riding me about not joining the Marines. Barbara sprawled on the sofa gulping her 10th cup of coffee and her 20th book-of-the-month. It’ll all be there. So you change the subject and talk about that new contract M-G-M’s holding for him; $4,000 a week for 20 years. “Hey, that’s almost a quarter of a century.” “Yes,” he says, “but at that price I can spare the time. And then you talk about the Navy Air Corps and how Lt. (j.g.) Taylor passed his exams double-A-Plus. He laughs and says you should have been there the time he sailed onto the runway smooth as glass and then got caught in a frisky wind. “The plane spun around like it was chasing its own tail, and before I knew it, I was bumping over a watermelon patch. The air was so thick with flying seeds it looked like Antarctic hail, only brown.” Sooner or later the conversation edges around to Barbara, and he tells you how she thinks the uniform is sharp, “but what happens above the ears shouldn’t happen to a chow.” That’s when he drags out three shiny medals, a St. Christopher for the cockpit of his plane, a couple to dangle around his neck. “Silly, huh? They’re from Barb, the dope! But the corners of his mouth curl up and his eyes grin.