I’d never been away from home for more than a week, and then it had been to happily stay at Joy’s house in Pasadena. Now I was to spend three months in the dusty Oregon wilderness, not knowing how to occupy myself, stupefied with loneliness if Steve wasn’t beside me. And since he remained in Los Angeles, I was alone. Most of the cast was made up of wonderful character actors, like Jack Elam, Stubby Kaye, Harry Carey Jr., and Peggy Stewart, all people who knew Jocko and my mother, some having worked with one or both. But joining this cluster of actors as they sat around on their canvas chairs between shots, chairs that seemed to magically appear out of nowhere no matter how remote our location, would have felt awkward, like I was sitting in on one of Baa’s fondue gatherings. So I’d smile when they made room for me, sit for a moment, then slowly back away unnoticed, preferring to find a place sitting in the dirt, without their company or a canvas chair.
On location in Oregon with Bob Mitchum.
Once, Robert Mitchum, who rarely sat with the group either, made a sandwich for me, which unfortunately was smothered in yellow mustard—the one food that made me want to retch. He handed it to me grinning from ear to ear, then plopped down, making a dusty spot for himself next to mine—me in my gunnysack dress, Bob wearing nothing but his buckskin pants. I ate every smackerel of it while he joyfully watched, and actually, since we were holding up production—something he liked to do—the whole company watched me eat the revolting thing. But I didn’t care. I would have eaten a whole jar of mustard, one spoonful at a time, because I was crazy about Bob Mitchum, even though I could barely understand a word he said—and he talked to me a lot. I’d listen intently, catching a word or two, sometimes enough to get the gist of what he was saying. If not, I’d smile and nod with a little chuckle, not having a clue how to respond. He once told me I was the real thing, reassuring me softly that I was one of the gang, his gang, and that like him, I’d be around a long time. I would have been overwhelmed to hear Robert Mitchum say that to me, but I wasn’t sure he’d actually said that and I couldn’t make myself say, “I beg your pardon,” or even “What?” I only know that some twenty years later, somewhere in the eighties, I was being presented with a People’s Choice Award and found myself seated at Mr. Mitchum’s table. Without hesitation, he stood, took my hand with both of his, and said in his Bob Mitchum gravel, “I told you so.” Or at least, I think that’s what he said.
Then there was the day that Kirk Douglas read The Little Prince to me as we walked the twenty-minute journey back to base camp after wrap. I always suspected he did that only because Mitchum had made me that sandwich a few days before. I mean, honestly, who carries a hardback copy of The Little Prince with them out into the Oregon plains? I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that either, though I remember to this day the passage he read and how much it affected me. It was about the Little Prince tending his rose and after he had planted it, watered and fed it, he found himself caring for it deeply. He had helped it grow and therefore to him it was “unique in all the world.” How that fit into my life, I can’t tell you.
Michael McGreevey, who played Brownie to my Mercy, was fun and easy to be with, and the only one who appeared to be close to my age—though we acted more like bratty ten-year-old boys than two people in their late teens, which is what we actually were. I had never been a mischief maker, never thought it would be fun, didn’t even have a clear idea of what “fun” was. But at that moment, dropping water balloons out of my hotel window onto the unsuspecting folks below, then ducking down to avoid being caught, seemed a perfect way to spend the afternoon.
All of that is well and good, but what makes this movie important had nothing to do with water balloons or mustard sandwiches. I don’t need to look at the photos or even, God forbid, the film. All I need to do is close my eyes and instantly I can smell the dusty heat with a hint of sage, hear the clunking sound of the wooden wagon as it rolled next to me. I’m dressed in a potato sack with sleeves; there’s a rope tied around my middle and a pair of huge clodhoppers, without laces, on my feet. When you put that all together and add the thick bushy fall, or half wig, anchored to the crown of my head, I look like a bagged squirrel with big feet, walking in the midst of the Armada.
You need to know that the Armada, which was spread across a wide prairie-like field outside of Eugene, consisted of eight to ten covered wagons being pulled either by four horses, called a four-up, or by six horses, a six-up. The only exceptions were the two enormous oxen pulling the wagon that I now walked beside—the one belonging to my movie family—and on most days, I found myself sitting in this wagon, staring at their dung-covered hindquarters—not my family’s but the oxen’s. Some of the other actors were walking beside the wagons, as were most of the fifty or so extras—young and old—while several dogs ran around barking at the few scrawny cows being led by an extra or tied behind a wagon. A handful of stunt guys on horses were weaving in and out, looking for disruptive animals or panicked participants. The whole Armada was about half a mile long, give or take a mule or two.
It was one of my big scenes in the film—and I had a few—but this one worried me. In the front room of my memory, I can see the two of us, Brownie and Mercy, walking along, my focus locked onto the big brown stick about a hundred yards away, visible only by the red dot painted on its edge. This is my mark. The camera, mounted on a big arm connected to the crane, is slowly moving down from high above, overlooking the progress of the settlers, and when it reaches its proper position—about fifteen to twenty feet in front of my big stick—it will stop. At the moment the camera stops, I will hopefully reach the red smudge, step into the medium two-shot, and start crying. If, perchance, when I land on said stick, I am unable to remember my lines or happen to have an aneurysm, then everything in the Armada—whether on wheels or legs—will have to turn around and slowly return to its original position, leaving in its wake an overwhelming trail of manure, not to mention deep grooves in the supposedly virgin land. That’s when an army of “greens men”—or whoever can hold a rake—will scurry around in a frenzied attempt to erase all traces of mankind’s presence and, at the same time, my agonizing inability to act!!!
I’m walking alongside Brownie, sensing the camera’s movement, seeing from the edge of my eye the red dot. There it is, getting closer. I am almost at the red dot. I clench my hands. I hunch my shoulders. I’d jam a pencil in my eye if I thought it would help me land on that evil red dot and produce any kind of moisture in my eyes. Think, Sally, think. When was the last time you cried? Nothing. Crickets in my head. I am so benumbed by loneliness I feel nothing. Nothing! And I’m horrified by the realization—I don’t know how to deliver. Some people have menthol blown in their eyes by the makeup artist. I’d do that, sweet Jesus in heaven, if I knew where the makeup person was—which I don’t—and the red dot is getting closer. Why can’t I do it? The script says, “Mercy’s eyes well.” Okay, “well” your eyes, Field! My eyes don’t well. How does anyone “well” their eyes? You either cry or you don’t and you, Miss Field, are getting horribly, painfully close to don’t, and your eyes will remain well-less.
I hit my mark dead on—that I can do. I stop. The camera stops. Brownie stops. I say my dialogue with my shoulders touching my ears, and a look on my face like I’m about to join the oxen in producing a huge pile for the rakes to quickly hide before we can begin again.
In the middle of the Armada, well-less.