No Road to Riches for Hope Trouper

He entertained U.S. troops during the longest days of World War II -- first in Alaska, then Europe and the South Pacific. He worked several shows a day, survived four crash landings on transport planes and, along the way, heard the applause and tens of thousands of laughs from weary soldiers. And, because of that, became a part of entertainment history.

If you’ve never heard of singer-songwriter-guitarist Tony Romano, well, that’s show business for you.

Maybe you’ve heard of one of the other acts in the troupe: a comedian named Bob Hope.

This has been a week to reflect on the 100-year life of Hope, an undisputed legend long before he died Sunday night. And so I’m sitting in the Rancho Santa Margarita apartment of Romano and his wife, Lynn, as he recalls life on the road with Bob all those years ago.

Two months shy of 88, Romano still has a performer’s comic touch and a crooner’s pipes. Unlike Hope, who Romano says couldn’t tell a joke in dialect, Romano shows off a few of his voices and, in a particularly nice touch, lapses into a Bing Crosby impression when telling a Der Bingle story.

“When I met Bob, I was doing the Lucky Strikes Hit Parade [on radio],” Romano says. “That was in 1938. I’d never heard of Bob Hope at that time.”

But Hope had heard of him and, in early 1942, persuaded the young Romano to join him for “a couple weeks” in Alaska to entertain servicemen. They were joined by singer Frances Langford and comedian Jerry Colonna. Romano sang and played guitar and became known as “The Bob Hope Orchestra.”

It didn’t end with two weeks. Before his tour of duty (which included shows at U.S. military installations in all 48 states) ended in 1945, the troupe did 4,000 shows, Romano estimates.

It’s not that Romano has tabloid stories to tell. He and Hope stayed friends for life, and Romano says Hope, a budding star, treated people well.

“The only thing terrible about it was the money,” Romano says. For the several shows a day, Romano got a per diem of $8.

Make no mistake, Romano says, Hope was a businessman: “He liked to get jokes and make money.... Everything was money, money, money, and he bought so much property.”

One standing joke years later was that Romano would telephone Hope, who’d ask where he was calling from. Romano, who lived in Hollywood, would name an intersection, and Hope would joke, “Get the hell off my property.”

I ask if he knew in the early 1940s that Hope would become a superstar. “I knew he had the star [stuff], but I thought maybe someday he’d open his door and let me in, so I could make some money,” Romano says. Instead, the coveted job of bandleader on Hope’s radio show went to Les Brown. And, because of the poor pay, Romano declined Hope’s offers after the war to join him overseas on other shows.

Worse, Romano, who’d been a singer on radio, had trouble getting jobs because he’d become known as a guitar player.

He learned that it takes drive, ambition and maybe a certain assertiveness to become a star.

“There wasn’t enough Bob Hope in me,” he says. “One time, Bing said to me, ‘Here, put this in your pocket.’ I didn’t look at it until I got home. It was a check for $500. I had only done one show with him. He said, ‘Now you know what I’m talking about. That egghead [Hope] was never giving you 8 cents.”

These dusted-off memories aren’t meant to suggest Romano doesn’t fondly remember the old days -- and Bob Hope.

To the contrary, he pays homage. As I’m leaving, Romano calls out, “Get the hell off my property.”

Perfect delivery. Bob Hope would have smiled.

Dana Parsons’ column

appears Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. He can be

reached at (714) 966-7821, at dana.parsons@latimes.com or at The Times’ Orange County edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626.