Years After His Death, John Wayne’s Secretary FINALLY Confirms The Rumors | HO

For decades, John Wayne was the embodiment of American heroism—a towering cowboy, a stoic soldier, a symbol of rugged masculinity. But the man behind the legend was far more complicated, and his carefully crafted image was built on secrets, scandals, and pain that few ever saw.

Now, years after his death, the woman who knew him best—his longtime secretary and final companion, Pat Stacy—has confirmed the rumors that Hollywood tried to bury. Her memoir and subsequent interviews have shattered the myth of the untouchable Duke, exposing a story of heartbreak, controversy, and a legacy forever changed.

A Boy Named Marion: The Making of a Myth

John Wayne was born Marion Robert Morrison in Winterset, Iowa, on May 26, 1907. From the start, life was a battle. Weighing in at a remarkable 13 pounds, the boy with the “girl’s name” faced relentless teasing from classmates. Bullied and determined to prove himself, he fought his way through childhood, even changing his middle name to Michael after the death of his younger brother—a symbolic attempt to rewrite his own story.

When the Morrison family moved to Glendale, California, in 1916, Marion found solace in his giant Airedale terrier. The local firemen dubbed the pair “Big Duke” and “Little Duke,” a nickname that would stick and eventually become more real to him than his given name. By the time he landed his first movie credit in 1929, he was billed simply as Duke Morrison—a boy’s bond with his dog giving birth to the identity that would define him.

From Poverty Row to Hollywood Royalty

The Morrisons’ California dreams quickly soured. Their attempt to run a ranch in the Mojave Desert ended in financial disaster, and young Marion hustled to help the family survive—delivering medicine for his father, selling newspapers, and learning the value of hard work and the fear of poverty. But his first dream was football, not film. He earned a scholarship to USC as a lineman, only to have it ripped away by a beach accident that dislocated his shoulder. Unable to afford tuition, he took a job at Fox Film’s prop department, a move that would change his life forever.

A fateful connection with cowboy star Tom Mix got him work as an extra, but Hollywood was slow to embrace him. In 1930, he landed the lead in The Big Trail, but studio executives deemed “Marion Morrison” too soft for a hero. Without his consent, he became “John Wayne”—a name he hated but could not refuse. The film flopped, and Wayne spent nearly a decade churning out low-budget westerns, earning as little as $75 a week and sleeping at the studio to save money. He was humiliated, watching actors like Gary Cooper soar while he languished in obscurity.

Everything changed with John Ford’s Stagecoach in 1939. Ford saw something in Wayne that others missed, casting him in a role that would transform his career overnight. Suddenly, Wayne was Hollywood royalty, dominating the box office for the next 25 years.

The War Hero Who Never Went to War

Wayne’s on-screen persona as America’s war hero was built on a painful contradiction. When World War II broke out, Wayne, then 34 and a father of four, received a deferment for family dependency. But even after his status was changed to eligible for the draft, he never served. Studio executives at Republic Pictures, desperate to keep their only A-list star, lobbied the Selective Service Board to protect him, warning that his enlistment would ruin their wartime productions.

Wayne’s attempts to join John Ford’s OSS photographic unit were stymied by bureaucratic errors and, some say, a lack of real effort. He wrote to Ford, begging for a chance, but the letter was never answered. The guilt of not serving haunted him for the rest of his life. On movie sets, Ford would mock him, and during USO tours, real soldiers greeted him with indifference—or worse. Against the real-life heroism of actors like Jimmy Stewart, who flew bombing missions over Berlin, Wayne’s patriotism looked increasingly hollow.

Scandals, Affairs, and a Shattered Home

Wayne’s private life was as stormy as any Hollywood melodrama. In the early 1940s, he carried on a brazen affair with Marlene Dietrich, the glamorous German-born actress, even as both were married. FBI surveillance, triggered by wartime suspicion of Dietrich, documented the affair. His first wife, Josephine Saenz, a devout Catholic, was devastated by his infidelities, sometimes inviting priests to confront him at home. Their marriage ended in divorce, but Josephine prayed for his conversion until his death—a prayer finally answered on his deathbed.

Rumors swirled for years about a deep, lasting romance between Wayne and fiery co-star Maureen O’Hara. Friends said she was the only woman who could match his spirit, and her grief at his passing was profound.

Wayne’s second marriage to Mexican actress Esperanza “Chata” Baur was a public battleground. Her drinking and fiery temper, combined with Wayne’s own infidelities, led to explosive arguments and scandalous headlines. The marriage ended after Chata’s affair with hotel heir Nicky Hilton, leaving Wayne nearly bankrupt from the settlement.

His third wife, Peruvian actress Pilar Pallete, brought her own heartbreak. When she became pregnant during their affair, Wayne pressured her into an abortion to avoid scandal—a decision that haunted her for years. Her depression deepened as she followed Wayne’s career from set to set, culminating in a suicide attempt that Wayne responded to by sending her home with nurses, choosing work over family yet again.

The Conqueror: A Deadly Legacy

Wayne’s professional choices also led to tragedy. His insistence on playing Genghis Khan in The Conqueror was widely mocked, but the real disaster was the filming location—downwind from nuclear test sites in Utah. Despite reassurances from officials, the area was contaminated with radioactive fallout. Producer Howard Hughes even shipped tons of the tainted sand back to Hollywood for reshoots, exposing even more people.

The price was catastrophic. Of the 220 people involved in the production, nearly half developed cancer, including Wayne himself, who died of stomach cancer, and co-star Susan Hayward. Even Wayne’s children, who visited the set, later faced serious health problems. The film’s legacy is one of Hollywood’s darkest secrets—one that Pat Stacy confirmed in her memoir.

Racism, Regret, and a Tarnished Image

Wayne’s public persona took a permanent hit after a 1971 Playboy interview in which he defended white supremacy and dismissed Native Americans as selfish. The backlash was immediate and enduring. In recent years, activists have called for his name to be stripped from airports and public spaces; his son’s attempts to defend him have done little to repair the damage.

The Final Years: Love, Rage, and Redemption

Pat Stacy entered Wayne’s life in 1972, hired as a secretary when she was in her 30s and he was already a legend in his mid-60s. Their professional relationship became romantic during the filming of McQ and deepened on the set of Brannigan in London. Despite the 30-year age gap and Wayne’s declining health, Stacy became his anchor, providing the comfort and loyalty he had never found in three marriages.

But as cancer took hold, Wayne’s personality changed. The gentle, affectionate man Stacy loved became angry and unpredictable, lashing out at those closest to him. In his darkest moments, he begged Stacy and his son Patrick to help him end his life—a plea they refused. Even simple acts like eating became battles, his frustration and fear boiling over in fits of rage.

Yet, there were moments of grace. Two days before his death, Wayne finally converted to Catholicism, the faith his first wife had prayed for him to embrace. On June 11, 1979, surrounded by family, he told Stacy, “You’re my girl. I love you.” Those were his last words.

The Memoir That Changed Everything

In 1983, Stacy published Duke: A Love Story, a memoir that tore down the walls around Wayne’s private life. She confirmed the affairs, the violent decline, and the devastating impact of filming The Conqueror. Critics called the book too blunt, but readers were captivated by its raw honesty. For the first time, the world saw John Wayne not as an untouchable hero, but as a flawed, suffering man.

A Legacy of Contradictions

Wayne’s final gift was not a film, but the John Wayne Cancer Institute, founded in 1981. The center has become a leader in cancer research and treatment, saving countless lives—a legacy born from his own suffering.

Years after his death, the rumors are no longer rumors. Pat Stacy’s confessions have forced America to reckon with the truth: John Wayne was not the man we saw on screen. He was more complicated, more wounded, and, in some ways, more human. The legend endures, but now, so does the truth.