“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let’s see if you have the twenty/twenty vision they require.”
He led me into a smaller room with a large eye chart on the wall. Dr. Severn darkened the room.
“Read it from the top.”
It was easy—until I got to the last two lines. I could not read a single letter. But surely getting that close was enough.
The lights came on.
The doctor was writing something on the card.
I had made it!
“Just give this to the receptionist,” he said.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
As I walked out the door, I looked at the card. My name was on the card and at the bottom he had written, “Physically disqualified. Defective visual acuity.” Signed, “Dr. Fred Severn.”
I could not believe it. I could not accept that. Nothing was going to stop me from getting into the Air Corps.
I started to walk out with the card.
The receptionist said, “Sir, may I have your card?”
I kept walking, pretending not to hear.
“Sir—”
I was out the door.
I still had one doctor left to go to. But how could I make sure that I would pass his test?
One hour later, I was in the office of my regular optometrist, Dr. Samuel Peters. I told him what had happened.
“For twenty/twenty vision,” he explained, “you need to read all the lines.”
“Is there any way you can help me?”
He thought for a moment. “There is.”
He reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a pair of glasses with lenses that looked like glass bottle tops.
“What’s that?”
“That’s what’s going to get you into the Air Corps.”
“How?”
“Before you go in for your next eye test, wear them for a while. They will inhibit your vision so that your eyes will be straining to see, so when you walk in for the test, your vision will be better than ever.”
“Great,” I said. I shook his hand, thanked him, and left.
I had made an appointment with the second doctor, Dr. Edward Gale, for ten o’clock the following day.
I walked into the lobby of the building his office was in and sat down on a bench. I put on the thick glasses, and waited for them to do their magic.
Thirty minutes before my appointment, I took the glasses off and walked into Dr. Gale’s reception area.
“Mr. Sheldon,” the nurse said. “The doctor is waiting to give you your test.”
I smiled smugly. “Thank you.”
I walked into the inner office and handed the card to Dr. Gale. He looked at it and said, “Air Corps, huh? Sit down.”
The doctor darkened the room and a lighted eye chart appeared.
“Go ahead. Start at the top.”
There was one little problem. I could not see one single letter on the chart.
He was waiting. “You can start now.”
On the first line there was something that could have been a big A, but I wasn’t sure. I took a chance. “A.”
“Yes. Go on.”
There was nowhere to go. I was almost blind. “I can’t—”
He was staring at me. “What’s the next line?”
“I—I can’t read it.”
“Is this a joke?” He was angry. “You can’t read any of those lines?”
“No, I—”
“And you want to fly in the Air Corps? Forget it!” He picked up my card and started to write.
My last chance had just gone down the drain. I was panicky. I started babbling. “Wait,” I said, “don’t write anything yet.”
He looked up at me, surprised.
“Doctor, you don’t understand. I haven’t slept all week. I’ve been taking care of my mother. My eyes are tired. I haven’t been well. My favorite uncle just died. It’s been horrible. You have to give me another chance.”
He was listening. But when he spoke, he said, “I’m afraid there’s no way you can—”
“Just one more chance.”
He could hear the desperation in my voice. He shook his head. “Well, we’ll try again tomorrow, but you’re wasting—”
“Oh, thank you,” I said quickly. “I’ll be here.”
I rushed back to my optometrist’s office.
“Thanks a lot,” I said bitterly. I told Dr. Peters what had happened.