He nodded. “Ben Roberts. How soon can you start?”
“Right away.”
Ben and I could get some sleep after the war.
I called Ben as soon as I got back to the hotel.
“We’re writing a musical for Richard Kollmar called Dream with Music.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Why did the other shows drop us?”
“They didn’t. We’re still doing those.”
“We’re writing three Broadway shows at once?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
I was still wearing my uniform, waiting for the call to report for advanced flight training. But now I was so busy writing all three shows that I hoped the call would be delayed. I needed only two or three more months.
The gods must have been laughing.
Two hours after I met with Richard Kollmar and accepted the assignment, the Phone Call came.
“Sidney Sheldon?”
“Yes.”
“This is Major Baker. You have orders to report tomorrow morning at 0900 to Captain Burns at Army headquarters in the Bronx.”
My heart sank. The timing could not have been worse. We were deserting three shows. Ben was available only at night, and I would be overseas somewhere.
Captain Burns was a tall, bald man, wearing a neatly pressed uniform. He looked up as I walked into his office.
“Sheldon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sit down.”
I took a seat. He studied me a moment. “You finished primary flight training?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced at a paper on his desk. “And you’re scheduled to go to a secondary flight school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Those plans have been changed.”
I was puzzled. “Changed?”
“The war has taken a new turn. We’re on the offensive now. We’re going after the bastards. What we need are fighter pilots. You’re not qualified because of your eyesight. We have orders to disband the entire War Training Service unit.”
It took me a moment to digest it. “What does that—?”
“All the volunteers in WTS are being given a choice. You can report to an infantry unit as a private in the Army or we can turn your name back to your draft board.”
Hobson’s choice. But I needed the time. It would probably take the draft board at least a month to process my papers before they sent me overseas and I could use that time working on the shows.
“I prefer the draft board, sir.”
He made a note. “Fine. You’ll hear from them.”
I did not doubt it. The question was when? How much time would I have to work with Ben and Guy and Dorothy to get the shows in shape? I knew we could do a great deal in one month, working seven days a week. If the Army gave me one month . . .
When I returned to my hotel, I immediately called Ben. “We’ll be working very late tonight.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Late” turned out to be three A.M., when Ben finally stumbled out of our hotel room and returned to Fort Dix.
Ben had been as dismayed by the news as I was. I tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry. Draft boards move slowly.”
During the next three days, I worked feverishly, going from theater to theater, working against the time that the call would come from the draft board.
On the fourth day, when I returned to my hotel, the hotel clerk handed me a letter. It began: Greetings.
My heart sank. I was to report to the draft board in the Bronx the following day. My career as a playwright was over before it had begun. I was deserting three shows that had been counting on me, and I would be going overseas to face possible death. And suddenly I was filled with an overwhelming sense of elation.
I knew my emotions were completely out of control. I had no idea what was the matter with me. I looked at the idiotically happy face in the mirror and I began to cry.
The next morning at nine o’clock, I reported for my physical examination at Army draft headquarters. It was the same examination I had had in California. It was over in thirty minutes and I was asked to report to the doctor’s office.