The Other Side of Me by Sidney Sheldon

I had been afraid that he would resent another writer being brought in on his play, but he said, “I’m delighted that we’re going to work together.”

And I knew we would get along.

When I returned to my hotel, I asked the hotel clerk if there had been any messages, and I held my breath while he looked.

“Nothing, Mr. Sheldon.”

Great. No advanced flying school has opened up yet.

I hurried to my room and telephoned Ben at Fort Dix.

“You and I are writing a musical for Vinton Freedley,” I said.

There was a long silence. “They took us off The Merry Widow?”

“No. We’re doing The Merry Widow and the Freedley play.”

“My God. How did you arrange that?”

“I didn’t. George Balanchine did. We’re working with an English writer named Guy Bolton.”

CHAPTER 14

I was busy and happy, but I kept waiting for that momentous phone call.

For the next three weeks I spent my mornings working on The Merry Widow, my afternoons working on Jackpot, and my evenings working with Ben on both shows. I was getting exhausted. I decided I needed some relaxation.

On a Sunday, I went to the USO, a New York entertainment center for soldiers on leave. There was music, beautiful young women, dancing, and food. It was like an oasis from the war.

An attractive blond hostess came up to me. “Would you like to dance, soldier?”

Indeed, I would.

Just as we began to dance, I felt a hand tap my shoulder.

I said, “Hey, we just started. No cutting—” I turned around. There were two large MPs standing there.

“You’re under arrest, soldier. Let’s go.”

Under arrest? “What’s the trouble?”

“Impersonating an officer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re wearing an officer’s uniform. Where’s your officer’s insignia?”

“I don’t have any. I’m not an officer.”

“That’s why you’re under arrest. Come along.” They took hold of both my arms.

“Wait a minute. You’re making a big mistake. I’m allowed to wear this.”

“Who gave you permission, your mother?”

They started to pull me off the dance floor.

I was in a panic. “You don’t understand. I’m in a special branch of the Air Corps and—”

“Right.”

I kept talking while they were shoving me toward the door. “I’m serious. Have you ever heard of a division of the Army called War Training Service?”

“No.”

We were outside. There was an official car parked at the curb.

“Get in.”

I dug in my heels. “I won’t go. You’ve got to make a phone call. I’m telling you that I’m in the Army Air Corps, in a branch called War Training Service, and we can wear anything we damn please.”

The two MPs were looking at each other. “I think you’re nuts,” one of them said, “but I’ll make the call. Who do I call?”

I gave him the number. He turned to his buddy.

“You hang on to him. We’re going to throw in ‘resisting arrest.’ I’ll be back.”

Twenty minutes later the MP returned, a bewildered look on his face.

“What happened?” the other MP asked.

“I talked to a general and got chewed out for not knowing about an outfit called War Training Service.”

“You mean it’s legitimate?”

“I don’t know if it’s legitimate, but it’s real. It’s a branch of the Army Air Corps.”

The other MP released my arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess we made a mistake.”

I nodded. “It’s all right.”

I went back inside. My girl was dancing with someone else.

Guy Bolton was a pleasure to work with. He had written many successful plays and was very knowledgeable about the theater. He spoke in English idioms and it was our job to convert them to American phrases. I remembered the line of George Bernard Shaw: “The Americans and the English are divided by a common language.”

Guy had rented a beautiful home on Long Island and on weekends Ben and I worked with him there. He was very social and had an interesting group of friends.

At a dinner party there one evening, I was seated next to one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen.