“I already have a writer, Guy Bolton, but he’s English and I think he needs an American to work with him. Would you like the job?”
“I certainly would.” Then I added, “By the way, I have a collaborator, Ben Roberts. He would work with me.”
Freedley nodded. “That’s fine. The score is being written by Vernon Duke and Howard Dietz.”
Two top Broadway names.
“How soon can you start?” Vinton Freedley asked.
“Right away.” I tried to sound confident, but at the back of my mind was the thought that the call could come in at any second and I would have to report back for advanced flight training.
Freedley was talking. “We’ve begun casting already. So far, we have Allan Jones and Nanette Fabray. Let me show you the set.”
I was surprised that the set had been built before the play was written. Freedley walked me over to the Alvin Theatre and we went inside.
On the stage was a huge white southern house with a picket fence.
I looked at Freedley, confused. “You said this show was about American soldiers who win a girl in a—”
“This is the set from my last show,” Freedley explained. “The show flopped, so we’re going to use the set for this one. It will save a lot of money.”
I wondered how we were going to work a gothic southern mansion into a modern war story.
“Let’s go back to the office. I want you to meet Guy.”
Guy Bolton turned out to be a charming Englishman in his fifties who had written several plays with P. G. Wodehouse, the British icon.
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.”