My Lucky Life in and Out of Show Business_ A Memoir - Dick Van Dyke [7]
Fortunately, I managed to straighten things out over the air before anyone panicked or complained. Thankfully, I didn’t get fired. But I didn’t last much longer, either.
In March 1942, I signed up for the Air Force. The thought of getting drafted, put in the infantry, and charging through the front lines filled me with dread. “Anything but that,” I told myself. And anyone else who asked why I had signed up when they found out it meant I would not finish high school and get my diploma.
But there was a glitch. I went to the nearest Air Force base and spent all day taking IQ and psychological tests. I returned the next day for my physical, which I passed. No heart murmur whatsoever. Not even a whisper. I was in great shape, with one exception. I didn’t weigh enough.
I was too skinny! I tipped the scale at 135 pounds, and at my height I had to weigh 141.
I took the test three times and didn’t make it. I weighed even less the second and third times from sweating nervously at the thought of being sent to the front lines. I had one more chance. I went to Chicago and stayed in a motel overnight. In the morning before my weigh-in I ate half a dozen bananas, and then just before I got on the scale I darted into the men’s room and drank as much water as I could.
I barely made it, but that was all that mattered. I was in.
I did my basic training in Wichita Falls, Texas, and then entered pilot’s training in Toledo, Ohio. I envisioned myself as a fighter pilot, which did not make sense given my severe allergy to combat. It turned out to be a moot point. The closest I got to my pilot’s wings was when the other trainees and I serviced the planes.
Most of the work I did was classwork. I took physics, math, and aeronautics at the College Training Detachment. I enjoyed learning and did well. But I failed every military-related exam I took. The captain called me into his office one day and showed me the tests arrayed on his desk.
“They are all failing grades,” he said. “You tested out with an IQ of a hundred and fifty. I don’t get it.”
“Sir, I’m not much of a soldier,” I said.
But I looked good in the uniform. I was one of about fifty military guys in town, and so the girls were all over the place. Finally our commanding officer called all of us in one day, had us stand at attention in the classroom, and informed us that the Air Force was about to join in a major push against Japan.
“Some of you will be sent overseas as tail gunners,” he said. “Others of you will be assigned according to your abilities.”
I started singing and dancing right there and was subsequently assigned to special services.
3
SPECIAL SERVICES
Getting into special services was the best thing that could have happened to me—and the Air Force.
I was assigned to special services after being stationed at Majors Field in Sherman, Texas. We built and painted sets, put on plays, and starred in sketch-filled variety shows. That was about as military as I wanted to get, and as luck would have it, not much more was required. Our CO was a woman, a former Broadway star in the 1930s. We had her wrapped around our little finger. We were able to wrangle a three-day pass anytime we wanted. I even got out of KP after talking someone in the mess hall into letting me build a little booth in the corner where I played records and read the news.
The highlight of my Air Force career came one day as I left a meeting and spotted a notice on the bulletin board saying the base’s radio station was looking for an announcer for its daily entertainment show, Flight Time. I signed up immediately. A few days later, I was standing at the latrine when a guy came in and asked if I was Van Dyke.
“Yeah,” I said.
His name was Byron Paul. After getting himself situated at the latrine next to me, he handed me a piece of paper and said, “Read it.” It turned