They were quickly dashed. Dawson shook his head. Columbia wasn't saving anyone. Any research student whom the draft boards decided to take had to go. No chance.
It was disappointing, but at least while I was in New York, Gertrude and I managed to take our traditional walk along the boardwalk.
When I got back to Philadelphia, a letter setting a date for a draft physical in Philadelphia was waiting for me.
On July 18, I had the physical, which was a repeat of the one I had had the year before, with all the results identical. I even weighed 169 pounds on both occasions.
With the draft flap on, it was amazing how many other things that would ordinarily have had me quite concerned, meant comparatively little.
My father-in-law, Henry, had quit his job in May. My mother-in-law had long urged this, for she felt that a change would open the highway to success for him. He spent the next few months looking for jobs. Naturally, no high road to success ever opened.
As far as my parents were concerned, there were a variety of annoyances in early 1945. There were newspaper strikes, cigarette shortages, and so on. My father cut his finger on a broken glass and required several stitches. Young Stanley had appendicitis and was operated upon just before his sixteenth birthday.
One particularly minor irritation of that period came when I obtained the August 1945 Astounding and found that it contained "Es-
cape" but that Campbell, for some reason I couldn't fathom, had changed the title to "Paradoxical Escape." I changed the title back to "Escape" 3 when I put it into one of my collections in later years.
7
Gertrude and I had no children and weren't planning to have any, at least for the duration. We rather took it for granted that we would eventually have one or two, but we felt no really great drive in that direction. For one thing, our experiences with children were not overwhelmingly happy ones.
The de Camps, for instance, had to go away for a couple of days and needed someone to stay with four-year-old Lyman. It occurred to them that we might be willing to stay at their place and serve as baby sitters.
We were not willing, but the Code of the Woosters is that you can't let a pal down—so we spent July 23 to 25 at the de Camp home, along with young Lyman and an elderly relative.
It was awful. Lyman was a rambunctious child who wore us out. Nor was it possible to deal with him properly. The elderly relative was a broken reed as far as discipline was concerned, and we hesitated to throw Lyman against the wall or to dribble him across the floor, as we would cheerfully have done had he been a child of our own.
There was nothing to do but reason with him, drive ourselves to frenzied exhaustion, and get nowhere. Never were we so relieved to see anyone as the de Camps on the twenty-fifth.
Oddly enough, Lyman (whose red hair gave him the inevitable nickname of Rusty) grew up to be as reserved, inhibited, and well-behaved as his father, despite the fact that in 1945 I would have bet a hundred to one he would grow up to be an outlaw. In fact, he grew up to become a delightful and highly intelligent fellow.
July 26 was our third anniversary, and just being home after that experience was celebration enough.
8
On July 27, I received a new classification from the draft board— 1AB. The added B was a bow of recognition to my nearsightedness, but it meant nothing. Anyone in 1AB was draft material, and I still had five months to go to the safety of my twenty-sixth birthday. So I requested a hearing with the local draft board, which was granted and set for August 7.1 made ready to leave on the afternoon of the sixth.
* See I, Robot.
We were getting ready to go, and I remember exactly what happened.
I was reading a copy of Will Durant's Caesar and Christy the third volume of his history of civilization 4 and Gertrude was ironing some clothes.
The radio stopped its regular programming for an emergency bulletin : The United States had dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima.
I was not surprised, mind you. I had known it was in the works since 1941. Therefore my original comment was not one of shock or awe or horror or anything like that.
Besides, something else was on my mind. Therefore, my first words when I heard the dramatic announcement were a thoughtful, "Hmm, I wonder how that will affect my draft status?"
Why shouldn't I wonder that? Japan was on its last legs and it was quite certain that the atomic bombing meant that surrender was only days away. Might the United States not stop the draft altogether in that case? It was a reasonable thought.
Until (and unless) the draft were halted, though, I remained in danger. I went to New York with Gertrude that day and on the next saw the draft board. Alas, there was no room for discretion. Since there was no appeal from the Navy Yard (and according to the latest government directives there could not be) I would have to be inducted when my turn came up. They couldn't tell for sure when that would be. I would just have to wait.
On August 14, Japan surrendered, and draft quotas were cut at once, and I felt myself hoping a bit.
At the Navy Yard, there was a sudden spurt of change. Saturdays stopped being workdays and there was a corresponding cut in salary as we changed back to a five-day week. Rationing of various kinds was called off. The Navy Yard personnel began dispersing. Heinlein was leaving. De Camp was preparing to leave.
I couldn't move, however. My actions depended on the draft. Just as soon as I knew I would not be drafted, I would leave at once and return to Columbia.
9 September 2, 1945, was V-J (Victory over Japan) Day, the formalities of the Japanese surrender having been completed. World
4 I read each volume as it came out. After I had read the first one and heard he was planning a multivolume history—five volumes was the original plan—I felt worried. I knew he was in his forties and I carefully noted in my diary that I hoped he would live long enough to complete the set. He did.
War II was formally and completely over, six years and one day after it had begun.
And still I could only wait. One of the Navy Yard employees, Mel Roberts, who had grown to be a close friend of mine in recent months because we had had identical draft problems, had lost out. Even an attempt on his part to get into the Navy had failed, and on September 4, I received a letter from him. He was in the Army at last and was about to begin his basic training at Camp Lee, Virginia.
September 5, 1945, was my mother's fiftieth birthday. I called her long distance, teased her about it (to my surprise, she didn't seem to find the situation humorous), and did my best to mask my draft worries.
And then, on September 7, 1945, the eve of Rosh Hashonah, Gertrude called me up at work to tell me that my draft-board greetings had come and that I was ordered to show up for induction on the twentieth. I left work at once, dashed for home, and prepared to go to New York.
It did not escape my notice that if, in the third grade, I had kept my mouth shut and had let my mother's lie stand, and had not insisted on a change in my birthdate, then September 7, 1945, would have been my twenty-sixth birthday and I could not have been drafted. As it was, I was four months short of my twenty-sixth birthday.
It also did not escape my notice that the war was over, that millions of Americans had been drafted over the past few years and had had to face bombs and bullets while I had been safe at home; that many thousands of them had been wounded or killed while I had been safe at home; and that now I would be going off to face no more danger than the ordinary risks of ordinary life.
I was aware of all this and I did my best not to view the event as more tragic than it was. The fact remained, however, that I didn't want to go into the Army; I wanted to go back to Columbia. And I didn't want to leave Gertrude; I wanted to stay with her. So I felt terrible.
10
On September 10, I managed to see Professor Thomas, but he confirmed Dawson's statement that Columbia was as helpless as the Navy Yard to stand between me and the Army. The next day I saw the New York draft board but they refused flatly to grant me
a stay of induction.
There was nothing to do but return to Philadelphia and live on a day-to-day basis, ready to seize what legitimate opportunities arose, and
to go into the Army with as good grace as possible if all alternatives failed.
On September 12,1 arranged a military furlough at the Navy Yard. I did not resign outright, for I wanted to remain a Navy Yard employee just in case the ball made a sudden bounce that would allow the Navy Yard, against all expectations, to request a deferment for me.
The next day I arranged to move to New York. We would have to work on the basis that I was not long for civilian life and that Gertrude would have to remain for an indefinite period without me. The logical thing, then, was to move her back into her parents' apartment.
Then, on the seventeenth, I transferred my place of induction from New York to Philadelphia—while I still lived in Philadelphia. I knew from experience that that would give me a month's delay and, if nothing else, that would give me more time to get my affairs arranged. It would make it possible, for instance, for me to be there at the time of moving, rather than leaving it all in Gertrude's hands. 5
On September 25, we moved. Gertrude and I had lived in Win-gate Hall for 2 3 A years and, on the whole, it hadn't been too bad. By 2:30 p.m., the movers had emptied the apartment, and that evening Gertrude and I left, too, each of us carrying and wearing as much as we could. I went to my parents' place and she went to her parents' place in a sort of temporary neutralization of the marriage. The move (our third as a married couple) cost $34 this time.
The next day, the contents of our Wingate Hall apartment arrived at the Blugermans' place, where some was unloaded, the rest moving on to Windsor Place.
On the twenty-seventh, I opened a joint savings account at the Lincoln Savings Bank near the Blugermans' apartment. I deposited what we had managed to save during our years in Philadelphia—$3,800. Among this, and the dependent's allotment Gertrude would get, and, of course, her parents' help and mine in a screaming emergency, I had no fears that she would not be able to get by even if I remained in the Army two full years.
There was now nothing to do but wait for a new notice of induction from the Philadelphia board and, meanwhile, to live as normal and relaxed a life as possible.
I divided my time between my parents' and the Blugermans' but
5 While we were preparing to move, we had also to deal with the problem of Gertrude's citizenship. Her visit to Canada in 1943 and her return as an immigrant were equivalent to "first papers," since she was married to an American citizen. That meant only a two-year wait for the final papers. That time was now coming, but she was assured that her more or less enforced move to New York would in no way interfere with the proceedings.
spent most of my time at the Blugermans' because that's where Gertrude was and I could not bear to be separated from her—all the more so because I would soon have to be.
John Blugerman was a civilian again and going to dental school. Henry was still trying to find a job. Gertrude was so relieved over the former and so concerned over the latter that it kept her mind off my own dilemma—which hurt my feelings a little.
So keen was I on normality, however, that on October 15—at which time I still had not received a new date of induction from the Philadelphia Draft Board—I went to visit Campbell. I had a new idea for a positronic robot story, one dealing with a robot that mimicked human flesh and blood—the problem resting with how one was to decide whether it was human or robot. I warned him that I might not be able to write it till after I was out of the Army.
Campbell invited me to lunch 6 with three friends of his from Bell Telephone. I watched with a certain horror as each of them ordered "huge steaks that cost $2.25 for steak and trench fried potatoes alone." I couldn't possibly do that so "I had pot roast and stuff for $.85."
The November 1945 issue of Astounding, which I obtained at about this time, carried the first part of "The Mule," 7 which Campbell was running as a two-part serial. It was the first time any story of mine had ever been serialized.
On the next day, October 16, I unexpectedly got word from Philadelphia that the Navy Yard, having become aware that I hadn't been inducted, was demanding that I get back to work. I couldn't take a military furlough unless I was in the military.
It would have made sense now to tell the Navy Yard to go to the devil and resign—but again I played for that one-in-a-million chance that the Navy Yard might somehow be able to do something. Always I tend to try to keep as many options open as possible.
11
On October 17, I had to go back to Philadelphia, after three weeks in New York. I showed up at the Navy Yard and got back to work.
It was like Napoleon's return from Elba. No one could believe my walking into the lab in civilian clothes. For me it was sheer anticli-mactic hell, especially since I was back in Philadelphia without Gertrude and without a place to live.
Fortunately, one of my fellow workers, Roy Machlowitz, took me
6 Even now I was consistently referring to the midday meal as "dinner" and the evening meal as "supper." It took me quite a while to move from this lower-class nomenclature to "lunch" and "dinner," respectively.
7 See Foundation and Empire, Part II.
in. I reported in my diary that "he has a swell double room." It couldn't, in any case, be for long. Either I would be inducted in a matter of weeks and be off his neck, or, by some miracle or other, I would not be inducted and then I would, at most, stay on in Philadelphia only until my twenty-sixth birthday, now only a little over two months away.
I didn't get along completely with Roy. There was nothing wrong with him. He was intelligent, kind, and always helpful, and yet I found him hard to take. He had come to work less than a year before and we had grown friendly. In those last months at Wingate Hall, he had visited us frequently.
What bothered me was that he disapproved of me. He was aware of my faults and would give me improving advice concerning them. For some reason, I didn't appreciate that.
Now I was living with him, feeling very keenly the fact that I depended on his hospitality and kindliness, and very ashamed that I couldn't manage to like him better.
The first morning I was with him, as I recall, he prepared to don the phylacteries on arm and forehead and recite his morning prayers in true Orthodox fashion. I knew about phylacteries, of course, but I had never seen them in operation since I was a little boy and I guess Roy caught my look of surprise as he took them up.
"If you laugh," he said, 'Til kill you."
"Laugh?" I said. "I'm interested."
After I left Roy's place in due course, I never saw phylacteries again. To be honest, I haven't missed them.
12
Then, on October 24, I finally received my induction notice from the Philadelphia Draft Board, and the date set was October 26.
I called up at once and demanded my ten days' notice. They said that I had known for nearly two months that I was going to be inducted and I said, "Yes, but I didn't know the exact day, and I can't close out my civilian affairs without knowing the exact day, and I can't do it now with only a single day to do it in. Besides, ten days' notice is my legal right and I don't have to advance any explanations to get it."
So they altered the date of induction to November 1.
Now once again, I got ready to leave Philadelphia. I spent my last evening, the twenty-fifth, at Leonard Meisel's, so sorry for myself I couldn't stand it. Over and over I told him how happy Gertrude and I had been in Philadelphia and how now I would be gone for two years
and everything would be changed—sob, sob—and I would never be happy again.
How Meisel could endure all that mawkishness I don't know, but he was patient and sweet and assured me that my stay in the Army would be over before I knew it and that things would then prove better than ever. I would get my degree, have a wonderful career, continue writing, and so on. He was completely right, but that didn't raise my spirits.
Meisel had the gift of being able to improvise on the piano and of being able to play any musical composition whose tune he knew. He therefore reinforced his words by singing jolly and merry tunes and urging me to sing. I sang, but that didn't seem to raise my spirits either.
Then Meisel had an inspiration. He remembered the kind of songs I liked best to sing, and he suddenly began beating out songs in the minor. He even took some of the happy tunes and converted them into the minor. 8
I cheered up at once. The more lugubrious the songs, the happier I grew, and when I left, I was in fine spirits. There is nothing for which I am more grateful to Meisel than for that evening.
*3
On Friday, October 26, I got another military furlough from the Navy Yard, ending the nine-day return. This time it was final and I left the Navy Yard after three years and five months.
It was my intention to leave at once after the formalities were attended to, but the girls persuaded me to stay on a little, bribing me with the offer of a rubber of bridge (a game I had learned to play with Roy Machlowitz, who was a real shark).
Leading the pack was Betty (I don't remember her last name), who was a sweet and pretty girl, large and busty. My clearest memory of her is my having once snapped the back elastic of her bra through her blouse (a very bad habit I sometimes can't resist to this day) and it broke. Betty had to rush off to the ladies' room to make the necessary repairs. When she came back, she brushed aside my voluble and embarrassed apologies. "Doesn't matter," she said, and wasn't the least annoyed. I was very fond of her after that.
In any case, by the time lunch came, ice cream and soda had made a magical appearance and it turned out there was a farewell party for
8 To this day I can sing "Roll Out the Barrel" in the minor, to the pain and horror of everyone within earshot.
In memory yet green : the autobiography of Isaac Asimov, 1920-1954 Page 53