I said, “Dick, what’s this all about?”
He said, “Even though the shooting ended today, tomorrow is the official announcement of V-E Day. Everyone will go crazy. They will be joyously firing their weapons into the air. No one in that state of euphoria will realize that what goes up must come down, and the bullets will surely come raining down on what’s below. So that’s why we are going to spend the next twenty-four hours in this cellar, trading the joy of victory for the tired cliché of just staying alive.”
So thanks to the savvy thinking of Richard Goldman, I’m still here.
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The war was over, but I didn’t go back to America immediately. We were part of the Army of Occupation. It was much safer, but kind of dull. Once in a while a USO show would come through our vicinity and we would be part of a large Army audience to see the show. One afternoon, I couldn’t believe it! One of the shows that was coming to perform was the Bob Hope show with Frances Langford and Jerry Colonna. I snaked my way down to the first row. Bob Hope was great. I never laughed so hard in my life.
When the show was over and he was leaving the stage something possessed me. I had a pencil and paper in my hand and thought that if I didn’t get his autograph, I would die. I rushed to the edge of the stage. Just as he was about to exit, I grabbed the cuff of his pants, and wouldn’t let go. It was funny for a minute, but then when I wouldn’t let go, he actually got a little scared and was glad to sign his name for me just to escape. I don’t know what happened to that autograph. I’m sorry I lost it. It meant a lot.
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Okay, get ready for another digression. It’s many years later and I’ve just finished performing on The Johnny Carson Show. Needless to say, I was great. As I was marching back to my dressing room at NBC I heard a familiar voice say, “Hey, kid. That was pretty funny.”
Could it be? Yes! It was. It was Bob Hope. He had just seen the show. I turned to him and said, “Mr. Hope! I can’t tell you what hearing words like that from you means to me.”
He said, “Put it there, pal,”—shaking my hand—“it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I said, “Bob, this is not the first time we’ve actually met. Right after the war ended you were doing a USO show somewhere in Germany and when you were just about to exit the stage a crazy soldier grabbed the cuff of your pants and wouldn’t let you go until you signed his autograph.”
“Oh my god! I remember that crazy soldier!”
“Bob, that crazy soldier was me!”
“Wow, I don’t know what to say. Thanks for your service.”
“Thanks for your autograph!” We both laughed. Life is funny.
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Okay, back to Europe. One day, a lieutenant from Special Services who was touring Army installations in our area said, “Is there anybody in this unit who can sing? Dance? Tell a joke or play an instrument?”
I immediately raised my hand.
He said, “What can you do?”
I said, “All of the above! I can sing, dance, tell jokes, and play the drums.”
I told him all about what I had done in civilian life back in the Borscht Belt, etc. He asked my CO if he could borrow me for a few weeks. So I joined his Special Services unit and became one of the comics in a variety show touring different Army camps. Needless to say, I was an exceptional addition to his staff. As a result, the lieutenant asked my CO if he could permanently transfer me to Special Services. Permission was granted, and I was now an entertainer once again.
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I reported to Special Services in Wiesbaden, Germany. I was made acting corporal and put in charge of the entertainment at noncom and officers’ clubs. It was a great gig. I got a big beautiful twelve-cylinder Mercedes. （Which, by the way, they told me was one of Von Rundstedt’s cars.） And believe it or not, a gorgeous blond fiddle player who was also a driver to be my chauffeur. Her name was Helga. Quite often I would say, “Helga! Pull over and play Brahms’s lullaby!”
Things were really looking up. We made trips followed by a big 6x6 Army truck to German cities like Cologne and Dusseldorf and would load up with wine, beer, and cognac to distribute to the clubs.
（By the way, I used Dusseldorf as one of my lyrics in my song “Springtime for Hitler.” To wit: I was born in Dusseldorf und that is why they call me Rolf!）
From the Army newspaper Stars and Stripes—the beginnings of a wacky comedian.
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