Moose

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Published by AuthorHouse 12/09/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8366-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8381-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8365-5 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The handwritten text found on the front page of this book is an excerpt from a sealed letter written by Robert Sherman. It was composed in September 1944 when he was just 18 years old.

Having just learned that he was to embark on a particularly perilous mission, the letter was addressed to his parents, with instructions that it only be opened in the event of his demise.

Soon after writing this letter, Robert was deployed to Germany where he participated in a dangerous series of military operations. The letter was discovered among his papers in 2012 and read aloud, in its entirety, during a public stone setting ceremony held on January 20, 2013.

Contents

About Moose

Introduction

Prelude

Section I Fix Bayonets!

Therese DeNormanville

Nothing of Great Importance

Yee-hah, San Antone!

Slight Opposition

Dachau

Happy Birthday, Randy

The Big Bloody Tent

Nice Nurse

My Time (Part 1)

Section II On Route 9G

Scotch

Ariel and Will

Donn

Wonderful Wasted Years

Wild Violets

Christmas ’47

Hap

Gustav

Island Paradise

Marion

Section III Brass Rings and Daydreams

A Social Thing

The Babe

The Money Hunt

Dad

A Music Lesson

Jascha

Liberty & The Post

Lindy

Cigars

Original Oratory

My Time (Part 2)

Section IV Pink Balloons

Ugly

Julio Espinosa

(Part 1) Mi Amigo

(Part 2) A Trip To Eden

(Part 3) Julio, Adios

Queen of the Campus

Henrietta

Kiddyland

Rootless

Section V Silver Linings

T. T. for N.

Gold Plated Wickets

Mr. Li’s Funeral

K.I.A.

. . . But No Cigar

Residuals

White Sands

My Time (Part 3)

Section VI Mistaken Identities

Working for Walt

Small World Karma

Worms

To Be In There

Veronica

Wee Stinky (Part I)

Wee Stinky (Part II)

Evvis Something

Ivan Hershey

Joyce

(Part 1) Superior Girl

(Part 2) Hey Jack Warner!

(Part 3) Open Heart

Charles Dee Brulé Minier

My Time (Part 4)

Section VII London Bridges

‘Tween Pavement and Stars

(Fifty Years with Mary Poppins)

Old Soldiers

Lucky Stars

Summer, 1960

Early Songs

Creating Mr. Banks

Six Chapters

Green Lights On Dopey Drive

No Red In London

In A Most Delightful Way

Sister Suffragette

Jolly Holiday

Walking With Giants

Let’s Go Fly A Kite

Really Rather English

In Every Job That Must Be Done

Tuppence A Bag

Friday Afternoons

Beyond the Stars

Fantasmagorical!

On Your Marks

Come to the Funfair!

New Stages

The Riot On Argyle Street

Winged Angels

Observations From Hyde Park

About the Author

For Joyce

About Moose

Moose is a collection of fifty-four autobiographical short stories, organized in such a way as to express a larger narrative.

My father authored his first short story when he was in his early teens. Before that, he wrote poems and short plays. For Bob Sherman writing had always occupied an important place in his life. It was a deeply defining part of who he was. Throughout the 1940s my father scribed short stories, plays, newspaper articles, poems and eventually novels. His poems, plays and articles were particularly well received, even winning some interesting awards along the way. Surprisingly it wasn’t until 1950 that Bob Sherman first turned his pen to lyric writing. Of course it is for this specific, niche talent that he will forever be remembered and loved.

Still, over the years, my father gradually added to his anthology of short stories. But it wasn’t until his purchase of a home computer in 1993 that he seriously resolved to organizing these stories and digitizing them with the ultimate intention of having them published.

From 1993 to 1997 he added approximately thirty-five more chapters to his collection. Some of that content was absorbed into the Sherman Brothers’ joint effort, Walt’s Time: From Before To Beyond which was published in 1998. Redundancy being an anathema to Bob Sherman, the bulk of what was incorporated into Walt’s Time was rejected for inclusion here. For that reason, many of the more well known show-business incidents pertaining to my father’s life will not be found in this volume. That said, some of the stories with which readers are most familiar will be found here, specifically for the purpose of closer examination and at times, clarification.

In 2003, following the successful UK premiere of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: The Musical and our subsequent move to London, work on the book began again in earnest.

I will never forget the spring day in 2004 when I placed a stack of sixty or so, freshly printed, individually stapled chapters in front of my father. We had spent the previous nine months cleaning up old versions of many of his stories. At the same time, my father was crafting new chapters that would also be included in his book. Like a real-life Caractacus Potts, focused on his invention, my father devoted the next two days to diligently sifting and sorting through the chapters of his life. His dining room table had morphed into a literary work station. On the third day of this process, my father summoned me into his living room and announced that he was done. On the table lay seven numbered stacks of thoughtfully grouped chapters. Ceremoniously he presented his compendium to me, one stack atop the next.

This is my book and I’m calling it ‘Moose’. He had previously teetered between a sundry selection of colorful title options including Wild Violets and, my favorite, Fulsome Friptures. But now it was settled. Moose it was going to be. He asked me to read his book in its entirety and new order—and he wanted me to do so in his presence. So I spent the rest of the day burrowed in his reading room, doing just that.

As I delved into the text before me, I immediately became concerned that the stories seemed so out of sequence. As I moved through the second and third chapters, my worry only compounded. I was already quite familiar with my father’s material. I had been editing and transcribing it for months.

With this read though, I had anticipated the newly ordered segments to take on some sort of logical, chronological shape as well. I expected this primarily because my father had just poured so much time and concentration into the text’s fine tuning and arrangement. But whatever shape it had, indeed if that shape existed at all, only seemed to elude me. The chapters seemed randomly placed and I told my father as much. He smiled at me confidently and said, Keep on reading. By the time I got to the fourth chapter, something suddenly clicked and I began to connect with what he was doing.

Bob Sherman wasn’t merely recounting anecdotal episodes from his life. This was not a history or a tell all book. My father was providing his readers with much more. Indeed, what he was giving us was that rarest and most generous of writer’s gifts—a glimpse into his very soul—and in order to experience the torments as well as the triumphs of his toil, temporal logic needed to be suspended, if not abandoned for the duration. By the time I was vested into the fifth chapter of Moose, the real genius of my father’s ambition had become apparent to me. Tales I thought I already knew well, all at once took on a brand new spirit and dimension.

My Dad was right. The book was done—and with the London premiere of Mary Poppins scheduled for later that year, the timing could not have been better. But the publishers whom we had been courting did not agree. Publisher after publisher insisted on a full rewrite incorporating a more conventional, more chronological format. They insisted on more of a focus on my father’s Hollywood experiences too. To put it frankly, Bob Sherman wasn’t going to play—and I didn’t blame him. With that we looked for a more open-minded publisher.

A few months later, for reasons too cumbersome to delve into here, my father elected to table the book’s release. At first I figured that this postponement would last about six months to a year but, due to a situation not entirely under our control, my father ended up extending his deferral for a full five years.

In 2009, when once again the time seemed right to publish, we found our open-minded partner in AuthorHouse and struck a happy deal. Following a fresh review and update of the book, my father concluded that Moose required one final element to make it complete. Pictures—"A lot of pictures!" I don’t think either of us realized how cumbersome the fulfillment of this part of the project would be. At the time I planned for two weeks to sort the photo pages out. An aggregate six months (and in real time, 4 years) later, the photo pages were complete and the book was ready, yet again, for the presses.

I will always regret that my father didn’t live to see Moose meet its public. I think he would have thoroughly enjoyed the adoration he and his work would have garnered. I believe that in his last five years my father came to realize that Moose would probably be his last big work. Perhaps that’s why he wanted so many pictures to be included. Photography had been one of so many of my father’s unrecognized yet, lifelong passions.

He and I had looked forward to doing a series of short book tours, both in the UK and the U.S.A. I think it would have been a lot of fun for us both. I take solace in knowing how much pleasure my father derived from actually writing Moose. As with everything else he did, Moose was about the journey, not the destination. My father was always about the work, never the applause. I believe that in great part, this is why his writing has proven so timeless and pure.

It has been an honor, privilege and pleasure working for my father and editing this book. I hope that in reading Moose, you will derive as much joy and wisdom as I have.

Sincerely,

Robert J. Sherman

Editor

October 2013—London

Introduction

I’ve been a songwriter for so long now that my very thoughts dwell in the realm of rhyme and harmony. In conversation, I often times have to stop myself from inadvertent wordplay. Writing these reminiscences has been no different. Moose to me is like a song. It is comprised of myriad notes and phrases, bits and pieces, the sum of which hopefully outweighing its parts. Moose is a theme centered around the form of a novel. It’s about finding true love and real passion. It’s the story of how I learned to break free from the psychological shackles of my past. It’s not about conformity and that’s the way I like it—so there. Hopefully you will come away with a good feeling, but not a message. Sure I make my opinions known, but I don’t like to be preachy in my work! I hope you will agree that this compendium is more than a mere collection of stories, but that it works as a whole.

The pieces of a moose do not make sense separately. If you were to take close-up pictures of the moose’s large awkward antlers or its narrow bony legs, goofy eyes or bulbous snout; those photographs might prove interesting, but they would fail to give you a sense of what the animal is all about. It’s only when you stand back from the beast that you can begin to appreciate its strength and majesty—its comedy and serenity. The moose possesses a perfect biological kinship to its environment. To look at its parts though, the moose is not logical. It is not chronological and it does not make sense. I hope that when you read this Moose, you will bear that in mind.

Most biographies have a beginning, middle and end. How can I give you an ending, when I don’t even know how it’s going to turn out, myself? As for my beginning, well, I was very young at the time and was not paying very close attention. So you see, all I really know is the middle—where I am right now. My yesterdays will always be viewed through my own prescription of multicolored spectacles and tomorrow, through a crystal ball. The best any of us can really do is to view and do life in the now.

What can I tell anyone about life? All I can say is that understanding life is to grasp the bigger picture, and not focus on the petty things. Trust that there is a greater plan out there for you, even if you can’t see it with your own eyes. In Moose I will attempt to address this.

Some people wanted me to tell a linear story, you see. They wanted me to share my life in a chronological manner, as it happened. But consider this: life doesn’t happen chronologically. Rather, it occurs in phases and waves. They always want to box you into such a confined place. Last I checked, that’s what they bury you in! Thank you no, I don’t wish to fit in there just yet.

Life has a way of shaking you up, waking you up, so that you are constantly forced to reexamine who you are. Don’t try to stick the moose in a box. He’ll just break it. Welcome to my song.

Prelude

When I was six I realized that I was not merely a moody appendage of my parents. It was at that early age that I began to believe I possessed a special and powerful magic. Anything I desired came to me if I wished for it hard enough: A ten-speed racing bike with wooden rims to replace my second hand blue balloon-tired klunker; first prize in the Americanism Play Writing contest with national recognition; authority to produce and direct my own plays at my high school and over radio station KMPC as well; First Prize and the Golden Glove Award in the school’s heavyweight boxing competition (and I really could have knocked the cr*p out of my opponent that day, but he had stomach flu and had to forfeit the match). Then there were the minor exercises in my magic, like obtaining dates with the prettiest girls and convincing my protective parents to sign the permission form to let me join the army at age seventeen, so I could go kill some Nazis.

And it was precisely then—poof—that all my magic suddenly disappeared…

Section I

Fix Bayonets!

Therese DeNormanville

Our dark green combat fatigues smelled like vomit from the field of rotting sugar beets through which we had crawled the night before. We scrambled through the small, ancient farm house. Once outside again we saw, kneeling by the well were a terrified woman, a slight, red-haired girl of fourteen and a baby boy.

Our platoon took positions behind the nearby hedgerow. Thirty yards farther was another hedgerow, and beyond that another and another into the distance, ancient dividers separating small plots of arable land. Flies plagued us.

To my right, Jay Greene removed his helmet and relaxed against the densely compacted hedge. He lit a cigarette. No sooner did the first small cloud of smoke lift above Greene’s head than a machine gun rapidly spat its death through the foliage, through Jay’s back and out his chest near his left armpit. He lay there, slumped forward, the burning cigarette still between his fingers. I removed it, crushed it out and then placed his helmet over his face. In reply, we lobbed over several fragmentation grenades. For the moment there was no more activity from the next hedgerow.

Throughout the morning we rested uneasily, listening and wondering if there were still live Krauts just the other side of our hedge. I supposed that they would be just as scared as we were. This didn’t help my courage much. We breathed softly, whispered and refrained from smoking. I began to doze in the heat of the bright Normandy sun and the buzzing of the flies. Suddenly, I felt a determined tapping on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and before me stood the little red-haired French child who lived in the farmhouse. Her face was quite delicate, unlike the typical French peasant with their broader features. She glanced at Greene’s still corpse.

Mort? she asked.

Oui, kid, mort. Stone cold.

She averted her eyes from Greene and pointed at me.

Yank, oui? Bon! Bon! she exclaimed. I shushed her.

Yank, oui. You frog… French, sorry.

French, she repeated. Therese. Mapel Therese.

Mapel Bob, I said, futilely attempting to resurrect more of my high school French. She laughed and softly repeated,

Bob. Bob, bon cidre?

I didn’t understand her.

Bon cidre? I asked. She abruptly turned and dashed to the old farmhouse.

I fell asleep again. But not for long. Soon, Therese was there, poking my shoulder. She was holding a wooden bucket and a dipper. She filled the dipper with sweet cider from the bucket. Never had I tasted a nectar so refreshing.

Merci beaucoup. Bon cidre, I said. Delighted that I approved, she went in turn to each man in the squad and gave him a drink. When she returned to me, I asked,

Therese, what is the name of this town?

She didn’t understand. I persisted.

Paris?

She laughed.

No! No! No! Normanville!

Normanville. Therese of Normanville, I said. She gave me a lovely smile.

Oui, Bob. Therese de Normanville.

Her red haired mother appeared in the doorway of the farmhouse holding her baby boy. Therese turned toward her mother who vigorously beckoned her in. I handed Therese a pack of Spearmint chewing gum and a pack of Wings for her mother. The child lightly kissed me on the cheek, which had not been washed or shaved in over a week.

Merci beaucoup, Bob. She picked up her bucket and headed toward her mother.

Therese, I said, Some day I’m gonna come back here to Normanville, of course when you’re older and we’ve won this war, and I’m gonna marry you!

She looked at me quizzically, not having understood what I had said.

But by then, you’ll probably be married with seven little redheads of your own.

Oui, monsieur, she said as she dashed to the house. I promised myself that if I’m still alive I’ll come back here and see if Therese remembers me.

Sherman, water! I heard Greene’s voice coming from under his helmet.

I shouted for a medic. My God, Greene wasn’t dead! Things were looking up.

That night we pushed on to route the reluctant Krauts from their hedgerow digs. In the shadows, by the farmhouse, I could see Therese, her mom and little brother. Timidly, they waved farewell. I blew them a kiss.

Days ran together in one continuous passage of time. We advanced through France and then Luxembourg and Belgium and Holland and then at the city of Julich we crossed into das Vaterland and pressed toward Cologne and the Rhine River. Thoughts of that sweet little Therese de Normanville were blocked from my mind by other things. Much later, I returned to Normanville only in fond memory.

*   *   *

Nothing of Great Importance

Now is the time for doing, for moving. Push back the memories of home. Push back the loving faces of your family and your girlfriend. Those are sane thoughts, pleasant thoughts. They have no place in the violent world of the present!

We are struggling through the enemy mountains. Even the tannenbaum boughs resist our advance. As we force our way through the mighty old forests, the lower branches whip against our shins and faces. Defying us, they press against our chests and eyes. The dust and pine sap are a stifling compound which burns our lungs.

We press onward still. Our agonized legs have become human calipers spacing the many kilometers of hostile ground. We anticipate their becoming numb as they have in the past. However, we realize that when we stop, the numbness we achieve will escape from them and the pain will return double. Knowing this, we think of it only casually. What the hell for? There are other thoughts.

After gaining a peak in these high mountains the hike downhill is partial relaxation although our packs and ammo boxes do not lose their pull. The chafing and choking do not stop on the descent. But it’s easier to breathe.

"Whaddya do in the infantry? Ya march, ya march, ya march."

Our weapons feel as though they weigh three hundred pounds. But we will not discard them by the way for we are carrying them in order to destroy the Germans. Of what use would we be without our weapons? That’s why we’re here. We even carry the captured German panzerfausts to blast them to hell.

How insignificant seem the old thoughts of personal accomplishment. Social success seems so vain; scholarship, an exercise in futility. Now, great achievement, as in our former dreams, would not elate us. But we’d give a hundred bucks for a canteen of cold water. People back home can keep their wealth, their expensive cars and beautiful women; a hot shower and a soft bed with two months of undisturbed sleep would suit us perfectly. Now, nothing else has any value.

Jesus! We are damn, stark alone! One under-manned infantry company, isolated. Cut off! One hundred and forty-five men who have lost contact with their division. Godd*mn redneck captain. Stupid! A sterling example of Fort Benning manhood.

No one has the strength to speak. Occasionally, a weary expletive drops from a soldier’s mouth. There really is nothing else to say. Here we are. And yet, there is so very much that remains unsaid. Now our minds are working in weird patterns. A completely unwanted picture of a cherished face sneaks into your consciousness. It burns there momentarily. Then, the ashes of distance and the ugly present and the desperate future smother sweet memories. These are perhaps kind ashes.

Who is the guy plodding in front of me? Who is that dark shadow to my left? Who is that dark hulk ten yards behind me? I should know these men very well. Many times I went on pass with them. We drank a lot of beer together. We went on Louisiana maneuvers with them. They filled the layered canvas bunks near mine on the troop ship which transported our proud outfit across the Atlantic. But now I don’t care to remember who they are. I don’t want to think of them as individuals. They, too, are dangerous liabilities of a happier past. Probably, soon they’ll all be dead. Who needs more remorse? Now I’m carrying the hurt for twenty men. I must not think of them. The column halts. I sink to my back and look up at the night sky as it gleams through the thick crosswork of the evergreen branches.

"Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum."

This rest is so good. I don’t ever want to resume the march.

Once again, like a giant snake, the column begins to move. I snuff out my half-smoked cigarette. You can’t smoke when you’re climbing mountains. You need the lung space. The bitter tobacco aftertaste tells me that I am hungry. Another Olympian hour passes and again the column rests. My thoughts race. Is this it? Is this the point on the map where we must await the signal to attack? Do we finally link up with the battalion here? What’s next? In my heart I really know what’s next. I’ve been there many times before. But I dare not think it’s more of the same. Maybe it’s not true. Some change of plan or alteration of tactics will spare me this one time. Our outfit will be sent back in reserve.

The ominous whispered word is passed down the line. Make sure there’s an extra round in the chamber. Keep the safety on. Remove the pins from your grenades and tie the handles with black tape. I look about. Down the slope thirty yards I can just make out a narrow stream in the dawning light.

Fix bayonets!

Beyond the stream is a cleared field two hundred yards across. Then there is a four lane autobahn. Now I can see it, beyond the road. A small village. It looks just like so many pleasant little villages I’ve helped devastate: The neat little swimming pool in the square; the tidy piles of cow dung in front of every door. How peaceful. A stray cow in the main street. Low houses and barns with thatched roofs. Fifty or sixty buildings in all. Is this warfare? Why not bypass this cozy little hamlet? What harm would there be in that? How can we consider this calendar-picture town a military objective?

Here by the tree I wait, my rifle ready on my arm. I slide the bayonet from its green Bakelite sheath and click it into position on the barrel of your rifle. Well, Bob, here you are again. This is war! I am deep in der vaterland. No friendly faces to welcome me, no beckoning arms to embrace me. Nothing but unconquered enemy territory ahead. And audaciously, we are going to try to conquer it. A few men gather behind me. I look back past them and you see the majestic mountains I have so laboriously mastered. And I wonder if I will ever live to cross back over them.

Behind the mountains I recall another once peaceful village, now a stinking smoldering wreck of gaping shell holes and caved in roofs and walls, with a scattering of corpses everywhere. And the revolting smell of charred humanity—that’s the worst part. It is the same sour acrid smell of the many home towns I’ve destroyed and left behind. And back, back beyond those towns, the Rhine river and more wrecked towns and some once-great, beautiful cities like Cologne. And farther back still, out of Germany, through other Nazi-raped countries and down through France to the port of Le Havre. And back across the ocean, across the states to California. To Beverly Hills. My home town. It’s so peaceful there and warm and safe. It is just morning at home, or is it evening? The air is so sweet. Orange blossoms. A little bit of home. The family behind those familiar white walls. My kid brother is picking up a date in my green Dodge coupe.

Quickly, flash back! Dismiss those thoughts! There before me is a spot in Germany where no allied soldier has yet walked as conqueror. Now is the time for action, not for reminiscing.

Our support artillery is now bracketing in. I hear the swish of shells flying overhead. I feel grateful that the artillery has arrived. Thick black plumes of smoke are rising all over the village. I hear the resounding explosion of German ammunition caches roaring affirmation of our reason to attack. The Kraut bas* * *ds!

Only moments now and the whistle will blow and I will jump off into the assault. Check my piece again. Make sure my grenades are securely attached to my jacket. Try to swallow. Fill my lungs with pure German mountain air. I’ll need it, you know. That’s right. Now I’m ready. I’m calm. The shakes come later.

Our shelling lifts. I hear the captain’s whistle blow three times. I stand and fight the urge to run away, all the way home. My feet go slipping down the slope. I’m yelling:

F* * * ’EM! the unofficial battalion battle cry (Officially it’s Rack ’Em but no one dares to shout it except the new replacement second lieutenant).

We are splashing across the stream. The water feels cold and good even though we get soaked up to our navels. Now we are able to see other GIs on either side on a two hundred yard front. We’re not alone! I dash across the empty field and now we’re all closing together. I vault the double strand of cow wire. I stumble, but I pick up my GI ass and run forward! Machine guns start their spitting. Their slow cyclic rate tells me they are not the enemy’s. His machine guns fire much more rapidly. Their sound is like the high pitched laughter of a movie maniac. I press off the safety by my trigger guard. Marching fire. All the men abreast. I keep advancing, firing my weapon. Don’t stop or you’ll get pinned down! When I receive returning fire, shoot more rapidly. But keep moving forward. Now that I’m on level ground, my tenseness seems to have dissolved. I’m amazed at how clear and concentrated upon the primary objective my mind has become. No more interfering home thoughts. Keep firing! That’s it! I’m across the field now and I run across the autobahn. And now we’re entering the little village. Shoot at the windows, doors and cellars. Fire at all possible gun positions. The object is to keep them down. They won’t try to shoot back if the stuff is coming at them thick enough.

Now we’re striding through the town, firing and lobbing grenades into all the cellars. It sounds just like the practice range in training. And the cordite smells the same… like death. But where are the human targets? We know the Krauts are somewhere nearby. Now a pair of machine guns begins to fire, over on the right flank. Hear those crazy bas* * *ds laugh! What a high, idiotic, nervous laugh! Short, rapid bursts. Hyenas. Good! Someone has silenced them with a grenade.

We continue our advance through the town. A young woman with three children cowers in a corner