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U.S. Army was launching a series of radio and television stations in Korea, and because I’d listed myself as a cameraman, they thought I would be an asset to their broadcast division.
    Before leaving I called Fred Freeman, my writing partner from Northwestern, and told him I was heading to Korea. Because he’d signed up with the army reserves, he could stay in New York and do two weeks of service each year.
    “I have plans for us,” Fred said when I called him.
    “What kinds of plans?” I said.
    “Someday we are going to move to Hollywood. But first we need to make some contacts.”
    “Hollywood? Freddie, are you crazy?” I said. “Who would hire us to work in Hollywood as writers?”
    “Just get your stint in the army finished,” he said. “And call me when you get back.”
    Before I shipped out I spent a week in Chicago so I could play one last job with my band. That band at the time was called the Bob Owens Trio and had gathered a lot of interest because of our front man, piano player Bob Owens. We were headlining at the Compass Room, which was a big deal for me because most of the time I was the opening act, not the headliner. Before we went onstage I watched from the wings as our opening act performed. It was a group of young comedians doing improvisational comedy routines in a style I had never seen before. They didn’t seem to have prewritten routines but instead appeared spontaneous, which was unique for the time. They were doing situations instead of jokes. There were fourperformers, and their names were Andrew Duncan, Shelley Berman, Elaine May, and Mike Nichols. I didn’t know who they were, but it was obvious to me that they were incredibly talented. I was startled by their innovation and creativity. I was just days away from going to Korea, but my mind began to fill with possibilities. I wondered if I might be able to either perform or write that style of humor, too.
    I must admit that when I shipped off for Korea I was a little scared. I boarded the ship with seventeen hundred other soldiers and sailed from Tacoma, Washington, for Seoul, Korea. I had never been to a foreign country before, let alone one that was so far from America.
    While on the boat I met Gordon Belson, a round-faced soldier with a deep voice who worked as a professional radio announcer in his hometown of El Centro, California. When I told him I was a comedy writer, he mentioned that he had a younger brother named Jerry who liked to write comedy, too. Gordon also liked music and played the trumpet, with more joy than skill. So we formed a band and started looking for other members. Charlie Camilleri, a hippy, rebellious type and superb musician who played seven instruments, including piano and trumpet, joined us. Charlie got a few of his other friends to play, too. For the two weeks on the ship we entertained the troops and officers in the mess hall.
    I also volunteered to write for the ship’s newspaper and some of the skits that soldiers performed each night. One of my more popular comedy routines which I rewrote from comic Harvey Stone went like this: “They call this ship a floating city. Well, I live in the sewer. We get six meals a day. Three go down and three come up. You should see what it looks like when a hundred guys are leaning over the ship’s railing getting sick. It looks like Niagara Falls in Technicolor. One day I went to take my tray of food to throw it overboard. Another officer asked what I was doing with the tray. I said I was eliminating the middleman.”
    One night I met a corporal with a shiny personality, and I typed him up a skit to perform. But I noticed during rehearsals he was having trouble finding his way with the dialogue. I worked with him for a few minutes and he was still speaking gibberish. That waswhen I realized he was illiterate. I was pretty naïve back then, and I had never met anyone who couldn’t read. But I worked with him and he ended up doing a great job with the skit.
    After the