March Anson and Scoot Bailey of the U.S. Navy

by Marshall McClintock

  CHAPTER TWO

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  March felt lonely as he stood on the corner opposite the railroadstation in New London, waiting for the bus. It was cold and there wasrain in the air. The wind whipped about him as he stood close to thebuilding.

  The _Plymouth_ was a world miles away by this time, although it hadbeen less than a month since he left it. First there had been the waitof a few days in Hawaii before they found space in a plane heading backfor the United States. But those had been good days—interesting in thatthey saw how completely erased were the effects of the first terribleJap attack. Then, too, there had been time to rest, to swim and to liein the sun on the beach.

  Finally the long over-water hop had brought them back to America, whichthey had left so long before. It was the first time either March orScoot had been in San Francisco, and they enjoyed the two days spentthere before taking the train east. Finally there had been two weeks’leave back in Hampton. They had seen their parents, visited their oldfriends, slept late and eaten huge meals. They had even been persuadedto make an embarrassed appearance—supposed to be accompanied byspeeches—in the assembly hall of the old high school.

  Their leave had come to an end all too soon. Then both young men hadbeen faced with the prospect of saying goodbye not only to their folksand their friends, but to each other. It was one fact that both of themhad tried to avoid thinking about, but as the time approached they werevery aware of it. For so many years they had been together almost everyday—but they had taken each other for granted. It never occurred tothem that they were closer than many brothers, that each one suppliedsomething necessary and important to the other.

  They couldn’t say much, of course, when they finally did say goodbye.It was March’s train which left first, although Scoot would be headingsouth only two hours later. They were all at the station inHampton—March’s mother, Scoot’s father and mother and kid sister. Marchhad to say goodbye to all of them and step on to the train alone.

  He shook hands with Scoot. “My golly,” he stammered, “I’m going to beworried about you, Scoot. You’ve had me around to look after you andkeep you out of trouble so long, that I don’t know how you’ll make outalone.”

  They all laughed a little, and Scoot tried to kid back at March, buthis heart wasn’t in it.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “I think the baby is busy worryingabout the nurse this time. Anyway, if it makes you feel good, March,maybe you’ll have a chance to get me out of trouble later—out in thePacific somewhere.”

  “Say—maybe I will at that!” March tried to act serious. “I can just seemyself dashing up in my trusty submarine and rescuing you from a bunchof Japs.”

  Later, when they _did_ meet under circumstances not very different fromMarch’s joking suggestion, it was Scoot who remembered what his friendhad said back in the station in Hampton, Ohio.

  But at the time it was nothing but banter, the kind of talk made tocover up real thoughts that are too deep to be expressed easily. And inanother moment the train came thundering down the track. There was alast hurried round of goodbyes and March was on the train, waving andsmiling from the car platform as it pulled away from his home.

  Because the train was crowded, March had been busy trying to find aplace to sit. His suitcase on the same platform was the seat he finallychose, until they pulled into Pittsburgh and he found a morecomfortable seat.

  The ride had been dirty and uninteresting and March felt himselfgetting depressed long before they reached New York. There he had torush to get the train for New London, and now he stood on that windy,rainy corner waiting for a bus, feeling sorry that he had ever won thechance to get into submarine work.

  Then he remembered the one thing that had made him feel good since hehad left Hampton, and he glanced down at the cuff of his sleeve.Yes—there it was—the extra stripe that had been added when he became aLieutenant instead of the lowest of commissioned officers, an Ensign.

  The promotion had come to them when they were in Hampton on leave—forboth Scoot and March. They had quickly added the new stripes to cuffs,to shoulder boards, and had got the gold bars to wear on their workuniform shirts. March felt very proud and pleased, for the promotionhad come quickly for such young men in the Navy. Going to the submarineschool as a Lieutenant, even if only j.g., or junior grade, was muchbetter than walking in as an Ensign.

  He was staring at the stripes on his cuff and smiling so that he didn’tnotice the salute of the three men who approached him. Only when thefirst man spoke did he look up.

  “Going to the sub base, sir?”

  March saw a sailor with the insigne of a petty officer, third class, onhis sleeve, a sturdy, smiling young man with his seabag over hisshoulder. Behind him appeared three more men of the same rank. Thefirst, March noticed, was a radioman, two of the others firecontrolmen, and the last a pharmacist.

  “Yes, waiting for the bus,” March answered with a smile. “Is this theplace to wait for it?”

  “That’s what we were told, sir,” the radioman said. “You see, we’rejust reporting there for the school.”

  “Oh, so am I,” March said. “I thought maybe you men were there alreadyand just in town on liberty. But you wouldn’t have brought your seabagsalong in such a case, would you?”

  In a moment the bus appeared and they all climbed aboard. On the longride out of town and along the river they talked together about theschool they were going to, and March caught again, in these men’senthusiasm, his old feeling of excitement about going into submarines.The men, who had obviously just met as they went to the bus together,were discussing their reasons for volunteering for submarine duty.

  “I had two uncles in the Navy,” the pharmacist said. “I’ll never forgetthe way they talked about submariners. They had both tried, butcouldn’t pass the tests. They thought the pigboat men were the cream ofthe fleet.”

  “Speaking of the hard tests,” one of the fire controlmen said, “that’sreally why I first got the notion of applying for sub duty. I heard itwas the toughest branch of the service to get into and stay in—and Ijust kind of like to try any challenge like that. When I hear aboutsomething really tough, I like to take a crack at it. This is harder toget into than aviation!”

  “_Going to the Sub Base, Sir?_”]

  March smiled and thought of Scoot who had been worrying about hisability to meet the strict qualifications for naval fliers.

  “I like the life on a sub,” the radioman said. “You know—a good bunchof guys doin’ something big together, all workin’ together like a team.And the—well, friendliness between officers and men is swell. Not thatI don’t believe in strict discipline—” he glanced at the officer’sstripes on March’s cuff—“but I still think it’s a good idea forofficers and men to get friendly, get to know each other well, the waythey do on subs.”

  March agreed, and noticed that not one of the men had mentioned theextra pay for submarine duty as one of the reasons for entering thatbranch, and a dangerous branch, of the naval service.

  “That’s a good sign,” he told himself. “Of course, they’ll like theextra pay—no doubt of that—but it’s not the reason they volunteered forsub duty. They really go into it for its own sake.”

  The bus turned and entered the driveway of the sub base grounds and allthe men looked eagerly out the windows. Their first look was for theriver, where they hoped to see submarines.

  “Look!” cried Scott, the radioman. “There’s one in dry dock!”

  “And over there by the pier,” called another, “there’s a bunch of ’emlined up.”

  March looked at the long slim lines of the pigboats and felt warminside. He wondered just how soon he would take his first ride beneaththe waters of Long Island Sound in one of them.

  The bus passed a few buildings, but the sailors had no eyes for suchordinary things. Another structure had caught them—a tall round towerlooming up above the trees on t
he gently sloping hillside.

  “What’s that?” one of the men asked. “A water tower?”

  “Water tower’s right!” exclaimed Scott. “But a special kind. That’s theescape tower!”

  “Oh-oh, that’s the baby I’m wondering about,” said the pharmacist. “Idon’t know how I’ll like going up through a hundred feet of water withjust a funny gadget clamped over my nose and mouth.”

  “Well—you better not let it get you,” one of the others put in. “It’sone of the first tests, I hear. If you can’t handle the escape-towertests, you’re tossed out of submarines pronto!”

  The bus pulled up in front of a large brick building and stopped.Everyone got out and walked up to the front door. Inside, March leftthe men with a smile and reported to the personnel man in charge ofreceiving new officers assigned to the school. In another half hour hefound himself in his quarters in a building some way up the hill abovethe main buildings of the base. Here the school itself was situated,with its buildings for classrooms, barracks for enlisted men, andquarters for officers without wives. Married officers were allowed tolive in New London with their families and commute daily to the school.

  March’s room was small but comfortable, and he was neatly settled in itin a short while. His time in the Navy had taught him already to travellight, with only the necessary belongings, and to settle himselfquickly. He was at home and comfortable by the time he reported to theofficers’ mess for dinner.

  There he met other young officers who also lived at the school, and afew of the instructors. The latter were older men, full of years andwisdom in the submarine service, every one of whom would much ratherhave been on active duty hunting down Jap or Nazi ships on the oceansof the world. But they were too valuable in the great task of trainingthe hundreds of new officers needed for the subs coming off the ways ofthe shipyards. Here in New London they could pass on to the younger menlike March Anson a portion of their knowledge of pigboats.

  March felt, during dinner, the quiet good-fellowship of these men. Onthe _Plymouth_ the officers with whom he ate and talked and played werepleasant and agreeable fellows, but there had been all types there—thequiet ones, the back-slappers, the life-of-the-party men with practicaljokes and loud guffaws, the grimly serious officers, and everything inbetween. But here the men were more alike.

  “Not that they’re all the same,” he told himself, as he looked aroundthe table. “McIntosh here next to me is quite different in most waysfrom that Lieutenant Curtin across the table, for instance, but theyhave something in common. Something similar in their personalities, Isuppose. They’re sociable, but in a quiet way. They’re serious, but notwithout a sense of humor.”

  March did not realize that he was describing himself when he thought ofthe other officers in this way. But he might have known that thisquestion of personality was one of the most important in consideringmen who volunteered for submarine service.

  No man in the Navy was ever assigned to sub work without his request.It was an entirely volunteer service, but there were always far moreapplications, among both officers and enlisted men, than could beaccepted. So it was possible for the Bureau of Navy Personnel to keepits standards very high in selecting men for the pigboat branch.

  When a man already in the Navy was recommended by his commandingofficer for assignment to the sub school at New London, as March hadbeen, this did not mean that the recommendation was accepted just likethat. The Bureau looked over the man’s record with the greatest care.And just bravery such as March had displayed was not enough, eventhough it counted strongly in his favor. What they looked for in the“Diving Navy” was the kind of man who was brave, cool under fire, farabove the average intelligence, with the ability to get along well withother people under all circumstances, and the kind of nerves thatdidn’t crack or even show strain under the greatest danger, the worstcrowding, or seemingly fatal situations.

  As March thought of this, he swelled with pride to think he had beenchosen for the submarine school.

  “But that’s just the beginning,” he told himself. “I feel pretty darnedgood to know that I’ve got this far, but they’re going to watch me likea hawk every moment I’m here. I think I can pass all the tough physicaltests okay, because I’m in good shape. The studies are hard but if Iwork enough maybe I can handle them. But how will I act the first timeI’m in a submerging sub? How will I react to a crash dive? They’ll bewatching me. And even if I get through the school I’m still not asubmariner. Why, on my first real trip or two my commanding officer cantransfer me back to surface ships just by saying the word!”

  After dinner, in the officers’ lounge, March spoke with the executiveofficer of the sub base, a kindly, gray-haired man with skin that stilllooked as if he spent a few hours every day facing the salt breeze on aship’s bridge. Captain Sampson chatted easily with March as they lookedout the windows at the gathering twilight.

  “Glad to have you with us, Anson,” he said. “Hope you like it here.”

  “I’m sure I will, sir,” March replied. “I’ve been looking forward to itlong enough.”

  “I had an idea this was no sudden impulse of yours,” Sampson replied.“First off, you’re not the kind, I take it, that acts on suddenimpulses. And I imagine that subs always appealed to you.”

  “Yes, before I was in the Navy that’s what I wanted.”

  “Then you ought to do very well,” the Captain said. “You’ll want tomake your call on the Commandant tomorrow, I suppose?”

  “If it can be arranged,” March said.

  “Yes—tomorrow will be all right, I’m sure,” Sampson said, “for you topresent your compliments to him. There’ll be a few more officersarriving for the new class tomorrow morning early. I’ve set aside acouple of hours in the afternoon for the calls. Report at fifteeno’clock.”

  “Yes, sir,” March said.

  When the Captain had gone, March went back to his quarters and sat downto write a few letters. The first was to Scoot Bailey.

  “Dear Scoot,” it began. “I’m here at last—at the Submarine School inNew London! Tomorrow things will really start!”

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