Chapter IX: The Admiral Makes Good

At headquarters they waited for some time in an anteroom. Through a door at one side came the clicking of many typewriters and they could see a small army of clerks, naval and civilian, busily at work. Others shared their wait――several officers, an imposing gentleman with flowing side whiskers and much gold watch chain who had the unmistakable look of a man who had something to sell; an impatient, gruff looking chief machinist; a quiet chaplain with the rank of a lieutenant-commander, and a fussy little Irishman with a pronounced horsey aspect and――or so said Pete, who was sitting nearest him――atmosphere. Now and then a door at the end of the room opened and closed, they caught a brief glimpse of a broad desk-table, a visitor slipped out, and the group in the anteroom lessened by one.

Their turn came at last and the door closed behind them and they found themselves, caps in hand, saluting a pleasant faced, elderly man with gray mustache and beard who, wearing a white service uniform, was seated at the broad desk they had glimpsed. At a second desk a younger man, a lieutenant-commander, was writing. The orderly who had admitted them awaited instructions and, after acknowledging the boys’ salutes, the commander of the American naval forces signaled for him to place a second chair beside the one that faced the big desk. Then, dismissing the orderly with a nod, he motioned to the chairs.

“Be seated, please,” he said. “I have some questions to ask you that will occupy some time.” A buzzer sounded outside and a stenographer entered, notebook in hand, and seated himself near by. Dave could have smiled at Pete’s expression of awe and embarrassment had he not experienced somewhat similar feelings himself. “I believe you men were on Chaser _944_ before she was lost recently,” said the Admiral.

“Yes, sir,” answered Dave. It was plainly evident that Pete was not to be counted on at present for any conversation.

“And I think you had the somewhat unusual experience of being taken prisoners by an enemy submarine and of later making your escape. Suppose you tell me how that happened.” He glanced encouragingly from Pete to Dave and then nodded at the latter. Dave, twisting his cap and clearing his throat, began an embarrassed recital of the events leading up to their capture. He made poor going of it at first, for the knowledge that his words were being transcribed to paper by the busy pencil of the stenographer worried him, but presently he managed to forget that and his tale grew more coherent. Once or twice Pete gulped and seemed on the point of joining in, but each time his courage failed him. When Dave had ended the Admiral began to ask questions. By that time Pete had found his voice and between them they managed to give more or less satisfactory replies to about half of what was asked. It dawned on Dave that they had been horribly remiss in not gathering more information about the U-boat during their presence aboard, and perhaps the Admiral thought so, too, but if so he was too kind to say so. He asked about things that neither Dave nor Pete had thought of observing, and toward the last their constant replies of “I don’t know, sir,” became discouragingly monotonous in Dave’s ears. Nevertheless the Admiral seemed to be satisfied with what he had learned, and he nodded his head frequently with what they hoped was approval, and at last signed to the stenographer to leave.

More questions followed then, but they were purely personal.

The Admiral asked about their homes, their length of service, how they were getting on, and several other things, and the boys, who had forgotten their awe by now, answered frankly and interestingly. Then:

“I think you men showed commendable presence of mind and courage under the circumstances,” said the Admiral. “Some of the information you have supplied is useful, and I am glad to have it. Another time, if there should be another time, which I trust there will not be, it would be well to remember that no detail of an enemy ship, either of construction, armament, personnel or operation, is too small to be of use to our navy, and this is especially true of underwater craft, of which we know far too little, because of the fact that the enemy is continually making changes in design and armament. This is not a criticism, however. You did very well and showed pluck and good Yankee ingenuity in getting out of a very awkward situation. You are without a ship at present?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see what can be done. I dare say you’d like to hang together, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” This was Pete, grown quite confident. “An’ there’s another guy――I mean man――we’d like to have with us, sir, if it could be fixed. He’s a Reservist, name o’ Dill. He was along when we hit the mine.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” replied the Admiral gravely, scribbling on a pad. “The name is Dill, you say? The rest of it?”

“Pick――” began Pete, but Dave cut in hurriedly. “Robert D., sir,” he said. The Admiral nodded. Then Pete said: “Beg pardon, sir, but is there――would there――” He paused, floundering. The Admiral smiled twinklingly.

“Yes? Speak up! What else can we do for you?”

“Well, sir, I was wondering if there was a chance for us on one o’ the destroyers,” he stammered. “Him an’ me――an’ the other guy, too,――we’d kind o’ like to get on a destroyer, sir.”

“Why, I wouldn’t be surprised.” The Admiral looked inquiringly across at the lieutenant-commander. “The _Conklin_ is short, isn’t she?” he inquired.

“I believe so, sir. I’ll find out――”

“There’s no hurry, thanks.” He turned again to the boys. “I’ll do my best for you,” he said pleasantly. “Is that all?”

Pete grinned. “I guess that’s enough, sir,” he replied. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Rooney. But I had thought of something else. I like the way you boys slipped out of the clutches of that submarine commander,” he said quite warmly. “By Jove, that appeals to me. I suppose you wouldn’t either of you refuse an advance in rating?”

They shook their heads dumbly.

“Very well. You’ll get it. Promoted to petty officers of the third class, Rooney and Garson. My congratulations to you. You’ll get your assignments in a day or two. That’s all. Good morning and good luck!”

Both Pete and Dave felt it incumbent on them to say something, but after a glance at each other they only saluted and made for the door, conscious of an amused twinkle in the Admiral’s eyes and a broad smile on the countenance of the lieutenant-commander.

Outside the building Pete drew himself up haughtily, a wide grin on his freckled face, and saluted grandly. “Congratulations, Mister Garson,” he said pompously.

“Same to you, Mister Rooney,” responded Dave with equal empressment. Then they began to laugh, and Pete sent Dave staggering with a slap on the back, and they joined arms and went down to barracks very proudly.

It took them almost an hour to find The Pickle and the search led them over half the town, but they did discover him finally and joined him with set and serious countenances and very stiff backs and acted so strangely that The Pickle soon lost patience.

“Say, what’s wrong with you two?” he demanded huffily. “Swallowed a ramrod or what?”

“Are you addressing me?” asked Pete haughtily.

“No, I was speaking to that other donkey over there.” Dill indicated a patient, moth-eaten animal hitched to a diminutive cart. “But you may bray if you want to.”

“What extremely low manners these common seamen have,” observed Dave to Pete. “To think that one has to associate with them, eh?”

“Awful!” Pete positively shuddered. “No respect for their superiors either, the ignorant goats!”

“Who’s my superior, you?” The Pickle laughed scornfully. “Just because you’ve been talking to the Admiral’s orderly up there you think you’re he-men, you pieces o’ gear!”

“Pieces o’ gear!” exclaimed Pete, horror stricken, appalled. “My word, Mister Garson. We ought to put him in the brig for that! A common, low ‘rubber sock’ referrin’ in such terms to petty officers of the United States Na――”

“Petty officers!” gasped The Pickle.

Pete nodded condescendingly.

“Well, what――do you――know――about that?” marveled The Pickle, awedly. “Petty officers!”

Dave tried to look unconscious of his new honor, but only succeeded in smirking.

“Well, sir, that explains something I never knew before,” mused Dill. “It sure does.”

“An’ what might that be, my good man?” inquired Pete, suspiciously.

The Pickle edged imperceptibly away. “Why they’re called ‘petty,’” he answered sweetly.

But The Pickle was honestly very pleased about it, and he had to hear the whole story from first word to last, for which purpose, now being the proud possessor of something like seven dollars of English money, he led them hurriedly away to the best of the small hotels that lie along the waterfront and seated them at a table. It wasn’t time for any recognized meal, neither breakfast, dinner, supper nor five o’clock tea, but that made no difference to them and they ordered a generous repast of chops and baked potatoes and ginger ale, and while it was preparing Dave and Pete talked a duet. And when they had reached their flight from the Admiral’s presence and brought the story down to date The Pickle filled a tumbler with the sparkling “wine of the country,” as he called it, and toasted them.

“To the two pettiest officers in the Service!” he shouted.

He was, or professed to be, incredulous of being assigned to duty with his friends, but ultimately he was forced to acknowledge that the Admiral had “made good,” for two days later Dave and Pete were promoted to gunners’ mates, third class, and Seaman Rooney, Garson and Dill were ordered to the destroyer _Conklin_.