Chapter III: At the Training Station

Three days later instead of two, since severing connections with the college was not quite such a casual ceremony as Steve had supposed, the two boys found themselves at the Newport Training Station, full-fledged apprentice seamen in the United States Navy. They had duly satisfied the examining officer that they were eighteen years of age, had successfully passed medical inspection, had been shorn of all but a scant half-inch of their hair, had gone through a disinfecting bath and had been “shot” in the arm with anti-typhoid serum. And then, to their dismay, they discovered that they were not free to come and go about the Station, but――and this was something that Han had failed to mention――were due to remain in Detention Camp for three long weeks! The officer in charge seemed to prefer to allude to their habitation as the Recruit Barracks, but after the first few days both boys could have easily found a name much more fitting than either of those!

“It’s silly rot,” declared Steve one afternoon as the cheers from the ball field floated across. “Just as though we’d be likely to bring any contagious disease with us! We don’t come from――from the slums!”

Still, there wasn’t a whole lot of time to bewail the imprisonment, for they, together with an ever changing throng of brother recruits, had plenty to do to keep them busy. There was the visit to the dentist to start with and then the exciting event of receiving their outfits: blankets, uniforms, brushes, underwear, sewing materials, soap, bathing trunks, towels and various lesser articles: and of appearing for the first time in the “blues.” Joe was critical of the fit of his trousers and for the first day continually glanced dubiously at the flapping fullness around the tops of his stout Navy shoes. But secretly they were both as proud as Punch, even if Joe did remark flippantly that if the outfit really cost Uncle Sam sixty dollars, as rumour had it, Uncle Sam was getting stung! Whereupon Steve gravely called his attention to the undoubted excellence of the bone buttons included in the sewing kit.

If they had thought to be done with academic studies they were mistaken, for every day there was “school.” But all the instruction was not academic, for they were taught also how to wash their clothes and mend them, and their first essays in these twin arts were laughably ludicrous. “Suds drill” to lads who had never got closer to the labour of washing their clothes than――infrequently――filling out a laundry slip was startlingly novel! Nor did either of them show skill and grace in the manipulation of needle and thread. Steve had so many punctures in his fingers at the end of the first week that it hurt him to touch anything! For two days life looked rather doleful. The inoculation produced lassitude, and the food, good but plainer than they were used to, failed to appeal to them. But all that passed presently and soon they were as prompt with their mess kits as any, and roast beef and mashed potatoes and creamed carrots and cottage pudding, or their equivalents, found enthusiastic welcome. Since misery loves company, sociability reigned in Detention Camp. Steve and Joe made many acquaintances of many sorts, for the recruits that packed the barracks were of numerous races and from widely different walks in life. Many of them, indeed, were from the country, but far more were city boys. Of the latter the majority were surprisingly strong and healthy looking, and, as Joe remarked in some surprise, “stacked up better than the hayseeds.” College and preparatory schools had provided fully thirty per cent of the crowd, and of the balance another thirty per cent were boys who had learned or were learning a trade. Naturally the chief subject of conversation was the duration of training. Many held the opinion that the usual three months would be cut in two at least. All sorts of tales were told to indicate that they would be smelling powder in a month, stories of “greenhorns” being rushed aboard ship after three days at the Station, of thousands of practically untrained Jackies reaching Brooklyn and Charleston and Newport News weekly from the Great Lakes Station.

“Take it from me,” declared a big, raw-boned youth named Breen who had graduated two weeks before from the front end of a New York trolley car, “they can’t do without us, fellers. They’ve got the ships, see, but they ain’t got the men. An’ say, we’re needed over there, believe me!” He jerked a carroty head in the general direction of the main barracks which might or might not be also the direction of the coast of France. “I’ll bet you my shoes we’ll be chasin’ them U-boats inside of six weeks!”

“Some of us may,” agreed a little dark-skinned, black-eyed boy who had scraped past the doctor only by stretching his neck until it ached, “but there’s a lot of us’ll be kickin’ our toes around receivin’ ships most of the Summer. Say, where’s this Atlantic Squadron you hear tell of? What’s it doin’ to save the Country?”

“Patrollin’ from Newfoundland to Cuby, o’ course. But I hope I don’t get stuck on that.” Breen shook his head gravely. “They won’t never see no fun. Fritz ain’t sendin’ any U-boats this way, take it from me. The Allies is keepin’ him busy at home.”

“What about the submarine they sunk in the Narrows the other day?” asked someone.

“Aw, tell it to Sweeney!”

“That’s right! I got it straight from a fellow who knows. There was a Swedish ship come in and passed inspection and was making for the harbour when a patrol boat decides to give her the once-over and sees a cable dragging astern. So he signals to a torpedo boat and the torpedo boat stops the ship and investigates. ‘I’ve been examined and my papers are all right,’ says the Swede captain. ‘You shut your face,’ says the torpedo boat commander. So then they gets the winch going on that hawser and pulls up a German submarine which was thinking to get into the harbour and blow things right and left. Then they shoots the whole lot――――”

“Yes, an’ one of ’em was the Crown Prince himself!” jeered Breen. “Sure, I know. You hear a lot of that stuff. It listens fine, too. Like this here destroyer _Smith_ who seen a U-boat up the coast yesterday or the day before. What she seen was a porpoise, I guess. Take it from me, Jack, them Germans ain’t takin’ no chances. They never have an’ they never will. That’s their efficiency, see?”

“What about those raiders like the whats-its-name that――――”

“Easy, kid, easy! We wasn’t in the war then. You don’t see no raiders rompin’ around now, do you? You bet your life you don’t. Take it from me, bo, nothin’ doin’, nothin’ doin’!”

So they took it from him, and went to bed.

Unless connected with the ever interesting subject of the prospect of getting afloat the war was discussed but little, considering what they were there for. Baseball was a far more likely topic. Whether the Giants would come through this year, whether the Red Sox could “repeat,” what Mathewson would do with the Reds――all those questions appeared to concern the hundreds of embryo sea fighters far more than the world struggle that had called them together. On the whole there were few dull moments in camp, and lots and lots of busy ones. Day by day the faces changed as some went on to the main barracks and new recruits took their places. The British War Commission landed, followed a few days later by the French, and there was much talk of “Papa” Joffre. In the harbour destroyers dropped anchor and weighed again, launches sputtered over the blue water, a submarine from the New London base paid a visit and departed after an excited exchange of signals, submerging as she passed the point. Breen took his wisdom to the main barracks and a broad-shouldered chap who had been a telephone lineman until a fortnight ago succeeded him as camp mentor. Joe put on three pounds of weight, and Steve two, while their appetites grew daily. And on the first of May they ended detention and moved their kits to the main barracks.

They signalised this event by obtaining leave and hurrying to their homes in New York. They felt a little bit conscious of their uniforms, and tried very hard to attain the swagger of the experienced Jackies. It didn’t help Steve to feel at ease when he was mistaken in the Terminal for a porter by a near-sighted old lady, and Joe had unmerciful fun with him all the way uptown. That was a hurried visit, but it did them both good. Joe received a scrawl from George Hanford in which Han announced his assignment to the _Carthage_, scout cruiser, then at Newport News. “We’re looking for a move any moment,” wrote Han. “It’s full steam at six hours with us, and that means something. We’re not supposed to write about our movements, but you’re in the Service now, praises be, and so I guess it’s all right. I wasn’t able to find out where you’re stationed, so I’m sending this to the home. Write me when you get this and tell me how you’re getting on. We’ve got a fine set of officers on this ship and we’re all crazy to start something. Say howdy to old Steve and tell him to write.”

Joe’s fame had preceded him and he was hustled out to try for one of the baseball nines. He didn’t exactly cover himself with glory that first afternoon of practice, probably because one of the busiest and hardest days he had ever put in had taken the edge off his zest for physical exercise. When one arises at five in the morning and goes to his hammock at nine it is possible for quite a number of things to happen to him. It was hard for Steve and Joe to relish the sound of reveille at first. Five o’clock seemed a most unchristian hour at which to tumble out. For that matter I’m not certain that they ever came to care an awful lot for that first bugle call, although they did ultimately accept its summons with a fair degree of equanimity. At five-thirty they had to be ready for muster, and from that time until seven they were busy cleaning up themselves, their clothing and the barracks. Breakfast was finished at eight, when followed periods of drill, study and instruction until three in the afternoon, with the exception of an hour for dinner at twelve. Between three and six their time was their own unless there was extra duty or they were back in their work. The evenings were theirs until nine when the bugler sounded lights out. The routine on Saturdays and Sundays differed, and on the afternoons of those days liberty was granted to the recruits not under restriction.

Meanwhile they were learning, first, subordination, and, second, seamanship. Perhaps they were a bit more amenable to authority than the general run of their fellow recruits, since they had experienced the discipline of football and baseball training during five years at school and college. At least they seemed to find it easier to obey orders without hesitation and without question than did many of their companions, just as it troubled them much less to salute some youngster scarcely older than they whose sleeve happened to bear stripes and chevrons. That thing of saluting was a fine puzzle to them for awhile, as was the matter of insignia. Joe became almost pop-eyed watching for sleeve braidings or shoulder straps and his constant, haunting fear was that he would meet an Admiral and fail to salute. He didn’t know what the penalty for that would be, but, judging by the punishment for far less serious crimes, he presumed it might easily be decapitation! More than once both he and Steve, in the earlier days of their service, missed a bit of gold braid or an inconspicuous star and were brought sharply up by the wearer. In the end they adopted the scheme of Breen, now enthusiastically seeking to qualify for the electrical school.

“Don’t take no chances,” advised Breen. “I don’t. If I see a feller comin’ along that ain’t got up just as I am I salute him. If he’s an officer, all right. If he ain’t, all right too. He’s so pleased you can see his chest stick up. I ran across a chauffeur over by the gate the other day and saluted him fine. He didn’t mind, and it didn’t hurt me none. Let me tell you something, Jack. Don’t get this here ‘too-proud-to-salute’ bug. It don’t work, see? A feller was whining around barracks the other day about havin’ to salute fellers that wasn’t no better’n he was. Said he was willin’ to salute an Admiral and a few high muckamucks, you see, but he didn’t see why he had to show respect to a rough-neck carpenters’ mate. Well, I told him why. I says: ‘Bo, you ain’t salutin’ the feller in the uniform. Maybe he ain’t no better’n you are. You’re salutin’ the uniform and what it stands for. Get it? Them little didoes on his sleeve means authority, an’ it’s authority you’re flippin’ your hand to. An’,’ I says, ‘take it from me the sooner you gets that inside that solid concrete dome of yours the better,’ I says. Ain’t I right?”

Steve bought a small book containing, amongst other things, a full list, with pictures in colours, of all insignia of rank in the Army and Navy and studied it diligently, but at the end of a week he sadly acknowledged that he couldn’t tell a Rear-Admiral from a Pay Officer, unless the latter was working at his job!

Barring Saturdays and Sundays, Steve and Joe spent an average of eight hours a day in drilling, beginning with setting-up drill in the morning and ending with afternoon parade. In between there were other drills of many sorts, boat drill, gun drill, splicing and tying, steering, rifle practice and so on. And then, lest their muscles might possibly grow at the expense of their lungs, there was singing school one evening a week. Amusements were not forgotten. Moving pictures, concerts and lectures occurred frequently. On the whole, life was both busy and happy, and, after the first period of homesickness that assailed many boys was over, it would have been hard to find one who regretted his presence at the Training Station. Only, and this was a widely prevalent sentiment, they didn’t want to stay there much longer! Everyone’s ambition was to find himself afloat.

“What gets me,” confided Steve one day to Joe on the way back from a ball game, “is the way these fellows stack up. Do you know, Joe, taking them as they come they’re a mighty decent lot.”

“Well, why not?” asked his chum.

“No reason, I suppose, only――somehow you get the notion that Uncle Sam’s sailors are a sort of tough gang. I know I always thought so. I had an idea that when you got out of jail after picking someone’s pocket or busting another chap’s head with a cobblestone that the first thing you did was sign on in the Navy. Guess I was wrong, though. These chaps are as decent and――and intelligent as you’d meet anywhere. Don’t you say so?”

“I certainly do, Steve. And they should be. They aren’t bums. They’re just average American fellows, most of them from good homes and schools. Even those who haven’t had much schooling seem to know what is decent and what isn’t. There’s the fellow they call Abie in our company. He says he never saw the inside of a school house until a year ago. Grew up in the Ghetto. Well, Abie’s got more common decency and more genuine American spirit and patriotism than half the chaps we know here. Know what I think, Steve?”

“Shoot!”

“Well, I think this country’s all right just as long as you run across fellows like Abie. It’s easy enough for you and me to feel patriotic and be willing to fight for the Flag, but when it comes to a little half-size Polish Jew who has lived here only ten or twelve years and by rights oughtn’t to know whether the Revolutionary War was a prize fight or a moving picture, why, gee, I think it’s wonderful!”

“Right-o!” agreed Steve. “Abie’s a mighty plucky little cuss. We’ve got some fine fellows in our company. I guess,” he added naïvely, “it’s the best company here, eh?”

“Sure to be,” laughed Joe. “One’s own company always is.”

Steve laughed. “That’s so, I suppose. Just the same, it is a good one. And there’s all kinds in it, from Abie to that chap Manders who came back from leave last week driving his own whopping big Fiat. He’s going to take me over to New London Sunday if we can get off. He’s got a brother over there in the Submarine School. He’s a lieutenant or something. I’ll get him to ask you along. Say, know something?”

“A little,” confessed Joe, “but I’m willing to learn.”

“Well, I’ll bet you that if someone got up some time and yelled ‘Now then, fellows! A cheer for the N. T. S.!’ you’d hear every school and college yell between Maine and Texas! Only you wouldn’t, on account of there being so many!”

“I know one college yell you wouldn’t hear,” said Joe.

“What one?” asked Steve suspiciously.

“Vassar!”

“My word, but you’re the smart guy! Chin up! Here’s something with stripes coming! Maybe he’s an Admiral. Act pretty!”

“An ensign, you idiot,” said Joe as the officer returned their salutes and passed. “When did you say Manders was going over to New London?”

“Next Sunday. It’ll be a corking trip. That car of his goes about a million miles a minute without turning a hair.”

“You mean without casting a shoe,” chuckled Joe. “Don’t forget to tell him about me. Maybe we can get a look into one of the subs.”

That they didn’t was not the fault of Lieutenant Manders. It was entirely due to the fact that on a certain Tuesday afternoon toward the last of May their company and two others were ordered to be ready to entrain the next morning at six o’clock, and that when Sunday arrived Steve and Joe were many miles distant from Manders and his pea-green Fiat!