The commandant of the Philadelphia navy-yard looked up from the
sheaf of papers which bore the superscription of the Bureau of Naval
Affairs, Washington, at the young man who stood at attention before
his desk.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rankin,” he said simply.
The brown, alert face showed no surprise. Ensign Rankin belonged to
those men who cannot afford to be easily shaken from their balance,
but his passionate argument was already on his lips.
“But why?” he cried. “Why? I passed in everything else. My sense of
balance was perfect. My nerve reactions were A No. 1. My blood
pressure, hearing, everything! Only those paltry two points I fell
short in.”
Official dignity relaxed just a trifle before the bitterness of the
young man’s disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” the commandant said again. “But this flying business is
dangerous enough as it is without our adding to it by overlooking
the slightest imperfection in the human machine. The service
requires a full twenty in eyesight, and your test measures up only
eighteen. Therefore you have been judged ‘unfit for aviation.’”
The hundred and sixty pounds of hard, lean athlete stiffened yet
further with the fighting spirit.
“Then, with your permission, sir, I shall appeal for a waiver.
Because I’ve flown all kinds of machines long before I ever got this
commission.”
The commandant’s eyes were steely.
“It will do you no good to appeal to Washington for a waiver, Mr.
Rankin. There have been a few cases, I admit--a very few, like
Williams and Steffanson--but only after the men concerned have proved
themselves to be expert beyond all question in spite of their
physical shortcomings.
“These orders are final. You have already been transferred to line
duty, and you will report to Lieutenant-Commander Evans for further
instructions.”
Even the rawest and scrappiest ensign could make no mistake about
that tone. Rankin sensed vaguely that the authority of the whole
United States stood behind that incisive, unruffled voice.
He went, and reported.
“Ha, Rankin,” Lieutenant-Commander Evans greeted him. “I’ve already
received orders about you. I’m sure we shall be pleased to have you
with us. If you will call for me at the mess some time this
afternoon I’ll take you on board and introduce you in the
ward-room.”
Rankin murmured a conventional thanks. But he meant not a word of
it. His mind was full of the injustice of his case. He was not
interested in line duties; he had come into the service for
aviation.
“I guess there’s nothing you can do till then,” Evans continued.
“Only don’t get lost. Stick around the yard somewhere; because we’re
under orders to hold ourselves in readiness to put out at a moment’s
notice, and all leave has been cut short.”
“Very well, sir.”
“All right. See you around three o’clock then.”
Rankin’s was a war commission. That is to say, his rating in the
naval militia had been accepted at its face value by the navy. He
was therefore a full-blown ensign, just the same as any Annapolis
graduate, much to the indignation of those same graduates, who had
spent many toilsome years in qualifying for the same rank.
Militia commissions were always looked upon with disfavor by the
Annapolis men. Rankin, for instance, had put in just two months with
the naval militia of his State, and had been elected to a commission
by his fellows on account of his happy popularity and his superior
experience in flying.
The sacred traditions of the service, therefore, meant nothing to
him. Stern discipline and unquestioning obedience were vague
unpleasantnesses, half understood, and in theory only. To “stick
around the yard,” then, for the rest of the day with nothing to do
didn’t have any sense in it; furthermore, there was a girl who lived
in West Philadelphia--and there was loads of time before three
o’clock.