There is no warrant officers’ mess on a destroyer; when warrant officers are present, they live in the wardroom with all the other officers, from the skipper down. Thus there is an informal atmosphere which is far removed from the traditional etiquette of a battleship. Evans found himself in a party of genial youths which might have been taking a vacation cruise together in a small boat, as far as one could judge from the wardroom life. Fraser put them all at ease, encouraging in every way the informal spirit of good-fellowship, yet never for a moment losing their respect nor failing to inspire them with the sense of his leadership.
They were a heterogeneous mixture, the officers of this ship, eight in all; three besides the skipper were graduates of the Naval Academy; one was a temporary ensign who had worked up from the ranks through the grades of chief petty officer and warrant officer; three were college boys of yachting experience who had joined the navy for the war. But months together at sea under the magnetic personality of their commander had welded them into the most harmonious and congenial crew of shipmates. One of the college boys, Jackson by name, was a very good singer, having been prominent in his college glee club. Besides this he was uncommonly handy with the mandolin, a gift which was much appreciated on board the destroyer. He had brought with him his mandolin and some old college song-books, both of which were in demand. The skipper was fond of good singing and had a very fair voice himself. So when the day’s duties were done, it was their wont, as often as might be, when the supper dishes had been cleared away, to make the wardroom ring with many a rousing chorus. All of the gang would be there but the lone officer who “had the deck.” He, standing on the bridge, alert and watchful, directed the man at the wheel and the quartermasters as they moved swiftly about, performing the duties of the ship’s nerve center. He held the lives of all on board in his hands while the others made merry below. And whenever it was not Jackson’s turn as officer of the deck during the eight-to-twelve watch, he would “break out” his mandolin, and harmony would reign in the cheery little wardroom.
On this occasion the day following their departure proved uneventful. Steadily they held their course at eighteen knots. The visibility was fair and there was no difficulty in maintaining the scouting line according to plan. Fraser conferred with his executive officer and Evans at some length over the details of their intended procedure. All hands at the radio compass, the hydrophones, and magnetic detectors were coached as for a great athletic contest till each man looked forward to the coming night as the chance of his life. Early in the morning a message had been received from Punta Delgada reporting the submarines still heading northwest by west at eleven knots. The destroyers themselves had not heard them, for their range was not equal to those of the shore stations with their marvelous amplifiers, too sensitive and too cumbersome to be successfully installed on vibrating or crowded ships. All day long no signals were heard, and none were expected till midnight, for the subs would not send signals needlessly, and when they did they would use so little power that the hunting squadron could hardly expect to hear them more than fifty miles; at the present speed they should be within fifty miles of the supposed position of the enemy about the middle of the night.
Darkness came, and the infra-red lanterns were again turned on. All was in readiness, the radio operators on watch listening like wild animals in the night. Fortunately Jackson did not have the eight-to-twelve watch that night; so when supper was finished, the skipper said to him: “Jackson, break out your mandolin and let’s have some old-time songs; it’ll do us a lot of good.”
Evans had slipped off to look over the radio gear once more and see that all was in perfect order. This done, he rejoined the crowd in the wardroom just in time to join in the chorus of “Lucy Lee,” a song which was having a great run of popularity at the time. Jackson turned over the leaves of one of his song-books and picked out one favorite after another according to the mood of the moment. Some he sang as solos; some were familiar airs that all joined in singing. Fraser, thoroughly enjoying himself, did his share of the singing, looking over the book, and now and then suggesting a song that caught his eye. In a lull between songs, Jackson rambled on with his mandolin through a kaleidoscopic series of melodies till through some strange caprice he stumbled on a Christmas carol which most of them knew. They sang it, and Fraser then fell to recalling the winter evenings in his boyhood when he with other children of the village where he lived had sung this and other carols with the new-fallen snow on the spruce trees reflecting the lamplight from the window with a golden glow. Evans picked up the old Princeton song-book off the wardroom table and began turning over the leaves. Suddenly his face lighted as he turned to “Stand to Your Glasses Steady.”
“That’s the most stirring song ever written by man,” he said. “That was written by a British army officer facing death in the great cholera plague in India.”
Jackson looked at the song and started playing the air from the notes.
“Oh, yes!” he said presently. “I remember that. My older brother used to sing it when I was a little kid. He had a crowd of them home from college with him, and they all used to get going on that song. My God! how they raised the roof with it! I’ll never forget it.”
Evans and Jackson sang the song together, Fraser looking over the page and joining in after the first verse. There was a fire in Evans’s voice which it took this song to bring out, and every one sat up and took notice, and before the song was done each felt it.
Fraser spoke with warmth, “That is a wonderful song. Let’s try it again; maybe every one can join in this time.”