Down by de riverside,
Down by de riverside.
I’se goin’ to lay down my sword and shield,
Down by de riverside
I ain’t goin’ to study war no mo’.”
As she drifted out of the door the telephone rang. It was the commandant. As I reached for the receiver, I could feel a flush creeping up the back of my neck and knew for the first time just how much I wanted a favorable report. Well, I’d soon know, now.
“Lowry has passed your check,” Brooks Upham was saying. “He considers you ‘good pilot material.’ See you for dinner!” I hung up and called down the corridor to old Aunt Lucy.
“I guess you can unpack the satchel,” I said.
The Uphams were distinctly Old Navy, part of a small coterie of distinguished senior officers and their wives who had served the Navy through the lean years, on duty that had either taken them to distant foreign stations together or forced long separations. They were men and women who had stood for all that was best in loyalty to their country, their service, and to one another, and who supported the fine traditions of the earlier days. Poor in worldly goods, yet they were rich in experience, having traveled widely and lived close to the people of foreign lands. Money had meant little to them; they had found ample compensation in their knowledge of a public service faithfully performed. Evenings at the commandant’s quarters were to prove important events in my training as a naval aviator; and old Aunt Lucy was to leave her mark, too.
For flying was still a hazardous business back in the middle twenties, and tragedy cast its shadow all too often over the little station at Pensacola. Perhaps it was this that focused people’s thoughts on things far removed from “pounds per horsepower.” After dinner that evening, the commandant and his lady sat with me around the fire that provided the only warmth against the evening chill, and discussed books they had just finished reading.