“I had an idea this was no sudden impulse of yours,” Sampson replied. “First off, you’re not the kind, I take it, that acts on sudden impulses. And I imagine that subs always appealed to you.” “Yes, before I was in the Navy that’s what I wanted.” “Then you ought to do very well,” the Captain said. “You’ll want to make your call on the Commandant tomorrow, I suppose?” “If it can be arranged,” March said. “Yes—tomorrow will be all right, I’m sure,” Sampson said, “for you to present your compliments to him. There’ll be a few more officers arriving for the new class tomorrow morning early. I’ve set aside a couple of hours in the afternoon for the calls. Report at fifteen o’clock.” “Yes, sir,” March said. When the Captain had gone, March went back to his quarters and sat down to write a few letters. The first was to Scoot Bailey. “Dear Scoot,” it began. “I’m here at last—at the Submarine School in New London! Tomorrow things will really start!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER THREE FIFTY POUNDS OF PRESSURE Things really did start the next day for March! In the morning he had a physical examination that made all his previous examinations look like quick once-overs. Eyes, ears, lungs, heart, stomach—they went over March’s body so thoroughly that he felt not a microbe, not a blood cell, had escaped their detection. But he knew, without waiting for the report, that he had no difficulty in meeting all the requirements. In the afternoon there was the official call on the Commandant, which was not the stiff and formal ceremony such Naval customs often are, but an interesting and heart-warming experience. The “Old Man” really took the time to talk informally and in very friendly fashion with the new officers who came to the school. March met the new officers who were just beginning their work at the school with him, got his schedule of duties for the next few days, and managed to work in a letter to his mother in the evening. The next day, when March learned that he had passed his physical examination with flying colors, he also learned that one of the doctors examining him had been a psychiatrist. “That’s the smartest thing yet!” he muttered to Ensign Bigelow, another new officer-student who had just come from a teaching assignment at one of the Navy’s technical schools. “Usually the psychological examination is separate. You know you’re going to be questioned by a psychiatrist who will ask you all sorts of strange questions about how you get along with girls and what you thought of your fifth-grade teacher, and—” “And what your dreams are like,” added Bigelow. “Sure, and you’re self conscious,” March went on. “A smart doctor probably sees through that and gets the real dope as to what makes your personality tick, but it has always struck me as a sort of silly business.”