Thus it had been that, thanks to Dr. Lucke and the admiral, I was diverted from gunnery into engineering and then into aviation. Now as a buzzer sounded, and the admiral’s secretary smiled her signal to enter the sanctum, I hooked on my sword and pushed open the door, not with the enthusiasm of an aviator but with the reservations of the professional seaman. Inside his sunny corner office, Admiral Moffett leaned against the old-fashioned high desk at which he stood when signing out papers. That desk, I thought, was a relic of the days of high stools and celluloid eyeshades, and must have been dragged out from some old storeroom by the admiral for the sake of sentiment. He was like that, a curious mixture of sentimental attachment to the days of sail and nervous enthusiasm for the airplane. Over his shoulder draped the silk cord of a pince-nez, poised on the bridge of his nose. His double-breasted blue-serge civilian suit, cut to look like the new uniforms, bespoke revolt against the executive order which had instructed officers on duty in Washington to stow their regimentals away with moth balls in sea chests. This order was a manifestation of the “return to normalcy,” under which slogan, Senator Warren G. Harding and Calvin Coolidge were to be sledded into the White House and the Vice-Presidency later the same year. For the American people, disillusioned after their recent crusade to make the world safe for democracy, had now turned their backs on Europe to devote themselves to something they knew more about—how to make money fast. During the existing reaction against all things military, the Administration deemed it wise to keep uniforms out of sight as far as possible. They were only permitted to be worn by officers reporting for duty, as I was at that moment. The admiral turned to shake hands with me and hand me my signed orders. His was the aristocratic bearing of the Southern cavalier. “Glad to see you aboard,” he greeted me warmly. “You are to relieve Lt. Comdr. B. G. Leighton as Chief of the Engine Section—an important department. I’m sure you’ll do well at it.” His was the accent of Charleston, South Carolina, but without the drawl. He clipped his words like a nervous Yankee. “Aye, aye, sir,” I replied, acknowledging the order in the conventional manner, “but what I don’t know about aircraft engines,” I added, “would overflow the library of Congress.” “Well,” grinned the admiral, “you have one advantage—you know you don’t know anything, which is more than I can say for some people in this Department.” He reached for his pipe and struck a match. (I was to learn that he smoked more matches than tobacco.) As the pipe went out he glanced at me. “Leighton tells me you are not too happy about coming here for duty.” “It breaks my sea cruise,” I explained, “and I don’t like to give the Selection Board an excuse to pass me over.” “The last Board picked you up,” he said. “Yes, sir.” “And a year ahead of time,” he went on.