She had a wrinkled, light-chocolate old face, framed by kinky white hair held in a tight knot at the back of her neck. Though she was said to have been born into slavery, her erect, almost haughty carriage seemed to deny the story. She turned to bow to me in a curtsy that was dignified and respectful. “Mawnin’, sah!” she said. Her soft voice had the resonance of a singer of Negro spirituals. “Ah’s Aunt Lucy,” she added. “I takes keer o’ dis room for de gempmens what has it. Ah unpacks yo satchel, too, if you likes.” “I’m not sure I’ll stay, Aunt Lucy,” I replied. “We won’t unpack until I hear from Lieutenant Lowry.” Aunt Lucy bowed her head as she moved off to dust the window sills. She had that air of quiet dignity, that sense of being wholly at peace with the world, that had characterized the old-time darkies I had known as a midshipman back at little Annapolis. A leader among her people, a deaconess in the church, no doubt, Aunt Lucy seemed a woman distinguished by deep religious faith. I had unbelted my sword after leaving the commandant’s office and, after my check flight, had carried it to BOQ in my hand. Now as I laid it on the table Aunt Lucy glanced at it and began humming an old spiritual: “I’se goin’ to lay down my sword and shield. Down by de riverside, 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.