GOOD-BY, BRIGHTON

“Wanted:  young men to enlist in Uncle Sam’s submarine fleet for service in European waters.”

The magic words stood out in bold type from the newspaper that Jack Hammond held spread out over his knees.  Underneath the caption ran a detailed statement setting forth the desire of the United States Government to recruit at once a great force of young Americans to man the undersea ships that were to be sent abroad for service against Germany.

Stirred by the appeal, Jack snatched the paper closer and read every word of the advertisement, his eyes dancing with interest.

“Your country needs you now!” it ran; and further on: 

“The only way to win the war is to carry it right home to the foe!”

Below, in more of the bold type, it concluded: 

“Don’t delay a moment—–­while you hesitate your country waits!”

From beginning to end Jack read the appeal again.  Before his eyes in fancy flashed the picture of a long, lithe steel vessel skimming the ocean, captain and crew on the lookout for the enemy, the Stars and Stripes flapping from the tailrail.  For an instant he imagined himself a member of the crew, gazing through the periscope at a giant German battleship—–­yes, firing a torpedo that leaped away to find its mark against the gray steel hull of the foe!

Up in the dormitories some chap was nimbly fingering “Dixie” on the mandolin.  The strains came down to the youth on the campus through the giant oak trees that half obscured the facade of “old Brighton.”  Over on the athletic field a bunch of freshmen “rookies” of the school battalion were being put through the manual of arms by an instructor.  Jack could hear the command:  “Present arms!”

“I guess that means me,” he said to himself.  And why not?  Hadn’t Joe Little and Harry Corwin and Jimmy Hill left school to join the aviation service?  Weren’t Jed Flarris and Phil Martin and a bunch of Brighton boys in Uncle Sam’s navy?  And hadn’t Herb Whitcomb and Roy Flynn made history in the first-line trenches?  Yes, the boys of Brighton were doing their bit.

In another moment Jack had crushed the newspaper into his pocket—–­his decision made—–­jumped from the bench under the old oak tree and was speeding across the campus in the direction of the main dormitory entrance.  Without waiting for the elevator he leaped the steps, three at a time, running up to the third floor, and thence down the corridor to No. 63—–­his “home,” and that of his chum, Ted Wainwright.

Out of breath, he hurled himself into the room.  Ted was crouched over the study table, algebra in front of him, cramming for an examination.

“There you are!  Hip, hurrah!” Jack cried excitedly, thrusting the folded newspaper under Ted’s eyes and pointing to the bold typed appeal for recruits, all the while keeping up a running fire of chatter.