Somewhat to my surprise got off with a reprimand.

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 132.  

It seemed that we were hardly back in England before we went off again on the last of my three cruises. This time our destination was Scandinavia. The first stop was not, alas, Copenhagen but Esbjerg, a not terribly exciting city on the west coast of Jutland, about as far away from the capital as it was possible for a Danish town to be. But I had two friends, the writer Kelvin Lindemann and his wife Tot, who lived near Copenhagen and whom I had promised to visit if I could; and on the third and last day of our stay my oppo, Dental Sick Bay Attendant Tony Griffiths, and I decided to take the train across the whole country—the journey included two sea ferries—to the capital. We knew that we should have only a few hours there, but there would be time to have dinner with the Lindemanns before returning, and anyway the dubious pleasures of Esbjerg had been exhausted and there was nothing else to do. Kelvin was his country’s leading novelist, first introduced to me as “the Danish Somerset Maugham.” He was there to meet us at the station, and to tell us delightedly “all the plans he had made for the evening; and when we broke it to him that we had to leave in some four hours time his face fell. “You can’t,” he said. But then he suddenly brightened. “Don’t worry; I’ll get on to an old friend who happens to be head of the Danish Navy. He’ll telephone your Captain, who won’t be able to say no. Leave it to me.”

We left it to him. I had, I remember, considerable misgivings; departure days were always busy in the Captain’s Office. But no was clearly not going to be taken for an answer, and sure enough the Admiral telephoned back a few minutes later with the news that our leave had been extended until an hour before we sailed the following afternoon. It was midsummer; the days were long and the sun was still high in the sky when we arrived at Tivoli, a vast amusement park frequented by all classes and conditions of Dane, in which bands play, switchbacks clatter, jugglers juggle, and various other little performances go on under the trees. Several of Copenhagen’s top restaurants have branches there during the summer months. Neither London nor Paris can provide anything quite like it; perhaps the Prater in Vienna comes nearest. One of the first things that struck me was the fact that everyone was clearly having a wonderful time, slapping each other on the back and frequently shaking with laughter. A few, I suppose, were mildly drunk, but only in the nicest possible way. The prototype of the melancholy Dane was nowhere to be seen.
 
The Lindemanns gave us a glorious evening—perhaps the happiest of my naval career—before driving us back to their lovely modern house at Fredensborg for the night; and around mid-morning we boarded the train again. But when we returned, oh dear: it was naturally assumed that we had deliberately manipulated the whole thing, the Captain’s Secretary—my boss—had been up half the night doing the work I should have done, and he (and everybody else) was exhausted and understandably furious. I had, it was pointed out, put my Captain in an impossible position; this was a goodwill visit and he could hardly have refused a personal request from so exalted a source. I explained that we had never asked the admiral to act as he did, and somewhat to my surprise got off with a reprimand.