CHAPTER EIGHT

KAMONGO

“Kamongo?” Stan exclaimed, holding in his hands the orders which directed him to the same ship. “What kind of fish is that?”

“Never heard of it,” March said. “They’re building so many subs these days that they’re running out of fish to name them after. Let’s ask the Exec tonight at mess.”

Captain Sampson knew about the Kamongo.

“A very important creature,” he said. “If there hadn’t been a Kamongo, we probably wouldn’t be here today.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Stan asked, wondering at the officer’s smile and twinkling eyes.

“Well, the story has to go very far back in history,” the Captain said, “back when the earth was mostly covered with water and the only living creatures wereinthe water. There had to be something that crawled out of the water and learned how to live on land. That was Kamongo.”

“How did he do it?” March asked. “Did he have lungs?”

“Maybe a Momsen Lung,” Stan suggested with a laugh.

“Not quite.” Captain Sampson smiled. “We don’t know that it was Kamongo itself that did the crawling out, but it must have been something like him. You see, another name for Kamongo is Lungfish. He’s a kind of fish—more fish than anything else in many ways—but he’s also got lungs of a sort. He can live under water or above it. And so can a submarine. I think it’s a fine name for a sub. I’d like to be boarding her with you.”

“Kamongo,” muttered Stan, almost to himself. “Kamongo.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking the same thing,” March said. “Getting used to our ship’s name. It’s like suddenly finding out you’ve got a wife and somebody tells you her name—and you’ve never heard it before.”

“If you say it over more and more,” Stan said, “you get to like it. It’s got a good sound.”

“Yes, I think so,” March agreed. “It’s got strength. And for some reason it sounds sleek and trim. And being able to live above or below the water—that’s our ship, all right!”

“Two weeks,” Stan mused. “You’re going home, I suppose?”

“Yes, I’m going home,” March replied. “It may be the last time for quite a spell.”

“I’m going, too,” Stan said. “Good old Utica, New York. I’m glad it isn’t far.”

So Stan and March said goodbye the next day, as they said goodbye to all the others they had come to know so well at New London. But to each other they were able to say, “See you in a couple of weeks—aboardKamongo!”

Then March went home, and saw his mother and Scoot’s family and many of his old friends. But Hampton did not seem right without Scoot himself. It had been a wrench when he went off to New London without him, but there he had been so busy, so absorbed, that he had hardly had time to miss his friend of so many years. Now, back in the town they had grown up in together, the town wasn’t all there without Scoot.

March had written Scoot a note before leaving New London, telling him that he was going home on leave before reporting for duty. And Scoot had gnashed his teeth on getting the letter, realizing that March had finished his training first. Scoot felt that he was finished, too, for he had done everything but fly down the funnel of the training carrier—backwards.

“What’s left for me to learn?” he asked. “Unless they set up some real Jap Zeros here for me to shoot at I don’t see what else I can do.”

Then, just four days before March had to leave Hampton, Scoot got his own orders—to report in three weeks’ time to the new aircraft carrierBunker Hillat San Francisco!

He raced home from Florida as fast as he could go, and he and March had two days together before March left. They talked submarines and airplanes all day and all night, and Scoot’s family had to wait until March left before they had a really good chance to visit with him.

But March felt better when he got on the train for Baltimore. It was good to have seen Scoot for even that short time. There were a million other things they could have talked about, but they had got close to one another again in that time and they had gained greater spirit from their companionship.

He tried not to think that he might not see Scoot again—ever. But he couldn’t help facing it.

“After all,” he told himself, “submarine duty is no bed of roses. People do get killed in it. And flying a Navy fighter against the Japs is not the safest occupation in the world. There are lots of young fellows going out on such jobs who won’t be coming back from them. How do I know but what Scoot and I—or one of us, anyway—are among them?”

But such thoughts did not stay with him long. No matter what the facts of the matter or the statistics of casualties in wartime, March felt very confident of returning home safe and sound and going on to live to be at least ninety-five. As the train rolled along ever nearer to Baltimore, he thought more and more ofKamongo, his new home, his new ship on which he was to be the navigation officer.

“She’s probably about 1500 tons,” he said, “like most of them they’re building now. Trim and neat, about three hundred and some odd feet long. She’ll have one three-inch deck gun and a couple of antiaircraft machine guns. Eight or ten torpedo tubes—fore and aft.”

He tried to pictureKamongoin his mind, so much more modern and powerful than the old O-boats on which he had been training.

“Air-conditioned,” he mused. “All the new ones are. I’m lucky to get on a brand-new ship! Freshwater showers. Plenty of refrigeration for carrying good food. Why, we’ll probably come up with turkey on Christmas Day!”

He pictured his life in the submarine, his meals, his quarters.

“I may have a little cabin of my own—not much more than a telephone booth, but all mine. Maybe not, of course, but these new ones really make you comfortable. Probably five officers aboard, crew of about fifty-five or sixty.”

He wondered where they would go, where they would hunt out the enemy ships.

“Reporting on the Atlantic doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “That’s just where she’ll take the water after her trials. We may take her anywhere for action. Now, Scoot knows he’ll be serving in the Pacific. Hewouldn’t be going to San Francisco otherwise. Of course, most subs are in the Pacific now, too, but there are plenty operating in the Atlantic. Can’t tell where we’ll go. But we’ll have a cruising range of about fifteen thousand miles. We can go just about anywhere we want.”

And then he thought of Stan. He liked the young Ensign with whom he had gone through school at New London. He didn’t, of course, feel as close to him as he did to Scoot. There wasn’t the same warmth between them. But the busted-nosed redhead was a real man, intelligent, human, and a good friend.

“I’ll be darned glad to get on that boat and find one familiar face,” March told himself. “I wonder what the Skipper’s like.”

He began to think more and more of this after he got off the train and headed for the Navy Yard. If the Skipper happened to be an old-timer contemptuous of youngsters, or a gruff sort without any heart in him—then it might not be so good. As he approached the gate, and prepared to show the sentry his pass, he saw someone ahead of him that looked familiar.

“Stan!” he called, still not sure that it really was Bigelow. And then, as the man turned, he was sure he had been wrong, for the man wore the stripes of a Lieutenant (j.g.) and Bigelow was only an Ensign.

But the man called back “March!” and March knew his first guess had been right. ItwasStan Bigelow!

“Stan!” he cried, pumping his hand vigorously. “I thought I was wrong. They’ve finally found out how good you are and made you a Lieutenant!”

“Sure!” Stan cried. “The only thing that bothered me was that I ought to have been made an Admiral. It all happened during my leave. I was sure sick of being an Ensign. Do you remember how the CPO’s look down on an Ensign?”

“I surely do!” March said, showing his papers to the sentry. “But they don’t think junior Lieutenants are so wonderful, either, as you’ll soon find out.”

“But I think Chief Petty Officers are wonderful,” Stan said. “They know more than half the Rear Admirals in the Navy.”

They were walking along the path together, between long low buildings. For a few minutes they said nothing.

“Gee, I’m glad I ran into you,” Stan said.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” March said with enthusiasm. “I’m excited as the devil about this, but I began to feel the need of a friend close at hand. I wonder what the Skipper will be like.”

“Are you reading my thoughts?” Stan exclaimed. “He can make or break us, you know.”

“I know it!” March replied. “Why, on this first cruise the commanding officer can get us out of the sub service just by saying he doesn’t like the color of our eyes.”

“They’ve Made You a Lieutenant!”

“Well, we’re going to find out pretty soon,” Stan said. “That looks like a mighty pretty pigboat alongside that dock up ahead. It might be ours.”

Itwastheirs. It wasKamongo, long and sleek and beautiful in the dark waters that lapped her sides. They showed the necessary papers to the guard at the gangplank and went aboard. It was now almost completely dark.

“Everybody’s down below,” March said.

“Skipper may not even be there,” Stan replied.

The sentry overheard them. “The Skipper’s below, sir,” he said.

March and Stan walked across the narrow gangplank, climbed the conning tower ladder and then slid down the hatch to the control room below. It was brilliantly lighted, and they looked around, blinking.

First of all March saw the gleaming, shining, newness of everything in the room. It was beautiful! Then his eyes focused on two or three crewmen who looked casually at him, then on a young man, about his age, who looked up with a smile. He saw the Lieutenant’s (not j.g.) stripes and saluted.

“Lieutenant Anson, sir, reporting,” he said.

“Lieutenant Bigelow,” Stan echoed him.

The young man saluted back casually.

“Hello,” he said. “Glad to know you. My name’s Gray.”

March smiled. He liked this young man right away. Maybe another new officer.

“We’d like to report to the Skipper,” he said in a friendly tone.

“You’ve done it, men,” the man said lightly. “I’m the Skipper.”

March was thunderstruck. This young fellow the Skipper? Why, he didn’t look any older than March or Stan, and March knew thathewasn’t qualified to be the Captain of a submarine. But he quickly abandoned his friendly tone and grew formal.

“Oh—yes, sir,” he said. “Lieutenant Anson reporting.”

“So you said,” the Skipper replied. “Come on into my quarters.”

He turned and led the way through the small bulkhead door to a narrow hall from which doors led to very small cabins. In the first of these he turned and sat down behind a small table.

“Officers’ mess,” he said, motioning them to sit down. “Cramped but beautiful. Make yourselves at home.”

Stan and March didn’t know what to say. They liked the young man, but their surprise at his youth bothered them. He seemed to sense their thoughts, and smiled.

“Don’t be upset,” he said. “I’m not quite as young and inexperienced as I look. Graduated from Annapolis six years ago, been in submarines ever since. Iwas executive officer on theSharkin the Pacific since the war began—happened to be at Pearl Harbor when it happened. On my last patrol lost my Skipper—God bless him—when he had a heart attack. Had to take over. Transferred to this new baby when I got back. Now—where do you come from?”

March relaxed and smiled. He liked this man at once. He could see their thoughts, their surprise, and he could put them at their ease at once.

“Served a year aboard thePlymouth,” he said. “Volunteered for submarine duty, sent to New London, just completed training there.”

“My story doesn’t sound so good,” Stan said. “I was a teacher—and I didn’t like it. Diesels, mainly. They finally gave in because I pestered them so much and sent me to New London. I went through the mill there with March—er, Lieutenant Anson.”

“We might as well get this name business out of the way,” Gray said. “I’m not one for rushing into calling everybody by his first name right off, but on the other hand I don’t believe in keeping up the formalities forever—especially on a submarine. My name’s Larry. When you feel you know me well enough and it comes easy, call me that. Until then, call me Skipper or Gray.”

“My name’s March Anson,” March said.

“It must have been bad when you were an Ensign,” Gray said. “A lot of puns about Ensign Anson, I’ll bet.”

March grinned. “Plenty,” he replied. “That was the reason I liked my promotion so much.”

“I don’t know why I liked it,” Stan said. “But I just got mine and I’m mighty happy about it. Anyway, my name’s Stan.”

“Now, we’re straight on that,” Gray said. “Anson, you’re the navigation officer, according to my reports, and Bigelow is the engineering officer. There are two others. You’ll meet them a little later in the evening. Corvin is my Exec. He was with me on theShark. He’s the diving officer, too. McFee was another from theShark—he’s communications and handles commissary on the side. Bigelow, you may not know, but you’ll take care of the electrical end of things as well as engines.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said, hoping inwardly that he would remember all he had learned about the many electrical ends of the submarine. “Electricity’s everything on a sub!”

“Well, not quite everything,” Gray smiled. “But it’s pretty important. We can’t get along very well without it, anyway. But if you need any advice or just plain moral support, get next to McFee. He knows electricity backward and forward.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Gray showed them to their quarters. Stan and March shared a tiny cabin that looked like a palatial mansion to them atonce because they loved it so much. Then the Skipper asked if they had eaten dinner before they came aboard. They had not.

“Good!” Gray said. “I’m just about to eat. We’ll have it together.”

They went back to the little room that served as officers’ mess and the messboy appeared. Within a few moments they were eagerly eating rare roast beef, French fried potatoes, succotash, with biscuits and hot coffee.

“Don’t get spoiled by the biscuits,” Gray said. “We eat pretty well, but the cook doesn’t have time for such frills very often when we’re under way.”

By the time the meal was over March and Stan felt completely at home, and Gray seemed very much at ease.

“We’ll go over the ship tomorrow morning,” he said. “She’s a beauty. Nothing finer being built today, and I know you’ll loveKamongo. Know about her name, by the way?”

“Yes, Captain Sampson told us about it when we got our orders in New London,” March said. “I like it.”

“So do I,” Stan said. “I felt proud telling everybody at home about what it meant.”

A little later, while they were talking, Corvin and McFee, the two other officers, came in together. Introductions were informal and easy, and March began to feel very happy. These two men were justas young as their Skipper. March felt as if he were really at home with people just like himself. He turned and gave a look at Stan, who was beaming.

“What’s that mean?” Gray asked, who seemed to notice everything. “Think you’ll like us?”

March didn’t know what to say. “It’s hardly up to us to decide—” he began.

“Oh, yes, it’s very important,” Gray said. “If I don’t like you—off you’ll go. If you don’t like me—I’ll know it, even if I like you, and off you’ll go anyway.”

He laughed. “You see, we’ve got to get along together.”

McFee spoke up. “I think we will, Larry.”

They talked for two hours more before going to bed. Gray told them that the rest of the crew would report the next morning before eight, and that they’d get under way by noon.

March slept the sleep of the good and the happy, dreaming only of navigatingKamongoright into the Japanese emperor’s back yard, in which he proceeded to sink the entire Japanese Imperial Navy.

The next morning the officers had breakfast together, except for Corvin, who had stood watch in the early morning hours and so was sleeping. They all went into the control room then, where March was startled to see a familiar face.

“Scott!” he cried.

“Yes, sir!” cried the radioman with a wide smile. “I’m certainly happy to seeyou, sir!” And then he saw Stan behind March. “And you, too,LieutenantBigelow!”

“You notice things pretty quickly, don’t you, Scotty?” Stan laughed.

“You’ve got to, sir, if you’re in submarines!”

“Did you know you’d be assigned here, Scott?” March asked.

“Not when you left, sir,” Scott replied. “And then I didn’t know where you’d been assigned. We’re all here, you know—the whole diving section that worked together at New London—Cobden, and Sallini, and all of us.”

“Wonderful!” March cried. “Why, I feel completely at home already!”

“So do I, sir!” Scott said.

Gray, who had listened to the exchange of conversations, spoke up.

“The Navy is wonderful!” he said. “They really do things right. You’d think nobody higher up would have time to think of these things. But here we’ve got two-thirds of a crew with officers that’ve been in action. And the other third, just trained, all know each other. Officers and men were trained together. Why, we’re really going to get along.”

As they went through the ship, March and Stan said hello to the other men of the diving section from New London, and there were mutual congratulationsall around. A spirit of happiness and friendship spread through the boat. The older crew members, most of whom had served under Gray before, caught this spirit and felt that all this was a good sign, a good omen for a new ship just starting out on her shakedown cruise. March saw Gray close his eyes for a moment, and smile very slightly. He suddenly realized the Skipper’s great responsibilities. He knew that a crew that got along was essential to successful submarine work. And it had happened. This crew was going to click, and Gray knew it. He was duly thankful!

DESTINATION—

All during the morning supplies were being loaded intoKamongo—food and oil and water and torpedoes. Larry Gray spent the time from eleven to eleven forty-five at Navy headquarters, going over final details and receiving his sealed orders. When he returned, his officers reported to him one by one, informing him that their departments were ready.

He looked at his watch. “Fine,” he said. “We might as well shove off. Come on, Ray.” He stepped from his quarters into the control room with Corvin, his executive officer, behind him. There he saw March at the little navigation desk.

“Want to come up to the bridge with us?” he asked. “We’re getting under way.”

“Sure thing,” March replied. “I might as well wave goodbye to land. We may not see any for some time.”

“Oh, I think we’ll be seeing land for a while,” Gray replied, starting up the ladder to the conning tower.

“Oh—you know where we’re going?” March asked.

“No, but I’ve got my ideas,” the Skipper answered.

Ray Corvin grinned at March as he stepped up the ladder. “And his ideas are usually right,” he muttered.

On the bridge, March looked over the busy waters of the harbor. A gray mist hung over everything, penetrating sweaters and coats in a chilling wave. March shivered.

“Well, now that winter’s coming on,” he said, “I hope you’re leading us to a warmer climate.”

“I think so,” said Gray, as his eyes swiftly went over his boat, the dock, and the ships in the harbor. “But you never can tell. It might be Iceland or the run to Murmansk.”

“Brrr!” shivered Ray Corvin. “Don’t mention it.”

“Okay, Ray, let’s get going,” Gray said, and Corvin began to bark his orders for casting off the lines. March knew that Stan Bigelow was below looking over his shining new Diesels, ready for the moment when they would roar into action. After all the training he had gone through—this at last was the real thing. He had to make those Diesels run and run right at all times. This was a shakedown cruise, but it was probably combined with the voyage of getting to some battle zone. March and Stan were not full-fledged submarine officers quite yet—not for sure. This first assignment was their last test. If they did a good job and pleased the Skipper they’d be set. If not—they’d be out!

The electric motors whined as the pigboat slid back away from the dock into open water. Then came the roar of the Diesels and the clouds of white smokefrom the exhaust vents, and March smiled, knowing Stan’s pride in the powerful rumble of those engines. In a few minutes the boat had swung around and headed downstream toward Chesapeake Bay. For some time, they knew, they would be traveling between two long shores. Here they could easily go on the surface, but once out in the open sea they would have to travel submerged during daylight hours.

It had surprised March when he first learned that our own subs traveled submerged in our own waters. But when he came to think of it, it made sense. There were German subs traveling in our waters, too, and there was a constant naval and aerial patrol looking for them. From the air, the markings on a pigboat did not stand out very well, particularly if a rolling sea were breaking over it. And the anti-sub patrol had orders to shoot first and ask questions later. A German sub could crash-dive very quickly when sighted and the minute or two taken to look more closely or to ask questions might result in its escape.

After half an hour Larry Gray went below, leaving March and Ray Corvin on the bridge with two enlisted men, one serving as lookout and the other handling the controls. March had little to do until they were in the open sea, for navigating down the Bay was no job at all. After they were out a few hours the Skipper would open his sealed orders and then March would have a job to do, charting the sub’s course to their destination.

He and Corvin talked with each other, leaning on the rail and watching the choppy waters slide past the sleek sides ofKamongo. Ray spoke of Larry Gray with such warmth of feeling, such admiration, that March felt sure of his own first impression of the Skipper. Here was a man he would like, and would grow to like more and more as time went on.

“It’s cold,” Corvin said. “Why don’t you go below and have a cup of coffee? Nothing going on here.”

“Guess I will,” March said. “See you later.”

March slid down the ladder to the control room and started over to the officers’ wardroom. Then he saw Scotty at the little radio shack and stopped to speak with him.

“How do you feel, Scotty?” he asked. “It’s good to get going, isn’t it?”

“I should say so, sir,” Scott replied. “Know where we’re going?”

“Not yet,” March replied. “Skipper opens orders ten hours out.”

“Well, wherever we’re going,” Scott said, “I’m sure glad we’re goin’ with you, sir. And the whole gang feels the same way. You see, we sort of liked the way you handled the pigboats back there in New London.”

“Thanks, Scotty,” March said. “And you don’t know how good it made me feel to find you boys here. Bigelow and I felt right at home from then on.”

March turned and found the Skipper at the door, smiling.

“Come on in for a cup of coffee,” Gray said.

“Thanks,” March replied, sliding down behind the little table in the wardroom with Gray.

“Jimmy just brought the pot of coffee,” Gray said, filling March’s cup. “It’s hot. Jimmy’s the messboy, by the way—nice kid.”

March smiled to himself. Jimmy the messboy was only about one year younger than Gray.

“Those men you knew in New London,” Gray said, “seem to like you.”

“We got to know each other pretty well,” March said. “We went through the whole business together. There are some swell men among them.”

“What about Sallini, the pharmacist?” Larry asked.

“Fine—one of the best,” March said. “He’s quiet and reserved, serious-minded, but with a nice sense of humor you don’t always suspect is there.”

“I like that kind,” Gray said. “I was a little hesitant about having a new pharmacist on board. It can be a mighty important job if there’s serious sickness or trouble. Think he can stand the gaff?”

“I think he’d get better the more difficult the situation,” March said. “One of the prizes of the bunch is that Cobden. He really has guts.”

March told the Skipper about Cobden’s experience with the escape tower and his overcoming of his emotional fears.

The Skipper Was at the Door

“That’s swell,” Gray commented. “Nothing much can lick anybody after that. With our Chief in the torpedo room, Kalinsky, the man ought to turn into a real submariner. Pete Kalinsky is one of the best men in the whole Navy. Men under him love him, and they learn plenty, too.”

March looked up as the red head and bulldog face of Stan Bigelow appeared. He sat down and joined them in a cup of coffee. The engineering officer was smiling broadly.

“Did you ever hear anything prettier than those engines?” he demanded.

“Well—the Philharmonic is pretty good,” March laughed, “and I think I prefer Bing Crosby.”

“Not me!” Stan exclaimed. “That purr is the sweetest sound there is. And are those beauties! The very latest thing, you know, the very latest!”

“I personally ordered them that way,” Gray smiled. “And I’m glad you’re satisfied. I never liked an engineer that didn’t have a deep and abiding affection for his engines.”

After talking a while, March went to the chartroom and went through the detailed maps idly, picking out one here and there that looked interesting to him.

“Celebes—Pago-Pago—Ceylon—and look at this, Wake Island! Some of those names sound wonderful. Wonder if we’ll hit any of them.”

Later he went up to the bridge again and found that Larry Gray had relieved Corvin.

“I feel sort of useless,” he said. “Nothing to do yet.”

“Nothing much for any of us to do right now,” Gray said. “Plain sailing like this isn’t very hard. Most of the crew are lying down, reading, playing checkers or just shooting the breeze. Why don’t you have a little rest?”

“Not I,” March said. “Not on my first day out. I don’t want to miss anything. Anyway, in another hour we ought to be getting away from land a bit, and a couple of hours after that you’ll be opening your orders. I want to know where we’re going just as soon as I can.”

As the time approached for opening the orders, there was an air of tenseness throughout the boat. The crew members who had been lying down weren’t sleepy or tired any more. They were up, walking back and forth in the narrow passageways, climbing up the forward hatch for a breath of fresh air, climbing down again to get another cup of coffee. Everyone but Larry Gray seemed a little nervous. He still stood calmly on the bridge, looking out over the long rollers in whichKamongonow sailed. The last line of land had finally disappeared behind them.

He glanced at his watch, and then slid down the conning tower hatch without a word. McFee and Corvin and March Anson, who were all on the bridge with him, looked at each other.

“This is really my watch,” McFee said. “Go on down, you two, but for gosh sakes let me know as soon as you find out.”

So March and Ray Corvin went below and sat down in the wardroom. They knew the Skipper was in his quarters next door.

“He’ll be calling for the chart in a minute,” Corvin said. “The chart of where we’re going. Then we’ll know.”

But Gray did not call for a chart. Instead, he sauntered into the wardroom sat down and smiled.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “I feel a little let down myself, though it’s a perfectly natural destination.”

“Not Iceland!” Corvin cried. “Don’t tell me that!”

Gray laughed. “No, our present destination is just a way-station.”

“Well, if it’s so all-fired disappointing,” Corvin exploded, “why are you trying to build it up into something dramatic by holding out on us? I think it’s just a gag. It’s probably that we’re going to blast Kiel harbor from inside or find some way of traveling up the sewers to Paris.”

“Ray, you’ve been going to too many movies,” Larry said. “You know that life on a submarine is very prosaic, except for just once in a while. Gentlemen, we are going to San Francisco, California!”

THROUGH THE CANAL

It had been a bad anticlimax! Everybody in the crew felt badly let down. Corvin and March forgot all about telling McFee, up on the bridge, who was mentally trying to decide between the Marshall Islands and the Black Sea as probable destinations. Finally he phoned down and angrily asked why someone didn’t let the bridge know where they were supposed to be going.

“How do you expect anybody to steer the ship in this big ocean,” he demanded, “if he doesn’t know where he’s going?”

When he heard the words “San Francisco,” he groaned.

“What’s the matter with San Francisco?” Stan asked. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”

“Oh—San Francisco’s wonderful,” Ray Corvin said “As a matter of fact I live not far from there, and maybe I’ll get a chance to see my family for a day or two, so I’m very happy in some ways. It’s just that we got so keyed up expecting to head right into a pitched battle.”

“I’m not too surprised,” Gray said. “I felt sure we were going to the Pacific and I thought we might go direct to our base there. But if we hit Frisco on the way—that’s only natural. Of course, we’ll get more orders there and then we’ll surely head for some action.”

March felt just as well about the news. He would have a chance to learn everything about the submarine from one end to the other. He would actually navigate the ship a few thousand miles, but without having to worry too much about enemy ships or mines or planes while doing it. By the time they left San Francisco he’d feel like a veteran submariner. He would be able to handle his regular tasks without thinking about them, and he’d be able to take actual fighting with vigor and enthusiasm.

During the daytime they ran submerged a good deal of the time, taking a look through the periscope occasionally. Once the Skipper saw a U.S. Navy blimp right above them and they headed for two hundred feet depth in a hurry. But nothing happened.

At night they ran on the surface, and they were lucky enough to have good weather most of the time, with plenty of stars for March to shoot on the sextant so that he could check his course. He was pleased to see that his instrument navigation, carried out when they were submerged, was checked by his celestial observations.

There came a day that was cloudy and overcast, so the Skipper decided to travel on the surface.

“There won’t be any planes out today,” he said. “And we can make much better time on top. But keep a sharp lookout for other surface craft. Can’t see very far in this fog.”

March took over his regular watch that afternoon on the bridge. He had on a heavy sweater and waterproof hood and jacket, for the moisture in the air, even if it were not rain, soaked everything inside of fifteen minutes. Two crew members were on lookout, in addition to the man at the controls. March listened to their regular calls of “All clear” and stared ahead into the blanket of fog.

Then, suddenly, he saw it—just as the lookout shouted.

“Freighter on port bow!”

March shouted the alarming news into the interphone, ordered the man at the controls to reverse engines full-speed and put her over hard starboard. The big freighter loomed so large out of the mist that March knew they might crash. The freighter had just sighted them and hadn’t even slowed down. So, without another thought he shouted the order, “Rig for crash dive!”

The klaxon blared through the boat below and March knew that men were leaping to their posts, that Gray was struggling out from his bunk or from behind the wardroom table. Would he come up to the bridge? March knew there might not be any bridge—or any conning tower—by the time he could get there, no matter how fast he moved.

He glanced at the deck hatches and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they were already closed, for the rolling seas were washing over the decks and none of the crew men had wanted to come up for fresh air on a day like this. In a few seconds only the word came back to him, “Boat rigged for crash dive!”

He had already motioned the lookouts down into the hatch, and the control man was securing his gear on the bridge.

“Take her down!” he ordered, as the control man slid down the hatch. He heard the bubbling hiss of air from the main ballast vents, the roar of water as it rushed into the tanks through the huge Kingston valves. With a last glance, he saw in a flash many details on the freighter. Most of all, he saw that it looked tremendous, that it seemed almost on top of him, although he realized that its size in comparison with the half-submerged sub made it look closer than it really was. He saw officers on the bridge shouting orders, and men rushing to man a three-inch gun on the forward deck. Then he slipped below, swung the hatch shut after him and dogged it down before slipping on down into the control room.

The Big Freighter Came Head On

The Diesels had stopped their roar, and the electric motors were whining a high-pitched song as they drove the boat with all their power. He glanced at the “Christmas Tree” and smiled to see nothing but green lights. Every opening, every vent, was closed and the boat was tight. The inclinometer showed them close to a fifteen degree angle of dive, the maximum that was safe before the acid in the batteries would spill out.

Only then did he notice Larry Gray and Ray Corvin and McFee standing motionless, tense, in the middle of the control room. They were listening, waiting. And March listened and waited too, expecting any moment the rending, tearing sound of a steel bow crashing through their superstructure, through their outer hull, through the inner pressure hull—and then, the deluge as the ocean poured in upon them.

One second—two seconds—three seconds—four seconds passed, and then March relaxed.

“All right now,” he said. “She’d have hit now if she were going to. She was that close.”

He saw a few of the men relax a bit and begin to breathe again. But most of them remained silent and tense. They did not share his confidence, or have confidence in his judgment. He glanced at the depth gauge and saw it at fifty-five feet. Well—it all depended on how much water that freighter was drawing. Maybe it would still knock a few pieces off the conning tower, at least.

But then he heard the soundman say, “Propellers passing over.”

“How close?” Gray asked sharply.

“Just about kissing us,” came the answer. “But passing over—past now.”

Then everyonedidrelax. The crewmen began to talk a bit among themselves. Scotty looked at March and grinned, wiping a hand over his brow as if to brush away the sweat of fear, and then clasped both hands in a congratulatory signal. March just nodded.

“Nice work, Anson,” Gray said quietly. “That was a close one. Let’s have a cup of coffee. You probably need it.”

They turned toward the wardroom together, and March felt the eyes of all crewmen on him.

“Steady at a hundred feet,” the Skipper ordered before leaving the control room, “and keep on course.”

“Steady at one hundred,” came back the order. “Yes, sir.”

Then the officers went into the wardroom and sat down just as Stan appeared at the door.

“What in blazes happened?” he asked.

“We just about got run down, that’s all,” the Skipper smiled. “Not an uncommon occurrence in submarining, Bigelow. Your friend Anson here took us down in a big hurry.”

“Wereyouon the bridge, March?” Stan asked.

“Yes, if you’d known that,” March laughed, “you would have been twice as scared, wouldn’t you?”

“Wow, we went down in a big hurry, all right,” Stan said. “Did you have to—to miss it?”

“Guess so,” March said. “Anyway, they were unlimbering a gun the last thing I saw and would’ve been shooting at us if we’d still been in sight.”

“Yes, you did the right thing, all right,” Gray said. “And without much time to think about it.”

“But the crew was marvelous,” March said. “I got the call back that the ship was rigged almost before I got the order out of my mouth. It’s a good feeling to know a crew can act like that, isn’t it, Gray? Especially when a third of it is brand new.”

“Yes, mighty satisfying,” Larry agreed. “And just as satisfying to know the same thing about your new officers. I’m going to feel pretty confident when we suddenly have six Jap destroyers pouncing on us all of a sudden.”

“Say, I just thought of something,” Corvin said. “Those poor guys in that freighter are probably still looking frantically for signs of a periscope and sitting there biting their nails waiting for a torpedo to blast them to kingdom come.”

Gray looked at his watch. “They’re just about getting over that by now,” he said. “They’re just concluding that wearean American sub and not a German. And they’re thanking their lucky stars.”

“Just like us,” McFee added.

In a few minutes the Skipper went out and ordered the sub up to periscope depth, had the ’scope run up and took a look around.

“Not a thing in sight,” he announced. “Down ’scope.”

As the big shaft slid down into its well in the deck, the Skipper ordered the ship to surface once again, and up she came. Gray was the first man up on the bridge, and the other officers quickly followed him. Lookouts and controlmen took their posts, and theKamongowent steadily ahead on her course.

Corvin took over the watch on the bridge and in a little while the others went below. The crew had settled down and once more everything was serene and quiet.

More days went by, but without the excitement of even a sight of ship or plane. After they had passed into the Caribbean Sea, the Skipper ordered them to hold up for two hours before proceeding.

“We’re a bit ahead of schedule,” he explained, “because of the extra speed we made on the surface. Coming into Panama, we’ve got to surface and run exactly on schedule and on course. Patrol craft and planes are expecting us and they’ll bomb us out of sight if we’re five minutes off schedule or two degrees off course.”

When they resumed speed, on the surface, March checked the boat’s position regularly to make sure of their course. The first time a big Martin PBM-1 shot out of a cloud ahead of them, March felt his throat grow dry. If they werenotexactly where they should be at that moment, he knew what would happen to a beautiful new sub and about sixty-four good men of Uncle Sam’s Navy.

But the patrol plane just circled low overhead, gunned its motors and flew away. He knew that its radio reported the sub’s position to other patrol craft, and that they would be checked up on regularly.

Two other planes came over for a look on their way in toward the Canal, and for the last twenty-five miles they were sighted by half a dozen surface ships.

“Are we to go right on through without stopping?” March asked the Skipper.

“Stop long enough to take on the Canal pilot,” he replied. “Nothing else.”

The Skipper was on the bridge, along with Corvin, as they ran alongside the jetty leading to the first locks. As they tied up at the dock below the locks, Corvin stepped ashore. He came back shortly with a gray-haired man who would pilot them through the Canal. The weather was clear and the sun beat down warmly, so half the crew were lined up on the deck, and all hatches were open. All officers were on the bridge, except McFee, who stayed below in charge. Even Stan left his Diesels long enough to come up for a look at the Canal, for all the submarine’s engines were off as they were pulled through the locks by the little donkey engines running on tracks alongside.

The Canal pilot came aboard and climbed to the bridge. Lines were cast, cables attached fore and aft to the donkey engines on both sides, and they began to move forward on the pilot’s orders. Ahead March saw the huge steel doors into the first lock. Slowly and steadily the pigboat moved into the chamber, and the great doors swung silently shut behind them.

Then water rushed into the lock and the boat gently moved upward as the surface of the water rose. Soon they were level with the water in the next lock and the gates ahead of them swung back against the walls. They saw, in the lock next to them, a battered destroyer heading the other direction.

“She’s been through something, all right,” Gray commented. “Going home for repairs.”

The crew on the destroyer waved to the men onKamongoand for a time there were shouts back and forth. Then they had moved out of the second lock into Gatun Lake, as the destroyer sank down in its lock toward the level of the ocean.

Sailing through the lake was like a pleasant excursion trip on a lake steamer. The thick jungles were unlike anything most of the men had seen before and they looked about them with curiosity.

Through the locks at Pedro Miguel and then at little Lake Miraflores, and they were once more at sea level—this time at the level of the Pacific.

They dropped the pilot at the edge of the long breakwater and then headed out to sea, looking back at the lights of the city of Panama which were beginning to twinkle in the growing darkness.

“Not much time for sightseeing when you’re on submarines,” Stan said, as he and March climbed down to the control room.

“Not when there’s a war going on, anyway,” March said. “We’re in the Pacific now, Stan. How does it feel?”

“Just like the Atlantic,” Stan said.

“Not to me,” March mused. “This is the ocean we’re going to do our fighting in. This is the ocean where I’ve already done a fair amount of battling Japs. But this time, I think I’m going to do a lot better.”

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