“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 were in the 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—aboard Kamongo!”

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 carrier Bunker Hill at 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 of Kamongo, 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 picture Kamongo in 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. He wouldn’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. It was Stan 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.”

“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.”

It was theirs. It was Kamongo, 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 that he wasn’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. I was executive officer on the Shark in 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 the Plymouth,” 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 the Shark. He’s the diving officer, too. McFee was another from the Shark—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 at once 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 love Kamongo. 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 just as 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 navigating Kamongo right 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 see you, sir!” And then he saw Stan behind March. “And you, too, Lieutenant Bigelow!”

“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 congratulations all 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!