All during the morning supplies were being loaded into Kamongo—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 smoke from 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 of Kamongo. 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.

“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 which Kamongo now 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!”