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.”
[Illustration: “_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.”
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!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER NINE
DESTINATION—
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.
[Illustration: _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 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!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER TEN
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.