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.dt March Anson and Scoot Bailey of the U. S. Navy, by Gregory Duncan - A Project Gutenberg eBook

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<l>MARCH ANSON and SCOOT BAILEY</l>
.sp
OF THE
.sp
<xl>U. S. NAVY</xl>
.sp 2
<i>Story by</i>
GREGORY DUNCAN
.sp
<i>Illustrated by</i>
HENRY E. VALLELY
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.nf-
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FIGHTERS
FOR
FREEDOM
<i>Series</i>
.if-
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.nf c
WHITMAN PUBLISHING COMPANY
.sp
RACINE, WISCONSIN
.nf-
.pb
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.nf c
Copyright, 1944, by
WHITMAN PUBLISHING COMPANY
.sp
<i>Printed in U.S.A.</i>
.sp
All names, characters, places, and events
in this story are entirely fictitious.
.nf-
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CONTENTS
.sp 2
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CHAPTER | | PAGE
 
    I. |#Farewell to the <i>Plymouth</i>:chap01#  |    11
   II. |#Back to School:chap02# | 26
  III. |#Fifty Pounds of Pressure:chap03# | 38
   IV. |#Underwater Escape:chap04#  |51
    V. |#First Dive:chap05#  | 66
   VI. |#A Real Submariner:chap06# |  83
  VII. |#Orders to Report:chap07# | 95
 VIII. |#<i>Kamongo</i>:chap08# |     106
   IX. |#Destination—:chap09# |122
    X. |#Through the Canal:chap10# |  131
   XI. |#Under Way Again:chap11#  |143
  XII. |#Visit to Wake Island:chap12# | 155
 XIII. |#Scoot Meets Two Zeros:chap13#  |  169
  XIV. |#Crash Landing:chap14#  |   186
   XV. |#Find the Convoy!:chap15#  |     201
  XVI. |#Downed at Sea:chap16# |     219
 XVII. |#Attack!:chap17#  | 231
XVIII. |#Depth Charges:chap18#  |   242
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ILLUSTRATIONS
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#“She Was a Swell Ship!” Said Scoot:fig01#|10
#“Going to the Sub Base, Sir?”:fig02#|  31
#They Filed into the Pressure Chamber:fig03#| 45
#Hand Over Hand He Ascended:fig04#| 59
#They Watched From the Dock:fig05#| 73
#They Inspected the Torpedo Room:fig06#|89
#The Sub Set Off and Submerged:fig07#| 101
#“They’ve Made You a Lieutenant!”:fig08#| 113
#The Skipper Was at the Door:fig09#|  127
#The Big Freighter Came Head On:fig10#|135
#“I Want You to Take Over Ray’s Job!”:fig11#| 149
#He Adjusted the Eyepiece and Looked:fig12#| 161
#Some Fighters Stayed With the Carrier:fig13#|  177
#A Two-Motored Flying Boat Came at Them:fig14#|193
#March Pounded Scoot on the Back:fig15#| 207
#The Skipper Was Still Unconscious:fig16#|225
#He Tied Himself to the Strut:fig17#|  233
#Scoot Appeared in the Doorway:fig18#|  245
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//[Illustration: <i>“She Was a Swell Ship!” Said Scoot</i>]
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.pn 11
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.h1 nobreak
MARCH ANSON||and||SCOOT BAILEY||of the U. S. Navy
.sp 4
.pi
.pm chapnopb 01 ONE "FAREWELL TO THE <i>PLYMOUTH</i>"
The launch purred smoothly across the calm waters
of the harbor, making for the Navy Yard pier. Their
feet braced against the slow roll of the boat, two
young men stood looking at the huge gray ship they
had just left.

“I’m beginning to have my doubts,” Scoot Bailey
said almost to himself.

“Same here,” the other replied. March Anson was
shorter than his friend, but more solidly and compactly
built. His gray-blue eyes were steady and cool,
matching the set of his jaw, but the crinkling lines at
their corners showed that this apparently serious
young man spent a good deal of time smiling or
laughing.

“She was a swell ship,” Scoot said sadly.

“<i>Was!</i>” exclaimed March. “She still is! Just because
Bailey and Anson have left her, don’t you think she
can carry on any longer?” A slow smile spread over
his face as he turned to look at his friend. But Scoot
was serious.
.bn 006.png
// 006.png
.pn +1

“Oh, sure, March,” he replied. “But she’s out of
our lives now. She’s past tense for us. And—well, she’s
been just about everything to us for a year now—home,
mother, and sweetheart!”

“I know what you mean,” March said. “And it’s
natural for us to wonder if we’ve done the right thing
in being transferred. Right now we’re looking at what
we’re leaving. In another ten minutes we’ll be concentrating
on what we’re going to!”

Scoot Bailey turned around and sat down.

“I’m going to start right now,” he grinned. “No use
getting sentimental about the old <i>Plymouth</i> at this
point. I’m going to start thinking about the <i>Lexington</i>
or the <i>Shangri-La</i> or whatever aircraft carrier I’ll
be on in a few months.”

“Good idea,” March agreed, sitting beside the tall
and gangling young man who now stared ahead at
the Navy Yard. “But that’s one trouble right now,
Scoot. Neither one of us knows exactly where he’ll be.
If you knew exactly what ship you’d be attached to,
you could make your thoughts more specific. When
you get there, you know you’ll love her just as much
as you’ve loved the <i>Plymouth</i>—more, in fact, because
you’ll be flying at last!”

“Yes, I know, but what about you?” Scoot asked.
“I still can’t figure out why you want to be a pigboat
man. And what can you dream about now as you look
into the future? The name of some fish, that’s all.”
.bn 007.png
// 007.png
.pn +1

“Sure, subs are named after fish,” March replied.
“And they have some swell names, too—the <i>Barracuda</i>,
the <i>Dolphin</i>, the <i>Spearfish</i>, the <i>Amberjack</i>!”

“Yes, they sound all right,” Scoot grinned. “But
what if you’re assigned to the <i>Cod</i> or the <i>Herring</i> or
the <i>Shad</i>? No, I can’t figure out what you see in those
stuffy, cramped, oversized bathtubs!”

This light-hearted argument had been going on
ever since March Anson and Scoot Bailey had been
in the Navy together. Neither one minded the jibes
of the other, but the dispute as to the respective merits
of air and underwater craft never ended.

“Cozy and snug,” March said stoutly, “that’s what
subs are! Not cramped and stuffy! Why—they’re all
air-conditioned now!”

“Maybe so,” Scoot said, shaking his head, “but no
air-conditioning can match the clear blue sky a couple
of miles up there where I’ll be flying! Boy—what a
chance! Just what I’ve always wanted!”

Their departure from the cruiser <i>Plymouth</i> was
forgotten now as they thought of their futures. Only
one aspect of that future was rarely mentioned by
either of them, and they tried not to think too much
about it. In their new activities they would not be
together—these two who had been inseparable
friends for so many long years.
.bn 008.png
// 008.png
.pn +1

They had met in the first year of high school, back
in that small Ohio city which now, during war,
seemed so many miles and so many years away. Scoot
had lived in Hampton all his life, but March had just
moved there from the farm which his mother had
sold when his father died. A widow with a son only
thirteen years old could not run a 160-acre farm,
she had decided, not if her son was to get the education
she had determined he would have.

So the farm had been sold, and Mrs. Anson and her
young son had moved to the near-by city of Hampton.
March started high school, and his mother went
back to teaching, her profession before she married
Clement Anson and settled down to farm life. The
money from the farm sale was tucked away in the
bank, to be forgotten until the time came for March
to enter college.

March and Scoot had sat next to each other in the
big assembly hall of Hampton High School on the
first day. They had taken to each other at once and
from that time had been the closest of friends. Some
people had wondered at the deep friendship of these
two who, in some ways, seemed so different. Scoot
had always been a noisy and boisterous kid, eager for
any activity that meant speed, excitement, and a little
bit of danger. The more conservative parents shook
their heads and called him a little “wild” although he
never got into serious trouble.
.bn 009.png
// 009.png
.pn +1

March Anson, on the other hand, was quiet and
serious. On the farm he had worked hard and had
learned the value of hard work. In school he studied
thoroughly and carefully. Even in sports he was serious,
playing games as though he looked on them as
work, not as pleasure.

But March and Scoot recognized in each other at
once the hidden qualities that lay beneath the surface
indications of their character. Scoot saw that
March really enjoyed life tremendously. He just
didn’t whoop and shout about it. He felt a thrill of
pleasure in a tough football game played hard. He
loved the talk and chatter of a gang of boys discussing
the game afterward, even though he spent more time
listening than talking himself. He liked the school
dances, even though he was somewhat timid with
girls and danced so quietly that he stood out in contrast
to the majority of wildly capering youngsters.

Scoot learned to appreciate the slow smile that
spread over March’s face when he was enjoying himself.
When something amusing happened, he could
look at March and see the twinkle in his eye that
others seemed to miss.

In the same way, March saw that beneath Scoot’s
noisy impulsiveness there was a great deal of calm
courage, a daring that had in it nothing of foolhardiness
but—on the contrary—a good deal of confidence.
Scoot had a serious side that none of his friends, until
March came along, had penetrated. He never seemed
.bn 010.png
// 010.png
.pn +1
to study much, but his grades were always good. That
was because Scoot never announced, “No, I can’t do
that—I have to go home and study now.” Scoot was
ready to do anything suggested by anyone, but he
still managed to get his studying done, after the play
was over.

By the time they graduated from high school together,
Scoot and March had both changed a good
deal, each one influenced by the other. At a first
glance they seemed just the same as always, but
March was less retiring, less timid, while Scoot did
not always hide under his playful spirit his more
serious interests in life.

When they went off to the state university together,
they wondered how long it would last, for war was
already in the air.

“It’s coming,” Scoot said, “just as sure as shootin’,
war’s coming. And I’m going to be in it just about five
minutes after it starts.”

“They’ve been staving it off for a long time,” March
said, “and maybe they can keep it up a few years
longer. But I don’t think they can ever satisfy that
Hitler guy. Giving in to a pig won’t work—he’ll just
keep demanding more and more! But maybe we’ll get
our college education before the guns start popping!”

But the guns had started firing in Europe before
their second year. When the first peacetime selective
service act was passed in the United States, Scoot was
.bn 011.png
// 011.png
.pn +1
very excited at being below the twenty-year age, and
wanted to enlist at once. But it was March who persuaded
him against it.

“We can do more good going right on getting our
education until they need us,” he insisted. “Then we’ll
be that much better equipped to do a good job.”

His argument prevailed over Scoot then, but the
war became their favorite topic of conversation from
that time on. Many others in the college were not
interested. They felt that the war was thousands of
miles away, that two big oceans were enough insulation
to keep it away from America.

But Scoot and March felt sure it was coming. They
followed the war news carefully, their hearts sinking
as Hitler’s gangs overran one country after another
in Europe. They spent their spare time reading books
and articles about the war, the new weapons and
tactics that were being used. It was then that Scoot
knew that he wanted to be a flier, and then that March
first developed his interest in submarines.

“This is an air war!” Scoot insisted. “It’s going to
be fought and won in the air!”

“The whole thing?” March demanded. “I wouldn’t
deny the importance of planes, but I’d never agree
that they’ll do the whole job alone. The country <i>without</i>
planes can’t win, I’ll say that much. But look at
Germany’s U-boats! Look at the damage they’re
doing! If England can’t get her supplies by sea—why,
she’s sunk!”
.bn 012.png
// 012.png
.pn +1

The argument that never ended was begun right
then. March and Scoot read everything they could
lay their hands on about submarines and airplanes.
And when the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor, Scoot
wanted to get in a plane and fly by instinct out
over the Pacific, to give them a taste of their
own medicine. He had just decided to enlist when
the Navy’s program for college students was announced—the
V-12 plan which carried students
through an intensive training course which resulted
in commissions as Ensigns.

For March there was no doubt about what course
to follow. He signed up for V-12 at once, already sure
that he would be sailing in a submarine before the
year was out.

Scoot could not make up his mind for a few days.
When he had thought of flying, he had always
thought of the Army Air Forces. But the Navy had
fliers, too. Eventually it was his burning hatred of the
Japs that decided him.

“There’s a lot of water between us and them,” he
said. “The Navy will have the biggest job in knocking
them over—and aircraft carriers will be the answer!
Navy it is for me, too!”

So March Anson and Scoot Bailey had joined the
Navy. Gone were all thoughts of football, baseball,
dances, and parties. And suddenly there seemed to
.bn 013.png
// 013.png
.pn +1
be little difference between the two. Both were now
serious, hard-working, for in the Navy’s program
there was room for little but serious, hard work. Together
they crammed into their heads more mathematics
than they had thought of studying in a whole
college course. Navigation, engineering, English,
Navy custom and tradition—all were crammed into
them with an intensity of which they had never
thought themselves capable.

Both had put in early their requests for assignment
to submarines and to air service. And, though they
knew that the Navy tried to place men where they
wanted to go, they realized that the Navy’s needs
would come first rather than their wishes. So they
were disappointed, though not surprised, when both
requests were turned down. The submarine school at
New London, even though greatly expanded, was
full to overflowing. And the applicants for Naval
Aviation exceeded by ten times the number that
could be accepted.

New warships were coming off the ways in shipyards
all over the country, and men were needed to
man them. So, after some further specialized training—Scoot
in engineering and March in navigation—they
found themselves assigned to the new cruiser
<i>Plymouth</i> which had been rushed to completion four
months ahead of schedule.
.bn 014.png
// 014.png
.pn +1

On their shakedown cruise they had been too interested
in their new life—the huge ship and the men
they worked with—to feel disappointment over
missing out on their chosen fields. They knew they
were already a part of the war, and the job they were
doing was important. As Ensigns, they were two very
junior officers on the ship almost as large as their
home town, but they had their jobs, and they learned
more about them and about all ships every day.

The Navy lost no time, after ship and crew were
deemed fit and ready for action, in getting them to
the Pacific where the losses suffered at Pearl Harbor
had put the United States at a great, though temporary,
disadvantage. By the time they had made the
long trip down the eastern coast, through the Panama
Canal, and across almost half the Pacific to Pearl
Harbor, Scoot and March felt like veterans. The
Executive Officer of the <i>Plymouth</i>, Commander
Seaton, had taken a liking to them because of their
application to their jobs and their desire to learn all
they could. He saw to it that they got varied experiences,
shifting to different jobs carried out by junior
officers from time to time.

In company with a battleship, two light cruisers,
and twelve destroyers, they left Pearl Harbor as a task
force heading for action in the southwest Pacific.
And action was not long in coming.
.bn 015.png
// 015.png
.pn +1

In the Coral Sea, the small task force ran into a Jap
convoy, heavily screened by warships, trying to sneak
an end run around the corner of Australia. Two U.S.
aircraft carriers had gone out to break up the convoy,
but they were so outnumbered by the enemy that they
were in a bad way when the <i>Plymouth’s</i> force arrived
on the scene under full steam. The Japs were
taken by surprise, lost their tight organization, and
fled north, leaving behind three troopships and four
destroyers heading for the bottom.

Scoot had been joyful at his first battle experience,
but was angry that he had not been on the guns.

“Just when the fighting starts I have to be down
in the engine room,” he moaned. “Didn’t even <i>see</i>
anything, let alone take a shot at those dirty Nips!”

“Well, I <i>saw</i> plenty,” March replied, “but navigation
officers don’t get a chance at much shooting,
either!”

Scoot, by dint of much pleading and arguing, got
Commander Seaton to transfer him to gunnery, but
then eight weeks went by without a sight of a Jap.
The first shots Scoot fired were into shore installations
of the Japs at Munda airfield in the Solomons,
after the Marines had consolidated their hold on
Guadalcanal and had decided to move forward to
another island.

The big battle had come almost ten months after
they had shipped aboard the <i>Plymouth</i>, up in the
Bismarck Sea northeast of New Guinea. Finally finding
the sizable Jap force for which he had been looking,
Admiral Caldwell, in charge of the U.S. force,
.bn 016.png
// 016.png
.pn +1
had steamed right into the middle of the bevy of Jap
ships and opened fire with everything he had. For
seven hours, mostly at night, the battle had raged.
Jap planes were attacking overhead, at least until
U.S. planes drove them off at dawn. The firing on all
sides was so deafening that no one could hear even
Scoot’s whoops of glee and happiness. When three
of his gun crew went down under a hail of flying fragments
from a shell that landed on the <i>Plymouth’s</i>
deck not fifty feet away, Scoot carried on with the
few that were left, but the rate of fire was cut. So he
rounded up a cook and a messboy and turned them
into expert gunners in five minutes and knocked three
Jap planes out of the sky with his improvised gun
crew in ten minutes.

Meanwhile, March had not been idle. The shell
whose fragments had laid low part of Scoot’s crew
had landed squarely on one of the 12-inch gun turrets
forward. March was the first man into the smoking
and wrecked turret, pulling out the wounded and
dead who were there. At any moment the ammunition
below might have exploded—for no one knew if
the shell had penetrated that far—but March had no
thought of such a thing. Three of the men he lugged
from the turret were still alive, though closer to death
than March had ever seen anyone. Later, the medical
officer told March those three had lived only because
they got medical attention so fast.
.bn 017.png
// 017.png
.pn +1

When it was all over, and half the Jap force lay at
the bottom of the sea while the rest ran for cover,
pursued by American planes, the men on the <i>Plymouth</i>
wearily surveyed the damage done to their
ship. It was plenty, but a month in port would fix her
up again. As they headed slowly for Pearl Harbor for
repairs, Scoot and March got the big surprise of their
lives. They had no thought of making heroes of themselves,
and they never could figure out how, in the
heat of battle, any officer could have seen just what
they did.

Yet when the citations came along, Scoot and
March both found themselves on the list commended
for conspicuous gallantry in action.

“My golly, we didn’t do anything,” Scoot had objected,
even though he was beaming all over with
pleasure. “Everybody else did the same kind of thing.
All the crew were fighting just as hard as we were!”

“Yes, but they didn’t all keep their heads under
fire and show the spontaneously clear thinking that
you two did,” Commander Seaton said to them in a
friendly talk later. “That’s what counts—that’s what
makes leaders of men. And the Navy needs leaders
these days. By the way, the Skipper asked me if there
was anything special we could do for you two—anything
you wanted especially. I told him that you,
Scoot, had wanted to be a Navy flier and that March
.bn 018.png
// 018.png
.pn +1
had wanted to be a submariner. If you still feel that
way, the Skipper’ll recommend your transfer to those
branches.”

March and Scoot were dumbfounded! And it had
not been an easy thing to decide, though a few months
before they would not have hesitated for an instant.
Scoot still wanted to fly. March still wanted to go into
the pigboats. But they had lived on the <i>Plymouth</i>,
gone through battle with her, and they didn’t like the
idea of leaving her now.

It was March who made up his mind first. “I’m
going to ask for the transfer,” he said. “I hate to leave
this ship and the men on it and the action I know
she’ll be seeing. After a battle or two you don’t feel
like going back to school again. You want to go on
to more battles. But I love the idea of submarines so
much that I know I’d be a better man in a pigboat
than I can ever be on a surface ship. So I’ll take a few
months out, learn what I have to learn, and come
back to this part of the world and really send some
of those Jap ships to the bottom.”

“Guess you’re right,” Scoot agreed. “It won’t be
long!”

So they had said farewell to the <i>Plymouth</i> sadly as
they stepped into the launch taking them ashore. And
they had stood looking at the great gray ship as the
little boat moved toward the Navy Yard pier.
.bn 019.png
// 019.png
.pn +1

But now their eyes were set forward. They had a
long way to travel to get home, a lot of hard work
and studying to do before they could accomplish
what they wanted.

They stepped from the launch and stood on the
pier. For a last moment they looked out at the <i>Plymouth</i>
once more.

“So long, old gal,” Scoot said. “You’ll be getting
your face lifted here at Pearl Harbor and you’ll be
back in the thick of it soon. Maybe I’ll see you out
there—when I’m up in the blue sky flying my Grumman
Wildcat.”

“Yes, and some time when I’m submerged and hear
the throb of a cruiser’s engines,” March added, “I’ll
stick up the periscope for a peek, wondering whether
that ship is friend or foe. And it’ll turn out to be my
old friend, my old sweetheart, the <i>Plymouth</i>.”

Together, the two young men turned and walked
toward their new lives.
.bn 020.png
// 020.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 02 TWO "BACK TO SCHOOL"
March felt lonely as he stood on the corner opposite
the railroad station in New London, waiting for
the bus. It was cold and there was rain in the air.
The wind whipped about him as he stood close
to the building.

The <i>Plymouth</i> was a world miles away by this time,
although it had been less than a month since he left
it. First there had been the wait of a few days in
Hawaii before they found space in a plane heading
back for the United States. But those had been good
days—interesting in that they saw how completely
erased were the effects of the first terrible Jap attack.
Then, too, there had been time to rest, to swim and
to lie in the sun on the beach.

Finally the long over-water hop had brought them
back to America, which they had left so long before.
It was the first time either March or Scoot had been
in San Francisco, and they enjoyed the two days
spent there before taking the train east. Finally there
had been two weeks’ leave back in Hampton. They
had seen their parents, visited their old friends, slept
late and eaten huge meals. They had even been persuaded
to make an embarrassed appearance—supposed
to be accompanied by speeches—in the assembly
hall of the old high school.
.bn 021.png
// 021.png
.pn +1

Their leave had come to an end all too soon. Then
both young men had been faced with the prospect
of saying goodbye not only to their folks and their
friends, but to each other. It was one fact that both
of them had tried to avoid thinking about, but as the
time approached they were very aware of it. For so
many years they had been together almost every day—but
they had taken each other for granted. It never
occurred to them that they were closer than many
brothers, that each one supplied something necessary
and important to the other.

They couldn’t say much, of course, when they
finally did say goodbye. It was March’s train which
left first, although Scoot would be heading south only
two hours later. They were all at the station in Hampton—March’s
mother, Scoot’s father and mother and
kid sister. March had to say goodbye to all of them
and step on to the train alone.

He shook hands with Scoot. “My golly,” he stammered,
“I’m going to be worried about you, Scoot.
You’ve had me around to look after you and keep
you out of trouble so long, that I don’t know how
you’ll make out alone.”

They all laughed a little, and Scoot tried to kid
back at March, but his heart wasn’t in it.
.bn 022.png
// 022.png
.pn +1

“Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “I think the
baby is busy worrying about the nurse this time. Anyway,
if it makes you feel good, March, maybe you’ll
have a chance to get me out of trouble later—out in
the Pacific somewhere.”

“Say—maybe I will at that!” March tried to act serious.
“I can just see myself dashing up in my trusty
submarine and rescuing you from a bunch of Japs.”

Later, when they <i>did</i> meet under circumstances
not very different from March’s joking suggestion,
it was Scoot who remembered what his friend had
said back in the station in Hampton, Ohio.

But at the time it was nothing but banter, the kind
of talk made to cover up real thoughts that are too
deep to be expressed easily. And in another moment
the train came thundering down the track. There was
a last hurried round of goodbyes and March was on
the train, waving and smiling from the car platform
as it pulled away from his home.

Because the train was crowded, March had been
busy trying to find a place to sit. His suitcase on the
same platform was the seat he finally chose, until they
pulled into Pittsburgh and he found a more comfortable
seat.

The ride had been dirty and uninteresting and
March felt himself getting depressed long before they
reached New York. There he had to rush to get the
train for New London, and now he stood on that
windy, rainy corner waiting for a bus, feeling sorry
that he had ever won the chance to get into submarine
work.
.bn 023.png
// 023.png
.pn +1

Then he remembered the one thing that had made
him feel good since he had left Hampton, and he
glanced down at the cuff of his sleeve. Yes—there it
was—the extra stripe that had been added when he
became a Lieutenant instead of the lowest of commissioned
officers, an Ensign.

The promotion had come to them when they were
in Hampton on leave—for both Scoot and March.
They had quickly added the new stripes to cuffs, to
shoulder boards, and had got the gold bars to wear
on their work uniform shirts. March felt very proud
and pleased, for the promotion had come quickly for
such young men in the Navy. Going to the submarine
school as a Lieutenant, even if only j.g., or junior
grade, was much better than walking in as an Ensign.

He was staring at the stripes on his cuff and smiling
so that he didn’t notice the salute of the three men
who approached him. Only when the first man spoke
did he look up.

“Going to the sub base, sir?”

March saw a sailor with the insigne of a petty officer,
third class, on his sleeve, a sturdy, smiling young
man with his seabag over his shoulder. Behind him
appeared three more men of the same rank. The first,
March noticed, was a radioman, two of the others
fire controlmen, and the last a pharmacist.
.bn 024.png
// 024.png
.pn +1

“Yes, waiting for the bus,” March answered with
a smile. “Is this the place to wait for it?”

“That’s what we were told, sir,” the radioman said.
“You see, we’re just reporting there for the school.”

“Oh, so am I,” March said. “I thought maybe you
men were there already and just in town on liberty.
But you wouldn’t have brought your seabags along
in such a case, would you?”

In a moment the bus appeared and they all climbed
aboard. On the long ride out of town and along the
river they talked together about the school they were
going to, and March caught again, in these men’s
enthusiasm, his old feeling of excitement about going
into submarines. The men, who had obviously just
met as they went to the bus together, were discussing
their reasons for volunteering for submarine duty.

“I had two uncles in the Navy,” the pharmacist said.
“I’ll never forget the way they talked about submariners.
They had both tried, but couldn’t pass the
tests. They thought the pigboat men were the cream
of the fleet.”

“Speaking of the hard tests,” one of the fire controlmen
said, “that’s really why I first got the notion of
applying for sub duty. I heard it was the toughest
branch of the service to get into and stay in—and I
just kind of like to try any challenge like that. When
I hear about something really tough, I like to take a
crack at it. This is harder to get into than aviation!”
.bn 025.png
// 025.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: “<i>Going to the Sub Base, Sir?</i>”]
.pm illust 02 navy_025.jpg 428 "“<i>Going to the Sub Base, Sir?</i>”"
.bn 026.png
// 026.png
.pn +1

March smiled and thought of Scoot who had been
worrying about his ability to meet the strict qualifications
for naval fliers.

“I like the life on a sub,” the radioman said. “You
know—a good bunch of guys doin’ something big together,
all workin’ together like a team. And the—well,
friendliness between officers and men is swell.
Not that I don’t believe in strict discipline—” he
glanced at the officer’s stripes on March’s cuff—“but
I still think it’s a good idea for officers and men to
get friendly, get to know each other well, the way
they do on subs.”

March agreed, and noticed that not one of the men
had mentioned the extra pay for submarine duty as
one of the reasons for entering that branch, and a
dangerous branch, of the naval service.

“That’s a good sign,” he told himself. “Of course,
they’ll like the extra pay—no doubt of that—but it’s
not the reason they volunteered for sub duty. They
really go into it for its own sake.”

The bus turned and entered the driveway of the
sub base grounds and all the men looked eagerly out
the windows. Their first look was for the river, where
they hoped to see submarines.

“Look!” cried Scott, the radioman. “There’s one in
dry dock!”

“And over there by the pier,” called another,
“there’s a bunch of ’em lined up.”
.bn 027.png
// 027.png
.pn +1

March looked at the long slim lines of the pigboats
and felt warm inside. He wondered just how soon he
would take his first ride beneath the waters of Long
Island Sound in one of them.

The bus passed a few buildings, but the sailors had
no eyes for such ordinary things. Another structure
had caught them—a tall round tower looming up
above the trees on the gently sloping hillside.

“What’s that?” one of the men asked. “A water
tower?”

“Water tower’s right!” exclaimed Scott. “But a special
kind. That’s the escape tower!”

“Oh-oh, that’s the baby I’m wondering about,” said
the pharmacist. “I don’t know how I’ll like going up
through a hundred feet of water with just a funny
gadget clamped over my nose and mouth.”

“Well—you better not let it get you,” one of the
others put in. “It’s one of the first tests, I hear. If you
can’t handle the escape-tower tests, you’re tossed out
of submarines pronto!”

The bus pulled up in front of a large brick building
and stopped. Everyone got out and walked up
to the front door. Inside, March left the men with a
smile and reported to the personnel man in charge of
receiving new officers assigned to the school. In another
half hour he found himself in his quarters in
a building some way up the hill above the main buildings
of the base. Here the school itself was situated,
.bn 028.png
// 028.png
.pn +1
with its buildings for classrooms, barracks for enlisted
men, and quarters for officers without wives. Married
officers were allowed to live in New London with
their families and commute daily to the school.

March’s room was small but comfortable, and he
was neatly settled in it in a short while. His time in
the Navy had taught him already to travel light, with
only the necessary belongings, and to settle himself
quickly. He was at home and comfortable by the time
he reported to the officers’ mess for dinner.

There he met other young officers who also lived
at the school, and a few of the instructors. The latter
were older men, full of years and wisdom in the submarine
service, every one of whom would much
rather have been on active duty hunting down Jap
or Nazi ships on the oceans of the world. But they
were too valuable in the great task of training the
hundreds of new officers needed for the subs coming
off the ways of the shipyards. Here in New London
they could pass on to the younger men like March
Anson a portion of their knowledge of pigboats.

March felt, during dinner, the quiet good-fellowship
of these men. On the <i>Plymouth</i> the officers
with whom he ate and talked and played were pleasant
and agreeable fellows, but there had been all
types there—the quiet ones, the back-slappers, the
life-of-the-party men with practical jokes and loud
guffaws, the grimly serious officers, and everything in
between. But here the men were more alike.
.bn 029.png
// 029.png
.pn +1

“Not that they’re all the same,” he told himself, as
he looked around the table. “McIntosh here next to
me is quite different in most ways from that Lieutenant
Curtin across the table, for instance, but they
have something in common. Something similar in
their personalities, I suppose. They’re sociable, but
in a quiet way. They’re serious, but not without a
sense of humor.”

March did not realize that he was describing himself
when he thought of the other officers in this way.
But he might have known that this question of personality
was one of the most important in considering
men who volunteered for submarine service.

No man in the Navy was ever assigned to sub work
without his request. It was an entirely volunteer service,
but there were always far more applications,
among both officers and enlisted men, than could be
accepted. So it was possible for the Bureau of Navy
Personnel to keep its standards very high in selecting
men for the pigboat branch.

When a man already in the Navy was recommended
by his commanding officer for assignment to
the sub school at New London, as March had been,
this did not mean that the recommendation was
accepted just like that. The Bureau looked over the
man’s record with the greatest care. And just bravery
such as March had displayed was not enough, even
.bn 030.png
// 030.png
.pn +1
though it counted strongly in his favor. What they
looked for in the “Diving Navy” was the kind of man
who was brave, cool under fire, far above the average
intelligence, with the ability to get along well with
other people under all circumstances, and the kind
of nerves that didn’t crack or even show strain under
the greatest danger, the worst crowding, or seemingly
fatal situations.

As March thought of this, he swelled with pride to
think he had been chosen for the submarine school.

“But that’s just the beginning,” he told himself. “I
feel pretty darned good to know that I’ve got this far,
but they’re going to watch me like a hawk every moment
I’m here. I think I can pass all the tough physical
tests okay, because I’m in good shape. The studies
are hard but if I work enough maybe I can handle
them. But how will I act the first time I’m in a submerging
sub? How will I react to a crash dive? They’ll
be watching me. And even if I get through the school
I’m still not a submariner. Why, on my first real trip
or two my commanding officer can transfer me back
to surface ships just by saying the word!”

After dinner, in the officers’ lounge, March spoke
with the executive officer of the sub base, a kindly,
gray-haired man with skin that still looked as if he
spent a few hours every day facing the salt breeze
on a ship’s bridge. Captain Sampson chatted easily
with March as they looked out the windows at the
gathering twilight.
.bn 031.png
// 031.png
.pn +1

“Glad to have you with us, Anson,” he said. “Hope
you like it here.”

“I’m sure I will, sir,” March replied. “I’ve been
looking forward to it long enough.”

“I had an idea this was no sudden impulse of
yours,” Sampson replied. “First off, you’re not the
kind, I take it, that acts on sudden impulses. And I
imagine that subs always appealed to you.”

“Yes, before I was in the Navy that’s what I
wanted.”

“Then you ought to do very well,” the Captain said.
“You’ll want to make your call on the Commandant
tomorrow, I suppose?”

“If it can be arranged,” March said.

“Yes—tomorrow will be all right, I’m sure,” Sampson
said, “for you to present your compliments to
him. There’ll be a few more officers arriving for the
new class tomorrow morning early. I’ve set aside a
couple of hours in the afternoon for the calls. Report
at fifteen o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” March said.

When the Captain had gone, March went back to
his quarters and sat down to write a few letters. The
first was to Scoot Bailey.

“Dear Scoot,” it began. “I’m here at last—at the
Submarine School in New London! Tomorrow things
will really start!”
.bn 032.png
// 032.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 03 THREE "FIFTY POUNDS OF PRESSURE"
Things really did start the next day for March! In
the morning he had a physical examination that made
all his previous examinations look like quick once-overs.
Eyes, ears, lungs, heart, stomach—they went
over March’s body so thoroughly that he felt not a
microbe, not a blood cell, had escaped their detection.
But he knew, without waiting for the report,
that he had no difficulty in meeting all the requirements.

In the afternoon there was the official call on the
Commandant, which was not the stiff and formal ceremony
such Naval customs often are, but an interesting
and heart-warming experience. The “Old Man”
really took the time to talk informally and in very
friendly fashion with the new officers who came to
the school.

March met the new officers who were just beginning
their work at the school with him, got his schedule
of duties for the next few days, and managed to
work in a letter to his mother in the evening.

The next day, when March learned that he had
passed his physical examination with flying colors, he
also learned that one of the doctors examining him
had been a psychiatrist.
.bn 033.png
// 033.png
.pn +1

“That’s the smartest thing yet!” he muttered to
Ensign Bigelow, another new officer-student who had
just come from a teaching assignment at one of the
Navy’s technical schools. “Usually the psychological
examination is separate. You know you’re going to
be questioned by a psychiatrist who will ask you all
sorts of strange questions about how you get along
with girls and what you thought of your fifth-grade
teacher, and—”

“And what your dreams are like,” added Bigelow.

“Sure, and you’re self conscious,” March went on.
“A smart doctor probably sees through that and gets
the real dope as to what makes your personality tick,
but it has always struck me as a sort of silly business.”

“Same here,” Bigelow agreed. “Even though I know
those Navy psychiatrists have been right about
ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“But this was wonderful!” March exclaimed. “I
just thought those three docs were all looking at blood
pressure and listening to my heart and such things.
Sure, one of them was especially friendly and talked
to me a lot, but that was just natural. And, come to
think of it, he talked a lot about what I did when I
was on the <i>Plymouth</i>, and how I liked its Skipper,
and where I’d gone to school.”
.bn 034.png
// 034.png
.pn +1

“I remember now,” Bigelow said, “that he asked
me about my leave before I came here. Mentioned
big drinking parties. I didn’t go in for any and said
so. I thought he must be a heavy drinker from the
way he talked, but he was just finding out whether
<i>I</i> was or not.”

“He pulled the same line on me,” March said, “and
I just thought it was making talk—you know, the way
a dentist does before he does something that hurts,
to take your mind off what’s happening.”

“Well, that won’t be the end of the psychological
tests,” Bigelow said. “I understand that a psychiatrist
is always there when we make our first dives, and
he’s just happening to be around in the escape-tower
tests. He’s keeping an eye on us all the time.”

“Some people might not like that idea,” March said.
“I suppose they wouldn’t like the idea of having somebody
looking them over to spot their bad reactions
to everything that goes on.”

“Like a guilty conscience,” Bigelow added.

“Always on hand,” March grinned. “But I don’t
think it’s a bad idea. After all, it’s for our own protection.
They’ve got to try to weed out the guys who will
crack at the wrong time. And nobody thinks he will,
so you can’t find it out just by asking. If I’m that kind,
then you don’t want to find yourself out in the Pacific
undergoing a depth-charge attack with me alongside
you, suddenly going nuts inside a very small submarine.”
.bn 035.png
// 035.png
.pn +1

“I should say not,” Bigelow said. “And it’s nothing
especially against a fellow if he can’t stand this particular
kind of strain that he gets in a sub. Maybe he’s
got a kind of claustrophobia—fear of being shut up
in small places—without knowing it. Maybe he’d
make a swell aviator or bombardier or the bravest
PT-boat Skipper in the world! It’s just that submarining
takes certain qualities, that’s all. You’ve either got
’em or you haven’t.”

“And those docs find it out before you go out,”
March agreed.

March spent the evening with Bigelow and began
to like the red-headed young man more as he got to
know him better. Stan Bigelow was a chunky, broad-shouldered
fellow who looked so hard that a tank
could not bowl him over. A broken nose, covered
with freckles, added greatly to his appearance of
toughness, even though it had come, as he told March,
from nothing more pugilistic than a fall out of a tree
when he was sixteen years old.

“Landed just wrong on a pile of rocks,” he said.
“Didn’t hurt a thing but my nose. I was at a summer
camp and the doc there didn’t fix it up right. By the
time somebody tried to put it back into a decent
shape the bones had set too well.”

Despite Stan’s look of a waterfront bruiser, he was
really a serious-minded student. He had graduated
from one of the country’s top-flight engineering
schools just before going into the Navy, and then had
.bn 036.png
// 036.png
.pn +1
attended one of the Navy’s technical schools. Diesel
engines were his specialty and he felt sure that this
knowledge would quickly get him into submarine
work where he wanted to be. But his work at the technical
school had been so brilliant that they kept him
on as an instructor despite his pleas for transfer to
New London. Finally, after a year of teaching, he
had been recommended for submarines by an understanding
commanding officer.

“So here I am,” he concluded. “And right now I’m
scared to death that it won’t make any difference how
much I want to be a submariner or how much I know
about Diesels. If I get jittery in the pressure tank tomorrow—out
I’ll go!”

“You don’t even need to get jittery,” March
laughed. “How do you know whether you can stand
pressure or not? Even in perfect physical shape, some
people just can’t, that’s all. I don’t mean because
they’re nervous. Maybe their noses bleed or their ears
won’t make the right adjustment or something.”

“Well—we won’t know until we try it!” Stan exclaimed.
“I’m just going to keep my fingers crossed.”

After breakfast the next morning March and Stan
Bigelow, along with the other new officer-students,
reported to the little building at the base of the tall
escape tower. They were joined by the new class of
enlisted men who were to undergo the same tests.
During preliminary training, there was no difference
.bn 037.png
// 037.png
.pn +1
between officers and men in the examinations and
work they had to undergo. Only later, when actual
classes of study began, did they separate—for the
enlisted men to learn their particular trades in reference
to submarines and for the officers to get the
highly technical studies and executive training they
must have.

March saw Scott, the radio petty officer, and the
others who had ridden to the sub base on the same
bus with him. He called a friendly hello to them as
they all stood waiting for the Chief Petty Officer in
charge to call the roll.

After roll was called all the students were instructed
to strip to the swimming trunks they had
been instructed to wear, eyeing the pressure chamber
suspiciously all the time.

“Looks like something to shut somebody up in if
you never wanted him to get out,” Stan Bigelow said,
nodding at the huge gray-painted cylinder with its
tiny portholes and small hatch-like door.

“Anyway, we can look out,” March said, “even if
the portholes are tiny.”

“I wonder if that psychiatrist will be peeking in
one of those deadlights at us,” Stan mused, “making
notes about every flicker of an eyelash.”

But then the grizzled old Chief Petty Officer
opened the small door to the chamber and ordered
the new men inside. Stooping as he stepped in, March
.bn 038.png
// 038.png
.pn +1
saw that the sides of the chamber had long benches,
about twenty feet long, on which the men were to
sit. The compartment was brightly lighted, and
March noticed a fan in one corner.

“I guess it gets a little warm,” he told himself, “with
so many people in a small closed space like this.”

Stan Bigelow sat beside him on the bench, and
the other students filed in after them. March saw that
Scott, the radioman, sitting opposite him, looked a
little frightened, and he wondered if he appeared the
same to the others.

“Funny how this gets you,” Stan said in a low voice.
“There’s not a thing to be afraid of, of course.”

“No, the most that can happen is that your nose
will bleed or some small thing like that will show you
can’t stand pressure,” March agreed. “But some of
the older guys around here have had a lot of fun,
particularly with the enlisted men, building up some
fancy pictures of what the pressure tank and escape
tower are like. They say you get weird sensations in
your head, feel flutters in your heart.”

“Oh—just a little bit of subtle freshman hazing,”
Stan laughed. “Well, I think the reason I’m nervous
is that I don’t want anything to happen to toss me
out of submarines.”

They looked toward the door of the compartment
as the Chief Petty Officer stepped inside and tossed
a bunch of robes on the seat near the door.
.bn 039.png
// 039.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>They Filed into the Pressure Chamber</i>]
.pm illust 03 navy_039.jpg 429 "<i>They Filed into the Pressure Chamber</i>"
.bn 040.png
// 040.png
.pn +1

“Wonder why the robes?” March muttered. “If
anything, it’s going to be too hot in here—that’s why
there’s a fan.”

“Maybe this is a combination test,” Stan said with
a grin. “They want to see if we can stand pressure—and
heat.”

The CPO closed and fastened securely the door,
and they all heard someone on the outside testing it
to be certain it was tightly shut.

“You’re goin’ to be out of here pretty fast,” the officer
said to the students, “so don’t fret. We get fifty
pounds of pressure in here, that’s all.”

His tone was casual and reassuring, but none of
the men sat back in relaxed positions, even though
they tried to appear completely at ease and even
unconcerned. They almost jumped when the CPO
banged his fist lustily against the end of the chamber
as a signal to the man handling the valves outside.

They jumped again as a hissing sound filled the
small compartment. The air was pouring in, and the
men sat listening to it in silence. March saw that the
Chief had his eyes on a dial at the end of the chamber
and he looked there, too. Stan noted the direction
of his glance, and in another moment every student
was staring at the hand that moved up slowly to indicate
one pound of pressure, then two pounds, then
three pounds....
.bn 041.png
// 041.png
.pn +1

The CPO banged on the side of the chamber again.
The hissing stopped. Everyone looked up in surprise,
wondering if there was something wrong. March
glanced around quickly. Was one of the students too
jittery? Had a nosebleed started already? But everyone
looked all right, except for an expression of worry.

“There’s only three pounds pressure now,” the
Chief said. “Even fifty’s not really a lot, but three’s
almost nothing. Still, just to give you an idea that air
pressure is real pressure and not just something like
a billowy cloud, I thought I’d tell you that we
couldn’t possibly open that hatch now. You see—when
I say three pounds of pressure, that means per
square inch. There’s about a ton and a half of pressure
on that door right now. Figure out how much
there is on <i>you</i>.”

With another bang the hissing of the inrushing air
began once more and the hand on the dial began to
creep around again, passing the figure five, then the
figure ten, then fifteen. March began to feel uncomfortably
warm, and then he saw that most of the other
men were beginning to sweat. Stan leaned over and
put his lips close to March’s ear so that he could be
heard over the sound of the air.

“Air under pressure gets hot,” Stan said. “Remember
your physics? It’s the whole basis of a Diesel engine,
incidentally, but the pressure is considerably
greater. The temperature in a cylinder gets up to
about a thousand degrees.”
.bn 042.png
// 042.png
.pn +1

“Around a hundred in here now, I’d say,” March
replied in a loud whisper, and Stan nodded in agreement.
Then he swallowed with some difficulty, and
smiled in some surprise afterward.

“My ears popped when I swallowed;” he said.
“Feels better.”

“That’s right,” boomed the CPO, who had apparently
noticed what Stan did. “Everybody try swallowing
a few times if your ears feel funny.”

March swallowed and then almost laughed as he
saw the two rows of students earnestly swallowing.
Then he realized he had not looked at the pressure
dial for some time. He was startled to see it at thirty-five
pounds. It was a good deal hotter now and everyone
was sweating profusely. March looked around
at the others carefully, forgetting his concern about
himself in his interest in the others.

There seemed to be less tension now than at the
very beginning. A few of the men talked to each
other, comparing their reactions, laughing at the way
their ears popped, expressing surprise at the increasing
heat. Suddenly there was another banging on the
wall of the chamber, and the hissing stopped. Everyone’s
eyes went to the pressure dial, and saw the hand
standing at fifty pounds.

So this was it! Well, it wasn’t so bad. March felt
that way himself and saw the same feeling spreading
to all the others, who smiled slightly as they knew
they had withstood the pressure test successfully.
.bn 043.png
// 043.png
.pn +1

“So far, anyway,” March told himself. “Some things
happen occasionally, I guess, when the pressure is
reduced.”

Already the hand on the dial was moving downward
again, as the air was released from the chamber
by a man handling the valves on the outside. March
began to feel cooler, and in a few minutes he shivered
suddenly.

“Better put on the robes,” the Chief said, tossing
the robes to the men on the benches. “The temperature
was up to a hundred and thirty for a while there,
and it drops just as fast as the pressure drops.”

“Feels good!” Stan said, as he slipped into the robe.

“Sure, but I’d like a couple of blankets, too,” March
replied, feeling his teeth begin to chatter.

They heard another pound on the wall and saw that
the dial hand stood at ten pounds of pressure inside.

“We’ve got to stop it here for a while,” the CPO
explained. “There’s a regular rate at which a man’s
got to come out of pressure to keep from getting the
bends. You probably know something about the
bends—every sailor does—but here’s the idea. Your
blood’s under pressure in the arteries and veins, too,
just like the rest of you, and there’s oxygen and other
things carried in that blood. When pressure is reduced
too much too suddenly, some of the gases in
your blood form bubbles—just like a kettle boiling.
And those bubbles in your blood can cause plenty
of trouble.”
.bn 044.png
// 044.png
.pn +1

Stan turned to March. “Sure,” he said. “Remember
those experiments everybody has in first-year chemistry?
Making water boil when you put it on a cake
of ice? The water’s under pressure in a closed container,
and cooling it condenses the steam vapor so
that pressure is reduced. So the air forms bubbles
which escape when pressure goes down.”

“I remember,” March said. “They’ve got the bends
licked now, though, since they know just how fast to
reduce pressure.”

More air was let out until the dial showed five
pounds of pressure for a while, and then it was reduced
to zero. The door was swung open by the Chief
and the men stepped out of the chamber with smiles
on their faces.

“One test passed,” March said. “What’s next?”

“The escape tower,” Stan replied. “Tomorrow.”
.bn 045.png
// 045.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 04 FOUR "UNDERWATER ESCAPE"
When March returned to his quarters that afternoon
he found a letter from Scoot Bailey waiting for
him. It was full of excitement and enthusiasm, and
it filled March with a good deal of envy.

“I’ve flown already!” Scoot wrote. “I didn’t think
we’d get around to it for quite a while, but I got up
the third day I was here. Of course, I didn’t handle
the plane, really, but I just held my hand lightly on
the stick while the instructor took me through a few
simple turns and climbs. Just to give me the feel of
it, he said, and so I’d know I really came here to fly,
not just to study in classes.”

March shook his head. “And to think that I’ve
hardly seen a submarine!” he muttered to himself.
“And I surely haven’t been inside one. But Scoot’s
already been up in a plane! It just goes to show,” he
told himself, “that submarines are tougher than
planes. Just think of the tests we’ve got to go through
before they can even let us take a ride in a sub. With
a flier all he’s got to do is pass a physical test!”

“And speaking of classes,” Scoot’s letter went on,
“they are really tough! Remember back in college we
used to think we had to study fairly hard? Boy, we
just had a picnic in those days! We’d look on that kind
of business as a hilarious vacation down here.”
.bn 046.png
// 046.png
.pn +1

March felt worse than ever. “I’m just wasting time!”
he complained to himself. “Not even a class yet, and
Scoot’s studying already!”

He finished Scoot’s letter quickly, learning that he
had made a few good friends already, that he felt fine,
that he loved flying. Then March sat down and wrote
Scoot a long letter.

“I’ll tell him about the pressure chamber,” March
said. “I’ll show the lad that we’re doing plenty here
that he never even dreamed of. And I’ll tell him about
the escape tower we’re going to have a try at tomorrow.
That ought to show him that he’s picked just
an easy branch of the service.”

So March wrote, and he told Scoot plenty. He made
the test in the pressure chamber sound much more
harrowing than it had actually been, even inventing
one man who passed out, bleeding profusely, in the
middle of the test.

Then he felt better, and went down to dinner feeling
once more that he was in the cream of the Navy.
As he walked down the hill he heard the drone of an
airplane motor overhead.

“Simple,” he said to himself. “See how easy it is?
Just push a stick this way or that, just push a couple
of pedals, and keep your eyes on a couple of dozen
instruments. Why, in a sub we’ve got more instruments
and dials than in twenty-five bombing planes!”
.bn 047.png
// 047.png
.pn +1

When he sat down next to Stan Bigelow, it was
even better, for Stan agreed with him completely
about the super-importance of the submarine
service, thinking up a few additional reasons for its
superiority over Naval Aviation that had not occurred
to March. Then they began discussing the escape
tower test the next day.

“Do you know much about this Momsen Lung they
use?” Stan asked. “I saw some today when we took
the pressure test, but I don’t know the details of how
they work.”

“Yes, I read all about them a few years ago,” March
answered. “They were invented by an Annapolis
man—then Lieutenant Charles Momsen—not much
more than ten years ago. And you know, Stan, that
guy conducted every single experiment himself—wouldn’t
let anybody else take the chance.”

“Boy, he should have got a medal for that!” Stan
exclaimed.

“He did! Distinguished Service Medal,” March
said. “And the Lung is one of the biggest things ever
invented to make subs safer. Simple—really, like most
good things. The good thing about it is that there’s
no connection at all with the outside. Most such devices
had a valve system for letting the exhaled air
out into the water. But the valves jammed shut—or
open—too often. There’s nothing like that to go wrong
in the Momsen Lung.”
.bn 048.png
// 048.png
.pn +1

“How does it get rid of the carbon dioxide that you
breathe out?” Stan asked.

“There’s a can of CO(2) absorbent inside it, that’s
all,” March explained. “Of course, in time it wouldn’t
absorb any more, but how long are you ever going to
use a Momsen Lung at one stretch, anyway?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes, I suppose,” Stan replied.

“Sure,” March agreed. “And the can of absorbent
can take care of your carbon dioxide for a lot longer
than that. And the rest of it is really just as simple.
It’s an airtight bag that straps over your chest. There’s
a mouthpiece you clamp between your teeth for
breath, and a nose clip to close your nose so you
won’t breathe through it. When the bag’s filled with
oxygen—there you are!”

“Wonderful!” Stan said. “But doesn’t that bag of
oxygen, plus your own tendency to float, send you
shooting up to the surface in a hurry?”

“It would if you let it,” March replied. “That’s why
there always has to be a line or cable up to the surface,
so you can hold on to it and keep yourself from
ascending too quickly.”

“And get the bends,” Stan concluded. “If anything,
I know I’ll go more slowly than they tell me.”

The next morning they had a chance to look more
closely at the Momsen Lungs before they put them
on, with the instructor explaining their workings and
.bn 049.png
// 049.png
.pn +1
showing the students how to adjust them. March did
not see Scott, the radioman, among the group, although
all the others were the same that had gone
through the pressure test the day before. He spoke to
the young pharmacist, asking about Scott.

“Got a cold,” was the reply. “Just a little nose cold,
but they wouldn’t let him do the escape test with it.”

“Too bad,” March said. “But he’ll be able to catch
up with the rest of us soon.”

The Chief Petty Officer in charge was explaining
the test to the men, as they got into their swimming
trunks.

“First we’ll have twenty pounds of pressure in the
chamber,” he said, “just to be sure noses and ears are
in good shape before going into the water. And then
you’ve got a long climb ahead of you. You see, the
bottom of this tower is a hundred feet from the surface
at the top. You won’t be taking the hundred-foot
escape for quite a while yet. Today we go up to the
eighteen-foot level.”

March thought that ought to be simple. He had
been almost that far beneath the water sometimes
when he went in swimming. But then he remembered
that this test was to teach the men the proper use of
the Momsen Lung, the rate of climb up the cable to
the surface. It wasn’t the pressure at eighteen feet
that would bother anyone, unless it was somebody
who had some deep fear of being under water.
.bn 050.png
// 050.png
.pn +1

“Such a person wouldn’t very well select the submarine
service, though,” he said to himself. “Of
course some people have these fears without knowing
it. Nothing has ever happened to bring it out,
that’s all.”

The time in the pressure chamber seemed like
nothing after their fifty-pound session of the day
before, and soon the students found themselves
ascending to the eighteen-foot level of the tower.

“Up at the top,” the Chief was saying, “there are
plenty of men ready to take care of you. Nothing
much is likely to go wrong with such a short escape,
but we don’t leave anything to chance. So if you get
tangled in the cable or decide to go down instead of
up, or anything like that, there’s a few mighty good
swimmers to do the rescue act. There’s one thing to
remember—we send you men up one after the other,
pretty fast, just the way you’d be doin’ it if you were
getting out of a sub lyin’ on the bottom of the ocean.
So get away from the cable buoy fast, and without
kickin’ your legs all over the place. You’re likely to
kick the next one in the head, especially if he has
come up a little too fast.”

“How fast are we supposed to go, Chief?” one of
the men asked.

“About a foot per second,” the officer replied. “You
hold yourself parallel with the cable, body away from
it a little bit, and let yourself up hand over hand. You
.bn 051.png
// 051.png
.pn +1
can put your hands about a foot above each other,
and count off the seconds to yourself. We’ll be timing
you at both ends, so you’ll find out afterwards
whether you went too fast or too slow. Then you’ll
catch on to the rate all right.”

March was among the first men who stepped into
the bell at the eighteen-foot level. The water of the
tower came up to his hips and was kept from going
higher in the little compartment by the pressure of
the air forced into the top of the bell-shaped room.
He saw a round metal pipe shaped like a very large
chimney extending down into the water.

“That skirt goes down a little below the water level
in here on the platform,” the Chief said. “When you
go up, you fasten on your Lung, duck under the skirt,
and go straight up. First, I’m going to check to be
sure that the cable’s set okay.”

March and the others watched closely as the Chief
adjusted his nose clips and mouthpiece deftly, turned
the valve opening the oxygen into the mouthpiece,
and ducked under. In a moment he reappeared and
removed the Lung.

“All set,” he said. “Okay, you—” he pointed to the
young pharmacist, “you go first. Your Lung’s filled
with oxygen, plenty of it. There’s the carbon dioxide
absorbent in there to take up everything you breathe
out. Remember to go up hand over hand, about a
foot per second. And don’t be surprised if a couple
.bn 052.png
// 052.png
.pn +1
of guys go floatin’ past you in the water on your way
up. There’re other instructors swimmin’ around up
there and once in a while one of ’em swims down to
see how you’re makin’ out. All set?”

“Yes, Chief,” the pharmacist answered. March
thought he looked completely calm, though he felt
himself growing excited at even this short escape.

“Okay, mouthpiece in place,” the Chief said, making
sure that the student did it correctly. “Now, nose
clips on—that’s right. Finally, open the valve so you
can get the oxygen. Okay?”

The pharmacist nodded that he was all right.
“On your way, then, my lad,” the Chief said. “Duck
under.”

March watched the young man duck under the
water and disappear as he went under the metal skirt.
Then he saw the Chief go under, too, right behind
him. Up above, he knew, the instructors would see
a tug on the yellow buoy fastened to the cable, and
would begin their timing of the first ascent. One of
them would dive down and have a look at the student
coming up, would make him pull away if he
were hugging the cable too closely, speed him up or
slow him down if necessary, with a gesture and a pat
on the shoulder.

Suddenly the Chief reappeared.
.bn 053.png
// 053.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>Hand Over Hand He Ascended</i>]
.pm illust 04 navy_053.jpg 437 "<i>Hand Over Hand He Ascended</i>"
.bn 054.png
// 054.png
.pn +1

“Okay, you,” he said, pointing to March. As he put
the mouthpiece in place, he thought how strange it
was that in the tower in a pair of swimming trunks
he was just plain “you” to the Chief Petty Officer,
while in uniform outside he would be “sir.”

“Right now,” March thought as he adjusted the
nose clips and turned the valve, “this man’s my superior
and my teacher. A young officer can learn plenty
from these boys who’ve had so much experience, if
they give themselves a chance by forgetting for a
few minutes that they’re commissioned officers.”

As the Chief patted his shoulder, March ducked
under the water, found the bottom of the round metal
skirt, and went under it. Looking up, he saw the long
shaft of darkness made by the walls of the tower, and
the filmy, cloudy circle of half-light at the surface
which suddenly seemed a great distance away. His
hands had already found the cable, and he held on to
it as he felt the upward tug of the Lung which tried
to carry him swiftly to the top.

Putting one hand about a foot above the other he
began to count to himself, hoping that his counts were
about a second apart. For every count he put his hand
up what he judged to be another foot in distance.
Then he realized that his legs were unconsciously
starting to twine themselves around the cable, and
he pulled them away, holding his body straight up
and down a short distance away from the escape line.

“That’s funny,” he told himself. “I guess I always
twined my legs around a rope when I was going down
it, so I want to do the same thing going up.”
.bn 055.png
// 055.png
.pn +1

He looked up again quickly and saw legs kicking
above him. That would be the pharmacist pulling
away from the buoy. How much farther did he have
to go? It was hard to judge the distance. He had
reached a count of nine, so he should be halfway if
he had been putting his hands a foot apart.

His eyes blinked at a form moving up close to him.
He saw a man in trunks floating toward him in the
water, waving his arms slowly. No, he wasn’t waving—he
was swimming! He wore a pair of nose clips
but no Momsen Lung. One of the instructors from
above, March concluded.

The man motioned his arms upward urgently. Unmistakably
March knew that he had been going too
slowly, so he increased the tempo of his count slightly.
And before he knew it, his eyes blinked in the sunlight
and he felt water running down his face. He
was up!

“Clips off! Valve off!” an instructor in the water
beside him said.

March moved away from the buoy toward the side
of the tank, where he saw other men standing on the
little platform, and as he did so he removed his nose
clips with one hand, shut the oxygen valve. Then he
remembered that it had not felt a bit strange to
breathe through his mouth instead of through his
nose.
.bn 056.png
// 056.png
.pn +1

“I guess as long as your lungs get the oxygen they
need, you don’t much care how it gets there.”

He felt a hand helping him as he climbed up on
the little platform at the top of the tower. Standing
there, he removed the mouthpiece and then took off
the lung itself. As he dried himself and slipped into
his robe, the man behind him broke the surface and
started toward the edge.

Suddenly March felt a little dizzy. He had looked
out the window and had seen how high he was from
the ground. And then he smiled.

“What would Scoot think of me?” he thought, “getting
dizzy even for a second only a hundred feet off
the ground?”

Down below was the river, and March saw a sub
making its way down toward Long Island Sound. It
looked very tiny and slim.

“How did it go, sir?” asked a voice behind him. He
turned and saw the pharmacist.

“All right, I guess,” March replied. “Didn’t mind
it, anyway. I guess I was a little slow. They had to
send a man down to hurry me up.”

“They sent one down to slow me down,” the pharmacist
said, “but I came out just about right. They
told me it was a better sign if you went too slow than
too fast.”

“I suppose it indicates you’re not overanxious about
being under water,” March said.
.bn 057.png
// 057.png
.pn +1

A familiar head broke the water of the tank and
March saw Stan Bigelow moving over toward the
platform. When he had got out and removed his
Lung, he smiled at March.

“Nothing to it, was there?” he called. “I’d like to
try the fifty-foot level right away.”

“Same here,” March said, “but I guess we wait a
day or two.”

Later, when they <i>did</i> make the fifty-foot escape,
they found that it went just the same as the eighteen-footer.
Sure, it took fifty seconds, but the sensations
were about the same. There was more pressure on
the ears, but not enough to bother anyone. March
was very surprised to hear that one of the enlisted
men, near the end of the group, had suddenly gone
panicky just before it was his turn to go.

“Had he gone through the eighteen-foot test all
right?” March asked the Chief Petty Officer in charge.

“Yes—just too fast,” the man replied. “But lots of
them do that at first. He must have been holding
himself under control for that one, though, and the
thought of the fifty was too much for him.”

“Too bad,” March said. “Will they transfer him
back to his old branch of the service?”

“No—they’ve decided to give him another chance,”
the Chief said. “The Doc—the psychological one—thinks
it’s just a fear the guy never even knew he
had. He’s goin’ to talk to him a bit to see if he can
.bn 058.png
// 058.png
.pn +1
find out what caused it. Then maybe he can get rid
of it. He won’t be able to go down in a pigboat until
he handles the fifty-foot escape okay, but we’ll keep
him on for a while to give him another crack at it.
Good man in every other way, as far as I can see.”

March learned later that the man was one of the
fire controlmen who had ridden out on the bus with
him.

“Gee, I hope he makes it,” Scott, the radioman, said
to March when they talked it over. “He’s a swell guy.
Cobden’s his name, Marty Cobden. And he’s got his
heart set on bein’ a submariner, dreams about it at
night even. Never had the faintest notion he was
scared of anything, least of all just fifty feet of
water.”

“Did he go swimming much?” March asked.

“I asked him that, too,” Scott replied. “He says he
liked to swim but he didn’t like to dive. But he wasn’t
<i>scared</i> of it!”

Scott had got over his cold and had caught up with
the rest of them, making the eighteen-foot and fifty-foot
escapes without difficulty.

“Well, we’re qualified now to go to school here,”
March said. “And we can even go down in a sub. But
when do we take the hundred-foot escape?”

“Don’t have to,” Scott said. “But most of ’em try
it, sir—some time later. They all want to see Minnie
and Winnie.”
.bn 059.png
// 059.png
.pn +1

“Minnie and Winnie?” March asked. “Who are
they and <i>where</i> are they?”

“They’re mermaids,” Scott said without a smile.
“Beautiful mermaids. And they’re painted on the
walls of the tank down at the hundred-foot level.
Only one way to see ’em—and that’s to make the
escape. An’ you get a diploma when you’ve done it.”

“I’ll see you there, Scott,” March said. “We’ll both
have a look at Winnie and Minnie one of these days.”
.bn 060.png
// 060.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 05 FIVE "FIRST DIVE"
The next day classes started for March and Stan
and the other new officers going through the school.
Expecting the most difficult and intensive of studies,
March was a little disappointed in the first day’s work.

“Just ground work, I suppose,” he said to Stan at
mess that evening. “They couldn’t start throwing the
whole book at us on the first day.”

“I think they did pretty well,” Stan said. “I got a
big dose of the history and development of the submarine
and the construction of modern pigboats.
Back in college we’d have taken a week to cover what
we got in this one day. But, of course, you’ve read a
lot of general stuff about subs. I was so busy studying
engineering in college I didn’t look at anything
else.”

“Yes, I <i>have</i> read a good deal about the underwater
ships,” March said. “I always did think those first experimenters
had a lot of guts. Imagine that Dutchman,
Van Drebel, submerging a boat more than three
hundred years ago.”

“Sure, and he stayed down two hours,” Stan agreed.
“Made about two miles—with oars for power!”
.bn 061.png
// 061.png
.pn +1

“He must have been a clever guy to have those
oars sticking out through leather openings sealed so
tight that not a drop of water could come in,” March
said. “But it was the Americans who really made submarines
go.”

“Yes—isn’t there a ship named after Bushnell,” Stan
asked, “the man who made that submarine during
the American Revolution?”

“Sure, a submarine tender, naturally,” March replied.
“Too bad his idea didn’t work better. It was
a clever one.”

“I had never realized until today,” Stan said, “that
Robert Fulton had anything to do with submarines.
I thought inventing the steamboat was enough for
any one man. But now I find out he invented pretty
good submarines long before he did the steamboat.
But he just couldn’t get anybody to listen to him.”

“Well, the sub really couldn’t develop into a reliable
ship,” March said, “until electric motors and
storage batteries came along. There were some pretty
good attempts, of course, and John Holland and
Simon Lake, the two Americans who really made
subs that worked, turned out some fair ones driven by
gasoline engines, steam engines, and compressed air.”

“And don’t forget the Diesels!” Stan laughed. “My
sweethearts, the Diesels! They were the last things
needed, after storage batteries and electric motors,
to make subs really dependable and good.”
.bn 062.png
// 062.png
.pn +1

“I won’t forget your Diesels, Stan,” March said.
“I’m going to have to learn plenty about them in the
next few weeks, and I know almost nothing now. And
you’ve got to learn plenty about other things, too.”

“Sure, it’ll be tough going,” Stan said. “But it’s a
wonderful idea to have every officer, no matter what
his specialty, able to take over almost any department
on a sub if he has to.”

“Yes, if I get knocked cold just when we’re trying
to slip away through some coral atolls to miss a depth-charge
attack,” March asked, “won’t you be glad you
really learned how to navigate?”

“Why, all Navy men know how to navigate,” Stan
protested. “I know my navigation pretty well.”

“Maybe so,” March agreed, “but do you know it
well enough to take a ship a few hundred miles under
water without ever a chance to look at the horizon or
shoot the sun or get a fix on some landmark? I know
I couldn’t do it, and navigation’s been my main job
so far.”

“Navigating a sub’s no bed of roses, of course,”
Stan said, “but nursing my pretty Diesels is no easy
task, either. When you’re workin’ on those babies,
you pay attention and be good to them.”

“I’ll be good to your Diesels, all right,” March
laughed. “But what I’m most anxious to learn about
are all the new sound-detection devices. Pretty secret
stuff, some of it, though we’ve had some of it on our
surface ships.”
.bn 063.png
// 063.png
.pn +1

“I know,” Stan said. “You don’t feel so blind and
lost in a sub any more, I guess. You can tell from the
sound devices just how many ships are near by and
even from the sound of their engines what kind they
are, where they’re goin’ and how fast. But you know
what I’m anxious to do—really get inside a pigboat
and look around. Those cross-section charts are fine,
but there’s nothing like seeing the real thing for yourself.”

“I think they’ll be taking us down for a dive within
a couple of days,” March said. “Just for the ride, you
know, and to see how we react. And it had better be
pretty soon. That Scoot Bailey has probably been up
in a plane half a dozen times at least and I haven’t
seen the inside of a sub!”

The next morning they looked for an announcement
that they would go down in one of the subs but
there was nothing of the sort. They spent their time
in the classrooms, and they began the really intensive
work that March had been expecting.

“One day of preliminary stuff was enough, I guess,”
he said to Stan at lunch. “They really put us to work
this morning.”

The classrooms and laboratories of the officer-students
were in the same building as those of the
enlisted men. Officers and men alike had gone
through the same preliminary tests, but now their
paths separated. March saw the men regularly, of
.bn 064.png
// 064.png
.pn +1
course, in the halls and around the grounds. He
stopped and chatted once in a while with Scott, the
radioman, who struck him more and more as a pleasant
and serious young man ideally suited to submarine
work. He saw the pharmacist, Sallini, and also
Marty Cobden, the fellow who had gone to pieces at
the fifty-foot level in the escape tower. He was going
at his studies like a demon, as if to make up in some
way for his one failure to date.

March and Stan saw them that very afternoon
again, when they reported, according to instructions,
to one of the Chief Petty Officers at the sub base
below the school buildings.

“Wonder what’s up?” Stan said. “Something for
officers and men alike, whatever it is.”

“There’s only one thing left of that sort,” exclaimed
March happily. “That’s our first pigboat ride! Come
on, Stan!”

Stan noticed that there were only about a dozen
enlisted men gathered together rather than the whole
class.

“Why only some of them?” he wondered.

“Sub won’t hold many more, in addition to the regular
crew,” March said. “And now these boys are
really beginning to team up. You know how we’ve
had it drilled into us already that teamwork is the
most important part of submarining? Well, they’ve
started to put their teams together. This bunch is a
.bn 065.png
// 065.png
.pn +1
diving section—just enough men for one shift on a
sub to handle everything that needs to be handled.
They’ll work together all through the course, get to
know each other, to work well together.”

“What if one of the men fails the course?” Stan
asked. “There’s Marty Cobden, for instance. If he
doesn’t manage to overcome that fear of the escape
tower he’s through.”

“Then they’ll have to replace him,” March said.
“But that will be just one man out of the section—or
maybe two at most will not be able to make it. Well,
the majority of the team is still intact. The new man
can fit into a well-functioning team pretty fast.”

“Will they eventually go out on duty together?”
Stan asked.

“Probably,” March replied. “When a sub gets three
diving sections that have trained together, then it’s
got a real crew. Of course, they usually try to put in
just one new section with two old ones, men who’ve
been through the ropes. The new section, already
used to teamwork, fits in with the experienced men
well, and learns so much from them that they’re
veterans after one patrol.”

“What about us officers, though?” Stan wondered.
“Maybe there’s a chance we’ll go on the same sub.”

“Maybe,” March agreed. “They may put two new
officers on a sub with three or four veterans. Probably
no more, though. Look, here comes the Chief!”
.bn 066.png
// 066.png
.pn +1

In a few minutes they were all walking down toward
the docks where the old O-type submarines
used as trainers lay bobbing gently in the waters of
the Thames River. March saw that some of the crew
were busy about the deck of one of the subs, to which
a narrow gangplank led from the dock. As they
walked, the Chief Petty Officer was talking to the
students.

“When it’s in the water,” he said, “you can’t see
much of a sub. The flat deck is just a superstructure
built up on top of the cigar-shaped hull. You can see
part of the hull itself where the superstructure sides
slope down into it. But most of it’s under water, where
it ought to be on a pigboat.”

March’s eyes were going over the long slim craft
swiftly, not missing a detail. He saw the fins on the
side at bow and stern, folded back now, but able to
be extended so as to make the planes which could
guide the ship up or down. He noted the looming
conning tower which served as a bridge for the officers
when the pigboat traveled on the surface. From
there, he knew, a hatch led down into the center section
of the ship. He saw, too, that the fore and aft
hatches were open, one leading down into the torpedo
room and another into the engine room.

“Look at the deck gun,” Stan said. “Wicked looking
little thing.”
.bn 067.png
// 067.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>They Watched From the Dock</i>]
.pm illust 05 navy_067.jpg 433 "<i>They Watched From the Dock</i>"
.bn 068.png
// 068.png
.pn +1

He pointed to the 3-inch gun mounted on the flat
deck forward of the conning tower. It was tightly
covered with what appeared to be a canvas cover.
March knew that the crew could have that cover off
and the gun in action in a matter of seconds.

March and Stan walked across the gangplank and
looked up at the officer on the bridge of the conning
tower. Saluting, they reported, and received a welcoming
smile and the words, “Come on up!”

They scrambled up the ladder and found themselves
on the crowded bridge with two other men.

“I’m Lieutenant Commander Sutherland,” said the
man who had greeted them, “Executive Officer.” He
turned to the other officer on the deck. “Captain
Binkey—Lieutenant Anson and Ensign Bigelow reporting.”

The Captain smiled as he returned their salute and
then lapsed into his customary informal role.

“Glad to have you aboard,” he said. “First ride,
eh?”

“Yes, sir,” March and Stan replied, feeling at ease
at once in the old veteran’s presence.

“Sutherland will show you around after we get
started,” the Skipper said. “I imagine you’ll want to
stay up here till we’re under way.”

Sutherland turned to them. “You probably know
from your studies what most of this is about,” he said.
“Just a matter of seeing and feeling it to be at home.
I know I don’t have to tell you every little detail the
way the Chief down there is pointing out every steel
plate to those ratings.”
.bn 069.png
// 069.png
.pn +1

March and Stan glanced down to see that the Chief
had led his enlisted men on to the deck of the submarine,
where they were mingling with the regular
crew who were preparing to cast off when the Captain
ordered.

“Whenever you want to know anything,” Sutherland
went on, “just ask me and I’ll try to give you the
answer. I imagine we’ll be casting off in a minute.”

They saw the Chief Petty Officer leading his students
down the torpedo-room hatch to the interior
of the submarine, and for a moment March wanted
to join them.

“That will come later,” he said. “It’s important to
see them cast off.”

And that operation came without delay. At a word
from the Captain, the executive officer began barking
orders to the crew and to the enlisted men who
stood at the controls on the bridge. The gangplank
was taken away by men on the dock, the electric
motors began to turn in the ship far below them, and
lines were cast off. Slowly, trembling slightly beneath
their feet, the pigboat slid back into the river away
from the shore, churning up the water only slightly
as it moved.
.bn 070.png
// 070.png
.pn +1

Then suddenly, with a roar, the Diesels caught hold
and white smoke poured from the exhaust vents on
the sides of the boat. Stan grinned as he heard them,
and March said, “Makes you feel at home to hear
them, doesn’t it?”

“Oh—is he a Diesel man?” Sutherland asked.

“He dreams about them,” March replied. “I think
he’s going to marry a Diesel some day!”

The pigboat was now in the middle of the river and
swinging about to head downstream. On the deck
below there remained only a few men of the regular
crew needed for duties there. March looked around,
feeling the thrill of pleasure that always came when
a ship set out. The cool breeze fanned his face, and
he looked at the shore slipping by, then the buildings
of the city. It seemed only a short while before they
were in the choppy open water of the Sound. Here
there were almost no other ships, and the waters were
deep. Soon they would dive!

Below, he knew, the regular crew were at their stations,
with the students looking on—each specialist
observing the work he would one day do himself.
Engine men were in the crowded engine room, peering
eagerly at the huge Diesels which powered the
ship on the surface. Scott, the radioman, would be
standing beside the regular radioman, and Sallini
would be going over supplies and equipment of the
regular pharmacist, while keeping his eye out for
everything else he could learn, too. Every crew member
had his special duties, but every one had to be
.bn 071.png
// 071.png
.pn +1
able to take over the duties of any other in an emergency.
That was one of the reasons they all liked submarine
work, officers and men alike. They learned
so much, in so many different fields, in such a short
time!

“Rig ship for diving!” said the Captain quietly, and
Sutherland, who served also as diving officer, spoke
the order into the interphone on the bridge. Throughout
the ship below, March and Stan knew, men had
sprung to their stations in every compartment. The
cook was “securing” the sink, stove, pots and pans.
Men at the huge levers controlling the valves of the
ballast tanks tested them. The diving planes were
rigged out. Below on the deck, the last of the crew
slid down the hatches and made them fast from the
inside.

Then the reports began to come back over the
phone that all was ready inside the boat. An officer
in the control room below heard the different rooms
of the submarine check in one by one.

“Torpedo room rigged for diving!”

“Engine room rigged for diving!”

When all rooms had reported, the officer below
phoned to the Captain on the bridge that the ship
was rigged for diving.

“All right, Mister Anson and Mister Bigelow—down
you go!”
.bn 072.png
// 072.png
.pn +1

March quickly moved to the opening and slid down
it, his feet reaching for the steps of the straight steel
ladder. He was followed at once by Stan and then
by Sutherland. Next came the enlisted man who had
stood at the controls on the bridge, and finally the
Captain himself. The hatch was made fast behind
him and everyone was inside the boat.

March glanced around him quickly. And despite
the number of drawings and pictures he had seen of
the control room of a submarine, he gasped. Never
had he seen such a myriad of instruments and wheels
and levers and dials! Everything in the entire submarine
was really controlled from this one central
room. Beside him, in the middle of the room, were
the two thick steel shafts which he knew were the
periscopes. Their lower ends were down in wells in
the deck and would not be raised until after they
were submerged and the skipper wanted to look
around.

Facing the bow of the ship, March saw the forward
bulkhead of the control room. Yes, there was
the huge steering wheel with the helmsman holding
it lightly. It seemed strange for a helmsman to be
looking at a wall, or instrument panels on a wall,
rather than at the open sea over which he steered.
March knew that the controls were electrically operated
by the wheel and thus easy to handle. But every
man was made to steer it by hand on occasion—and
that took real strength!—in order to be ready for that
emergency that might come when the electric current
failed.
.bn 073.png
// 073.png
.pn +1

Forward, also, were the wheels controlling the
angles of the diving planes. There was the gyro-compass
dial, and near by the little table at which the
navigation officer sat.

“Some day that’s where I’ll be,” March said to
himself.

He didn’t have time to look carefully at the many
other dials against this wall, but he knew they showed
the ship’s depth under water, the pressure, and other
essential data. Along the sides were still more dials
showing the amount of fuel in tanks, the number of
revolutions per minute being made by the propellers.
He recognized the inclinometer, which showed just
exactly the angle of tip assumed by the boat in diving
or coming up.

On another side were the long levers and wheels
controlling the big Kingston valves which flooded the
ballast tanks with sea water when the ship was to
dive, the air vents, the pumps, and other equipment
used in diving and surfacing. The regular crew stood
tensely at their posts without a word, and the students
who stood near by were completely silent.

March glanced at the Skipper and saw that he was
looking at a huge panel on one wall. Yes, this was the
“Christmas Tree!” It was a large electric indicator
board covered with red and green lights. It showed
.bn 074.png
// 074.png
.pn +1
the exact condition of every opening—hatches, air induction
vents, and all—into the ship. Everything having
anything to do with diving had its indicator there
on the board. March saw that most of the lights were
green, but many were still red. He knew that every
light had to be green before the ship could dive.

“Stand by for diving,” said the Skipper in a quiet
voice.

Sutherland, standing behind him, sang out, “Stand
by for diving!” The telephone orderly repeated the
order over the interphone to all parts of the ship and
March jumped as the klaxon horns blared out their
raucous warnings. For a moment their sound reverberated
in the small steel room, and then Sutherland
barked new orders.

“Open main ballast Kingstons!” March saw the
men move the levers as he repeated the order, and a
few lights turned to green on the “Christmas Tree.”

“Stop main engines!” The order was repeated over
the phone to the engine room. March felt the trembling
of the ship stop as the Diesels were shut off and
the electric motors switched on again, taking their
current from the huge banks of storage batteries
under the deck of the ship. At the same time other
lights turned to green on the board.

“Open main ballast vents!” called Sutherland.
.bn 075.png
// 075.png
.pn +1

One after another the necessary orders were called
by the diving officer, they were carried out with precision
and reported back at once. Finally, the last red
lights on the board winked out as the main air induction
valves were closed. Then Sutherland ordered,
as the last test, that air be released from the high-pressure
tank into the interior of the ship. March
watched him look at the dial indicating air pressure
within the ship. The hand moved up a little, then
held steady. This showed that there was no leakage
of air from the boat.

Sutherland turned to the Skipper. “Pressure in the
boat—green light, sir.”

“Take her down!” said the Captain with a nod.

When the diving officer repeated the order the
klaxons blared again their final warning before the
diving officer called out one order after another.
March had been able to keep close track of everything
up to this point, but suddenly, just at the crucial
moment, there was too much going on. He heard an
order that sounded like “Down bow planes!” and felt
the ship tip forward slightly. But at the same time he
heard the roar of water as it rushed into the ballast
tanks between the inner and outer steel hulls of the
ship, the rush of air forced out of the vents by the
inrushing water, and the whine of the electric motors.

Sutherland gave an order about the trim tanks
which March did not catch, then heard the Skipper
say, “Steady at forty feet.”
.bn 076.png
// 076.png
.pn +1

As the order was repeated, March found the dial
which indicated the ship’s depth and saw the hand
approach the forty mark. There the ship leveled out
again. The sound of rushing water and bubbling air
had ceased and the only sound was the steady hum
of the motors.

“We’re down!” Stan muttered, almost to himself.
March had almost forgotten his companion’s existence,
but now he turned to him.

“That’s right!” he said. “I was so intent on what
was happening I almost forgot about that. There’s
nothing special about it, is there? I mean—being here
in this room where you can’t see outside—it doesn’t
make much difference whether you’re on top of the
water or underneath it.”

“Only when I heard the water rushing into the
ballasts,” Stan answered. “Then I had a little sensation
of going under water. It was fast, wasn’t it?”

“So fast I couldn’t keep track of everything,” March
replied. “I wonder how long it took from the time the
Captain ordered the dive until we leveled off at forty
feet.”

Sutherland overheard him. “Just sixty-eight seconds!”
he said.
.bn 077.png
// 077.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 06 SIX "A REAL SUBMARINER"
“Scoot Bailey never will have an experience like
this as long as he lives!” March said to himself. He
was peering through the periscope of the submerged
pigboat, looking over the tossing waters of the sea.

When the Captain had called “Up, periscope,” the
long shaft had moved up by electric motor until the
eyepiece and handles were at convenient height. The
Skipper had a look around, and March noticed that
he turned the handles to adjust the focus.

“Here, have a look, Mister Anson,” he said, standing
away.

So March had fitted his eyes against the rubber cup
and looked. He saw water, a long stretch of open
water with nothing on it. It was not completely sharp
so he turned one handle slightly, saw the image fuzz
up, turned it the other way until it came sharp. Next
he moved the periscope around, stepping with it as
he did so, looking over the horizon in a sweeping arc.

Then he saw something! It was the shore of Long
Island, almost two miles away. He stepped back and
said, “I saw the Long Island shore, I think. How far
can one see through the periscope, sir?”

“About two and a half miles,” the Skipper replied.
“Have a look, Mister Bigelow.”
.bn 078.png
// 078.png
.pn +1

Stan stepped forward eagerly to look through the
’scope. He swung it around in a different direction
from which March had moved and suddenly exclaimed,
“A ship!”

The Captain took over for a look, then said, “Yes,
small freighter. Just think how easily we could sink
her!”

March looked at the ship. “Looks as though I could
knock her down with a BB gun,” he said.

“On later trips we’ll simulate attacks on some of
the ships in the Sound,” the Skipper said. “So you’ll
get a chance to practice something a little more
powerful than a BB gun.”

For fifteen minutes the pigboat traveled under the
water. Sutherland took Stan and March around the
control room, explaining the various instruments and
levers, answering their questions.

“What beats me, sir,” Stan said, “is the number of
different things you have to remember! I just can’t
conceive of doing all that so fast and not forgetting
a thing.”

“It seems like that at first,” Sutherland said. “But
after you do it a few times, you get used to it. Just
think—driving a car is pretty complicated if you’ve
never even seen a car before. You’ve got to see the
emergency brakes are on, that transmission’s in neutral,
then turn on ignition, step on electric starter, perhaps
choke it a little to start, then push back choke,
.bn 079.png
// 079.png
.pn +1
step on foot throttle, warm up engine, release emergency
brake, push in clutch, move gearshift lever, let
in clutch, step on throttle, shove in clutch, take foot
from throttle, move gearshift lever in another direction,
let in clutch and step on throttle for a time, then
shove in clutch, take foot from throttle, move gearshift
lever, let in clutch, step on throttle again. And
all this time, steer the car where you’re going, watch
out for pedestrians, for traffic lights, for cars behind,
for cars on side streets. Why, there are dozens of
things you have to do, but when you’ve driven a car
a little while, most of them are almost automatic.”

“I’d never though of it that way,” Stan said. “But
it must take quite a while of handling a dive to get
used to it.”

“Not so long as you think,” Sutherland said, “if
you’re any good at all. If not, you wouldn’t be here.
And don’t worry—before you leave this school you’ll
be able to take her down—in three or four different
ways—without worrying about it for a second.”

The executive officer then led them through the
rest of the boat, giving them a quick once-over of the
entire ship during their first trip. Stepping over the
high door edges of the bulkhead doors leading from
one compartment to another, March realized that a
fat man would have difficulty getting around on a
submarine. He noted how the doors could be fastened
watertight and airtight so that any compartment
could be sealed off from all the others.
.bn 080.png
// 080.png
.pn +1

They saw the engine room, with its two banks of
heavy Diesels, now quiet and at rest as the ship traveled
under water. Stan would have stayed there for
the entire trip, talking to the engineers and looking
over the power plants, but they moved on to the
motor room where the whine of the two electric motors
was loud and high-pitched. March knew that the
motors could be switched to act as generators driven
by the Diesels when the ship surfaced, charging the
batteries.

The battery room did not hold their attention for
long, although the two banks of huge cells were impressive,
but the torpedo room fascinated them. Here
was the real reason for the existence of the entire
ship, which was nothing more than a vehicle to get
the deadly TNT charges into the side of an enemy
ship. It was almost the largest of the rooms they had
seen, perhaps seeming so because of the additional
clear space in the middle. There had to be plenty of
room to swing the big torpedoes into position before
their tubes.

First March and Stan saw the two racks of torpedoes
along the walls. The long cylinders, twenty-one
inches in diameter and about twenty feet from end
to end, looked deadly. March noted the chain hoist
by which they could be swung from their racks into
position for loading into the tubes.
.bn 081.png
// 081.png
.pn +1

The tubes—there were four of them—stuck back
into the room a little way, and March and Stan knew
they were about twenty-five feet long altogether,
their openings at each side just back of the bow of
the boat. The tight-fitting doors closed the tubes, and
the sub was ready to fire its charges at any moment.

“It must take a terrific blast of air to start these
babies on their way,” Stan said, running his hand
along one of the big torpedoes.

“Yes, it does,” Sutherland replied. “But the air
doesn’t have to move it far. It just expels it from the
tube, where there are trigger catches which trip
switches here on the torpedo to set its own machinery
going.”

“Wonderful piece of mechanism, aren’t they?”
March mused.

“Yes, they’re really little submarines with an explosive
charge instead of a crew,” the executive officer
agreed. “And the TNT takes up only a small space,
really. Half the length is compressed air to drive the
torp. It’s got to move pretty fast, you know, to get to
the target accurately. There’s about four hundred
horsepower packed into that little fellow there—from
compressed air, heated by an alcohol flame, blowing
like fury against two trim little turbines turning the
propellers.”

“The aiming devices must be very accurate,” Stan
said.
.bn 082.png
// 082.png
.pn +1

“Wonderful!” Sutherland exclaimed. “You probably
know there’s a little whirling gyroscope that
keeps the torp on the course which can be set by the
operator in advance of firing. Then there’s the compensating
chamber and pendulum to keep it at its
proper depth. It can’t very well get off course.”

“But don’t you have to aim chiefly with the sub
itself, sir?” March asked. “I mean—doesn’t the sub
have to be aimed right at the target for the torpedo
to get there?”

“Not at all,” Sutherland replied. “The sub doesn’t
have to be any closer than sixty degrees in facing its
target. You set the proper course on the torpedo itself
and the automatic devices put it on that course right
away—and keep it there!”

“Then the important thing,” Stan said, “is for the
skipper to get the course right, not necessarily to line
up the sub with his target.”

“That’s right,” the older officer agreed. “The skipper
must determine the course to his target and call
it out. If he’s good, he gets his ship.”

With a last look around the torpedo room they
turned to go back to the control room.

“Later,” Sutherland said to them as they stepped
through the bulkhead door, “you’ll have target practice
with special torpedoes that don’t blow up what
you’re aiming at. As a matter of fact, there won’t be
anything you can’t do by the time we get through
with you.”
.bn 083.png
// 083.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>They Inspected the Torpedo Room</i>]
.pm illust 06 navy_083.jpg 444 "<i>They Inspected the Torpedo Room</i>"
.bn 084.png
// 084.png
.pn +1

In the course of the next few weeks, March remembered
that statement often. He went on countless
trips in the training subs, until he felt as much at
home in them as he did in his own quarters. For the
first few times he observed. Then he took over one
position after another and executed its duties.

Stan was with him on all these trips, but often they
were at different ends of the boats during their short
journeys. One day, March would take his position at
the steering wheel. The next he would handle the
big levers controlling the Kingston valves on the main
ballast tanks. Then he would work with the men in
the engine room, after having studied Diesels in some
of his classes. He did a stretch in the torpedo room
several times when they shot the practice torps at
special targets towed by a surface boat. He worked
the interphone system as orderly, took over the little
radio shack, spent several hours in the battery room,
working the diving planes.

“I’ve done everything so far but cook lunch and
cut the crew’s hair,” he said to Stan one day, as they
relaxed wearily for fifteen minutes after dinner before
going to their studies.

“Same here,” Stan said. “But I haven’t been assistant
pharmacist yet.”
.bn 085.png
// 085.png
.pn +1

“Oh, that’s right,” March recalled. “I haven’t
passed out any pills yet. And I don’t think I’ll have to.”

“Do you feel that you know the crew’s jobs pretty
well now, March?” Stan asked.

“Most of them,” March replied. “I know I could
take over most of them without any trouble. But I’d
like another trip or two in the torpedo room, and I
want to be at the diving controls for a crash dive before
I’ll feel sure of myself.”

“I agree with you on the diving controls,” Stan
said, “but I feel okay on the torps now. What I want
is a little time on the sound-detector devices.”

“You can never have too much time on those,”
March said. “Every additional hour of experience
with them makes you all the better, I think. But it’s
wonderful that they teach every officer to do every
job on the boat—not just the work of the other officers
but of every enlisted man on board.”

Not only did they handle every job of the crew on
the sub, but they spent hours every day in classroom
and laboratory. They studied engines and motors and
navigation and torpedoes, and—above all, lately—theories
of approach and attack. In addition to their
work on the training subs themselves, they carried
out attack problems in the wonderful “mock-up” control
room in one of the buildings. Here was a real
control room, with controls and periscopes complete.
Standing in position at the ’scope, as if he were the
Skipper of the ship, March sighted about on the artificial
.bn 086.png
// 086.png
.pn +1
horizon which looked quite real to him. Suddenly
he saw what seemed to be two ships appear on
the horizon. First he had to identify them. Then he
had to judge their speed and course accurately while
they still looked like only tiny spots in his periscopes.

Calling out orders, he directed the course of the
“submarine” he was commanding so that he would
be in position to fire torpedoes. Then the ’scope went
down, as would happen in actual combat. His “sub”
was traveling under water, without even the revealing
’scope-ripples to show the enemy where he was.
Then he surfaced again, looked through the ’scope
to see if he and the “enemy” ships were where they
ought to be in relation to each other.

If he was right, he ordered the setting of the torpedo
courses and then called “Fire one! Fire two!”

Then he would go over his record with the instructors.
He would find out just how well he had done in
handling the complete tactical problem that had been
presented to him. Had he identified the ships correctly
as to nationality, type, size? Had he judged
their speed and course correctly? And finally—had
his torpedoes hit home? If he had handled the problem
correctly, he felt almost the thrill that might
have come with sinking an actual enemy ship.

Several afternoons a week, March went out on the
training subs. He asked for more time at the diving
controls and got it. He asked for two torpedo-room
.bn 087.png
// 087.png
.pn +1
watches and his request was fulfilled. Then he began
to take over the duties of the various officers. He
served as communications officer, engineering officer,
electrical officer, navigation officer—and finally as
diving officer. The first time he gave the orders to
take the ship down, his heart was in his throat, even
though Sutherland was standing by his side to take
over at the slightest mistake. He didn’t believe that
he could possibly remember all the things he had to,
but he found, as the orders started coming from his
mouth, that his mind ordered them out without his
thinking about them. He knew so well, by this time,
the logical order of events, that his mind went straight
along that path without a hitch.

What pleased March most of all after this experience—even
more than the pleasant commendation
of the executive officer—was the word spoken to him
by Scott, the radioman. Scott had been on the training
subs during most of March’s trips, too, and they
had spoken to each other frequently. But on the dock
after March’s turn as diving officer, Scott saluted and
nodded with a smile.

“If you’ll pardon me, sir,” he said, “I’d like to mention
that you handled that diving like a veteran.”

“Thanks, Scott—it’s swell of you to say that,”
March mumbled.
.bn 088.png
// 088.png
.pn +1

“You know—a bunch of students is likely to get a
little funny feeling when we know a new officer’s
goin’ to take us down,” Scott said. “But we couldn’t
have been safer with the Skipper himself than we
were with you.”

March wrote about that in the letter he wrote to
Scoot Bailey that evening. He had been so busy,
working hard sixteen hours a day, that Scoot seemed
miles and years away.

“I’m beginning to feel like a real submariner at last,
Scoot,” he wrote. “For a while I thought there was
so much to learn that I’d never get there. But I’m at
home now, and I think I can make it all right. I suppose
you’ve been feeling much the same way—despite
the fact that flying is so much simpler than pigboating—and
that you’re getting the feeling of being a pilot,
without having an instructor in your lap every
minute.”
.bn 089.png
// 089.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 07 SEVEN "ORDERS TO REPORT"
Scoot Bailey read March’s letter and grinned.

“So flying’s easy, he says?” he muttered to himself.
“He should have been here going through what I’ve
been through! Aerodynamics, engines, controls, meteorology,
gunnery, navigation, bombing, figure-eights,
barrel-rolls, spot landings!”

He shook his head and looked at the row of textbooks
on the desk before him.

“He’s right, though,” he said. “I do begin to feel
like a flier. At first, before I’d ever been up in a plane,
I thought I was one—one of those so-called natural
fliers, only there isn’t any such thing. Then when I
first flew I realized I didn’t know much of anything.
Next, when I got so I could handle the trainer pretty
well, with the instructor right there, I decided flying
was pretty simple after all.”

He sat back and recalled the day that had changed
his mind about that.

“But when he finally told me to take it up alone—boy,
oh boy! There I sat in that flying machine with
no teacher there to hold my hand. That’s when I
thought I didn’t even know what direction the stick
moved, I didn’t know which way to push the throttle.
.bn 090.png
// 090.png
.pn +1
What ever gave me the nerve to give her the gun and
take off I can never figure out. But when that was
over and I was still alive and in one piece, I’d got over
the worst of it.”

He realized that a submariner had no equivalent
of soloing in a plane to go through. He’d have to
remember to write that to March.

“After that I straightened myself out,” Scoot’s
thoughts went on. “I wasn’t too cocky and I wasn’t too
scared. I just knew that I had learned to fly a little
bit, that there was still a tremendous amount to learn,
and that if I worked hard enough I could learn it and
turn out to be a pretty good pilot.”

Scoot was on the advanced Navy trainer now, a
fast ship that came closer in speed and maneuverability
to the fighters he would eventually fly.

“In another week I’ll be heading for the training
carrier,” he said with a glow of satisfaction. “I’ll get
my wings and I’ll be a real Navy pilot, but I’ve still
got a lot to learn. Taking off from those heaving decks—and
landing on ’em again—is going to be quite different
from the same moves on these nice flat Texas
plains.”

As Scoot thought about it, about the work March
had been doing, he realized that there was a great
deal in common in their fields. Flying a plane wasn’t
much like handling a submarine, but both of them
got away from the normal positions of most people.
.bn 091.png
// 091.png
.pn +1
The flier got away from the earth’s surface in one
direction. The submariner got away from it by going
under. They both handled craft that could travel in
a three-dimensional sphere, not just over the surface
like a tank or a battleship.

“March practices coming up with a Momsen
Lung,” Scoot told himself, “while I practice coming
down with a parachute. That Lung’s just a sort of
underwater parachute.”

A plane was just a vehicle to get explosives into
position for firing at the enemy and so was a submarine,
Scoot concluded. And sometimes they even
handled the same explosives—torpedoes!

“Now if someone would just invent a flying submarine,”
Scoot thought, “March and I could get together
again. But I guess that’s not very likely outside
the comic strips. When you think of the terrific water
pressure a sub has to stand, you can’t very well imagine
hooking wings on to something that heavily
plated with steel. And think of the batteries! No—I’m
afraid March and I will be separated for some
time. It seems a shame, though, sub and plane ought
to make a mighty fine team.”

The next week, as Scoot started off from Corpus
Christi for the training carrier off the shores of Florida,
March was setting off on one of the most important
underwater trips of his training. It was a trip of
two days on which March was to act throughout as
.bn 092.png
// 092.png
.pn +1
navigation officer, still his specialty despite his training
in every other job on the ship. March knew his
navigation thoroughly while he was still on surface
ships, but with the intensive extra study he had gone
through at New London, especially on dead reckoning
and “blind” navigation for underwater travel, he
was a master.

During the trip, on which Stan Bigelow also acted
as engineering officer in charge of the Diesels and
motors, they got the real feeling of being on patrol.
They simulated traveling through enemy waters and
so ran submerged most of the daylight hours, the
Skipper taking a look around occasionally with the
periscope.

Numerous drills were also rehearsed during the
voyage—fire drills, man-overboard drills, crash dives.
They simulated a chlorine gas danger, acting as if the
sea water had got into the batteries to give off the
deadly fumes. Gas masks were out in a hurry and
the battery room was sealed off with only two “casualties.”

“The only thing we haven’t tried on this trip,”
March said at mess the first evening, “is some of the
first aid we’ve learned.”

“Well, if someone will volunteer to simulate appendicitis,”
the Skipper laughed, “I’m sure Pills will try
an operation. But you forgot something else we
haven’t tried—a depth-charge attack.”
.bn 093.png
// 093.png
.pn +1

“I’d just as soon skip that, sir,” Stan said, “at least
until the real thing hits me.”

“No way of simulating it, anyway,” the Captain
commented. “But it’s about the only thing we leave
out in this training.”

“There’s one big difference,” March said. “In training,
if you make a mistake, why you just get a bad
mark from the teacher. In real submarining in war
time, you’re likely to get—dead. And carry a lot of
others along with you.”

“What do you mean?” the Skipper asked. “That’s
true at the beginning, of course, but not now. You’re
really navigating this boat, Mr. Anson. Nobody else
is doing it, and nobody’s checking up on you. If you
do it wrong, we’ll pile up on Montauk Point!”

March gulped. And Stan looked a little worried.

“What’s the matter, Stan?” March asked. “Are you
scared? Think I’m not a good enough navigator?”

“No, I was just wondering,” Stan said, “if the same
thing applied to me—if I’m really totally responsible
for all these engines on this trip.”

“Of course you are, Mr. Bigelow,” the Skipper
smiled. “And I’m sure you’ll handle them very nicely,
just as I’m confident Mr. Anson will take us just where
we’re supposed to go. You are not allowed to take
over these duties until you have proved conclusively,
in your previous work, that you could do so.”
.bn 094.png
// 094.png
.pn +1

As darkness descended over the waters of Long
Island Sound, the training sub surfaced and found
herself just where she was supposed to be at that time,
much to March’s relief. Hiding behind a point of land
near the end of Long Island, they charged their batteries,
while a skeleton crew stayed on watch. Most
of the others went to bed for a few hours’ sleep in the
bunks which lined the walls of most of the rooms.
March and Stan shared a tiny cabin, but were not in
it at the same time, as their watches followed one
another.

Before dawn the next morning the sub set off from
its cove, submerged, and followed the next course
under water. Sending up the periscope at about ten
o’clock, the Skipper saw the target boats at the designated
spot and the sub went through a series of simulated
attacks on enemy shipping, crash diving to
get away from “destroyers” attacking them, lying on
the bottom with all motors shut off for a spell, then
sneaking away at a depth of two hundred feet in a circuitous
course to outwit the enemy waiting for them.

During all the trip the Skipper and Lieutenant
Commander Sutherland were closely observing,
without seeming to do so, the actions of March and
Stan, and of the student diving section which had
shipped with them for this special trip. They were
interested in seeing not just whether the men could
handle their jobs, but <i>how</i> they did it—if calmly or
with too much tension. On occasion one or the other
of the two senior officers would give a conflicting
order or misunderstand something reported by Stan
or March, just to see what happened. Not once did
Stan or March become upset, and the two older men
smiled at each other meaningly.
.bn 095.png
// 095.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>The Sub Set Off and Submerged</i>]
.pm illust 07 navy_095.jpg 433 "<i>The Sub Set Off and Submerged</i>"
.bn 096.png
// 096.png
.pn +1

“Two good officers,” the Skipper said. “I wish I
could get out on patrol again and take along a couple
of new young men like that.”

“I’d go anywhere with them myself,” said Sutherland.
“Why do we have to be so old, Skipper?”

“Didn’t you have enough action in the last war?”
the Captain asked.

“No, sir, and neither did you!”

“Well, men like Anson and Bigelow will have to
do it for us this time, I guess,” the Captain said. “And
I suppose we’re doing an important job if we help at
all to make them such good pigboat officers.”

“They’re ready to be assigned now, don’t you
think?” Sutherland asked.

“Yes, without a doubt. They can’t learn any more
except through actual experience. They might as well
start getting it right away.”

March and Stan felt sure that their training was
coming to an end. So far as classes were concerned,
they knew that they had covered just about all the
work that the school had to give them. They had
studied so hard that they felt mentally exhausted.
.bn 097.png
// 097.png
.pn +1

“I don’t think I could cram one more fact into my
head,” Stan said. “It’s going to take some time for the
facts I’ve been putting in there to assemble themselves
and settle down in some orderly fashion.”

“We’ll be leaving before long,” March said. “But
there’s one thing I want to do before I leave. I want
to see Winnie and Minnie.”

“Oh—in the escape tower?” Stan exclaimed. “Of
course—we’ve never made the hundred-foot escape.”

“We don’t have to, but just about everybody does,”
March said. “Want to do it with me tomorrow?”

“Sure, if there’s a group going through,” Stan
agreed. “By the way, what happened to that fellow
Cobden who flubbed the fifty-foot escape?”

“He made it,” March said. “And he’s already done
the hundred-footer, too. The psychiatrist found out
what was bothering him. When he was just a kid he
was swimming with a gang and one of ’em ducked
him and held his head under water a bit too long.
He got some water in his lungs, passed out, but they
revived him. He’d forgotten all about it, really—except
underneath, of course. He said that later when he
made up his mind to learn how to swim well, it took
a lot of grit to make himself do it. He didn’t know
why it bothered him, but he had the guts to fight it
out and really learn how to swim. Never did any
diving, though—didn’t like being completely under
water.”

“And after all these years that old experience pops
up!” Stan exclaimed.
.bn 098.png
// 098.png
.pn +1

“It just goes to prove that all these tests are so sensible!”
March said. “What if he hadn’t found that out
until he got in a sub on duty somewhere? His going
to pieces then might have wrecked it, or caused
plenty of trouble.”

“He’s all over it now?” Stan asked.

“Sure,” March said. “As soon as the doc got the
story out of him and explained it, Cobden just
laughed and said he felt foolish. Went right over to
the fifty-foot level and did the escape. He even joked
with the Chief and said that he shouldn’t hold his
head under water—it might make a neurotic out of
him.”

“That’s swell!” Stan commented.

“Yes, and he insisted on taking the hundred-foot
escape right away, too,” March went on. “But they
were smart. They wouldn’t let him. They thought he
might be acting under a temporary fit of courage and
bravado and the old fear might come back on him
later. So they made him wait a couple of weeks. It
went fine, though.”

Before going to the escape tower the next day,
March looked up Scott, the radioman, and reminded
him of their date to look at Winnie and Minnie together.
So Scott and March and Stan went to the
hundred-foot tower together that afternoon, donned
their swimming trunks, their Momsen Lungs, and
.bn 099.png
// 099.png
.pn +1
stepped under the metal skirt in the water at the bottom.
As March started up the long cable leading to
the surface, he realized that the hatch and platform
there were made exactly like the top of a real sub.
And there on the walls were the two beautiful mermaids,
Winnie and Minnie, smiling at him. He could
not smile back, because of the Momsen Lung mouthpiece,
but he waved at the girls and went slowly up
past them.

At the fifty-foot platform an instructor swam out
and around him, waving his arms to indicate that
March was moving up at the correct speed. As he
broke the surface he felt fine, as if one of the last acts
at New London had been accomplished. Stan and
Scott followed him quickly, and then the three of
them were presented with the special diplomas, decorated
with pictures of Winnie and Minnie, stating
that they had made the hundred-foot escape.

As March and Stan walked back to their quarters,
March said, “Now I feel ready for anything!”

And waiting for him were his orders—to report in
two weeks to Baltimore, Maryland, for duty aboard
the new submarine, <i>Kamongo</i>.
.bn 100.png
// 100.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 08 EIGHT "<i>KAMONGO</i>"
“<i>Kamongo?</i>” 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
<i>in</i> 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.
.bn 101.png
// 101.png
.pn +1

“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.”

“<i>Kamongo</i>,” muttered Stan, almost to himself.
“<i>Kamongo.</i>”

“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.”
.bn 102.png
// 102.png
.pn +1

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
<i>Kamongo</i>!”

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 <i>Bunker Hill</i>
at San Francisco!
.bn 103.png
// 103.png
.pn +1

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 <i>Kamongo</i>, his new home, his new ship on which
he was to be the navigation officer.
.bn 104.png
// 104.png
.pn +1

“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 <i>Kamongo</i> 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
.bn 105.png
// 105.png
.pn +1
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 <i>was</i> Stan Bigelow!
.bn 106.png
// 106.png
.pn +1

“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.”
.bn 107.png
// 107.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: “<i>They’ve Made You a Lieutenant!</i>”]
//.pm illust 08 navy_107.jpg 435 "“<i>They’ve Made You a Lieutenant!</i>”"
.de div#fig08 img {padding:5px; border:1px solid black;}
.il id=fig08 fn=navy_107.jpg w=436px
.ca “<i>They’ve Made You a Lieutenant!</i>”
.bn 108.png
// 108.png
.pn +1

“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 <i>was</i> theirs. It was <i>Kamongo</i>, 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.”
.bn 109.png
// 109.png
.pn +1

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 <i>he</i> 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
.bn 110.png
// 110.png
.pn +1
was executive officer on the <i>Shark</i> 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 <i>Plymouth</i>,” 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.”
.bn 111.png
// 111.png
.pn +1

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 <i>Shark</i>.
He’s the diving officer, too. McFee was another from
the <i>Shark</i>—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
.bn 112.png
// 112.png
.pn +1
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 <i>Kamongo</i>. 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
.bn 113.png
// 113.png
.pn +1
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 <i>Kamongo</i> 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.
.bn 114.png
// 114.png
.pn +1

“Yes, sir!” cried the radioman with a wide smile.
“I’m certainly happy to see <i>you</i>, sir!” And then he
saw Stan behind March. “And you, too, <i>Lieutenant</i>
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
.bn 115.png
// 115.png
.pn +1
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!
.bn 116.png
// 116.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 09 NINE "DESTINATION—"
All during the morning supplies were being loaded
into <i>Kamongo</i>—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.
.bn 117.png
// 117.png
.pn +1

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
.bn 118.png
// 118.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 119.png
// 119.png
.pn +1

He and Corvin talked with each other, leaning on
the rail and watching the choppy waters slide past
the sleek sides of <i>Kamongo</i>. 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.”
.bn 120.png
// 120.png
.pn +1

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.
.bn 121.png
// 121.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>The Skipper Was at the Door</i>]
.pm illust 09 navy_121.jpg 427 "<i>The Skipper Was at the Door</i>"
.bn 122.png
// 122.png
.pn +1

“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.”
.bn 123.png
// 123.png
.pn +1

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 <i>Kamongo</i> 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.
.bn 124.png
// 124.png
.pn +1

“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!”
.bn 125.png
// 125.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 10 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.”
.bn 126.png
// 126.png
.pn +1

“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.
.bn 127.png
// 127.png
.pn +1

“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.
.bn 128.png
// 128.png
.pn +1

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.
.bn 129.png
// 129.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>The Big Freighter Came Head On</i>]
.pm illust 10 navy_129.jpg 432 "<i>The Big Freighter Came Head On</i>"
.bn 130.png
// 130.png
.pn +1

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.”
.bn 131.png
// 131.png
.pn +1

“How close?” Gray asked sharply.

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

Then everyone <i>did</i> relax. 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.”

“Were <i>you</i> on the bridge, March?” Stan asked.
.bn 132.png
// 132.png
.pn +1

“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 we <i>are</i> an American sub and not a German.
And they’re thanking their lucky stars.”

“Just like us,” McFee added.
.bn 133.png
// 133.png
.pn +1

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 the
<i>Kamongo</i> went 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.”
.bn 134.png
// 134.png
.pn +1

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 were <i>not</i> exactly 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.
.bn 135.png
// 135.png
.pn +1

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 on
<i>Kamongo</i> and 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.
.bn 136.png
// 136.png
.pn +1

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.”
.bn 137.png
// 137.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 11 ELEVEN "UNDER WAY AGAIN"
In San Francisco, Stan and March had two days
for a little of the sightseeing they had looked forward
to, but they both spent most of their time at
other tasks. March passed several hours at a telephone
stand trying to get through a call home.

When it finally went through he talked for five
minutes with his mother and gave her his San
Francisco address. She sounded cheerful and not at
all worried, and asked him if he might see Scoot
Bailey.

“Scoot’s address is San Francisco, too,” she said.

“I know,” March laughed, “and the address of quite
a few thousands of other sailors and soldiers. I think
he must have got out of Frisco before this, unless he
was held up here for lack of transportation. I might
as well try to find out, though.”

“Maybe you’ll see him out where you’re going,”
his mother said.

“I doubt it very much,” March said. “Even though
we did have a joke about how my submarine would
probably have to save him from the Japs out there.”
.bn 138.png
// 138.png
.pn +1

When he finished talking to his mother, he decided
he might as well try to find out if Scoot were still in
town. He had probably arrived two or three weeks
before. It wasn’t likely that he’d still be around, but
sometimes men were held up that long.

“If Scoot <i>were</i> held up that long,” March said to
himself, “he’d be just about crazy. I think he’d start
swimming to get out to his carrier or plane or base
or wherever he’ll be.”

March spent most of the afternoon trying to find
out about Scoot. Each office said it didn’t have the
information or couldn’t give it to him, until he finally
reached the right place and learned that Scoot had
left San Francisco by plane for his “destination”
twelve days before.

He met Stan for dinner, after which they went to
a movie. The Skipper had given them leave until a
few hours before they were due to sail.

After the movie Stan and March went back to their
ship to find that Ray Corvin had suddenly been
taken sick. Just as they came up, the ambulance was
taking him away to the Naval Hospital.

“Burst appendix, I think,” Gray said. “And if that’s
it, I don’t know what we’ll do. I’m hoping it’s nothing
more than an acute indigestion that’ll pass in a day
or two. But Sallini felt sure it was the appendix and
so did the doc that came. That’s why they rushed him
right off to the hospital.”

“Anything we can do?” March asked.

“No, just keep your fingers crossed,” Gray said.
“Ray’s a mighty good man to have aboard a submarine.”
.bn 139.png
// 139.png
.pn +1

“Why, we couldn’t go without him, could we?”
Stan asked.

“The Navy doesn’t wait around for an officer to
get over appendicitis,” Larry said. “We’re scheduled
to pull out of here at dawn day after tomorrow morning,
and that’s when we’ll pull out, with or without
Ray Corvin.”

“What about his family?” March asked. “Didn’t he
say he lived near here?”

“Sure—about fifty miles away,” the Skipper replied.
“He had just phoned them before he got this attack.
I had to tell them he couldn’t come down as he’d
planned. I got in touch with the Commandant here
and he has sent a car down there for Ray’s wife and
daughter. They’ll see him at the hospital.”

In the morning they learned that Corvin’s appendix
<i>had</i> burst and he had been operated on. Larry
Gray had spent a good part of the night at the hospital.

“He’ll pull through all right,” he said wearily. “But
it will be weeks before he’s up and around. We’re
really lucky, I guess, that it didn’t happen when we
were at sea. If it had to happen, it couldn’t have timed
itself better. In port near a hospital—and not far from
Ray’s home. He can go there to convalesce.”
.bn 140.png
// 140.png
.pn +1

“What about us?” Stan asked. “It’s a shame we
can’t have him with us. He’s a swell guy.”

“And a fine officer,” Gray said. “He ought to have
a command of his own, really. Well, I’m not sure what
we’ll do. The Navy can probably find us another
officer in a hurry if we demand it, though it’s not easy
to find a good sub man just like that who isn’t already
occupied.”

He shook his head as he turned to his quarters.
“I’m not sure just what we’ll do,” he said, “except that
we’ll get under way on schedule.”

At the door, he stopped. “March, will you and Stan
help Mac oversee the loading? I’ve got to have a
little rest.”

There wasn’t much to come aboard. Ammunition
and torpedoes were still intact, so they had to take
on only oil and water and food, plus some special
medical supplies for use in tropical climates. Stan had
ordered a few more spare parts for his engines and
motors. With his little repair shop, he felt able then
to take care of almost anything that might happen in
his department.

It was late that afternoon that the Skipper called
March to his quarters.

“Sit down, March,” he said. “I’ve decided what to
do about another officer, but I think I ought to talk
it over with the rest of you first to see if you agree.”

“Whatever you say is all right with the rest of us,
Larry,” March said. “You know that.”
.bn 141.png
// 141.png
.pn +1

“Perhaps,” Larry replied with a smile. “But this
involves a little more work for everybody and I want
you all to agree that it’s best. You see, I think we’ve
got a good crew here—men and officers alike. We get
along. We know our business. Getting along together
is mighty important in this work, and I don’t know
how another officer would fit in even if we could
get one.”

“I know,” March agreed. “You can never tell until
you’ve lived in each other’s laps for a while, as we
have.”

“So I want to skip getting—or trying to get—another
officer to replace Ray,” the Skipper went on. “Plenty
of subs this size have operated with four officers and
so can we. But we’ll have to split up Ray’s work.”

“Okay with me,” March said at once. “What can
I take on?”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you alone first,”
Gray said. “I want <i>you</i> to take over Ray’s job, really.”

“You mean as diving officer,” March said, with a
thrill.

“Yes, and as executive officer, too,” Larry said.

March started to say something, and then he realized
exactly what Gray had said. On his first real
patrol, he was asked to serve as second in command
of a new submarine! It was unbelievable!

“But—Larry,” he said. “Do you think I can handle
it?”
.bn 142.png
// 142.png
.pn +1

“If <i>you</i> think so,” the Skipper said with a smile,
“then I think you can, too. I think you can handle just
about anything on a submarine that you want to
handle.”

“What about McFee?” March asked. “He’s been
out before—been with you before. He’s had more experience.”

“No—not McFee,” Larry said. “Mac’s a wonder at
his job, and he could take over just about any other
submarine job in an emergency. But—well, Mac
knows this as well as I do—he’s just not quite enough
of an executive to handle this. I know that he just
wouldn’t want the job. He doesn’t like to tell people
what to do. He wouldn’t like to be a general manager,
and that’s what an executive officer is, really.”

“Well, you know him well,” March said, “but won’t
he feel a little funny about having a raw recruit, so
to speak, put over him?”

“Not Mac,” Larry answered. “He’s not like that.
Anyway, how about it?”

“Well—I’m mighty pleased that you’ve got enough
confidence in me to ask me,” March said. “And I
surely ought to have as much confidence in myself
as someone else has. Okay, Skipper, you’re on.”

“Swell, March,” Gray said with a broad smile. “I
don’t feel so bad about not having Ray now. We’re
going to do a job in <i>Kamongo</i>.”

“I just hope I can navigate and dive and exec,”
March said, “all at the same time.”
.bn 143.png
// 143.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: “<i>I Want You to Take Over Ray’s Job!</i>”]
//.pm illust 11 navy_143.jpg 430 "“<i>I Want You to Take Over Ray\’s Job!</i>”"
.de div#fig11 img {padding:5px; border:1px solid black;}
.il id=fig11 fn=navy_143.jpg w=430px
.ca “<i>I Want You to Take Over Ray’s Job!</i>”
.bn 144.png
// 144.png
.pn +1

“Well, I never did think a navigating officer had
enough to do just navigating,” Gray said, laughing.
“And you’re never busy navigating when you have
to dive. As for being an exec, a well-run sub with a
good crew doesn’t need much general managing,
you’ll find. Anyway, Mac and Stan will help you out
in that department if you need any help. And don’t
forget that there is, after all, still a Skipper on the boat
who ought to do a little work once in a while.”

Later, in the wardroom with Stan and Mac, Larry
told them all the new setup, and March was happy
to see how obviously pleased with the arrangement
McFee and Stan were.

“I was worried,” McFee said. “I was afraid you’d
get another officer and he’d turn out to be a guy who
pulled puns or was a bridge fiend or something terrible
like that. And we wouldn’t have time to find it
out before we got under way, so we’d have to drown
him at sea.”

“Well, I’d better go report to the Commandant and
tell him the arrangement,” Larry said. “The Navy
likes to know about these things, even if they do leave
most decisions up to a ship’s captain.”

After Gray left, March stepped into the control
room. Scotty rushed up to him and shook his hand
vigorously.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant!” the radioman cried.
“Gee, it’s swell!”
.bn 145.png
// 145.png
.pn +1

“Thanks, Scotty,” March grinned. “But how on
earth did the crew ever learn this so fast?”

“Didn’t you ever hear that the crew always knows
the important things before the officers on a sub?”
Scott said with a laugh.

“It must be, it must be,” March replied, with a
shake of his head.

When Larry Gray returned from seeing the Commandant,
March thought he noticed a sparkle in his
eyes and a smile on his face that he was trying not
to show.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Larry replied, looking a little embarrassed.
“I just reported and he said okay. Everything
set for dawn?”

“Everything set,” March replied.

“Oh, by the way,” Larry said, as if trying to change
the subject. “You move your stuff into Ray’s quarters.
Then you and Stan can both have a little more
room to move around in.”

“Okay, Skipper,” March answered. “Could we see
Ray before we leave?”

“No, no more visitors,” Larry said. “His family is
there, and they let me see him for a minute to say
goodbye and good luck from all of us. He’s feeling
pretty lousy with drainage tubes in him, and worse
than that because he can’t go along with us. If they’d
.bn 146.png
// 146.png
.pn +1
let him, he’d try to get up and come along right now.
He says he could recuperate faster in a sub, anyway,
than on dry land. He highly approved of your appointment,
by the way.”

It was an hour later that March learned the reason
for the Skipper’s hidden smile and slightly embarrassed
look. Noticing a new large sheet of paper on
the bulletin board in the crew’s quarters he paused
to look at it.

“Scuttlebutt Special!!!!” it read. “The brass hats
have seen the light at last and promoted our Old Man
to Lieutenant Commander! It’s about time!”

March walked quickly back to the wardroom
where he found Larry Gray and McFee smoking and
talking.

“Well, I was told that the crew knew everything
important before the officers,” he said. “But why did
you want to keep it secret?”

Larry almost blushed.

“Oh, so you found out?”

“It’s on the bulletin board!” March exclaimed.

“Oh, my golly! These sub crews!” Larry exclaimed.
“They can even read your thoughts!”

“Say, what’s all this about?” Mac cried. “Let me in
on it!”

“Go read it for yourself,” March said. “The Skipper
made me find it out the hard way.”
.bn 147.png
// 147.png
.pn +1

As Mac squeezed out from behind the little table
and hurried down the companionway, March put out
his hand and shook Larry’s.

“Congratulations, Skipper,” he said.

“Thanks, March,” Gray said. “Some of the crew on
shore liberty must’ve run into it up at headquarters
somehow. They don’t miss a thing.”

They not only missed nothing, but they did not
miss a chance to do something about it. After mess
a delegation from the crew appeared and asked for
an audience with the Skipper. He sensed what was
coming and met them in the control room.

Pete Kalinsky, Chief Petty Officer in the torpedo
room, was the spokesman.

“Lieutenant Commander Gray, sir,” he said. “Your
crew is very happy to see you gettin’ up where you
belong, though they’ve got to come through a few
more times before it’s okay with us. We knew you
wouldn’t bother about such things, but the <i>Kamongo’s</i>
captain ought to do himself proud, so on behalf
of the crew I give you these.”

He coughed, acted as if he were about to add something
else, then said “Sir,” lamely, and backed up.

Larry took the small packages Pete had handed
him and undid them with fingers that shook slightly.
First came a set of three gold stripes, two wide and
one narrow, for his blue uniform. Then the same in
black for his work uniform. Then shoulder insignia
and finally two gold oak-leaves for pinning on his
shirt collars.
.bn 148.png
// 148.png
.pn +1

March, who stood behind Larry, felt a lump in his
throat. He knew how Larry must be feeling and wondered
how he could keep the tears out of his eyes.
There was a long silence, and March knew that Larry
was waiting for his voice to get under control
before he spoke. Everyone was looking at him as he
fingered the marks of his new rank which had been
presented to him by his crew. Not only had they got
the news almost as soon as it had happened, but somebody
had taken up a collection and rushed downtown,
during his last hours of shore leave, to buy these
things for him.

“You know, men,” Larry spoke quietly, “it’s naturally
very pleasant to get a promotion. But when
you’re about to set out in a pigboat to sink as many
Jap ships as possible, it doesn’t seem very important.
And certainly gold braid and pretty gold leaves aren’t
important at all. But I’ll tell you what really <i>is</i> important,
what really <i>does</i> count for a lot when you’re
about to get under way for enemy waters. That is the
knowledge that I have a crew like mine! I’ve got a
crew that is proud of its boat, proud of its Skipper,
proud of itself. A crew that’ll do something—like this—like
what you’ve just done—well, it just can’t be
licked, that’s all.”
.bn 149.png
// 149.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 12 TWELVE "VISIT TO WAKE ISLAND"
They went all the way to Pearl Harbor on the surface.
They had beautiful clear weather each day.
Jap ships and subs and planes had been cleared from
the entire area so effectively that American submarines
did not need to fear being mistaken by their
own patrols for Jap subs. They made good time, and
the crew and officers alike were happy, in the highest
of spirits.

March laughed, one day, as he looked down from
the bridge and saw clothes drying on the line, put
there by the crew who took the first opportunity to
give their things a good sunning.

“This doesn’t look much like war,” he mused. “Very
domestic scene, really. And some of the men have
been on deck enough to get a little sunburn. Not the
usual picture of the submariner, pale and dehydrated,
after his long days beneath the waters of the
deep.”

But he knew there would be plenty of that life
ahead of them. He was happy that this part of the
trip was so pleasant. It meant a lot to the crew, who
were inclined sometimes to be superstitious, despite
all protestations to the contrary. They felt that everything
would go well with them since the start of their
real patrol had been so auspicious.
.bn 150.png
// 150.png
.pn +1

The Skipper had opened his orders twelve hours
out from San Francisco. They were no great surprise
to anyone. They were to go by way of Pearl Harbor
to a submarine base in the southwest Pacific, a tiny
island where a sub tender nursed its brood of pigboats,
fed them oil and torpedoes and supplies before
sending them out to break up the Jap shipping lines.

The stop at Pearl Harbor was short, but March enjoyed
it, remembering when he and Scoot had left
the <i>Plymouth</i> there, heading back for the United
States and their training in submarines and airplanes.
Much to his surprise there was a letter for him. He
had not thought anyone would have a chance to
write since learning his San Francisco address. The
envelope, a plain one with a typed address, gave him
no clue:

It was from Scoot! Dated three weeks before, it
said, “In case you come this way you’ll get this. I’m
on the carrier <i>Bunker Hill</i> heading for where all of
us head when we get out here. Don’t forget to come
and save me from those Japs when I holler for you!”

That was all, but it was good. It was just like Scoot
and it made March feel fine to read it and to picture
again his old friend. He showed the note to Larry
when he went back to <i>Kamongo</i>, and told him about
Scoot Bailey.
.bn 151.png
// 151.png
.pn +1

“Sounds like a swell guy,” Larry said. “Why
couldn’t he have gone into submarines, too?”

“No—he’s swell, but he’s not right for pigboats,”
March said. “Too much of an individualist. He’ll take
orders fine, do a swell job, but he’s best when he’s on
his own. Flying a fighter plane off a carrier is just exactly
right for Scoot.”

“Well, you never can tell—maybe we’ll run into
him,” Larry said. “Stranger things have happened in
wartime.”

They sailed from Pearl Harbor looking for action,
but several days went by without a sign of ship or
plane of any kind.

“We’ve got to run into something,” Larry said one
day in the wardroom. “I’d hate to show up at the
base with all my torpedoes intact, without a single
Jap ship accounted for. Why, we’re going through
about nine hundred miles of enemy waters and we’ve
got to get something on the way.”

“The boys out here have been scaring them into
their ratholes,” McFee said. “They don’t come out
any more than they have to.”

“But that’s the point,” Larry said. “They’ve got to
come out sometime. They’ve got garrisons on a lot of
these islands, and garrisons need to be supplied.”

“Well, they’re just letting the garrisons on lots of
those islands starve to death,” Stan said.
.bn 152.png
// 152.png
.pn +1

“Sure, in the Marshalls and a few other places where
we’ve got ’em surrounded,” the Skipper said. “But
they’re still supplying and reinforcing plenty of places
around these parts. They lose some ships every day.
I just want them to lose a couple to us, as we’re passing
by on our way to more important things.”

“What about Wake Island?” March asked.

“Yes, they’re still supplying Wake,” Larry said.
“We’re not too far away from it any more, but we
haven’t got it really cut off. But our course isn’t very
close to Wake.”

“Couldn’t we just edge over that way and have a
look?” March asked.

“Well, now, maybe we could,” Larry said. “Nobody
told us just what course to follow out here. When
we get a bit further we’ve got to run submerged most
of the time anyway. We just laid down the straightest
route to our destination. But a little detour wouldn’t
do any harm. Lieutenant Anson, carry us over near
Wake.”

With a smile, March left the wardroom and went
to the navigating desk. There he plotted the course
for Wake Island, went up on the conning tower for
a shot of the sun to check his course, and gave the
new course to the helmsman. Then he went back to
the wardroom.

“About six hundred Army-Navy time, courtesy of
Whoozis watches,” he announced, “we shall sight
Wake Island.”
.bn 153.png
// 153.png
.pn +1

“Hm, works out very nicely,” Larry said. “Tomorrow
morning just after dawn. We can travel on the
surface all night and submerge just before the approach.”

Everyone was up and about early the next morning,
even those who had been on watch during the
night. Breakfast was over and officers and men were
at their stations before dawn.

“We may get nothing, of course,” Larry said. “We
mustn’t get our hopes up.”

“Okay, Skipper,” McFee said. “We’re just dropping
by for a look and if anything’s there we’ll try
to take care of it.”

“Rig ship for diving,” the Skipper said, and the
word was passed throughout the boat. One by one
the departments reported back to March that everything
was ready. The long slim boat slid under the
water, the whine of the electric motors replacing the
throbbing of the Diesels. As March handled the
diving operations, he recalled the days when it had
seemed to him such a complicated and difficult task.
Now it was a simple straightforward job, especially
when carried out by a crew that knew its job.

After about twenty minutes, March turned to
Larry. “I think we ought to be able to have a look
now,” he said.

“Up periscope,” Larry said, reaching forward to
grab the adjusting handles as they rose into position.
.bn 154.png
// 154.png
.pn +1
He adjusted the eyepiece and looked, focussing
with the handles. March saw his mouth open slightly
in a whispered exclamation.

“Have a look, March,” he said. “I think we’ve raised
something.”

March looked and saw the low-lying atolls where
the Marines had for so long battled the Japs against
great odds. It would do his heart good to kill a few
Japs at Wake, entirely apart from the excellence of
the idea in general. He located the harbor and then
saw two dark blobs in it.

“There’s something there, all right,” he said. “Can’t
be sure what they are yet, though.”

“Down ’scope,” Larry said. “We’ll get a little closer
and have another look.”

There was almost nothing said as the boat moved
silently forward under the water, until Larry ordered
the periscope up again. Then he exclaimed aloud at
what he saw.

“Three of ’em!” he cried. “Looks as if they just got
here themselves, probably came in under cover of
darkness. Lighters are just tying up to them to unload.”

“What are they?” March asked. “Can you make
out?”

“One’s a troopship,” Larry replied, “loaded to the
gunwales! The men’ll go ashore in the lighters. They
haven’t even started yet. Must be relief for the garrison—old
ones will be going back.”
.bn 155.png
// 155.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>He Adjusted the Eyepiece and Looked</i>]
.pm illust 12 navy_155.jpg 424 "<i>He Adjusted the Eyepiece and Looked</i>"
.bn 156.png
// 156.png
.pn +1

“Oh, no they won’t,” March said. “Not yet, anyway,
because their relief is going to be cut down in
number right soon now.”

“Here, March, have a look,” Larry said. “I think
one’s a tanker, one an ammunition ship, or a freighter
with the supplies.”

March stepped to the periscope and looked carefully.

“Tanker and troopship are certain,” he said. “Can’t
be sure about the other, though. How many do you
think we can get?”

“Not more than two,” Larry said. “They’ll get
planes after us that fast. We’ll have to get away after
two, maybe after one. Can’t tell until we’re in the
middle of it. But what about all the reefs around here?
Can we get in position to fire?”

“If we’re good we can,” March said. “Come on,
I’ll show you. I’ve been studying the Wake Island
chart, and we know it’s right.”

Larry followed March to the navigation desk,
where they both studied the chart of Wake Island.

“We have to go west first,” March said. “Then cut
back sharply in a hairpin turn—go in about four hundred
yards, turn about thirty degrees to starboard
without going forward too much, fire and then back
away. Backing will be slow, but we can’t turn her for
a couple of hundred yards. Think we can make it?”
.bn 157.png
// 157.png
.pn +1

“Deep water out here?” Larry asked, pointing to a
point about a mile off shore.

“Plenty deep,” March replied.

“Then I think we can do it,” Larry said. “Those
ships are worth the chance, anyway. If we’re slow
getting the first one, we’ll cut and run.”

“Which one first?” March asked.

“The tanker,” Larry said. “Most important. Planes
can’t fly without the gas and oil it carries.”

“Not the troopship?”

“No, too many of the men will be able to swim or
get ashore some way,” Larry said. “We could count
on about fifty percent casualties there. But the tanker—that’ll
be all gone, and maybe set fire to a few other
things. Tanker first, then troopship.”

The Skipper gave orders to move the boat to the
west around the reefs as March had indicated. March
stood close by the soundman, who could tell at every
instant just how far they were from the rocky shoals
that might trap them.

Slowly the boat moved forward and then, when
March gave the word, it turned and moved in toward
the island.

“I hope I’m right,” March said to himself. “There’s
not very much room here, though if those ships got
through, we surely can.”

The sound man picked up reefs to the right and
then to the left—nothing ahead, and March breathed
more deeply. They went forward for a few moments,
still moving slowly.
.bn 158.png
// 158.png
.pn +1

“About now, March?” Larry asked quietly.

“Yes, this ought to be it,” March replied. He saw
Scotty at the soundman’s side, the other crew members
standing by their levers and valves. They were
all calm and quiet, but with just a touch of excited
expectancy in their manner.

The Skipper gave the order for the turn to starboard,
for the cutting of motors. Then he called for
the periscope. As it rose from its well in the deck he
crouched and grabbed it. Then March realized why
Larry was a good Skipper. In just about two seconds
he had seen everything there was to see. He called
out the course settings for the torpedoes, first for two
to go into the sides of the tanker, then for two to go
into the sides of the transport.

The settings were called back to him, and he called,
without a moment’s hesitation—“Fire one! Fire two!”
He waited a moment, glancing at his watch. “Fire
three! Fire four!”

Stepping away from the eyepiece he called, “Down
periscope!” and followed it immediately with “Reverse
motors!”

As the whine of the motors started and the boat
slid backwards in the water, he kept his eyes on his
watch, finger in the air as if counting. He lifted his
eyes and—thud! The submarine trembled and shook
.bn 159.png
// 159.png
.pn +1
from the explosion of a torpedo against the side of a
ship. There was a wild cry throughout the pigboat
as the crew whooped with glee, so loud that it almost
drowned out the roar of the second torpedo hitting
home against the tanker.

Men danced and jigged, but not for a moment did
they take their hands from their levers or wheels, or
their eyes from the dials they watched.

“You can turn now, Skipper,” March said quietly,
and Larry gave the order for the ship to turn and
dive deep as it cleared the reefs.

The words were not out of his mouth when another
roar sent a tremble through the submarine and
another shout arose. It was a short roar because the
men stopped to listen for the second torpedo that had
been sent against the troopship. But nothing came,
and it was Larry who broke the silence.

“A miss, men,” he said. “Only one got through.”

“Well, what can you expect?” Scotty demanded.
“After all, the position we were in!”

“Are still in!” Larry exclaimed. “Only a hundred
feet! Take her to two-fifty!”

Everybody adjusted his body to the slope of the
boat as it slid rapidly down in the water. In a few
minutes, they knew, depth charges would be dropped
in an attempt to locate them. Certainly planes would
be in the air and perhaps fast small boats something
like our own PT-boats would be dashing out of the
harbor after them.
.bn 160.png
// 160.png
.pn +1

Larry grabbed the phone from the interphone orderly
and spoke into it.

“You heard the blasts,” he said, knowing that men
all over the boat would hear him. “Two into a Jap
tanker. One into a troopship. Second one there was
a dud. You can expect some depth charges, but I
think we’ll be down away from them. Later we’ll go
up for a look and I’ll tell you what we did.”

March knew that all the men appreciated that.
They were tense and excited and they wanted to
know exactly what was going on. Their Skipper didn’t
keep them waiting long. They were part of this just
as much as he was.

They leveled off at two hundred and fifty feet just
as they felt the first bumping rattle of a depth charge
explosion. But it was far away and hardly bothered
them. In two minutes another came a little closer.
Everyone gripped the nearest solid support and held
on. March said to himself, “You’re going through a
depth bombing. This was the one thing they couldn’t
simulate at New London. Well, how do you like it?”

And he answered himself, “It’s not so bad.”

He looked around at the men in the crew. They
held on and they listened, but they did not look frightened.
Larry grinned at him.

“Lousy aim they’ve got,” he said. “They’re not coming
very close.”
.bn 161.png
// 161.png
.pn +1

“What about a little zigzagging?” March asked.

“No, we might zig or zag into something,” Larry
said. “They obviously haven’t located us and are just
dropping at random. Also, we’re deep enough to be
below the explosions. After all, the biggest force of
the blow is above the exploding charge. We’ll just
keep sliding along the way we’re going. They’ll give
up after a while.”

The charges exploded regularly, but not for long.
Soon they hardly felt a jar when one went off.

“They think we’re hanging around back there for
a look,” Larry said. “They don’t know how safe we
play. I’m not going back for my look for two hours.
So just keep going.”

They did keep going, and for two hours. By the
time they circled around and came back toward the
island there were no more depth charges. About a
mile away they surfaced quickly and the Skipper
took a quick look. Then the ’scope went down and
March ordered another dive.

“Sorry you couldn’t have had a look, March,” Larry
said, “but I didn’t—”

He was interrupted by a shaking roar that almost
spilled him off his feet. March, who had one hand
against the bulkhead, grabbed him.

“As I was saying,” Larry went on with a smile, “I
didn’t want to keep the ’scope up any longer than I
had to. They spotted it pretty fast, didn’t they?”
.bn 162.png
// 162.png
.pn +1

Another roar was the answer, followed by another
and another, and half a dozen more. They were bad
shocks, worse than those they had experienced at
first, but the sub had got down fast enough to get
away from the worst effects.

“What did you see?” March asked between blasts.

“Listen,” Larry said. He took the interphone and
gave his news to the whole ship. “Tanker down—only
the bow showing, oil-covered water blazing over the
entire bay. Total loss for the Nips on that one. Troopship
looks half busted in two, but still afloat, though
listing badly. No men on her. Plenty of bodies in
the water. Lots got ashore, I’m sure, but plenty got
burned in the oil trying to make it.”

A loud cheer rose through the ship as Larry handed
the phone back to the orderly.

“Well, anyway,” he said. “It was certainly worth
four torpedoes!”

As the <i>Kamongo</i> slid down through the dark
waters, the depth charges grew less intense. Finally
they got away from them entirely, and resumed the
course for their southwest Pacific base.

“Don’t let that fool you,” Larry said, as they sat in
the wardroom having a cup of coffee. “There weren’t
any sound detectors there, so we got away pretty
easily. When the destroyers are after you, they <i>follow</i>
you—and their depth charges are bigger. This was
a setup!”
.bn 163.png
// 163.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 13 THIRTEEN "SCOOT MEETS TWO ZEROS"
Scoot Bailey lounged in the ready room of the aircraft
carrier <i>Bunker Hill</i> as the big ship plunged
through heavy seas at top speed. They had been at
sea for some weeks now, in company with a cruiser
and three destroyers, heading southwest from Pearl
Harbor for scenes of battle. For the last two days the
five ships had put on full steam, and everyone aboard
knew that something was up.

“Something’s cooking up ahead,” Scoot said to
Turk Bottomley, who sat next to him, legs stretched
out on a straightback in front of him.

“Obviously, my friend,” Turk said. “Something’s
been cooking in this part of the world almost all the
time lately.”

“I thought we’d be heading for the Marshalls and
the Carolines,” Scoot said, “to get in on the fighting
there. But I guess they’ve got things well in hand in
those parts. We’re well past them now, and to the
south.”

“No flying for two days now,” Turk said. “That’s
what’s been bothering me. Before we got off once in
a while for a look around, anyway. I want to fly, that’s
all. I won’t worry about where. Let the Admirals send
me where they want me, but let me fly and fight when
I get there—and, if possible, on the way, too.”
.bn 164.png
// 164.png
.pn +1

“Gee, I thought I loved flying,” Scoot said, with a
laugh, “but I never held a candle to you.”

“Yeah, I even resent walkin’,” Turk said. “Seems
like I should’ve had wings instead of legs—just for
gettin’ around short distances. I’d still want that
Grumman Hellcat for longer jumps.”

“They’re sweet ships, all right,” Scoot said. “I used
to dream of flying a Wildcat—thought there just
couldn’t be anything better than that. And I still
thought so when I finally flew one off the training
carrier. She was an old one, but still a Wildcat. Then
when I get here on the <i>Bunker Hill</i>, I find the brand
new F6F’s—and Hellcat is the right name. They’re
what a Wildcat pilot dreams up as impossibly perfect
when he thinks about what kind of plane he’ll have
in Heaven.”

“Poetic, now, aren’t you, Scoot?” Turk said. “I can’t
put words together that way, but it sounds nice when
you talk about planes. Sometimes, when you get real
excited, you almost talk the way I feel.”

Suddenly they sat up, as did the four or five others
in the large room. Other pilots began to pile into the
room followed by most of the big-shot officers on the
ship.

“Oh-oh—here it comes!” Scoot said. “Now we’ll find
out. It looks like a briefing.”
.bn 165.png
// 165.png
.pn +1

There were fighter pilots, the pilots, gunners
and observers of torpedo and scout dive bombers,
and the squadron leaders of each group, accompanied
by the particular vice-admiral in command of the
force now racing across the Pacific. This rugged,
beetle-browed gentleman lost little time in getting
down to business. Addressing the flying officers before
him while other officers hung a huge map on
the wall behind, he quickly gave them the information
they wanted.

“You’ve all known we’ve been heading for something
as fast as we could get there,” he said, in clipped
tones. “Now I can tell you, because we’ve made speed
and are not far away. Within a few hours we should
contact other carriers and ships going to the same
objective. That objective is the Jap Naval base at
Truk.”

There was a gasp of surprise throughout the room
as the Admiral paused for a second.

“There’s a mighty fine batch of ships in Truk Harbor,”
he said, “and, we have reason to believe, not too
much protection. Carriers—and there’ll be six of
them—will go in close enough to launch all planes.
Battleships, cruisers, and destroyers will go in closer.”

Turk Bottomley was sitting on the edge of his chair,
as if he would bound from the room and race to his
plane in a second, but the Admiral continued.
.bn 166.png
// 166.png
.pn +1

“The time is now about 1600. We shall rendezvous
with the others of the task force at about 2030. You
will take off on a schedule your squadron commanders
will give you beginning at 0430, arriving over
Truk about dawn—the first wave, that is. All scout
and torpedo planes will go to Truk, one-half the fighters
will remain as protection with or near the carrier.
Your squadron commanders will go over all necessary
details with you now. That is all.”

The Admiral stalked from the room, and the commanders
prepared to go over all details. They
launched at once into detailed descriptions of the
objective, the schedule of flights.

“If we’ve figured right,” one of them said, “we’ll
stick around two days, throwing in wave after wave.
We must meet our schedule because it ties in precisely
with the schedules of the other carriers in the
group. We’ll not give them a minute to catch their
breath. There’ll be planes coming at them continuously.”

For two hours the briefing session continued. Photographs
and maps were shown, man after man asked
questions. Finally every flier felt that he knew Truk
and its environs as he knew his own home town.
Then came the announcement of the fliers who would
remain with the carrier instead of going to the attack
on Truk and there were groans about the room as
men heard their names called.
.bn 167.png
// 167.png
.pn +1

“One minute,” the fighter squadron commander
called. “I think the Old Man gave a wrong impression.
The names I’m calling won’t stay with the carrier
both days. They’ll stay behind the first day but
go on to the attack the second day, while the first
group remains with the carrier.”

Groans turned to laughter, but Turk Bottomley
was furious. He was going out the first day, but he
wanted to go out the second day, too. He made his
feelings known in no uncertain terms.

“Never mind, Turk,” the commander laughed.
“You can go up and fly around and around the <i>Bunker
Hill</i> all day!”

So it was that Turk flew off in the dark morning
hours, while Scoot Bailey stayed behind envying
those lucky men whose names had been opposite the
odd numbers on the list instead of the even. As plane
after plane rolled across the heaving deck of the
flat-top and roared off into the overcast sky, Scoot
muttered under his breath, wishing that each one
might have been his.

Dawn came and there was no word. Scoot went up
with half a dozen other fighters to keep eyes on the
sea, to attack any Japanese craft that came through
to get them. But for hours there was no sign of a plane—either
of the enemy or of their own.

Then Scoot, just after he had landed again, heard
them far away—the roar of many powerful engines.
And in a moment he saw the tiny specks that raced
.bn 168.png
// 168.png
.pn +1
so fast they soon became planes circling in mighty
sweeps around the carrier. The first one came in as
the signalman waved his paddles for a landing. Deck
men and the fighter pilots who were not up in the air
lined the edge of the deck, and officers crowded the
bridge. As the first pilot scrambled from his plane,
the deck crew grabbed it, folded its wings, and raced
it back to the elevator so the next plane could land.

In a moment the pilot was talking—and in a few
minutes he was joined by another, then another and
another.

“We caught ’em with their pants down!” the first
yelled. “Flatfooted. We caught ’em right on the airfields!
They couldn’t get off.”

“And when the bombers came in,” cried the next,
“they had a clear field. How those boys dove! Oil
tanks blew up! Ships strewn all over the place, clogging
up the harbor!”

One after another the pilots told their stories while
mechanics checked their engines, filled the tanks
with gas, the guns with ammunition. They all told of
how the Japs had been taken by surprise, how plane
after plane had been wrecked on the field, how torpedo
planes and scout-dive bombers came in with
little more than scattered antiaircraft fire to get in
their way.
.bn 169.png
// 169.png
.pn +1

“We’ve hardly lost a plane so far!” one said. “And
have we got planes around there! I haven’t seen so
many planes since I was at Corpus Christi—but these
are not trainers. Fighters, torpedo planes, bombers—coming
in like flocks of wild geese. Why, I was just
as worried trying not to bump into some of
our own craft as by any opposition the Japs put up.
The Old Man must be mighty happy. Has he got full
reports?”

“He’s gettin’ ’em first-hand right this minute!” the
executive officer of the carrier replied. “He’s up
there himself in a scout, looking over the whole business.
And you can bet your bottom dollar he’s the
happiest man on earth!”

“What was prettiest,” another joined in, “was seeing
the planes from the other carriers coming in.
From every direction! We were in the first wave, and
just as we pulled up and away, there they came—wave
number two from the northeast, and a little
farther away wave number three from the southeast.
You had to hurry and do your job so you could get
out of the way of the next batch coming along.”

“Where’s Turk Bottomley?” Scoot asked. “Did any
of you see him?”

“I saw him circling around for another go at one
of the airfields,” a torpedo-plane pilot said. “At least I
think it was Turk’s Hellcat I saw. He was joining up
with the second wave and going in again.”
.bn 170.png
// 170.png
.pn +1

“He ought to be back by now,” someone said. “All
the other fighters are in—except Tommy Mixler. I saw
him go down in the harbor. Ack-ack.”

There was a moment’s silence at this unwanted
mention of a casualty, of a friend they’d see no more,
and then—as if they were forcibly clearing their
minds of any such thoughts—the pilots went on chattering
again. Their planes were almost ready for them
to take off again when they all saw a lone fighter circling
the ship. Zooming his engine and doing a beautiful
wing-over turn, the pilot brought his plane
around into the wind for a landing on the heaving
deck of the carrier.

“That’s Turk, all right,” Scoot said. “Home from
the wars.”

And it was Turk, almost out of gas and completely
out of ammunition. He had stayed around as long as
he could, and now he wanted to be off again within
five minutes. As soon as his plane was shoved out of
the way where it could be checked and get its new
supplies of gas and ammunition, the fighters who
had come in earlier began to take off again. They
were off on schedule, going in for their second attack
on Japan’s Pearl Harbor of the Pacific!

All day long it went on, with Scoot and the others
staying aloft, on the alert for the Jap planes that
would surely come through to attack them. No matter
how great the surprise, some planes would get
off the airfields at Truk and others would race in from
other Jap strongholds. They would go for the carriers
first, of course, for the flat-tops were the big
prizes. With the base ship gone, the planes would
be lost without a “home” to return to.
.bn 171.png
// 171.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>Some Fighters Stayed With the Carrier</i>]
.pm illust 13 navy_171.jpg 432 "<i>Some Fighters Stayed With the Carrier</i>"
.bn 172.png
// 172.png
.pn +1

But Scoot searched in vain through the skies as the
afternoon turned to evening. The <i>Bunker Hill’s</i> own
planes came back for the last time but still no Japs
appeared. Scoot was raging—all day long without a
crack at a Jap! And they were right in the heart of
what the Nips considered their private ocean!

“Is there anything left of Truk for us to get?” he
asked that night. “Didn’t everything get blasted off
the map?”

“There’ll be plenty left for everybody,” the squadron
commander replied. “We’ve got half the ships in
the harbor and we’ll get most of the rest tomorrow.
Some of them scattered and ran but the boys from
the carriers to the north are catching them. There
are emergency airfields around that will be in use
tomorrow, and you can be sure that there’ll be planes
from other Jap garrisons in this area. You boys will
have a fight on your hands tomorrow all right.”

“We’d better have!” Scoot exclaimed. “Imagine!
Not a lousy Jap showed up today!”

It was with grim anger that Scoot took off the next
morning, reveling in the almost unlimited power of
his Hellcat as it roared up into the blue skies and circled,
heading for Truk. Scoot was in the squadron
leader’s group, and their objective was the big airfield
.bn 173.png
// 173.png
.pn +1
south of the city. The Japs would have been
working on it all night, despite constant attacks by
the bombers, and they’d have at least one landing
strip in shape for their planes to get off. The fighters
were to strafe the field, then go up as protective cover
for the dive bombers. These would be coming into the
harbor right after them, to get the rest of the ships
that still lay there.

Roaring low over the choppy waters of the Pacific,
the speedy planes raced toward the tiny group of
islands that the Japs had made into a great naval fortress,
a fortress that was being knocked to pieces by
American planes.

As they approached the island, Scoot saw ahead
several American ships—two cruisers and half a dozen
destroyers.

“They’re doing it, boys,” his squadron leader’s
voice came over the radio. “The surface ships are
moving in close to shell the island!”

Scoot almost laughed in happiness. It was daring
enough for American carriers to penetrate supposedly
Japanese waters and give a pasting to their impregnable
fort. Carriers could stay a couple of hundred
miles out while their planes flew in to the attack. And
they were fast ships which could get away in a hurry
if they needed to. But here were the big-gun ships
moving to within fifteen or twenty miles to shell
the island. And the Jap Navy was either hiding or
running away—in its own back yard!
.bn 174.png
// 174.png
.pn +1

The fighter planes gunned their engines in greeting
as they passed the American ships, and Scoot
could see the crews waving and laughing happily
on the decks of the ships.

“They’ll start their shelling just about the time the
dive bombers finish the first part of their job,” Scoot
guessed. “And when they’ve pounded away a couple
of hours the bombers will come back in again for
another attack.”

Up ahead lay the island. At better than three hundred
miles an hour the huge flight of fighters went
over the shore, heading straight for the airfield. They
paid no attention to the twenty or thirty Jap fighters
high above them, did not even notice the bursts, of
ack-ack shells that puffed around and ahead of them.
They were too low and traveling too fast for ack-ack
to be very effective or accurate—and as for those
Zeros, the American planes would take care of them
in just a few minutes.

Scoot saw the airfield up ahead, saw Jap planes on
the runways ready to take off. And the next minute
he was roaring over the field, not thirty feet above
the runway, watching the Jap ground crews running
for cover, seeing a few firing rifles futilely into the
air at the speeding planes. He pressed the machine-gun
button and felt the slight backward push to the
plane as the battery of fifty caliber machine guns
.bn 175.png
// 175.png
.pn +1
poured out its converging fire of destruction. Jap
after Jap, fleeing toward the hangars, was cut down
in his tracks. Scoot concentrated a terrific burst of
fire on the plane directly ahead of him, saw a flash
as it caught fire, then pulled up and away with a shout
that could have been heard half a mile away had not
the air been filled with the roar of powerful engines.

He circled and came back over the field the other
way, this time dipping to pour a hail of lead into the
open doors of a hangar.

“How did the other boys happen to leave that one
standing?” Scoot wondered. “The others are all down
in ruins.” It was not easy to demolish a big hangar
with a fighting plane, so Scoot left that for the bombers,
knowing that he had taken care of a few Japs
huddling inside the building and had put forty or
fifty holes in the plane standing near the front.

After one more sweep over the field, he pointed his
Hellcat’s nose at the sun and climbed. But there
was something up there on the sun, he thought, looking
intently. Sunspots? What a funny thing to think
of at a moment like this. He’d hardly be noticing
sunspots—but he <i>would</i> almost instinctively notice
Jap Zeros when they were diving at him out of the
sun.

“That’s what they are!” Scoot exclaimed. “But they
made one big mistake. They thought we were going
to strafe the field a couple more times and they’d
.bn 176.png
// 176.png
.pn +1
come down on us out of the sun while we were busy
doing it. I’ll bet they’re confused now, seeing us coming
right up at them head-on.”

The first groups of the fighter squadrons were all
aiming for the clouds after their attack on the field,
while the next groups were carrying on the strafing
job. And Scoot knew, too, that two groups were high
in the air, serving as cover for just such a Jap attack.

“Those Nips may not know it,” he muttered to himself,
“but I’ll bet there’s a flock of Hellcats coming
out of the sun right behind ’em.”

The Zeros were larger now, growing larger every
minute as they dived down at the formations of American
planes trying to climb away from the field. It
looked as if all the planes were determined to crash
head-on into each other at the greatest possible
speed.

Scoot heard a short command come over the radio
from his squadron leader. He grinned.

“Just what I thought he’d do,” he told himself, and
then shoved the stick hard to the right, as he pulled
back on the throttle. The American group split, half
going to the right, half to the left, in a maneuver so
sudden and sharp that the Japs in their Zeros could
hardly believe their eyes at seeing planes which had
been almost in their gunsights disappear so quickly.
They still thought that their lightly armored Zeros
were the most highly maneuverable planes in the
world. They’d not had much experience yet with the
new Hellcats.
.bn 177.png
// 177.png
.pn +1

Scoot’s wing tipped sharply, and the craft seemed
to stall. Then, giving her the gun again, he flipped
completely over. He knew that the Japs, in that part
of a second, would have roared past the spot he had
just been in and now the American planes could chase
<i>them</i> on down toward the field, coming in from the
side and rear.

“There they are!” Scoot cried. “Just about set up
in position!”

The first Jap planes were pulling up desperately
from their dive, attempting to get back in position to
meet the attack of the Americans. Scoot picked the
leading Jap plane, got it in his sights and roared up
on it from a little below. He held his fire, held it a
fraction of a second longer, then pushed the fire-control
button with a vicious jab that almost drove it
out of its socket.

Black smoke crept back from the Zero, then flame
which fast grew into a huge sheet of fire enveloping
the entire craft. It slowed, seemed to stagger a moment
in the air. Losing power at once because of
its climbing position, it twisted and turned.

As Scoot pulled up and away, he kept his eye on
the blazing Zero as it fell—at first lazily, then faster
and faster—toward the ground.
.bn 178.png
// 178.png
.pn +1

“Is it going to—Yes, by golly!” Scoot cried as the
flaming plane crashed into the huge hangar still
standing at the edge of the Jap field below. There
was a roar of fire, a great cloud of black smoke and
Scoot threw back his head and laughed loud and long.

“Who said a fighter couldn’t take care of a hangar?”
he demanded. “Why did I think I had to leave it for
the bombers? Boy, oh boy, is that good?”

“That’s puttin’ ’em in the right pocket, Scoot!” It
was the voice of his squadron leader over the radio.
“But watch out behind you! A little sneak attack
coming!”

Yes, there were two Japs coming in on him. Now
where did they come from, Scoot wondered. But he
didn’t spend much time on that question for he had
other things to do. If these Japs weren’t familiar
enough with what the new Hellcats could do he’d
show ’em. So, instead of diving to get away, as he
knew they expected, he put his fighter into a steep
climb that pulled him up toward the clouds as if a
giant hand had reached down and grabbed him.

That took the first Jap by surprise, as Scoot hoped,
but the second had just enough time to meet the
maneuver. As Scoot closed in on the first, he knew
that the second was coming in behind him. He
concentrated on one thing at a time. Maybe, he
thought, he could take care of the first one fast and
get away quickly enough. With a roar of speed, he
brought the first Jap into range, opened fire, saw
.bn 179.png
// 179.png
.pn +1
smoke, and waited no longer. He plunged into a diving
turn, looked back over his shoulder and saw the
second Jap ship already plunging earthward in a
cloud of smoke.

“Who did that?” Scoot demanded, almost to himself.

“I did, my friend!” It was Turk Bottomley’s voice.

“What are you doing here?” Scoot demanded.

“No Jap planes showed up at the carrier,” Scoot
said, “so the Old Man let a few of us come over to
have some fun. I just got here.”

“And just in time, lad,” Scoot said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Turk laughed. “The pleasure
was all mine.”

So that is how Scoot managed to paint two little
Jap flags on the side of his plane the next day, as the
<i>Bunker Hill</i> steamed westward, away from a smoking
and flaming Truk.

“That’s something like it!” Scoot exclaimed to himself.
“I’ll bet poor old March isn’t having any fun like
this, cooped up in that stuffy submarine.”

It was at that moment that March was listening
with pleasure to the explosion of the <i>Kamongo’s</i> torpedoes
against the sides of a Jap tanker at Wake
Island.
.bn 180.png
// 180.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 14 FOURTEEN "CRASH LANDING"
<i>Kamongo</i> was ranged with fourteen other submarines
alongside the tender <i>David</i> at the little island
base in the southwest Pacific. The crossing after the
sinking at Wake Island had been uneventful, since
they had run submerged most of the time during
daylight hours. Always on the lookout for enemy
ships, officers and crew alike had been disappointed
to run into nothing but an American task force, consisting
of a carrier, a cruiser, and three destroyers racing
north at full speed.

March had tried to make out the name of the carrier,
and he would have been delighted to know it
was the <i>Bunker Hill</i> carrying Scoot and his companions
from their Truk attack to a small action against
another Jap-held island farther north. But even American
subs submerged and ran deep and quiet when
American ships were near by. The destroyers would
have started to toss depth charges like snowflakes if
they had sighted a periscope of any kind.

At the sub base, all pigboat Skippers and their seconds
were at a meeting aboard the tender. Captain
Milbank, the Intelligence Officer, was speaking to
them.
.bn 181.png
// 181.png
.pn +1

“You’ve all heard about the blasting of Truk,” he
said. “Now, it’s certain that the Japs will try to reinforce
that important post as quickly and as fully as
possible. In fact, word has reached us through the
Chinese that a large convoy has already left Japan
for Truk, with troops, oil and gasoline, ammunition,
more antiaircraft guns, food and supplies, and with
almost every deck covered with Zeros. They’ve got
to replace what we knocked out there and, even
further, increase their defending force. They know
we’ll hit it again.”

He looked around the room at the quiet, serious
faces of the men who listened intently.

“You may also know,” he went on, “that we have
found Chinese Intelligence to be very reliable. It’s
amazing how they get word through the Jap lines so
quickly and efficiently. Well—the Chinese report that
there’s something special about this convoy for Truk.
They weren’t able to learn exactly what it is, but they
believe it is in the route to be followed. The Nips
know our submarines are roaming the seas out here
and will be on the lookout especially for this convoy.
Having knocked Truk half out, we want to keep it in
that condition. It’s you men—with some help, I must
confess, from the air service—who will do that job.”

There were smiles in the room as the Captain, joking,
grudgingly recognized the usefulness of the flying
sailors. Then he continued:
.bn 182.png
// 182.png
.pn +1

“Our patrol planes are ranging over the ocean on
the lookout for the convoy, of course, but their distances
are limited and it’s a mighty big ocean to
cover. So, for a while, our submarines must also act
as scouts. Later we can get together and sink the
ships, but first we have to act as a team to find them.

“We’re all going to leave here at the same time,
and fan out to cover the main routes from Japan to
Truk. And we want to catch them as far from Truk as
possible. The earlier we can find them, the more subs
and planes we’ll have time to get to the attack so we
can wipe the whole thing out.”

The Captain turned to a chart behind him on the
wall.

“Later I shall go over with you the routes to be
followed by each submarine,” he said. “If and when
any one of you sights the convoy he is <i>not</i> to radio
that information. The Japs would certainly pick up
that broadcast. They’d know we had discovered them
and they’d be ready for us. We want the attack to
come by surprise. So we have arranged certain spots
for each of you to arrive at on certain days and at
specific hours. A patrol plane will visit each of those
spots, clearly marked so that you will not mistake it
for an enemy plane. He will land on the water and
pick up any information you may have. This same
procedure is to be followed twenty-four hours later
at another spot further away.
.bn 183.png
// 183.png
.pn +1

“If by that time not one of you has found the convoy,
you are to go your own ways, looking for whatever
you can find on this patrol. And by that time,
if you find anything like the big convoy, the only
thing to do will be to surface and radio us so we can
all close in for the kill. We’ll lose the element of surprise
but we’ll get them, anyway.”

Next, the Intelligence Officer went over the details
of routes and rendezvous spots for each submarine.
March saw at once that <i>Kamongo</i> was taking a westerly
course from their base, then heading northwest.
It seemed to him that this should be one of the most
likely routes for a convoy to take from Japan to Truk,
and he was pleased.

Then Larry Gray asked a question of the Intelligence
Officer.

“Those rendezvous spots,” he said. “They appear
to be in open sea, but I know there are little atolls all
over the place. Are they near such islands?”

“No, they are not,” the Captain said. “Purposely.
The Japs have little garrisons on a great many of
those tiny islands that look no more than bumps on
the sea. Some of them have radios. If they saw the
contact of an American sub and an American patrol
plane so far from our bases, they’d report it. That
wouldn’t tell the Japs much, but the less they know
the better we like it, no matter how unimportant it
may seem. No, the meeting places are in open water.
The navigators have a little work to do on this patrol.”
.bn 184.png
// 184.png
.pn +1

Larry glanced at March and smiled. March knew
it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to find one
exact spot in the middle of a big ocean by dead reckoning.

After going over all details of the complicated plan
thoroughly, the skipper and their execs returned to
their own submarines to see that everything was
ready for getting under way. Fuel and supplies and
torpedoes had been loaded into all the pigboats and
there remained only a final check before they could
depart.

In the night they slipped away from their tender
one by one and, traveling on the surface under the
protection of night, they headed out to sea silently,
on the alert, eagerly looking forward to the task
ahead. The crew of each pigboat felt that <i>they</i> would
be the ones to find the convoy, the first to go in for
the attack.

But on the second day not a sign of the convoy had
been seen by any of the submarines.

“Must be coming more slowly than we thought,”
Larry suggested. “We’ll catch up with it before the
next patrol stop.”

At the time Larry spoke they were on the surface
in the late afternoon, watching the big American flying
boat slide down out of the clouds and circle above
them. March had felt a thrill of satisfaction when he
.bn 185.png
// 185.png
.pn +1
saw it, knowing that it meant he had found his particular
spot in the wide Pacific, but Larry just seemed
to take it for granted that his navigator would have
brought them where they were supposed to be, no
matter how difficult the job.

They gave their negative report to the patrol,
learned that no other pigboat contacted had had better
luck, then submerged as the flying boat took off
from the choppy waters.

They ran submerged at periscope depth for two
hours until darkness began to fall, with one of the
officers having his eye glued to the little rubber piece
on the ’scope every minute. Then they surfaced and
went steadily forward on their prescribed course.
Two officers and three lookouts stayed constantly on
the bridge, and the sound detector man below concentrated
on his listening as never before. It might
well be that he could pick up the sound of a convoy’s
propellers long before the lookouts would sight anything,
especially on a moonless night.

But dawn came and found them with nothing to
report.

“You’d think there wasn’t even a war going on out
here!” McFee complained. “Don’t the Nips have <i>any</i>
ships in these waters?”

“Not in the waters we’ve been sailing on, anyway,”
Stan Bigelow replied. “I feel cross-eyed from looking
so hard for the last four hours.”
.bn 186.png
// 186.png
.pn +1

The bright sun sent them under the water again,
but only to periscope depth so that a constant lookout
could be maintained. Still—late afternoon found
them filled with discouragement, waiting for the
patrol plane. The patrol had found nothing.

“Maybe one of the others—” March suggested, but
Larry shook his head.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I think we’re in the
best spot. We’re furthest west of the whole bunch.
That’s certainly the most likely route for the convoy,
keeping as close to the Philippines, to land protection,
as possible. If they were attacked they’d have
support from land-based planes there for quite a
while. If anything, I think they may even be further
west than our route.”

March and Larry talked as they stood on the bridge
waiting for their patrol plane to come out of the west.
Suddenly the lookout shouted, “Plane coming out of
the sun!”

“Can’t be ours!” Larry shouted. “Rig for dive,
March.”

As March barked out the orders to take the ship
down, the lookout reported that the plane was a two-motored
flying boat.

“Must be a Jap all right,” Larry said. They all knew
that their own plane was four-motored, one of the
longest-ranged flying boats in the world.
.bn 187.png
// 187.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>A Two-Motored Flying Boat Came at Them</i>]
.pm illust 14 navy_188.jpg 431 "<i>A Two-Motored Flying Boat Came at Them</i>"
.bn 188.png
// 188.png
.pn +1

In two minutes March had slid down the hatch, to
be followed by Larry, who dogged the hatch cover
tight.

“Take her down to a hundred and fifty,” he said.

<i>Kamongo</i> turned her nose down and slid forward.
As they leveled off at a hundred and fifty they heard
the roar and felt the jar of a depth charge explosion.
But it was not close and it went off far above them.
Then came another, a little closer but still threatening
no danger to the sub.

“Not full-size charges,” Larry said. “We’re all right
at a hundred and fifty. We’ll just wait him out. He
can’t be carrying very many depth charges in that
job of his. But hold on—he’ll probably get a little
closer.”

They all held on, but nothing happened. Not another
charge went off. March looked questioningly
at Larry.

“Don’t know,” Larry said. “Maybe he’s gone on.
More likely he’s playing possum, hoping we’ll think
he’s gone and will come up for a look. That’s when
he’d get us.”

“Better stay down for a while,” March said.

“Yes, he can’t fly around up there in a circle forever,”
Larry said. “We’ll go up in an hour.”

“What about meeting our patrol plane?” March
asked.

“I’m afraid we’ll miss him,” Larry said. “Can’t take
a chance on going up now. He might hang around
for a while, of course, if the Jap has gone.”
.bn 189.png
// 189.png
.pn +1

“He could take care of that Jap in a minute,”
McFee said.

“Say, maybe that’s what happened,” March suggested.

“Perhaps,” said Larry. “Maybe our plane came and
drove off the Jap. But we can’t be sure. I’m not going
to risk a sub and sixty men just to find out.”

Then the sound man turned excitedly.

“I hear something, sir,” he said. “Something in
Morse—sounds like a hammer tapping against metal.
I’ll have it in a minute.”

They waited impatiently as the sound man took
down the message. Then he handed it to Larry.

“<i>Kamongo</i>,” it said. “Jap went home. Come on up.”

Larry grinned. “It’s okay,” he said. “The Jap
wouldn’t have known we were <i>Kamongo</i>. It’s our
plane. Take her up.”

When the ship surfaced and Larry scrambled
through the hatch on to the bridge he saw the big
American flying boat resting on the water not a quarter
of a mile away. It taxied over beside the submarine
as March and Mac joined Larry on the bridge.

“I thought you’d get that hammer-on-the-hull message,”
the plane’s pilot called with a smile. “Nippo
just took one look at me coming and decided he had
a date west of here in a big hurry.”
.bn 190.png
// 190.png
.pn +1

Larry passed on his report of not having sighted
the big Jap convoy and learned that no other submarine
had found it either.

“Well, you’re on your own now,” the pilot said. “Go
get ’em and good luck.”

They waved as the plane turned and roared over
the water, lifted in the air and circled to the east with
a last dip of its wings.

“Now where do we go from here?” March asked.

“We’ll head west,” Larry said. “After that Jap
plane. Let’s get going. I’m going to find that convoy!”

Meanwhile, the Jap plane heading west had
sighted something else. Its pilot was angry at having
been driven away from an American submarine just
when it was about to blow the hated pigboat to its
ancestors. And there ahead of him—to make up for
that loss—was a lone American fighter plane. He
grinned happily.

“American plane,” he said to his co-pilot. “We get
him.”

The co-pilot looked worried. “American fighter too
fast for slow flying boat. Maybe he get us!”

But the pilot was angry and not to be argued with.
“No, we get American fighter!”

It was obvious that the American had seen them,
but the plane did not put on a sudden burst of speed,
did not maneuver quickly to get into position for the
attack.
.bn 191.png
// 191.png
.pn +1

The co-pilot grinned. “American plane damaged,”
he said. “American plane cannot fly fast!”

“Now will you question what I say?” demanded
the pilot. “I said we get American plane. Our gods
damage plane so we <i>can</i> get it.”

Scoot Bailey looked at the approaching Jap bomber
and frowned. Here was a quick decision to be made.
He had been out with the other fighters and bombers
from <i>Bunker Hill</i> attacking the Jap garrison on a
small island to the north. A lucky shot from one of
the few defending Jap Zeros—before it went down—clipped
Scoot’s oil line. There was a leak, though not
a big one, and the engine was heating up badly. So
Scoot had been separated from the others and now
was limping home to his carrier, trying to get the best
speed he could without overheating the engine too
much. It had not been an easy job to nurse it along
that way, for the oil was dripping away drop by drop.
Still, he thought he might make it, for he had only
about forty more miles to go.

“And now this clumsy boat of the Japs has to show
up!” he shouted to himself angrily. “I could take him
in a minute if I was okay, but with this leaky oil line—what’ll
I do? If I give her the gun and really swoop
down on this bird, I’ll force out most of the oil that
I’ve got left, heat up the engine so much it’ll burn
out. But if I don’t, then I’m just like a clay pigeon, sitting
here waiting to be taken.”
.bn 192.png
// 192.png
.pn +1

Scoot smiled. “Doesn’t take long to make up your
mind in a case like that. I’ll get that baby who thinks
I’m crippled and can’t fight back. And then I’ll just
be setting myself down on the sea somewhere and
hoping to be picked up, though there’s not much
hope for that here.”

He let the Jap patrol plane come on, continued to
act as if he couldn’t maneuver the plane. He wiggled
the wings as if he were trying to make his craft do
something it wouldn’t do. He succeeded in filling the
Jap pilot with such confidence that the man was happily
off guard.

Then, at the last minute, he gave his Hellcat the
gun and she almost jumped out from under him. Up
he rose, then did a wing-over and swooped down on
the Jap plane from above and behind. Big splashes
of oil were covering his windshield, forced from the
leaky line by the sudden rush of power in the engine.
The Jap plane was just a blur when Scoot pressed the
gun button and heard the pounding of bullets from
his machine guns.

Then he pulled up and to the right, looking out
the side. Yes, he had done it. The Jap bomber was
afire, but trying to turn to the left. Then Scoot saw
what he was aiming for—a tiny reef with a few palm
trees a few miles to the south. Suddenly the Jap
plane blew up in the air with a roar. Scoot felt the
shock of the blast and watched the pieces of flaming
plane plummet to the sea below, where a steaming
smoke arose from the water.
.bn 193.png
// 193.png
.pn +1

Scoot’s smile was frozen by a hard hammering
knock from his engine.

“That did it!” he exclaimed. “She’s conking out,
and right about now. Maybe I can make that little
island even if the Jap couldn’t.”

He edged the plane around with the last gasps from
the engine and put her into a glide toward the little
spot of land. Then it occurred to him that there might
be Japs on the island, tiny as it was, and with one
hand he checked his service revolver to be sure that
he might take a few with him before he went himself,
if the worst should happen.

“And all that depends on whether I make it in this
glide or not,” Scoot said. “But it looks okay.”

The plane was slipping down the sky fast, approaching
the island. About ten feet above the water,
Scoot leveled her off and pancaked into the water,
trying to get his tail to act as a brake. The controls
flew from his hands and his head hit the top of his
cockpit. But he didn’t lose consciousness from the
blow, even though he was badly stunned.

He saw the rocky shore of the island rushing toward
him as the plane seemed to skim over the water.
Then he struck the rocks, was thrown forward, and
heard a ripping, tearing sound as the bottom of his
fuselage was crushed and mangled on the rocks.
.bn 194.png
// 194.png
.pn +1

He felt a throb in his forehead and realized that
he was looking at the slightly twisted floor of his
cockpit.

“Must have been knocked out for a minute,” Scoot
told himself.

He lifted his head and looked around. His plane
was entirely on dry land. It had skidded over the
rocks, leaving the water. Right in front of him was
the smooth slanting trunk of a palm tree. He saw no
movement anywhere.

“Well, if there were Japs here they’d have been
on top of me long before this.”

Scoot unfastened his safety belt and crawled from
his seat, feeling his bruised arms and legs to make
sure they were whole. In another moment he stood
on the rocky shore surveying sadly his crumpled and
twisted ship.

“My beautiful Hellcat!” he said, patting her side.
“Look what I’ve done to you!”

Then he turned and looked the island over. It was,
he could easily see, not more than two hundred yards
long and fifty feet wide, and it curved in a gentle arc.
There were rocks, a few palm trees, some low bushes
and nothing else.

“Well, I might as well like it,” Scoot said. “It may
be my home for the duration!”
.bn 195.png
// 195.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 15 FIFTEEN "FIND THE CONVOY!"
March and Larry stood over the navigation table
and looked at charts.

“We’re just about here now,” March said, pointing
to a spot not far east of the Philippines.

“What’s that?” Larry asked, putting his finger tip
on a tiny dot near by.

“A tiny atoll,” March said. “Couple of hundred
yards long, that’s all.”

“Let’s pull into the lee of it and surface,” Larry
said. “There won’t be any Japs on something that
small. We can charge the batteries up full, get plenty
of fresh air, and plan our campaign from here on in.”

“Right,” March agreed. “We’ll reach it in about an
hour. We’ve gone about two hours since the patrol
plane left us.”

So it was that Scoot Bailey, lying at the edge of the
beach not far from his wrecked plane, which he had
covered with boughs so it would not be seen by Jap
patrols, heard a rushing of water a little way from
shore and saw a huge black hull appear from the
deep, not a hundred feet out!

He scrambled behind a bush quickly and peered
out cautiously, though it was so dark that no one on
the sub could possibly have seen him.
.bn 196.png
// 196.png
.pn +1

“A sub!” he exclaimed. “But the question is—Jap
or American?”

He tried to find a marking that would tell him
the answer to his question, but it was too dark to see
anything. Then he made out figures of men on the
bridge, two men looking around. One said something
to the other, but so low that he could not make out
the language. One of the men took up a lookout position.

“If it’s a Jap,” Scoot muttered to himself, “I’d hate
to let it get away from me. I’m probably not in any
danger. It must just be up to charge batteries. They
wouldn’t come ashore here for anything—nothing to
come for, unless some of the men just want to plant
their feet on solid ground for a change. Even then I
can hide.”

He thought hard. “Seems as if there ought to be
something I could do, though one grounded flier
against a sub is kind of tough odds.”

He was so busy trying to think what he could do
to sink a Jap submarine single-handed that he convinced
himself that it <i>was</i> Japanese.

“The machine guns in my plane!” he exclaimed
suddenly. “They probably still work if I can get at
them. The plane’s heading the wrong way or I could
just shoot them as is. But maybe I can get one or
two out.”
.bn 197.png
// 197.png
.pn +1

Then he wondered if fifty-caliber machine-gun
bullets could possibly sink a submarine.

“Probably not,” he told himself. “But they could
pick off quite a few officers and men. And then if the
rest decided to come and get me, I’d get quite a few
more on their way in.”

Suddenly the Diesels on the submarine roared into
life, and quickly settled down to a steady purr.

“Charging batteries is right,” Scoot told himself.
“That’s just enough sound to keep them from hearing
me try to get a gun out of my plane. Of course, they’ve
probably got their own machine gun unlimbered up
there. Usually do when they’re surfaced like this.
But—well, I’ll see what I can do.”

Scoot crawled over to his plane and started to work.
Taking off the engine cowling seemed to him to make
a terrific noise and he stopped to listen, wondering
if he had been heard. The sound from the Diesels
seemed very low. And then he heard something—something
that made his heart leap.

“Car—reee me back to old Virginnneee!” sang a
high tenor voice. The lookout was indulging in his
favorite sport. Scoot leaped out on the shore.

“Yippeeee!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

On the bridge of the submarine, March whirled
around at the sound of the strange cry from the tiny
island. Without a word one of the enlisted men had
leaped to the machine gun and now he poured a
round of shots at the shore. Then there was silence
for a moment. From behind a palm tree came a voice.
.bn 198.png
// 198.png
.pn +1

“Say—have a heart!” Scoot cried. “I’m an American!”

“How do we know?” demanded March over the
sound of the Diesels. He would like to have shut them
off so he could hear better, but he wanted to keep
them running for a quick getaway in case there was
any sort of Jap force on that tiny atoll. The sound of
the American voice sounded genuine, but you could
never be sure. Too many Japs who had lived in America
went back home to fight in Jap armies. They spoke
English fairly well, some of them, and they had used
it to trick trusting Americans too many times.

By this time Larry Gray had scrambled up on the
bridge beside March who quickly explained what
had happened. Stan and Mac joined them, wondering
at the sound of machine-gun fire.

“I’m an American flier!” Scoot shouted back.
“Crashed here this afternoon.”

“Turn on the searchlight!” Larry ordered, and in
a moment the powerful beam found the lone figure
on the rocky beach.

“Only one man,” March said. “And it sure looks
like a Navy uniform, slightly mussed up. He must be
okay, Skipper.”

“Can’t ever be sure,” Larry said. “There may be a
pack of Japs back behind those trees. It may be a
swiped uniform, anyway.”
.bn 199.png
// 199.png
.pn +1

“But he looks white and tall,” March said.

“Yes, he does,” Larry agreed. “But if he’s an American—wait,
he’s calling.”

“I know you can’t take any chances on a trap,” the
voice came to them over the water. “You tell me what
to do and I’ll do it—to the letter.”

“All right,” Larry called back. “We’re sure you
must be American, all right, but we won’t take a
chance. Take your clothes off and swim out to us.
We’ll keep the light on you and you’re covered at
every minute with a machine gun.”

On shore Scoot gulped at the idea of the machine
gun pointing at him every minute. But he agreed,
knowing that in a similar situation he would be just
as cautious about any possible Jap trick. He quickly
stripped to his underwear, leaving his clothes on the
rocks at his feet. Then, arms in the air so the men on
the sub would see that he carried nothing, he waded
into the water, always in the bright spot of the searchlight.
When the water came up to his chest he bent
forward and started swimming, being careful to raise
both arms well out of the water at each stroke. But
he had to keep his head down and his eyes averted
because of the bright glare of the light.

Soon his hand struck the steel side of the hull and
helping arms reached down to pull him up on the
deck. Two enlisted men and McFee were there, looking
him over carefully.
.bn 200.png
// 200.png
.pn +1

“He’s okay, Skipper!” Mac called up to the bridge.
“Not a thing on him and he’s as American as Uncle
Sam.” Then to Scoot, “How are you, fellow? Glad
we found you. Come on up.”

He led the dripping Scoot to the ladder leading up
to the bridge. As he climbed over the edge, Scoot saw
a familiar face—and almost fell over backward to the
deck again!

“March!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

“Scoot Bailey!” March cried, rushing forward. He
threw his arms around the shivering and wet flier and
pounded him on the back. “Scoot, my boy! It’s really
you! How on earth—”

But Scoot was shouting and talking, too, laughing
and dazed by the many things that had happened
to him in the last few hours.

McFee and the enlisted men looked on in amazement
at the scene, but Larry Gray was smiling. He
remembered the name of Scoot Bailey from the many
things March had told him about his closest friend.
And he had seen enough strange things happen in
the war not to be too startled at anything that happened
out in the middle of the ocean.

In a few minutes they had gone below and Scoot
was wrapped in a blanket while two men put out in
a collapsible boat to bring his clothes from the island.
Scoot sat with the others in the tiny ready-room and
drank a cup of hot coffee, while they talked and
asked questions and answered them.
.bn 201.png
// 201.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>March Pounded Scoot on the Back</i>]
.pm illust 15 navy_201.jpg 427 "<i>March Pounded Scoot on the Back</i>"
.bn 202.png
// 202.png
.pn +1

Soon everyone was brought up to date on the most
important things that had been happening. McFee
and Stan, who had joined them, knew who Scoot was
and how he came to be there. Outside, word went
scurrying around among the men that they’d picked
up a Navy flier, that it had turned out to be the exec’s
oldest and best friend. Everybody felt happy.

“With a stroke of luck like that,” Pete Kalinsky said,
“maybe we can find that Jap convoy now.”

March told Scoot about their search for the convoy,
their encounter with the Jap patrol plane that
very afternoon, and how the American plane had
chased him away. Scoot was serious right away.

“Two-motored Aichi flying boat?” he asked.

“Yes, why?” March asked.

“I took care of him for you,” Scoot said with a smile.
“He <i>will</i> try to depth-charge my friend, will he? Well,
he won’t do <i>that</i> any more.”

Scoot told them about his leaky oil line, his encounter
with the Jap plane, shooting it down, and
then making the tiny island in a glide.

“And then I came along and picked you up,” March
laughed, “with only a few hours’ wait.”

“Remember—a long time ago,” Scoot said, “you
told me you’d probably have to come along in your
sub and save me from a bunch of Japs?”
.bn 203.png
// 203.png
.pn +1

“Sure I remember!” March cried. “Didn’t know I
was such a good prophet.”

“You didn’t save me from any Japs,” Scoot snorted.
“Just from boredom spending the rest of the war on
that island. But let me tell you another thing—you
don’t know how close you came to getting killed.”

“What do you mean?” Larry asked.

“I mean you ought to pin a medal on whoever it
is in your crew that sings ‘Carry me Back to old Virginny,’”
Scoot said. “Up to that time I had decided
you were Japs and I was getting a machine gun out
of my plane.”

“You mean you were going to attack us single-handed?”
demanded Stan Bigelow.

“Sure—I didn’t have anybody else to help me, so it
had to be single-handed,” Scoot said. “I didn’t think
I could sink the sub, but I thought I could wait till a
lot of officers and men were on deck and pick off most
of them.”

“Now, that’s the spirit I like,” Larry said. “Glad to
have you along on this trip with us.”

“Oh—” Scoot looked startled. “I hadn’t thought of
that. I suppose I have to go along with you.”

March laughed. “Of course, you do. We’re not a
bus service. We’re out looking for a Jap convoy and
we can’t very well take time to run you back to your
base or carrier before going on.”
.bn 204.png
// 204.png
.pn +1

“Well, so I’m a submariner after all,” Scoot said.
“Nice looking boat, I must say. Can I look her over?”

“Sure, from stem to stern,” Larry agreed. “But not
until you’ve eaten something. I imagine that island
didn’t provide you with much of a dinner. The cook
is fixing up something for you.”

So Scoot got into his clothes and ate a delicious
meal over which he exclaimed mightily.

“Say, there’s something to pigboat service, anyway,”
he said. “I thought we ate pretty well on the
<i>Bunker Hill</i> but this is fit for a king.”

“Submarine men <i>are</i> kings,” March said, and for
once Scoot would not argue on their favorite subject
of the past.

Soon they went to bed, except for those on watch,
and at dawn the next morning proceeded on their
way, submerged. Scoot was fascinated at the diving
operation and looked with some awe on March as he
carried out the complicated maneuver. It was only
then that he learned that March had become second
in command of <i>Kamongo</i>. March then led his friend
on a tour of the submarine, explaining the workings
of all the complicated machinery, introducing him
to the crew, who welcomed him warmly.

“Not bad, not bad,” Scoot said. “I begin to see why
you like all this so much. Nice small crowd here, all
getting along well together. And I don’t mind the
idea of being under water at all, the way I thought
I would.”
.bn 205.png
// 205.png
.pn +1

Scoot and March and Larry sat down in the wardroom
to go over their plans.

“You see,” Larry explained, “I have a hunch the
Japs are following a course with this convoy entirely
different from any they’ve followed before. They are
aware that we know they’ll reinforce Truk as fast as
possible. So we’re looking for them to take a direct
route. But the Chinese reported that there was something
strange about the route. What is it? It’s that it
is so indirect.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Scoot agreed.

“Well, they don’t want to take forever getting there,
however,” Larry went on, “so they’re not being too
indirect. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they went
down the western side of the Philippines, as if heading
for Indo-China or Burma or the Dutch East
Indies. Then they might cut through east above
Mindanao, the lower of the big islands in the Philippines.
After that they’d make a fast dash straight east
for Truk.”

“Why wouldn’t we catch them easily there?”
March asked.

“We might,” Larry explained. “But for some time
they’d be under protection of land-based planes from
the Philippines. Then, too, we’d be anxious to scout
them out as early as possible, so our subs would be
farther north, looking along the more direct routes.
They’d have a chance of getting through without a
scratch, but anyway they’d not have far to go after
we <i>did</i> sight them.”
.bn 206.png
// 206.png
.pn +1

“What do you want to do now?” Scoot asked.

“I’m heading west toward the Philippines trying
to test my theory,” Larry said. “But I can’t make
much speed, having to run submerged in the daytime.
I’m afraid they may be out in the clear before
I can get there, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”

All day long they ran submerged, keeping a constant
lookout. They saw a Jap patrol plane and dived
out of sight before he got near them. But there was
no sight of the convoy. Darkness began to creep over
the ocean and they were getting ready to surface
when Larry, at the periscope, saw a Jap seaplane.

“Over to the right,” he said. “Doesn’t see us. He’s
too low. We won’t need to dive unless he pulls up
higher again. No—he’s coming down on the water.
Must be something there.”

March took a look and thought he saw a small
island near the Jap plane.

“Getting too dark to see clearly,” he said. “Shall
we go over and have a look, Skipper?”

“Yes, let’s do,” Larry said. “I’m curious about a
seaplane here. That’s the kind that’s got pontoons
and is usually catapulted from a battleship or cruiser.
You wouldn’t expect them out here. They can’t do
long cruising.”
.bn 207.png
// 207.png
.pn +1

March gave the order to change course, and they
stayed under the water as they neared the island.

“Hope there’s still enough light by the time we get
close enough to have a good look,” Larry said as he
peered through the periscope. “Good thing it isn’t
overcast today or we couldn’t see a thing. And I
wouldn’t want to hang around until morning just for
a look at what might turn out to be nothing.”

In another few minutes they were close enough to
see, and Larry reported to the others that a small
boat was just putting off from the seaplane which
was anchored to a buoy in the little harbor. Scoot
took a look.

“Boy, those periscopes are wonders,” he exclaimed.
“Sharp as can be. Sure, I know the ship. And there’s
two naval fliers in the dinghy with two Jap soldiers
rowing them to shore. A whole flock of soldiers on
shore. Wonder what it’s all about.”

As March and the others had a look, Larry told
them all what he thought this latest event meant.

“Seaplanes come from battleships or cruisers usually,”
he said. “I think this plane might well be from
some of the warships protecting the convoy headed
for Truk. The Japs have got lookout posts on a lot of
these little islands here—probably plenty more than
usual right now. They aren’t trusting to radio, even in
code, any more than we are. And they’re having a
seaplane or two go out ahead of the convoy to pick
up reports from their garrisons on the various islands.
.bn 208.png
// 208.png
.pn +1
This is the plane’s last stop for the night. In the morning
he’ll go back to his ship and make his report as
to how many American patrol planes or subs have
been seen in the area by these outposts.”

The others thought this over and agreed that it was
a likely hypothesis. Then Scoot asked for another look
at the periscope, and the others sensed that there was
some excitement in his attitude. When he turned
away from the ’scope he said to Larry. “Can I talk
to you about an idea I’ve got?”

“Sure, come into the wardroom,” Larry said with
an eager smile. “Come along, March.”

They sat down around the little table.

“Now what is it?” Larry asked.

“Here’s the idea,” Scoot said. “I know that plane—all
about it. They made us study those things, though
I couldn’t see the point of it at the time. It usually
has two men in it. Two men went ashore. So the
plane’s unattended. I’m going to swipe it!”

“Swipe it!” Larry and March exclaimed together.

“Sure!” Scoot said. “If you can surface enough to
let me out—later when it’s good and dark—I’ll swim
to it, get in, cut the anchor, and be off before those
Nips know what’s going on.”

“Then what will you do?” Larry demanded.

“I’m in a Jap seaplane,” Scoot said. “Outposts won’t
pay any attention to me, because I’m right where a
Jap seaplane ought to be flying along, going back to
its battleship in the morning. Nobody will question
me by radio because they’re keeping radio silence.”
.bn 209.png
// 209.png
.pn +1

“All this is assuming that my hypothesis is correct,”
Larry said.

“I think it is,” Scoot said. “At least it’s what a hypothesis
is—a good basis on which to work until it’s disproved.
So let’s go ahead. You want to find this convoy
faster than your sub can get you there. In that
plane I can find it in a hurry—if it’s there.”

“You certainly can,” Larry agreed, beginning to
get excited about Scoot’s idea. “But when you’ve
found it—what then?”

“Well—I get word to you somehow,” Scoot said.
“Now, let’s see—”

“I’ve got an idea,” March said. “Scoot sights the
convoy, gets a line on its size and direction, then turns
around and heads right back again. He knows our
exact course. He’ll come down on that course at a
spot we designate. We’ll surface and pick him up
there. That eliminates all radio communication—even
if that Jap plane has a radio and Scoot can get it on
our wave-length and use it. And if he did we’d have
to be traveling on the surface to get his message any
distance away, and we’d better not do that too much.”

“Sounds okay,” Larry said. “But what happens on
that Jap convoy when they see their seaplane approach,
look around, and then head back again?
Won’t they think that’s mighty funny?”
.bn 210.png
// 210.png
.pn +1

“Sure they will,” Scoot said. “And I can’t quite
guess what they’ll do about it. Maybe nothing, just
put it down as another Jap pilot gone wacky. Anyway,
they won’t feel there’s any danger. But they
might send another plane up to have a look and see
what’s wrong. I’d just hope to be on my way by that
time and out of his reach. Anyway, that’s one of the
chances we take. While I’m flying there I can get the
Jap radio in shape, so that I could radio a message to
you if I saw I was going to be shot down. You could
surface for a short while about the time that might
be happening, so you’d get any message.”

“Well,” Larry said, “there are a lot of <i>if’s</i> in this
whole proposition, but for some reason I like it.”

“What’s the gamble?” Scoot demanded.

“You,” Larry said. “Your life.”

“And that’s mighty little chance for the U.S. Navy
to take if it means finding this convoy early enough
to wipe it out before it reaches Truk. If the idea
doesn’t work, then we’ve just been wrong and missed
our convoy. Maybe you pick me up safe and sound
as planned and maybe not. That’s all.”

“What do you think, March?” Larry asked.

“Well—” March hesitated. “Well—I think it’s worth
a shot, if Scoot thinks he can get that plane away.”

“That’s the easiest part of it,” Scoot said. “Remember
what a good swimmer I am. I swam to get to the
sub and now I’ll swim away from it.”
.bn 211.png
// 211.png
.pn +1

Larry Gray thought for a while before making up
his mind. It was his responsibility, this decision, and
he had to weigh it carefully. Finally he spoke.

“All right, we’ll try it,” he said, and Scoot allowed
himself a mild whoop of pleasure. “Here’s the plan,
to get it clear. We surface in about six hours, when
everybody except a sentry or two will be asleep. Scoot
is ready to go and he swims to the plane. We stay up
just long enough to see that he gets away, then we
dive and set out on our course which Scoot knows.
He flies toward the passage above Mindinao, where
I think the convoy might be. If he doesn’t sight it
within two hours flying he turns around and flies
back, landing on the sea at a spot agreed on in advance.
If the weather’s bad, that’ll be tough, of course.
We surface for a while, riding the vents and ready
to crash-dive. So we can pick up Scoot if he’s even
near the designated spot.”

Larry paused for a moment and the others remained
silent.

“If Scoot sights the convoy, he can tell fast how
many ships, what speed, what direction. He heads
back for that spot on the ocean as planned and we
pick him up. If the Japs send up a plane or planes to
get him, and if they attack him, he’ll try to parachute
out with his life belt, or get his plane down whole or
something so he can be picked up on our course. Anyway,
if attacked, he may radio us about the convoy
first if he’s been able to get the plane’s radio going.”
.bn 212.png
// 212.png
.pn +1

“What do we do,” March asked, “if Scoot does
find the convoy?”

“Then we radio,” Larry said. “The Japs may hear
us, but we can’t help that. But we’ll go on in to the
attack alone. We’ll try to get under and come up in
the middle of the convoy so as to scatter it in time
for the other subs and the planes that will be coming
after they get our radio message.”

“All clear,” March said. “Now let’s set our course
and select our spot for picking up Scoot.”
.bn 213.png
// 213.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 16 SIXTEEN "DOWNED AT SEA!"
“Not a sign of life there,” Larry said as he looked
through the periscope. “Beach fires all out. Down
’scope. Take her up.”

They moved toward the ladder leading up to the
conning tower, Larry first, Scoot immediately behind
him, in trunks. He held a bundle in one hand.

“Hope I can keep these clothes a little dry,” Scoot
said. “I’d like to be dressed when I do this if I can.”

Larry unfastened the hatch cover and hurried up
on to the bridge. Scoot was behind him in a second,
followed by March and two enlisted men who
manned the machine guns at once. Everyone moved
swiftly and noiselessly.

Scoot was already sliding down the ladder to the
deck, with March right behind him. Larry stayed on
the bridge, looking sharply toward shore at every
minute.

“So long March,” Scoot whispered as he slid into
the water. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Good luck, Scoot,” March whispered back. And
that was all. For just a second he watched Scoot strike
out toward the plane, holding aloft his bundle of
clothes and making no splashing sound. Then March
turned and went back up the ladder to the bridge.
.bn 214.png
// 214.png
.pn +1

There he stood quietly beside Larry, who said
nothing. March picked up Scoot’s dim figure in the
water, listening at the same time for the sound of an
alarm on the beach in case a sentry saw the black
hull of the submarine offshore.

“He’s reached it,” March whispered to Larry.

“Good.”

“Must be unfastening the buoy now,” March said.
Again they waited in silence.

“Can’t be sure, but I think he’s climbing up on the
pontoon,” March said. “Yes—I can just barely make
him out. Can’t be seen from shore.”

Then there was a long silence, tense, expectant.
March tried to picture Scoot slipping into trousers
and shirt, climbing into the plane’s cockpit, feeling
for the switches and controls in the dark. He’d probably
have to wind up the starter. And suddenly at
this moment, March wondered how much gas the
Jap plane had in it.

“Must be enough for it to get back to its battleship,”
he told himself.

March jumped. A coughing roar split the silence
and the darkness. Flashes of flame came from the exhaust
pipes of the plane as the engine roared, subsided,
roared again. Scoot had taken just half a minute
to warm it up. Then he gave it the gun and March
saw the plane begin to move.
.bn 215.png
// 215.png
.pn +1

“Down, men!” Larry shouted, and the two men left
their guns and slid down the hatch. “Get on down,
March,” Larry said, “and take her down. I’m right
behind you.”

But at that moment shots rang out from the shore.
Figures were running along the beach, shouting and
gesticulating wildly. The seaplane was roaring away
over the water and some men were firing at it.

March, his feet on the rungs of the ladder, looked
up, startled. And then Larry fell at his feet.

“I’m hit, March,” Larry said. “Don’t waste a minute.
I can get down. Hurry.”

Grabbing his Skipper, March hauled him to the
companionway. He heard the spatter of bullets
against the sides of the submarine. He lowered Larry
quickly down the hatch and men below grabbed him
and helped him from the ladder. March slid down
after him, shouting commands to take her down while
he was still closing the hatch.

“Call Sallini,” he said to one of the men. “Take the
Skipper to his quarters. Mac, go in with him.”

The roar of water into the ballast tanks flowed over
them, and the whine of the electric motors told them
the ship was under way.

“Steady at fifty,” he said. “Hold course. We’ll surface
in a little while. Stan, will you take over here?
I want to see how the Skipper is.”
.bn 216.png
// 216.png
.pn +1

“Sure, March,” Stan said. “Pat him on the back for
me. Hope it’s not bad.”

March stood at the door of Gray’s quarters. There
was not room inside. Larry was on his bunk, looking
up to smile with an effort, but with pain marking his
face.

“This was one <i>if</i> we didn’t think of, wasn’t it,
March?” he asked.

“How are you, Larry?” March asked.

“It hurts like the devil,” the Skipper replied. “I
think there’s two or three slugs in my chest somewhere.
Sallini will be able to tell in a minute.”

The pharmacist was ripping off Gray’s shirt and
undershirt, which showed spreading stains of blood.
McFee helped him, trying to move Gray as little as
possible. Then Sallini examined the wounds carefully
for a few moments.

“Three’s right, Skipper,” he said. “And they’re still
in you. I don’t see how this one missed the heart but
it must have or you wouldn’t be talking now. This
one up here busted your collar-bone. That’s what
hurts so much right now. And the other, on the right
side must’ve gone right through the lung. I can’t tell
if any might be lodged in the spine or not. Doubt it
or you’d have passed out—couldn’t move much.”

“Can’t move much anyway,” the Skipper replied
weakly.

March saw that his face was draining white, and
his eyes began to cloud over.
.bn 217.png
// 217.png
.pn +1

“Sulfa tablets, anyway,” Sallini said. “And bandages
to stop the bleeding here, though there’s not
much likely to come out while he’s lying down. May
be some internal bleeding but I couldn’t do anything
about that. Don’t know what else I could do right
now.”

“Okay, Sallini,” March said. “Go get what you need
and do it as fast as you can.”

The pharmacist left and March stepped close to
the Skipper, leaning down close to him as Mac was.

“March,” Gray said. “I don’t know what the devil
this is, but I feel like passing out. Anyway—and this
is an order from your Captain—carry out plans exactly
as we have laid them out. You’re in command of this
submarine when I’m—er, incapacitated. McFee will
help you carry on. Go get that convoy!”

“We’ll get it, Larry,” March said. “But you’ll do the
job, because you’ll be up and around by the time we
get there. Or at least you can direct the battle from
your bunk.”

Gray smiled and let his head fall back. He seemed
to be sleeping. Then Sallini reappeared and Mac and
March stepped to the companionway and watched
through the door while the pharmacist did what he
could for Gray.

The Skipper was unconscious and they had done
all they could. March, with a heavy heart, stepped
back into the control room and took the interphone
from the orderly.
.bn 218.png
// 218.png
.pn +1

“The Skipper’s been wounded,” he said to the
entire ship. “I know that makes you all feel just as badly
as I feel right now. Sallini’s done all he can for him
and he’s resting. Can’t tell much about his condition,
but I’ll let you know regularly how he is.”

Then he gave the order to surface the boat and
they went ahead on course in the darkness. March
stood his watch on the bridge, looking ahead in the
blackness, wondering how Scoot was making out up
there, and how the Skipper was making out in his
own blackness down below. Sallini had given Larry
some blood plasma to overcome some of the loss of
blood that the Skipper had suffered, but Gray was
still unconscious. When March went below as Stan
came to relieve him, he found Sallini worried.

“His fever’s going up,” he said. “I’ve just given him
more sulfa. Don’t know what it can be but there’s
infection somewhere. Wish I could get those slugs
out of him, but that’s a ticklish business.”

“We’ll wait and see,” March said. “Maybe the sulfa
will lick the infection and the fever will come down.
If not—well, we’ll decide then what to do. Meanwhile,
get some sleep. You’ve been up all night.”

March lay down on his bunk for a while and managed
to drift off to sleep for three hours. Just as dawn
was breaking he got up and had a cup of coffee, had
the boat submerged to periscope depth, and traveled
ahead more slowly, checking regularly to make sure
he was exactly on the course he had agreed on with
Scoot.
.bn 219.png
// 219.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>The Skipper Was Still Unconscious</i>]
.pm illust 16 navy_219.jpg 432 "<i>The Skipper Was Still Unconscious</i>"
.bn 220.png
// 220.png
.pn +1

“I wonder how Scoot’s making out,” he said. “He
might be pretty near that convoy now—if there’s a
convoy there.”

Scoot was at that moment disgusted. He had been
able to do nothing with the Jap plane’s radio during
all these hours, and now, even with more light to see
by, he could not get it working.

“Maybe when the Japs order radio silence,” he told
himself, “they enforce it by gumming up the radio
some way so it <i>can’t</i> be used. Anyway, I can’t do anything
with this baby. I’m going to be keeping radio
silence whether I want to or not.”

So he turned his attention to the sea ahead of him,
where he hoped to sight the convoy. Looking at the
chart occasionally and checking his speed, he calculated
where he must be.

Then he saw it! First a few clouds of smoke far
ahead on the horizon. Then little dots below the
smoke—dots that were Jap ships. More and more and
more of them he saw, line after line in orderly procession.
Up ahead and at the sides were destroyers and
near the front a battleship—no, two battleships. As
he flew on further he made out a carrier in the center
and at the end three cruisers and more destroyers kept
a rear guard.
.bn 221.png
// 221.png
.pn +1

“Don’t want to get any closer than I have to,” Scoot
spoke aloud to himself. “But I want to get all the
dope I can and as accurately as possible. Got to stick
around long enough to check their speed and course.”

He flew on, counting, checking, making another
estimate to compare with his first.

“About fifty-five ships,” he said to himself. “Eight
miles long, three miles wide. Pretty slow—there must
be some old freighters in there. About ten knots.”

He grabbed a chart and quickly plotted the convoy’s
course, wrote brief notations of his conclusions,
tucked the paper into a waterproof pouch and stuck
it in his pocket.

“Won’t trust to memory, anyway,” he said.

Then, feeling that he had learned all he could, he
banked the plane and turned away, still about two
miles ahead of the leading ships. He looked back
down at them as he headed eastward once more.

“Right now they’re wondering what’s going on,”
he said to himself. “Up to now they haven’t thought
a thing. They saw the plane coming in and just
thought it was a little earlier than they had expected.
That maybe made them wonder if I had some special
report. But now they really are in a dither! They just
can’t figure out why I should come so close and then
turn back.”

He laughed. “Well, that’s their problem, not mine.”
.bn 222.png
// 222.png
.pn +1

He gave the little plane all the speed he could. If
they were going to send up a plane to have a look
at him, he wanted to get as far away as possible.
They might send up several planes.

“If they’re fast, then I’m sunk,” Scoot said. “But
why should they send up a flock of planes to look at
one Jap seaplane that acts a little funny?”

He checked his course often, so that he could land
where the submarine could pick him up. And he kept
looking behind for the Jap plane that might be coming
after him.

He did not have to wait long for that. Half an hour
away from the convoy he saw the fast little pursuit
ship behind him, coming like the wind. He wished
his own plane could travel twice as fast, but he could
not urge another mile per hour from it. Gradually
the gap closed between the two planes.

“Now what?” Scoot asked himself. “What should
I do? I’ll keep right on this course, first of all. And
I’ll just keep flying straight ahead as if I were minding
my own business. Nothing much else I <i>can</i> do.
That plane’s got three times the speed and ten times
the fire power of this one!”

The pursuit was only a few hundred yards behind.
It stayed there for a while, apparently awaiting some
kind of signal from the seaplane. Then it came around
to one side, and Scoot tried to hide his face.

“First and only time I ever wished I looked like a
Jap,” Scoot said.
.bn 223.png
// 223.png
.pn +1

The fast plane flew alongside the other for a time,
slowing down to keep pace with it, but still some distance
to one side.

“What is this?” Scoot asked. “Are we just going out
for a spin together? I wish he’d do something.”

The Jap flier obliged by cutting back and coming
up on the other side, then speeding up and circling
around in front. It was at this moment that he looked
full into Scoot’s face. Scoot could even see the alarm
that filled him, the wide eyes, the gasp of amazement,
as he realized that an American was flying the Jap
seaplane.

At that moment, Scoot pressed the trigger on his
own machine gun, but it was too late. The Jap had
darted out of range just in time. He was so fast that
Scoot could not possibly maneuver his slow ship to
battle him.

“There’s only one chance,” Scoot said to himself,
“and I’m going to try it. If this monkey is the bad shot
most of them are, he may miss on his first try, even
with a set-up like me. If he does, that’s my chance.”

The fast pursuit was diving on the seaplane’s tail.
Scoot heard the staccato rattling of the ship’s machine
guns.

“Good!” he cried. “Firing while he’s still too far
away, like all of them! Too anxious!”
.bn 224.png
// 224.png
.pn +1

But then Scoot’s plane wobbled, tipped over, and
went spiraling down to the sea in a slow spin. The
pursuit plane circled above and watched. About fifty
feet above the water, the seaplane lurched a little,
seemed to come out of its spin. The pursuit plane
pilot looked puzzled, but he smiled again as he saw
the plane stall, slip back and hit the sea, tail first.
.bn 225.png
// 225.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 17 SEVENTEEN "ATTACK!"
It was the cold water that brought Scoot to his
senses, cold water creeping up over his chest. When
he felt it, he scrambled forward, but fell back in his
seat at once. The arm he had reached out to pull himself
up with would not work. It hung limp at his side.
He glanced down and saw blood streaming from it.

“Got to do something about that!” he muttered
dazedly. “Anyway, it worked. He thought he hit me.
I did a nice slow spinning dive. He thought he’d got
the pilot and the plane just went out of control, fell
into a natural slow spin. And did I keep it slow! He
must have thought it was funny when I pulled out of
it just over the water, but I didn’t make it look too
good. Couldn’t. But I’d slowed her down plenty, then
put her into a stall and let her flop back tail first.”

The water was creeping higher as Scoot sat there
thinking of what had just happened. Then he shook
himself to clear his head, reached up with his good
arm and pulled himself forward. The door of the
cockpit was already wrenched half off, so Scoot
crawled out easily enough. But then he slipped and
fell into the water.
.bn 226.png
// 226.png
.pn +1

The shock revived him a little more so that he
grabbed one pontoon. Slowly and painfully he pulled
himself up on it. Then he looked up into the sky. Far
to the west he saw the dot that was the Jap pursuit
ship heading back to its convoy. Scoot smiled weakly.

“He thinks he’s killed an American flier,” he mumbled.
“He doesn’t know how hard that is to do.”

The plane was not sinking any further. Its tail and
most of the fuselage were covered but the nose and
wings and pontoons were above the surface.

“Only one pontoon busted,” Scoot told himself.
“The other’s holding us up—that and the wing tanks
that are almost empty.”

Then he saw his broken arm again. He had to stop
that flow of blood. He wriggled forward a little on
the sloping pontoon so that he could wrap his legs
around the brace leading from it to the plane’s fuselage.
Then he used his good left arm to rip off most
of one side of his shirt. Holding one end of the strip
in his teeth, he wound the cloth around the bad arm
above the break, making it as tight as he could. It
slipped a little as he tied it, but it was fairly tight.
The flow of blood did not stop, but it was greatly
reduced.

“Don’t know how much longer I can keep my
strength,” he said to himself. “Better make myself fast
somehow.”
.bn 227.png
// 227.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>He Tied Himself to the Strut</i>]
.pm illust 17 navy_227.jpg 432 "<i>He Tied Himself to the Strut</i>"
.bn 228.png
// 228.png
.pn +1

Slowly he struggled out of his trousers, after taking
the waterproof pouch with the convoy information
and putting it in his money belt. Next he tied
himself to the strut with the legs of his trousers. Then
he sat, looking eastward in the direction from which
<i>Kamongo</i> must come.

“I’m not quite as far as I ought to be,” he thought,
feeling consciousness leaving him. “They’ll probably
go right under me.”

It was there that March found him. He had
brought <i>Kamongo</i> to the surface a short distance
before the spot agreed upon for the meeting. But
there had been no sign of Scoot. Keeping steadily
ahead on course, March had ordered all men to stay
below at their stations except for himself and the controlman
on the bridge. They were riding the vents,
with main ballast tanks open, and air vents at the top
closed. The water rushed in to fill part of the tanks,
but not all of them, because of the air trapped inside.
That still allowed <i>Kamongo</i> enough buoyancy to
keep on the surface, but not at full speed. All that
was needed for a dive was the opening of the air vents
at the top of the ballast tanks. That might save twenty
seconds in the diving operations and twenty seconds
might make all the difference in the world.

March had looked frantically over the sea when
they reached the designated spot. Still no sign of
Scoot. And no report from the radio.

“Something happened!” he muttered to himself.
“Something happened!”
.bn 229.png
// 229.png
.pn +1

So he continued on the surface—mile after mile
beyond the assigned spot, in danger every minute
from enemy planes that might sight him. Still no word
over the radio.

He was just about to give up and order the ship to
submerge when he saw the dot on the sea ahead. He
was ready for a dive at any moment—but it might be
Scoot instead of an enemy craft. So he stayed on the
surface, and looked, looked, looked as they came
nearer. Then he saw it was a plane, crashed in a crazy
position. He ordered main ballasts pumped and full
speed ahead. Next he ordered men up to man the
guns in case this should prove some trick of the
enemy’s.

But long before they reached the plane they knew
what it was. When they were still some distance
away, they saw the figure on one of the pontoons. As
they neared the plane, men were ready with a collapsible
boat. Quickly they rowed to the plane, lifted
Scoot into the rocking boat and took him back to 
the submarine. Lifting him up to the conning tower,
they heard him mumble something. He reached the
bridge just in time to have March lean close to his
lips and hear, “Money belt—convoy.”

In another minute Scoot was below in March’s
bunk and Sallini was hovering over him. And March
was looking at the chart and the information about
the big Jap convoy. He rushed to the interphone.
.bn 230.png
// 230.png
.pn +1

“We’ve found it!” he called to all hands. “Scoot
Bailey found it. We’re radioing headquarters, then
going in to attack.”

There was a whoop of joy throughout the ship. This
was what they came out in pigboats for—to find a
flock of Jap ships and send them to the bottom!

Quickly March gave details in code to Scotty at the
radio and soon the message was flashing out over the
water. In a moment there would be action on submarines,
at airfields, in navy bases to the south and
east where the Americans were waiting for just this
news.

Then March took the ship down and they moved
forward on a new course, planned to bring them to
the convoy at the earliest possible moment. March
figured it would take about two hours. By that time
other ships and subs would be on their way, and
planes would be roaring overhead soon after he
reached the Jap ships.

He went in to Scoot and found Sallini smiling.

“He’ll be fine,” the pharmacist said. “Broken right
arm, bad jagged cut severing the artery. But we’ve
got the blood flow stopped now, got the wound clean
and dressed. He’s had some blood plasma and I’ll
keep giving him more as long as he needs it. He lost
plenty of blood, but he’ll be okay fast.”

“Nothing besides the arm?” March asked.
.bn 231.png
// 231.png
.pn +1

“Just some cuts around the head and one leg,”
Sallini said. “Nothing serious. And exhaustion, too,
but we can pull him out of that fast. He ought to be
talking in a few hours and walking in a few days.”

“How’s the Skipper?” March asked.

“Still unconscious. Fever high but receding a little
bit. Maybe he’ll make it.”

“Here I am going into battle with my Skipper and
my best friend out cold!” March exclaimed.

“You’ve got the whole crew with you, sir,” the
pharmacist said. “Every man of ’em. Let’s get in the
middle of that bunch of Jap ships and blast the daylights
out of ’em!”

Tension began to rise in the boat as they neared
the convoy, traveling at a hundred and fifty feet
where no shadow of a sub would be likely to be seen
from the air. March got on the phone and told all
hands the plan of attack, not minimizing the dangers.

“We’re going into the middle,” March said. “Alone.
It was the Skipper’s plan. We’ll be the first there, and
we’re to scatter them so the planes will find easy pickings
and the other subs can pick them off as they
scamper away. We’ll have all tubes ready to go at
just about the same time—six fore and four aft. Then
we’ll duck for all we’re worth and we’ll go mighty
deep and lay low.”

There was another shout through the ship and the
men stood eagerly at their posts. And then came waiting,
tense waiting, as the ship moved forward. Men
.bn 232.png
// 232.png
.pn +1
had a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, walked back
and forth nervously. But they did little talking. They
were waiting, listening.

Finally the sound man picked up something.

“Propellers,” he said, “plenty of them—ten degrees
to port.”

“Take her to two hundred feet,” March ordered,
and then gave a slight change in course to the helmsman.

“We’ll get right in their path and lay low without
motors running. The sound detectors on the advance
destroyers won’t catch us, then. When they’ve passed
over we can pick up motors again because their own
propellers will kill all the sound ours make. We’ll
come up in about the middle, pick our spot and let go.
I’ll want the periscope up for just about five seconds.”

The boat leveled off at two hundred and fifty feet.
Motors were shut off. Soon the sound man reported
the close approach of the propellers. March had
judged right—they were passing overhead.

“Destroyer a little to starboard, passing over,” the
soundman reported.

“Another to port,” he reported in a moment. Then,
a little later, “Battleship.”

“Boy, wouldn’t it be nice to get that?” murmured
one of the men.

“Nice, yes,” March replied. “But that wouldn’t do
the job for the other boys that we’re going to do. We’ll
let one of the Forts get that battleship. We’ll just send
it running.”
.bn 233.png
// 233.png
.pn +1

The men nodded in agreement. They knew the
Skipper’s plan was best.

Ship after ship passed over as there was silence
in the submarine. Then March spoke.

“Come up to seventy-five feet now. They can’t
hear.”

The motors whined again and the sub tilted up
slightly. Everyone watched the depth hand move to
seventy-five and stay there. The sound man continued
to report propellers overhead. March figured
that they must be getting near the center of the
convoy.

“Say, here’s something!” the sound man exclaimed.
There was complete silence as he listened more intently.
“That’s a carrier or I’m a monkey!”

“This is our spot!” March said quietly. Then he
spoke over the phone to the entire ship. “We’ve found
our spot. Right by a carrier.”

There were a few cries of pleasure, but most of the
men were too excited to shout. March gave the order
to bring the boat up to periscope depth, standing by
the shaft ready to grab it.

As the ship leveled off he cried, “Up ’scope” and
the big shaft slid upward. March grabbed the handles
and had his eyes in place in a fraction of a second. All
the others watched him intently. He swung the ’scope
.bn 234.png
// 234.png
.pn +1
a little to the left, then to the right. His voice came
sharply then, giving the target setting for the forward
tubes—all six of them. The men knew that was for
the carrier.

Then March swung the ’scope clear around a hundred
and eighty degrees and focused. “Troopship!”
he called, and then gave the target setting to be relayed
to the after torpedo room.

“Down ’scope!” he called. “Stand by to fire!”

The shaft slid down. Everyone in the boat knew
that the periscope might have been seen even in those
few seconds it was up, even though most lookouts on
the convoy were keeping their eyes chiefly on the
seas beyond the group of ships. The sound man would
know if a destroyer came racing toward them. But
March was not going to wait.

“Fire one!” McFee pressed the button that fired
number one torpedo.

“Fire two!” The second one shot from the bow.

“Fire three! Fire four! Fire five! Fire six!”

In rapid order the commands came, then everyone
waited tensely. March looked at his watch, counting
off the seconds. Then it came—the roar, the shock of
an explosion, and the mighty cheer that tore through
the throats of every man on <i>Kamongo</i>. The first torpedo
had struck home, but at that moment March
called out, “Fire seven! Fire eight! Fire nine! Fire
ten!” And during those commands the men heard
further explosions from the first torps that had gone
streaking out.
.bn 235.png
// 235.png
.pn +1

March had not been able to count how many had
come, but he knew that McFee had done so. But now
all were waiting for the first sounds from the aft tubes.
In a moment it came—the first torpedo against the
troopship, and March waited no longer.

“Take her down!” he cried. “Three hundred feet!”
.bn 236.png
// 236.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 18 EIGHTEEN "DEPTH CHARGES"
Three hundred feet was just about the limit for
them. Pressure was terrific at that level, they all knew.
But they wanted to get as far away from the depth
charges to come as they could.

<i>Kamongo’s</i> motors whined at high pitch as they
sent the boat angling down toward the bottom. As
they went down March got the report that five torpedoes
had hit the carrier and all four had ploughed
into the troopship.

“It was hard to concentrate,” said McFee, “but I
know I’m right. And, brother, that’s good shooting.”

“Wish we could know just how much damage we
did,” March said.

“But you don’t want to know badly enough to surface
and find out, do you?” asked Mac with a grin.
“The planes will find out when they come along in
a few minutes. They’ll tell us—later, just what we did.
Anyway the sound man reports that the ships are
scattering in so many directions he can’t keep track
of them.”

Then March heard something else from the sound
man. “Sounds as if there’s solid rock below us—at
about two hundred eighty feet.”
.bn 237.png
// 237.png
.pn +1

“Wonderful!” cried March. “Settle down to it and
we’ll just lie there and rest. Shut off all motors. Then
let them try to find us.”

“Destroyers coming in up above, sir,” the sound
man said.

“Pretty slow, weren’t they?” Mac commented.

March picked up the phone from the orderly and
spoke to the ship. “They’ll be coming any minute
now. Hold fast. And we’ll be snug on the bottom.”

The first depth charge came far above them, and
the shock from it was very slight. But then the submarine
bumped slightly as its keel settled gently
against the bottom. Motors were shut off and
<i>Kamongo</i> tilted a little to one side as it lay down on
the sloping shelf of rock at the bottom of the sea.

There came the metallic click and then the monstrous
b-b-r-r-rrooom of a depth charge to the right
and above them. Then one to the left. Then one beyond
the bow. Then one beyond the stern.

“Laying a nice pattern,” McFee called, as he held
fast to the little railing at the periscope well.

“That would get us if we were higher,” March said.
“They probably figured we’re at about two hundred
feet.”

“They don’t dare go any lower in their subs,
usually,” McFee said, as he braced himself for the
next series of charges which shook him.
.bn 238.png
// 238.png
.pn +1

March looked around the control room. Everyone
was holding fast, but looking very calm. He phoned
forward to the torpedo room to ask how everything
was up there.

“All fine, sir,” reported Pete Kalinsky. “And nice
shootin’, sir.”

Room after room reported everything all right.
“Just a light filament busted from that last one in
here,” said the machinist’s mate from the engine
room.

March saw that one of the men at the controls was
steadying another while he lighted a cigarette. He
smiled, and then looked up sharply as a figure appeared
in the door at the forward bulkhead. It was
Scoot, hanging on groggily and looking angry.

“What’s goin’ on here, anyway?” he demanded
loudly. “Can’t a guy sleep in peace?”

March ran to him, but a depth charge—the closest
yet—sent him sprawling to the floor. McFee picked
him up, holding fast to the bulkhead while doing so.
Then, between explosions, they got Scoot back to his
bunk, where they strapped him in place. The young
flier went to sleep again peacefully.

On the way back to the control room March and
McFee stopped to look at the Skipper. Sallini was
with him, and he smiled.

“Temperature went down—just about the time you
hit that carrier, sir,” he reported. “He’s coming
through all right, though they’ll have to take those
slugs out of him pretty soon.”
.bn 239.png
// 239.png
.pn +1
//[Illustration: <i>Scoot Appeared in the Doorway</i>]
.pm illust 18 navy_239.jpg 429 "<i>Scoot Appeared in the Doorway</i>"
.bn 240.png
// 240.png
.pn +1

“We’ll get him to a hospital,” March said, and then
grabbed the door hard as he heard the click and then
the hardest explosion of all.

“They can’t hear anything,” he said to McFee. “Do
you suppose they figure we’re lying quiet down here
and are going to send them deeper and deeper?”

“Might be,” Mac said. March knew that if such
were the case it would be better to try to zigzag
away. The next explosion was so close that it knocked
over two men in the control room who thought they
were holding on fast. The next one knocked out the
lights, and March shouted for the emergency system.
In a moment there was light again but March was
worried, trying to make up his mind what to do. Suddenly
he felt that he just could not make any more
decisions. He wasn’t supposed to be a submarine
Skipper yet, anyway. Why decide?

“Well,” he said to himself, “if the next one’s any
closer I’ll try moving away from here.”

He waited tensely. The next explosion would decide
the matter for him. He still waited. It didn’t
come. He looked at the sound man, puzzled.

“Destroyers moving away, sir,” the sound man reported.

Then they heard another explosion. But this was
different. It was near the surface, far away, and it
was not like a depth charge. Then came another and
another.
.bn 241.png
// 241.png
.pn +1

“What can that be?” March said, turning to Mac.

“Darned if I know,” the veteran said.

And then it came to March. He knew. With a smile
he picked up the phone and announced to everybody,
“It’s all over, folks. Those things you hear are bombs
from airplanes—our airplanes chasing the destroyers
away from us and blasting the daylights out of the
convoy we’ve scattered.”

The cheer that went up was tired but came from
the heart. All over, men relaxed their grips, lit cigarettes,
strolled for a cup of coffee.

“We’ll just stay right here where it’s safe for quite
a while longer,” March said. “Then we’ll move on
slowly—toward home.”

.tb

<i>Kamongo</i> was limping when it came into port and
tied up alongside the tender <i>David</i>. It had run submerged
so long that its batteries were almost dead.
But as they pulled into the little harbor the Skipper
came to, first saying “Take her down! Take her
down!” and then opening his eyes and looking around
in a daze. He found plenty of story-tellers eager to
tell him what he had slept through.

“It’s just as well,” he smiled weakly, when he had
heard. “I never did like depth charge attacks.”

Scoot was up and about now, his arm in a sling. He
would not believe that he had complained about the
noise that disturbed his sleep during the depth-charge
attack.
.bn 242.png
// 242.png
.pn +1

No one was completely happy, though, until they
had full reports of the convoy battle from the Intelligence
Officer at the tender. It was with pride that
March Anson carried the complete news to Skipper
Larry Gray as he lay in the small sick bay aboard
the tender.

“We got the troopship ourselves,” March said. “The
carrier was on fire and listing badly when the planes
came and finished her off. Not a plane got off her. Of
the rest, thirty-eight ships are at the bottom of the sea.
Not one ship reached Truk!”

Larry looked at March silently and then a slow
smile spread over his face. “Skipper,” he said, “you
did a swell job.”

That was all the commendation March wanted or
needed, though he wasn’t dismayed later when he got
the Navy Cross and his promotion to full lieutenant.

As for Scoot Bailey, he was flown to Australia to get
over his broken arm before resuming his flying from
<i>Bunker Hill</i>. The same award and promotion had
come to him for his part in breaking up the Jap convoy,
and he was very happy. But his last words to
March were on the old argument between them.

“I won’t say another word against pigboats,” he
said. “But I still want to get back to a plane. As I said
once before, they make a great team, don’t they?”
.bn 243.png
// 243.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.hr 70%
.ce 2
WHITMAN
AUTHORIZED EDITIONS
.hr 70%
.ce 2
NEW STORIES OF ADVENTURE
AND MYSTERY
.sp
.nf b
Up-to-the-minute novels for boys and girls about Favorite
Characters, all popular and well-known, including—
.nf-
.sp
.nf b
INVISIBLE SCARLET O’NEIL
LITTLE ORPHAN ANNIE and the Gila Monster Gang
BRENDA STARR, Girl Reporter
DICK TRACY, Ace Detective
TILLIE THE TOILER and the Masquerading Duchess
BLONDIE and Dagwood’s Adventure in Magic
BLONDIE and Dagwood’s Snapshot Clue
BLONDIE and Dagwood’s Secret Service
JOHN PAYNE and the Menace at Hawk’s Nest
BETTY GRABLE and the House With the Iron Shutters
BOOTS (of “Boots and Her Buddies”) and the Mystery of the Unlucky Vase
ANN SHERIDAN and the Sign of the Sphinx
JANE WITHERS and the Swamp Wizard
.nf-
.hr 70%
.ce 2
The books listed above may be purchased at
the same store where you secured this book.
.hr 70% 
.bn 244.png
// 244.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.hr 70%
.ce 2
WHITMAN
AUTHORIZED EDITIONS
.hr 70%
.sp
.nf b
JANE WITHERS and the Phantom Violin
JANE WITHERS and the Hidden Room
BONITA GRANVILLE and the Mystery of Star Island
ANN RUTHERFORD and the Key to Nightmare Hall
POLLY THE POWERS MODEL: The Puzzle of the Haunted Camera
JOYCE AND THE SECRET SQUADRON: A Captain Midnight Adventure
NINA AND SKEEZIX (of “Gasoline Alley”): The Problem of the Lost Ring
GINGER ROGERS and the Riddle of the Scarlet Cloak
SMILIN’ JACK and the Daredevil Girl Pilot
APRIL KANE AND THE DRAGON LADY: A “Terry and the Pirates” Adventure
DEANNA DURBIN and the Adventure of Blue Valley
DEANNA DURBIN and the Feather of Flame
GENE AUTRY and the Thief River Outlaws
RED RYDER and the Mystery of the Whispering Walls
RED RYDER and the Secret of Wolf Canyon
.nf-
.hr 70%
.ce 2
The books listed above may be purchased at
the same store where you secured this book.
.hr 70%
.bn 245.png
// 245.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.hr 70%
.ce 3
THE EXCITING NEW
FIGHTERS FOR FREEDOM
SERIES
.hr 70%
.ce 2
Thrilling novels of war and adventure
for modern boys and girls
.sp
.nf b
Kitty Carter of the CANTEEN CORPS
Nancy Dale, ARMY NURSE
March Anson and Scoot Bailey of the U.S. NAVY
Dick Donnelly of the PARATROOPS
Norma Kent of the WACS
Sally Scott of the WAVES
Barry Blake of the FLYING FORTRESS
Sparky Ames and Mary Mason of the FERRY COMMAND
.nf-
.hr 70%
.ce 2
The books listed above may be purchased at
the same store where you secured this book.
.hr 70%
.if h
.pm illust 00000 navy_endpaper.jpg 700 "Book endpaper"
.if-
.sp 4
.in +4
<l>Transcriber’s Notes:</l>
.nf l
.sp
.if t
Italicized phrases are presented by surrounding the text with _underscores_.
Boldface phrases are presented by surrounding the text with equal signs.
.if-
.if h
Added illustration - book endpaper
.if-
.sp
page 39 - changed "Biglow" to "Bigelow"
original text: "Same here," Biglow...
.sp
page 64 - changed "says" to "said"
original text: "Don’t have to," Scott says...
.sp
page 79 - changed "complete" to "completely"
original text: who stood near by were complete silent.
.sp
page 87 - changed "topedoes" to "torpedoes"
original text: along one of the big topedoes.
.sp
page 114 - changed "focussed" to "focused"
original text: his eyes focussed on two or three...
.sp
page 142 - changed "begining" to "beginning"
original text: at the lights of the city of Panama which were begining...
.sp
page 172 - remove apostrophe
original text: There’ll be plane’s coming a...
.sp
page 225 - changed "destoyers" to "destroyers"
original text: and at the end three cruisers and more destoyers...
.sp
page 235 - removed extra "the" at end of sentence
original text: and took him back to the the submarine
.sp
page 240 - changed "focussed" to "focused"
original text: and eighty degrees and focussed
.nf-
.in