The mother ship of the submarines was a combination of flag ship, supply station, repair shop and hotel. The officers of the submarines had rooms aboard her which they occupied when off patrol, and the crews off duty slung their hammocks 'tween decks. The boat was pretty well crowded, having more submarines to look after than she had been built to care for, but thanks to the skill of her officers, everything was going as smoothly as could be. The vessel had, so to speak, a submarine atmosphere. Everybody aboard lived, worked and would have died for the submarine. They believed in the submarine, believed in it with an enthusiasm which rested on pillars of practical fact. The Chief of Staff was the youngest captain in our Navy, a man of hard energy and keen insight, one to whom our submarine service owes a very genuine debt. His officers were specialists. The surgeon of the vessel had been for years engaged in studying the hygiene of submarines, and was constantly working to free the atmosphere of the vessels from deleterious gases and to improve the living conditions of the crews. I remember listening one night to a history of the submarine told by one of the officers of the staff, and for the first time in my life I came to appreciate at its full value the heroism of the men who risked their lives in the first cranky, clumsy, uncertain little vessels, and the imagination and the faith of the men who believed in the type. Ten years ago, a descent in a sub was an adventure to be prefaced by tears and making of wills; to-day submarines are chasing submarines hundreds of miles at sea, are crossing the ocean, and have grown from a tube of steel not much larger than a life boat to underwater cruisers which carry six-inch guns. Said an officer to me: "The future of the submarine? Why, sir, the submarine is the only war vessel that's going to have a future!" [Illustration: A flock of submarines and the "mother" ship in harbor]