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 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. “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.