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 _Kamongo_, his new home, his new ship on which he was to be the navigation officer. “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 _Kamongo_ 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 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.