First of all March saw the gleaming, shining, newness of everything in the room. It was beautiful! Then his eyes focused on two or three crewmen who looked casually at him, then on a young man, about his age, who looked up with a smile. He saw the Lieutenant’s (not j.g.) stripes and saluted. “Lieutenant Anson, sir, reporting,” he said. “Lieutenant Bigelow,” Stan echoed him. The young man saluted back casually. “Hello,” he said. “Glad to know you. My name’s Gray.” March smiled. He liked this young man right away. Maybe another new officer. “We’d like to report to the Skipper,” he said in a friendly tone. “You’ve done it, men,” the man said lightly. “I’m the Skipper.” March was thunderstruck. This young fellow the Skipper? Why, he didn’t look any older than March or Stan, and March knew that _he_ wasn’t qualified to be the Captain of a submarine. But he quickly abandoned his friendly tone and grew formal. “Oh—yes, sir,” he said. “Lieutenant Anson reporting.” “So you said,” the Skipper replied. “Come on into my quarters.” He turned and led the way through the small bulkhead door to a narrow hall from which doors led to very small cabins. In the first of these he turned and sat down behind a small table. “Officers’ mess,” he said, motioning them to sit down. “Cramped but beautiful. Make yourselves at home.” Stan and March didn’t know what to say. They liked the young man, but their surprise at his youth bothered them. He seemed to sense their thoughts, and smiled. “Don’t be upset,” he said. “I’m not quite as young and inexperienced as I look. Graduated from Annapolis six years ago, been in submarines ever since. I was executive officer on the _Shark_ in the Pacific since the war began—happened to be at Pearl Harbor when it happened. On my last patrol lost my Skipper—God bless him—when he had a heart attack. Had to take over. Transferred to this new baby when I got back. Now—where do you come from?” March relaxed and smiled. He liked this man at once. He could see their thoughts, their surprise, and he could put them at their ease at once. “Served a year aboard the _Plymouth_,” he said. “Volunteered for submarine duty, sent to New London, just completed training there.” “My story doesn’t sound so good,” Stan said. “I was a teacher—and I didn’t like it. Diesels, mainly. They finally gave in because I pestered them so much and sent me to New London. I went through the mill there with March—er, Lieutenant Anson.” “We might as well get this name business out of the way,” Gray said. “I’m not one for rushing into calling everybody by his first name right off, but on the other hand I don’t believe in keeping up the formalities forever—especially on a submarine. My name’s Larry. When you feel you know me well enough and it comes easy, call me that. Until then, call me Skipper or Gray.” “My name’s March Anson,” March said. “It must have been bad when you were an Ensign,” Gray said. “A lot of puns about Ensign Anson, I’ll bet.”