All during the morning supplies were being loaded into _Kamongo_—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. 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 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.