“You know, men,” Larry spoke quietly, “it’s naturally very pleasant to get a promotion. But when you’re about to set out in a pigboat to sink as many Jap ships as possible, it doesn’t seem very important. And certainly gold braid and pretty gold leaves aren’t important at all. But I’ll tell you what really _is_ important, what really _does_ count for a lot when you’re about to get under way for enemy waters. That is the knowledge that I have a crew like mine! I’ve got a crew that is proud of its boat, proud of its Skipper, proud of itself. A crew that’ll do something—like this—like what you’ve just done—well, it just can’t be licked, that’s all.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER TWELVE VISIT TO WAKE ISLAND They went all the way to Pearl Harbor on the surface. They had beautiful clear weather each day. Jap ships and subs and planes had been cleared from the entire area so effectively that American submarines did not need to fear being mistaken by their own patrols for Jap subs. They made good time, and the crew and officers alike were happy, in the highest of spirits. March laughed, one day, as he looked down from the bridge and saw clothes drying on the line, put there by the crew who took the first opportunity to give their things a good sunning. “This doesn’t look much like war,” he mused. “Very domestic scene, really. And some of the men have been on deck enough to get a little sunburn. Not the usual picture of the submariner, pale and dehydrated, after his long days beneath the waters of the deep.” But he knew there would be plenty of that life ahead of them. He was happy that this part of the trip was so pleasant. It meant a lot to the crew, who were inclined sometimes to be superstitious, despite all protestations to the contrary. They felt that everything would go well with them since the start of their real patrol had been so auspicious. The Skipper had opened his orders twelve hours out from San Francisco. They were no great surprise to anyone. They were to go by way of Pearl Harbor to a submarine base in the southwest Pacific, a tiny island where a sub tender nursed its brood of pigboats, fed them oil and torpedoes and supplies before sending them out to break up the Jap shipping lines. The stop at Pearl Harbor was short, but March enjoyed it, remembering when he and Scoot had left the _Plymouth_ there, heading back for the United States and their training in submarines and airplanes. Much to his surprise there was a letter for him. He had not thought anyone would have a chance to write since learning his San Francisco address. The envelope, a plain one with a typed address, gave him no clue: