We were just congratulating ourselves on this break and sweating out the rest of the daylight, when the _Omaha_ reported being attacked by the cruiser _Detroit_. Her captain, Dick White, who had once been my skipper on the destroyer tender _Bridgeport_ and was an old friend of Admiral Reeves, had doped out our intentions, and disregarding his orders, had left his scouting station to look for us. Even then he was broadcasting our position in plain English, instead of code, begging the _Lexington_ to come and get us. Ken Whiting now ruled both cruisers out of the action. The _Omaha_, already short of fuel, slowed down, but the _Detroit_, calmly taking up the plane-guard station, began a play-by-play account of _Big Sara’s_ every move. Well, the fat was in the fire now; Captain Dick knew we needed a plane guard too badly to wave him off, and besides, he knew Bull Reeves too well to worry about any future disciplining. The tropic night fell on the Gulf of Panama, coming down suddenly at five bells of the first dog watch. All night we steamed at thirty knots with the stars closed in around our darkened decks. At midnight the admiral called me to the flag bridge. “All the squadron commanders have been up in a body to ask me to launch immediately and not wait for dawn. What do you say?” That was a poser. No doubt, sweating it out down in the ready room, fearful that Army or Navy aircraft might catch them flat-footed on deck during the night, they had come up with their big idea. “Sir,” I replied, finally, “we have no reason to believe that any night fighters or bombers can be out this far. At least we haven’t seen or heard any signs. To change a plan involves new risks, and we have enough already.” “You’re right,” the admiral agreed. “I’ll tell them to turn in; we’ll stick to the original plan.” Standing on the flag bridge with the seas slapping against the side and the night breeze filtering down our necks, I began to appreciate, for the first time, the kind of courage that was being displayed by this man. A half-dozen rivals, candidates for his job, were sitting back, waiting for a break. It was the old Navy Game, keep your neck in and let the other fellow take the risks. Sooner or later it pays off—if you live long enough. Bull Reeves had never played that game. “Sir,” I began, “there’s a lot of brass hats watching us tonight.” The admiral inclined his head to hear me above the roar of the wind. “And,” I went on, “there’d be many a dry eye tomorrow if you should slip.” For a while I thought he hadn’t heard. “I know,” he replied slowly, “but a commander who stops to appraise the impact of a military decision upon his personal fortunes has no right to be entrusted with a command.”