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recommended the course to our assigned corridor. This was a moving rectangle that would follow us on to the Hawaiian Islands. If we maintained the speed prescribed, there would be no ships within 100 miles ahead or astern of us, nor inside 50 miles on either beam.
    Our escort, a blimp from Sunnyvale, came up from the south and took station ahead. It would remain with us until late afternoon, primarily to help in identifying
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as friendly so that we would not be driven down by our own planes. The responsibility for our safety, as always, was our own, and with two blasts on the diving alarm, we would be out of sight before a plane could reach our position.
    Frank relieved me of the con and I went below. He could handle anything that was likely to take place. If the situation was changing or in doubt he would inform me or call me to the bridge, but if it seemed prudent, he would dive without hesitation. Tall and serious, Frank had my complete confidence.
    Fraz had completed his immediate duties as navigator, so he joined me in the wardroom. Over a cup of coffee, we planned the coming hours, deciding to keep them simple. A trim dive after the blimp was released and regular underway routine would complete our day. This did not mean that we would be idle, for everyone would have four or more hours of watch or the equivalent before midnight, and routine school of the boat, conducted by a petty officer who was qualified in submarines, would continue for the men in the duty section during the short periods when they were not onwatch. In a patrol or so, this training and individual study would lead to their qualification and the right to wear silver twin dolphins.
    My own school started immediately, for waiting in my desk was a stack of recent submarine patrol reports. Though the reports were brief, the method of operation of each boat and the data contained in each report could provide the key to remaining one jump ahead of the enemy. My immediate task was to know more about him than anyone in Pearl’s training command, our next hurdle before going on patrol.
    We still had a low overcast at midafternoon, and at the latitude of San Francisco dusk would come at about 1630. That would give the blimp just time enough for a daylight mooring. It had carried out its escort mission well, for though we had planes on the SD (our air-search radar), none had approached us. We released the blimp with thanks for a good job and received the pilot’s Godspeed.
    Scotty sounded two blasts as soon as the escort had disappeared, and we slid under the waves for our scheduled trim dive. I assumed the con and Bill took the dive, for these were our battle stations and the trim must be satisfactory to both of us.
    “Level off at sixty-four feet, Bill,” was my order, and I received prompt acknowledgment. Bill blew negative to the mark previously established on the gauge as we passed 48 feet, leveled us off at 60, and eased
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down to the ordered depth. He had calculated and compensated accurately for the weight and placement of the fuel, stores, and torpedoes that had come aboard, and was able to request speed reductions promptly as the final pumping of trim and auxiliary tanks was completed.
    “Satisfied with the trim,” came over the intercom in Bill’s usual calm voice. We were at 64 feet with a one-degree down-angle, and the Bendix log showed 3 knots. That down-angle was exactly the aspect I wanted, for now just a touch of speed would swim
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down against a tendency to broach in heavy seas. In minutes we were back on the surface and again at three-engine speed.
    Dusk came on and there were no evening stars. Secretly, I suspected that the navigator was just as happy in using dead reckoning instead of working up a star fix. During the second dog watch we entered our corridor and steadied on the new course of 225.
    It had been a long day, though the relaxation that comes with good meals and accompanying conversation had made the time slip by