After dinner, in the officers’ lounge, March spoke with the executive officer of the sub base, a kindly, gray-haired man with skin that still looked as if he spent a few hours every day facing the salt breeze on a ship’s bridge. Captain Sampson chatted easily with March as they looked out the windows at the gathering twilight.
“Glad to have you with us, Anson,” he said. “Hope you like it here.”
“I’m sure I will, sir,” March replied. “I’ve been looking forward to it long enough.”
“I had an idea this was no sudden impulse of yours,” Sampson replied. “First off, you’re not the kind, I take it, that acts on sudden impulses. And I imagine that subs always appealed to you.”
“Yes, before I was in the Navy that’s what I wanted.”
“Then you ought to do very well,” the Captain said. “You’ll want to make your call on the Commandant tomorrow, I suppose?”
“If it can be arranged,” March said.
“Yes—tomorrow will be all right, I’m sure,” Sampson said, “for you to present your compliments to him. There’ll be a few more officers arriving for the new class tomorrow morning early. I’ve set aside a couple of hours in the afternoon for the calls. Report at fifteen o’clock.”
“Yes, sir,” March said.
When the Captain had gone, March went back to his quarters and sat down to write a few letters. The first was to Scoot Bailey.