Hal and Bowers ducked down so that they would not be struck by slivers should they come through the eye-slits in the tank.
“We’re in a tight place, sir,” called Bowers.
“Right,” Hal agreed. “We don’t want to take too many chances peeking through the eye-holes while those bullets are hitting around us like this. Great Scott! Listen! It sounds like someone was hitting the skin with a sledge hammer at the rate of fifty blows a second.”
A sliver suddenly spun through a porthole and struck Bowers on the hand. The wound was slight but painful. Bowers wrung his numbed hand in silence.
“Hurt much?” asked Hal.
“No, sir. I’ll be all right in a second.”
But the hand wasn’t all right in a second. It was still too numb to permit of handling the gun.
“There isn’t any use of our being here unless we can do some good,” Hal called. “I’m afraid you can’t work that gun any longer, Bowers.”
“I can drive,” was Bowers’ reply.
So the two changed places, Hal going into the gunners turret.