He had been thrown from his berth by the violence of the explosion. His face was cut and bleeding where he had struck a near-by stanchion. His left arm hung useless. He had lain dazed on the deck for a few moments until he heard the orders of his lieutenant. He was one of the signal midshipmen stationed on the signal bridge. Whatever happened that was the place to which to go; he still had a duty to perform.
Picking himself up as best he could, he hurried to report to the lieutenant. With such means as were available signals were made. Calls for help? Oh, never! Warnings that the enemy's submarines were in the near vicinity and that other ships should keep away.
The captain was on the half wrecked bridge above. The boy noticed how quiet he was, yet his voice rang over the tumult.
"Steady, men, steady. Keep your stations. Stand by. Be ready."
The old quartermaster whose business it was to tell the hours saluted the captain.
"Eight bells, sir," he said, "midnight. Christmas day," he added.
"Strike them," said the captain.
And, as clear as ever, the four couplets rang out over the chaos and the disaster.
"Christmas day," the boy murmured.
"She's going, men," said the captain, as the cadences died away. "Save yourselves. Abandon the ship."