To enjoy their leisure between watches these officers
of an American destroyer lash themselves into their seats.
A destroyer travelling at high speed in a heavy sea
is like a bucking broncho.
"Good visibility," said somebody on the bridge. "She can't be more than three miles away now. Hello, there's a rocket."
A faint bronzy golden trail, suddenly flowering into a drooping cluster of darting white lights gleamed for a furtive instant among the westering winter stars.
"I saw her, sir!" cried one of the lookouts.
"Where is she, O'Farrell?"
"Quite a bit to the left of the rocket, sir. She's settling by the head."
The beautiful night closed in again. O'Farrell and the engineer continued to peer out into the dark. Suddenly both of them cried out, using exactly the same words at exactly the same time, "Torpedo off the port bow, sir!"
The thing had become visible in an instant. It could be seen as a rushing white streak in the dark water, and was coming towards the destroyer with the speed of an express train, coming like a bullet out of a gun.