In the forward turret, Ned and Herc, the proudest bluejackets of all the Manhattan's ship's company, were drilled again and again in their part of the gun-pointing and sighting performance.
Just as in actual practice—only these were dummies—the projectile, shining and menacing, and the bags of make-believe smokeless powder were sent up from the magazines on the electric ammunition hoists. From these they were rapidly transferred by the gun crew, who used a sort of wooden trough in the process.
"Like the hog troughs we put the mash in at home," mused Herc, as he laid hold of one of the six handles on the trough and did his best to fall into the rhythmic swing with which the men obeyed the sharp series of commands issued by the officer, who was Lieutenant Timmons himself.
"Take up LOAD!"
The projectile was laid in the trough almost as fast as it was shot up on the elevator. As the last echoes of the command rang sharply on the steel walls of the turret, the implement was reposing in its "bed."
"Swing LOAD!"
By this time the shining breech—as fine as the mechanism of a three-hundred-dollar stop watch—was swung open by the breech tender. It was then only the work of a second to flash the projectile into the glistening chamber.
"Ram HOME!"
With one quick movement, that seemed to occupy no longer period than the tick of a clock, the projectile was slid to its proper place by a long wooden rammer.