Fire-hoses, sending their jets of water from their unions, lay along the deck like healthy serpents, ready to trip the unwary. "Present use" ammunition was stacked in the rear of the guns, ready to feed their rapacious maws when the order to open fire with the secondary armament was received. Above the chatter of men's voices came the rattle of the ammunition cages and the steady purr of the engines far below the waterline.
"Close up round your guns, my lads," the bronzed and bearded gunner kept on shouting, "close up and give the greasy swine socks when the time comes."
Arriving at his action station, Cavendish climbed the short iron ladder and passed through the narrow doorway in the rear of the turret. Blades, the officer in charge, gave him a delighted grin.
"No blessed mist this time, Weeds," he observed. "It'll be an almighty hammering... what's that, Petty-officer?"
"Crew numbered off, sir; all present and correct, sir."
"Very good—test loading-gear. Then stand by."
Blades turned away to watch operations. Cavendish, his work not yet begun, stood behind the turret-trainer under the sighting-hood.
"Anything in sight yet?" inquired Cavendish.
"Nothing yet, sir," was the reply, as the P.O. stepped aside to allow his officer to peep out.
Cavendish placed his eyes to the rubber-rimmed periscope. As he did so, he heard the order given, "load all cages!" The show was about to open.