The period of inaction was over.
Recoiling to the full extent of their hydraulic buffers, the huge weapons jumped forward again into loading-position. Men sprang to the breech-blocks; a strong whiff of burnt cordite wafted back into the confined space of the turret. The huge 15-inch projectiles were rammed home by the mechanically operated rammer; followed the bag containing the propelling charge; and again the breech-blocks closed with a deep metallic clang.
A brief pause, and again the pair of guns recoiled.
Apart from watching the turret crew "carrying on" as rapidly and as smoothly as a well-ordered machine, Cavendish began to feel decidedly bored. There was a most terrific clamour going on without—probably the "five-point-fives" of the starboard battery were getting to work. In that case, he decided, there might be something to be seen.
He touched the turret-trainer on the shoulder. The man stepped aside. Cavendish applied his eyes to the periscope. He could see nothing. Even if the enemy ships had closed to within a few thousand yards, they were still invisible, for the front glass of the periscope was blackened and smudged with smoke, oil, and water. The continuous concussion was positively painful. The noise and rattle of a dozen pneumatic hammers in a double bottom was nothing to it.
Cavendish had lost all idea of time. He glanced at his wristlet watch. It told him that he had been in the turret only five minutes. A second look showed that the watch had stopped.
Just then, Blades, the lieutenant of the turret, caught sight of him.
"Hello, old thing!" he exclaimed. "You haven't been sent for yet?"
"No," shouted Cavendish in reply. "And don't want to be sent for. Shows everything's going on all right. I'll——"
A jet of greasy oil forced through a broken gland struck Cavendish in the face and interrupted his words.