The shell had played havoc. The compartment was so full of smoke that it was impossible to enter without a respirator. A fire had broken out, the corticine and shattered teak planking allowing it to get a good hold until the water, pouring in through the shell-hole every time the ship rolled to starboard, put most of it out. Right beneath was the after dressing station, already occupied by twenty or thirty cases, most of them suffering from burns. Through a hole in the deck, water was liberally flowing in upon the medical staff and their patients.
Shouting for a fire-party, Cavendish soon had the rest of the flames under control, the badly damaged hoses notwithstanding. Then came the task of plugging the shell-hole in the armour plate. This was accomplished by means of a number of rolled hammocks shored up with timber.
The lieutenant, finding that nothing more could be done, dismissed the party and went below the armoured deck to reassure the Surgeon Commander.
"How goes it?" demanded the Medical Officer.
"Dashed if I do know," replied Cavendish. "I was in too tearing a hurry. Couldn't see anything if I wanted to. But I know we're keeping our end up."
"And the enemy?"
"No use asking me," persisted the lieutenant. "I've heard nothing, seen nothing. You've had a busy time, Doc."
The Surgeon Commander gave a quick glance round the crowded dressing-station.
"Twenty-eight," he replied, "and every man-jack a perfect brick. Not a whine amongst the crowd. And some of them are—well—thank God for morphia!"
He picked up an instrument from the sterilizing bowl and turned away. Already he had performed five amputations by the light of a few candle lamps, with the place shaking like a house during an earthquake, and stuffy with fumes from the shell that had burst on the deck immediately overhead.