As for Peter Corbold, he was as yet hardly able to realize his surroundings. He could hear people talking, but their voices seemed far away. His head was buzzing like a top. His throat was dry and parched. He was hungry. Yet, somehow, now that food and drink were available, he made no immediate effort to satisfy the inner man.
The ward-room had come off lightly. There was one hole in the side, apparently made by a 6-inch. The missile had glanced off the fore transverse bulkhead and had brought up against the fore-and-aft bulkhead separating the ward-room from the half-deck lobby. In its course the shell, which luckily did not explode, had completely gutted the piano, although the front of the already sorely-tried instrument showed no signs of internal disarrangement.
There were no settees or chairs. Down the centre of the room was a trestle table hastily rigged up by the mess-room servants. On it were enamel cups and plates, open tins of bully beef, bread and butter, and two iron kettles filled with hot cocoa, The ward-room crockery was no more.
"You'll have to buck up, Soldier, and replenish our mess traps," remarked the doctor to the captain of the marines, who held the honorary yet responsible position of Mess President.
"We'll have to wait till we go home for that, M.O.," replied the marine officer, "unless we loot the official residence of the President of Rioguay."
"When are we going home, anyway?" inquired the Chaplain. "We can't barge about here, drawing thirty-eight feet of water for'ard, and there are no docks available out here."
"If you don't know, Padre, who does?" rejoined the First Lieutenant grimly. In other circumstances, the jest would have raised a general laugh, but no one even smiled.
The Senior Medical Officer pushed aside his plate. As he moved, the smell of iodine followed him.
"Must see the Owner," he announced. "He wants a list of casualties."
"What is the butcher's bill, M.O.?" asked the Engineer-commander.