Suddenly a dull roar came from the invisible haze away to the eastward. The protected cruisers and destroyers on the flank of the approaching fleet were hotly engaged.
Giving a final glance at the vessels astern Sir Noel entered the conning tower, followed by the captain, flag-lieutenant, Hamerton, and a midshipman. Already the limited space was occupied by a yeoman of signals and a quartermaster, while at the head of the steel ladder inside the armoured pipe that communicated with the engine-room telegraph and steering-wheel compartment beneath the armoured deck appeared the head and shoulders of another yeoman of signals, whose duty it was to transmit orders should the electrical gear be thrown out of order.
Hamerton could see nothing. The admiral had taken up his stand at the slit commanding a view ahead, the captain and the flag-lieutenant had also appropriated a similar means of outlook. Hamerton and the midshipman were perforce compelled to stand inactive, not knowing what was going on, since no word was spoken by the officers on the look-out.
Presently the Sub saw by the indicator, and also felt, that the flagship was turning to port, an example that was followed by every ship on both sides. The leading vessels of the German fleet had been sighted, and the alteration in course was to enable the whole broadsides of fifteen-inch guns to be brought to bear upon the enemy.
Then with a roar and a concussion that shook the ship the big guns were discharged. Almost immediately came a deafening crash overhead. The Royal Sovereign had received her baptism of fire. A huge shell from the German flagship had struck the roof of the superimposed turret, glanced up, and utterly demolished the bridge. A waft of acrid-smelling smoke drifted into the conning tower, making the occupants cough and splutter like men subject to asthma.
After that the firing became general, each heavy gun being discharged as fast as the automatic rammer could thrust home the giant projectiles and the breechblocks could be closed. Between the deafening roars of the fifteen-inch guns came the quicker, though hardly less ear-splitting reports of the secondary armament—the six-inch guns in various armoured casements on the main deck and other parts of the ship.
All the while came the titanic sledge-hammer blows of the enemy's shells, accompanied by the rending of steel, the crash of falling masses of metal, and—far too frequently—the shrieks of men torn by the fragments of bursting projectiles in spite of the best protection that human ingenuity could provide.
Hamerton felt perfectly calm and collected now. The first blow had banished the burning sensation in his throat, although, did he but know it, his face was streaming with perspiration and streaked with dust from the exploded cordite charges.
Both fleets were now on parallel courses, hammering at each other at less than a mile apart. It is all very well to assert that the modern naval battle will be decided at eight to ten thousand yards range: the atmospheric conditions have to be taken into account, and this battle off Galloper Sands was fought in a haze that is more frequent than otherwise in the North Sea.
All order was now at an end. It was impossible for the ships to keep their stations. Already some were sinking, and others forced to haul out of line owing to serious damage; while there was hardly one of the vessels, which a bare quarter of an hour before were as taut and trim as a naval officer could desire, that looked little better than a mass of floating scrap iron. Almost everything that could be shot away had disappeared before the terrible force of the heavy shells, till it seemed a wonder that a single ship could remain afloat.