Hardly had the dauntless man completed his self-imposed task when another shell struck the Calder obliquely on the port bow. Penetrating the fo'c'sle, it burst with a muffled report, but, instead of shattering the for'ard part of the destroyer, it emitted dense clouds of greenish-yellow smoke that eddied through the shattered plating on the fore-deck and drifted sullenly aft.
In a second Crosthwaite realized the danger. The shell had been filled with poisonous gas, and just at the time when the ship was getting within torpedo-range, and the men had to direct all their energies upon loosing the 21-inch weapons, the asphyxiating fumes threatened to put them, at least temporarily, out of action.
With his hands clasped to his mouth and nostrils Crosthwaite awaited the noxious vapour, hoping that the head wind caused by the rush of the destroyer through the water would quickly disperse the poison; but with horrible persistence the deadly smoke hovered betwixt the various projections on deck.
He was conscious of the quartermaster and the others on the bridge staggering, with their fingers frantically gripping their throats. The signalman who had previously saved his commanding officer from falling overboard was writhing in agony, clawing at whatever came to hand, until in a frenzy he took a flying leap over the side and sank like a stone.
Left to herself, the Calder began a broad sweep to starboard. As she did so, the fumes drifted to leeward, yet not before the men standing by the pair of torpedo-tubes were temporarily overcome by the diabolical product of German Kultur.
In vain Crosthwaite attempted to rally the men. It was either now or never, for, unless the torpedoes were fired, the opportunity would be gone. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his tortured throat. Between the eddying clouds of steam and smoke he could discern the torpedo-men moving like stupefied bees.
With an effort the lieutenant-commander regained his voice. He turned to the quartermaster, who, although still gasping for breath, had come through the terrible ordeal with comparatively slight ill-effects.
"Keep her steady on her helm," exclaimed Crosthwaite, and, literally tumbling down the bridge ladder, he made his way aft to the torpedo-tubes.
Pushing aside two victims of the poison-gas, one of them the L.T.O., who lay athwart the racer, the lieutenant-commander gripped the training-wheel and slewed the pair of tubes until they were nearly broad on the beam. At 2000 yards distance three large battle-cruisers over-lapped, presenting a target nearly 1800 feet in length. To miss such an objective seemed almost impossible.
With a wrench Crosthwaite dropped the firing-lever of the right-hand tube. Through the thin haze that emerged from the metal cylinder, he caught a glimpse of the gleaming, steel, cigar-shaped missile as it leapt clear and disappeared with a mighty splash beneath the water. Then, changing over to the left-hand tube, he sent the second weapon on its errand of destruction.