On Land and Sea at the Dardanelles

by T. C. Bridges

'What's she coming up for?' asked Roy of Ken in a low voice.

'She's got to, so as to fire her torpedo. You can't fire so long as you're submerged.'

'But if they see us, they'll let loose with their guns.'

'They've only got the periscopes to shoot at. Take more than Turkish gunners to hit them.'

'Stand by!' came the crisp order from Commander Strang. 'Three points to port—one more. Don't miss her, whatever you do, Williams. She's got the legs of us, and we shan't get a second shot.'

'That's right. Steady now. Shut down! Let go!'

Ken heard a sharp hiss as the compressed air drove the long gray Whitehead out of its tube, and sent it flashing away on its deadly errand. Young Hotham sat still as a statue, his eyes glued to the periscope. The rest of the crew seemed hardly to breathe. As for Ken, his mouth was dry. To him, more than to any one else aboard, the success or failure of the shot meant much.

Five, ten, fifteen seconds—then Hotham gave a sharp cry.

'Got her. Got her, by the living jingo! Oh, good shot, Williams!'

As he spoke a dull shock made the whole hull of G2 quiver.