Outside, in the "fore cross passage", the noise of the for'ard guns, B1 and B2, coming straight down their hoists was very loud. The breeze, too, blew the cordite smoke down the hoists when the breeches of the guns were opened to reload, and made the air and stench more disagreeable than ever. The ammunition supply parties were busy; empty red shell-bags were brought back and flung into the magazines; filled ones were handed up, and the men ran away with them.
The Fleet-Surgeon and the Fleet-Paymaster flattened themselves out of the way.
"Cheer up, P.M.O.! We'll all be dead soon," the Pay chuckled.
"Indeed and we shall," snarled the P.M.O. "Listen to those beastly engines—they've been going ahead for the last hour—we'll be hitting the mines in a minute."
"Well, we shan't know much about that, old chap; we're right on top of the magazines. You'd be an angel before you could say 'knife'."
"Rats in a trap! Dry up!" growled the P.M.O. "Rats in a trap! That's what we are."
"A-climbing up de golden stairs," hummed the Pay, pointing to the end of the rope-ladder dangling from the hoist above them. "Hullo! That's something new," the Paymaster broke in cheerfully, as there was a noise just behind them—on the outer side of the coal bunker—a different noise to any they had heard before.
"Do you hear the coal jumping about?"
"That's summat 'it the harmour," men shouted gleefully.
"Two more!" Called out a gunner's mate as two more crashes came, a little farther aft, and the coal jumped and rattled behind the bulkhead.