"Right into it," he thought, and forgot his tiredness.
Dr. O'Neill and Dr. Gordon scrambled down the ship's side into the launch; the big chief sick-berth steward came down after them. Bags of dressings were passed down; and Dr. O'Neill cursed irritably when a bag, fumbled owing to the darkness, slipped through the hands of the people on the gangway above, fell into the boat, and only just missed falling overboard.
The Commander called down to the Doctor: "Keep the steam pinnace if you want her." The Sub roared out orders to the Hun, and he started his engines and towed the launch away from the ship's dark side.
Six bells struck on board her—it was just eleven o'clock.
CHAPTER IX
The "River Clyde"
The night was not very dark, a pale moon—past the quarter—appeared occasionally between slowly drifting clouds, and the sea was still quite smooth. The Peninsula showed as a dark wall rising gradually from Cape Tekke to the high cliffs at Cape Helles, beyond and under which the River Clyde lay.
The Orphan—wide awake now—steered the big clumsy launch, and listened to the two weary doctors talking of their day's work and the job in front of them. Dr. O'Neill, the Fleet-Surgeon, had a grievance—he generally had. This time it was with the Padre and the Fleet-Paymaster. They had tried to make out a list of the men killed and wounded—the men who had been brought on board the Achates—but the sights and sounds in that crowded sick-bay, with the for'ard turret-gun firing directly over it, every two or three minutes, had been too much for them. Their stomachs would not "stick it".
"The only job they have, and they can't do it," he growled. "It took me another two hours getting in all the names and the official numbers on their identity disks."
"It was pretty beastly in there, P.M.O., and they've never seen anything like it," Dr. Gordon said soothingly. "They did their best; the Padre fainted outside, and the Fleet-Paymaster was sick."