Phil wavered in his inclination to inform his division officer of the incident of the day before.
“The umpires are here, sir, and the captain says you will fire first. Let him know when you are ready to go on the range,” reported the orderly, from the turret top.
Phil found himself at his station in the handling room. The mystery was still a secret.
All thoughts of the affair were quickly forgotten. His mind was now on the work of supplying ammunition from the magazines and shell rooms as fast as the two metal tubes above could hurl it at the target.
The shell rooms were opened and the big shells were brought out on the overhead tracks ready to be placed on the ammunition cars, then to be hoisted to the turret fifty feet above. The magazine doors were closed, but the hinged metal flaps were undogged and men stood ready to enter the powder magazines and pass the charges of powder through these fire-proof flaps to those in the handling room, then to be placed with the shell on the car.
Standing surrounded by his twenty-four men, Phil waited the order from Lazar to load the cars.
“Mr. Perry,” Lazar’s voice came down the flexible speaking-tube.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Phil answered back.
“Are you ready?”
“All ready, sir,” shouted Phil.