The navigating officer seizes
the engine-room telegraph and signals full speed ahead. While the ship
groans and lists under the sudden turn at high speed, the
ammunition-hoists drone as they bring powder and shell up to gun and
turret. From the range-finding and plotting-stations come orders to the
sight-setters, and in an instant there is a stupendous roar as every gun
on the port side sends forth its steel messenger.
Again and again comes the broadside, while the ocean for acres about the
periscope boils with the steel rain. It is much too hot for the
submarine which sinks so that the periscope is invisible. From the
plotting-stations come orders for a change of range, and on the sea a
mile or so away rise huge geysers which pause for a moment, glistening
in the light of the new sun, and then fall in spray to the waves, whence
they were lifted by the hurtling projectiles. The shells do not
ricochet. "Where they hit they dig," to quote a navy man. This is one of
the inventions of the war, the non-ricochet shell. One may easily
imagine how greatly superior are the shells that dig to those that
strike the water and then glance. Then comes the cry:
"Torpedo!"
All see it, a white streak upon the water, circling from the outer rim
of shell-fire on a wide arc, so as to allow for the speed of the
battleship. With a hiss the venomous projectile dashes past the bow,
perhaps thirty yards away. Had not the battleship swung about on a new
course as soon as the vigilant lookout descried the advancing torpedo,
it would have been a fair hit amidships.
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