tanding to pitch brokenly at
the foot of the hatchway, like a rag doll flung down by a child in a
passion. He lay outstretched, face downwards, with his head resting on
his forearm as if asleep. Most of the lights had been extinguished by
the explosion, but a pile of cartridges in the rear of one of the guns
had caught fire and burned fiercely, illuminating everything with a
yellow glare.

Lettigne, Midshipman of the battery, was untouched; deafened and
deathly sick he took command of the remaining guns. He, who ten
seconds before had never even seen death, was slithering about dimly
lit decks, slippery with what he dared not look at, encouraging and
steadying the crews, and helping to extinguish the burning cordite. In
darkened corners, where they had been thrown by the explosion, men were
groaning and dying....

That shell had been one of several that had struck the ship
simultaneously. Mouldy Jakes opened his eyes to see a streak of light
showing through a jagged rip in a bulkhead. The light was red and hurt
his eyes: he passed his hand across his face, and it was wet with a
warm stickiness. His vision cleared, however, and for a few moments he
studied the drops of water that were dripping from the gash in the
plating. "Crying!" he said stupidly. The shells that pitched short
had deluged the fore-part of the ship with water, and it was still
dripping into the interior of the turret. Mouldy Jakes raised his
head, and a yard or two away saw Morton. The breech of one of the guns
was open, and Morton was lying limply over the huge breech-block. The
machinery was smashed and twisted, and mixed up with it were dead men
and bits of men....

A little while later the Fleet Surgeon, splashed with red to the
elbows, glanced up from his work in the fore-distributing station and
saw a strange figure descending the hatchway. It was Mouldy Jakes: his
scalp was torn so that a red triangular patch hung rakishly over one
eye. Flung over his shoulder was the limp form of an unconscious
Midshipman. For a moment he stood swaying, steadying himself with
outstretched hand against the rail of the ladder.

"Thought I'd better bring him along," he gasped. "Turret's knocked to
hell.... He's still alive, but he's broken all to little bits inside
... I can feel him... Morton, snottie of my turret ..."

Sickberth Stewards relieved him of his burden, and Mouldy Jakes sat
down on the bottom rung of the ladder and began to w