Arriving at his action station, Cavendish climbed the short iron ladder and passed through the narrow doorway in the rear of the turret. Blades, the officer in charge, gave him a delighted grin. "No blessed mist this time, Weeds," he observed. "It'll be an almighty hammering... what's that, Petty-officer?" "Crew numbered off, sir; all present and correct, sir." "Very good--test loading-gear. Then stand by." Blades turned away to watch operations. Cavendish, his work not yet begun, stood behind the turret-trainer under the sighting-hood. "Anything in sight yet?" inquired Cavendish. "Nothing yet, sir," was the reply, as the P.O. stepped aside to allow his officer to peep out. Cavendish placed his eyes to the rubber-rimmed periscope. As he did so, he heard the order given, "load all cages!" The show was about to open. He could see nothing but an expanse of sunlit sea and sky. Out there lay the hostile fleet, but still below the horizon, although no doubt visible from the fore-top and fire-control platform. "We'll be firing by direction, sir," supplemented the turret-trainer. Even as he looked, Cavendish's range of vision was obscured by a white wall of spray. The enemy's opening salvo had fallen short. "Train fifteen red!" The turret turned smoothly--so smoothly that Cavendish was hardly conscious of the pivotal movement. The breeches of both weapons sank gently as the muzzles reared themselves almost to extreme elevation. The lieutenant moved away from the sighting-hood and watched the massive steel monsters for the recoil that would announce that the master-hand well outside the turret had completed the circuit that would send the mighty projectiles on their pre-ordained flight. There was a breathless silence, broken only by subdued noises down in the working-chamber and the crash of a salvo that had passed handsomely over the ship. "Train twenty-five green!" Back rolled the turret until the still silent weapons were trained on the bearing ordered. A suspense of a few long-drawn seconds, then with a roar the guns of A and B turrets spoke simultaneously and with no uncertain voice. The period of inaction was over. Recoiling to the full extent of their hydraulic buffers, the huge weapons jumped forward again into loading-position. Men sprang to the breech-blocks; a strong whiff of burnt cordite wafted back into the confined space of the turret. The huge 15-inch projectiles were rammed home by the mechanically operated rammer; followed the bag containing the propelling charge; and again the breech-blocks closed with a deep metallic clang. A brief pause, and again the pair of guns recoiled. Apart from watching the turret crew "carrying on" as rapidly and as smoothly as a well-ordered machine, Cavendish began to feel decidedly bored. There was a most terrific clamour going on without--probably the "five-point-fives" of the starboard battery were getting to work. In that case, he decided, there might be something to be seen.