But look inside this massive gun-hood, from which protrude forty feet of two sleek grey monster cannon, each of which is capable of hurling 850 pounds of steel and high explosive a distance of a dozen miles. Grouped round their guns in various attitudes are the bluejackets forming their crews. They are tanned and weather-beaten fellows, but there is a strained and tired look about their eyes. Here in the confined spaces of their turret they have eaten, slept, and whiled away the watches as best they might for many, many hours. They have not had the discomforts of their khaki-clad brethren in their sodden trenches, nor listened to the constant hiss of hostile bullets and the howl and crash of "Jack Johnsons" at unexpected moments. But if they have been immune from these constant and manifest dangers, they have had none of their excitements. They have had the temptation to boredom, and the less exciting but always present peril of the dastardly German system of mine-laying in the open sea. Some are writing letters to chums, to sweethearts, and to wives. Others are killing time with the light literature that has been sent to the ship in bundles by the many friends of the fleet on shore. In one corner is a midshipman writing up his "log", and beside him sits the lieutenant in charge of the turret reading for the fourth time a much-folded letter he has taken from an inner pocket. Look into the next turret and you will see a similar scene, the only difference being that in this case the guns' crews and their officer are marines, wearing red-striped trousers and "Brodrick" caps--the latter not unlike those of the seamen, but with the corps badge in brass on a semicircular scarlet patch in front, instead of a ribband with the ship's name. In the casemates housing the smaller guns in the superstructures and on the deck below are similar though smaller groups. All are waiting--waiting. We wend our way below. The clerks and writers are working in their offices, the cooks are busy at their galleys. Men must eat and accounts must be kept though the ship should be blown out of existence in the next ten minutes. We enter a narrow lift and are shot down to the lower regions, where the sweating stokers handle rake and shovel, the artificers and engine-room staff ply oil-can and spanner, and the engineer officers study gauges and dials of all sorts and kinds. There is more life down here than up above. Work is going on that needs constant watching and attention. On our return journey to "the upper air" we glance in at the wireless room. As we do so comes the loud crackle of the electric spark. The operator is acknowledging a signal. A message has come in from a scouting cruiser. "The enemy are out. Five big cruisers, heading north-west." Another Scarborough Raid perhaps.