An artificial fog-screen cannot last indefinitely. Sooner or later Q 171 had to emerge from her concealment. When she did she was steering almost due west, or towards the tail of the seven torpedo boats. Directly the movement was observed, the Huns turned sixteen degrees to port, all firing as they swung round. At the same moment Q 171's quick-firers replied for the first time. The bark of her own guns eased the tension amongst the crew. Although outnumbered, they realised that there was some satisfaction in being able to reply. The Q-boat took her punishment grimly--and it was punishment! Several shells of varying calibre hit her in quick succession. The dummy conning-tower had vanished, all but a few bent and twisted steel girders. Acrid-smelling fumes swept down upon Meredith as he assisted the last member of the after quick-firer to load and train the weapon. Through the eddying vapour he could see men feverishly working the other gun. He fancied he could distinguish Wakefield, but he was not sure... And Morpeth: where was he? Suddenly Meredith felt his legs give way under him. The sensation was akin to that of receiving an unexpected blow behind the knees. Surprised and resentful, he tried to regain his feet. Some one was lying across them. It was Ainslie--or rather all that was left of Ainslie. For perhaps twenty seconds Meredith lay on the deck striving to recollect where he was and how he came there. A red mist swam before his eyes, then it cleared, and he saw Ainslie's body once more. There were rents on the deck. The whole fabric of the vessel was throbbing under the continued concussions. Q 171 was turning in a wide circle to starboard, exposing the whole of her broadside to the hostile fire. With an effort Meredith freed his legs, and by the aid of the shoulder-piece of the now silent after quick-firer regained his feet. As he did so a man, grimy and blood-stained, lurched aft. "Cap'n's down, sir," he reported. "Steering-gear carried away.... There's the hand-gear, sir." Heavens! Morpeth down, Ainslie killed, Wakefield nowhere to be seen. The responsibility of fighting Q 171 to a finish had fallen upon the supernumerary, Sub-lieutenant Kenneth Meredith. Staggering right aft, the Sub, assisted by the bluejacket who had reported to him, contrived to unshackle the useless wires from the heavy tiller. Then in answer to a powerful heave on the metal bar the boat began to swing once more to port. Standing up, Meredith gave directions by gesture to the emergency helmsman. It was impossible to be understood otherwise, so terrific was the din, and, apart from that, Meredith's throat was so dry that he was unable to utter a sound.