In the centre, up through the ceiling, was the conning-tower shaft, gained by a steel ladder, above which was another periscope and the torpedo firing gear. Another watertight door led into the fore compartment where the battery-ventilating fans were running, and the ceiling was interlaced with the usual profusion of vents and shafts. Right aft an operator was tuning the wireless installation, beyond which were the crew’s lockers and the flag racks. On the port side was the chart table and two bunks, one high up, and the other formed by a drawer, which on being pulled out and stayed up, disclosed the bedding all neatly stowed away. Underfoot, as in the after compartment, was the great hundred-and-twenty volt battery which fed the hungry motors, and forward were the air bottles and fuel tanks. In the bows were the torpedo-tubes, whose brass doors winked in the electric light, hiding the wicked torpedoes behind their shining faces. A turn of the bow cap and a pull at a lever, and they would be off at forty knots to reap a harvest of death and destruction. Abaft the tubes were spare torpedoes, shining steel cylinders with copper war-heads, holding sufficient T.N.T. to sink a Dreadnought. The men were moving quietly about their work, the watch below preparing to turn in while the remainder were cleaning and adjusting and getting ready generally for the coming sea trip. Once out of the harbour, ‘123’ lifted gently to the swell, and with her hydroplanes turned out and all hatches closed, with the exception of that from the conning-tower, was cutting through the water like a great porpoise. By now the crew had settled down to sea routine, and only the captain, navigator, and coxswain were on the conning-tower bridge, and an occasional seaman or stoker up for a breather or smoke-oh. Boyd, who had been looking aft intently, lowered his binoculars and glanced at the compass. ‘Bearing’s on, sir,’ he reported. ‘Course is fifty-six.’ ‘All right. Steer fifty-six. That’ll do, coxswain. Helmsman to the wheel.’ The coxswain was relieved and bustled below, and a young A.B. took the wheel, or rather the electric switch which, by a movement of the finger, altered the direction of the ship’s head. ‘Wonder if we’ll see anything this time,’ continued the skipper. ‘Fritz doesn’t seem to be over-anxious about coming out lately. I never seem to have any luck, but he’ll be a nasty customer to tackle if ever we do run across him. He won’t give in while he’s got a kick left in him.’ ‘Gets a bit monotonous,’ admitted Boyd. ‘My brother’s in France. Sometimes I wish I were out there too. They do see something of the scrapping at any rate. What gets on my nerves is this constant being on the alert and never seeing anything. If you were told you were to go out and strafe a Hun one wouldn’t mind. It’s the uncertainty of the business that shakes me.’