THE BOYS GET ACQUAINTED WITH BIG GUNS.
Two days later the squadron sighted what at first seemed--to the boys,
at least--to be a distant cloud of deeper blue than the surrounding
sky. It floated on the southern horizon.
"Cuba!" announced old Tom, who, with the boys, was standing on the fore
deck in the "smoke time" succeeding the jackies' dinner.
"How soon will we come to anchor?" inquired Herc.
"About sundown," was the reply. "You boys are in for some strange
sights and experiences down here."
If Tom had been a prophet of old, he could not have spoken more truly.
The boys were indeed "in for some strange experiences."
That afternoon the gun crews were set to work on their various pieces
of ordnance, and "dummy drill" was gone through again and again till
the officers were hoarse with shouting commands.
In the forward turret, Ned and Herc, the proudest bluejackets of all
the _Manhattan's_ ship's company, were drilled again and again in their
part of the gun-pointing and sighting performance.
Just as in actual practice--only these were dummies--the projectile,
shining and menacing, and the bags of make-believe smokeless powder
were sent up from the magazines on the electric ammunition hoists. From
these they were rapidly transferred by the gun crew, who used a sort of
wooden trough in the process.
"Like the hog troughs we put the mash in at home," mused Herc, as he
laid hold of one of the six handles on the trough and did his best to
fall into the rhythmic swing with which the men obeyed the sharp series
of commands issued by the officer, who was Lieutenant Timmons himself.
"Take up LOAD!"
The projectile was laid in the trough almost as fast as it was shot up
on the elevator. As the last echoes of the command rang sharply on the
steel walls of the turret, the implement was reposing in its "bed."
"Swing LOAD!"
By this time the shining breech--as fine as the mechanism of a
three-hundred-dollar stop watch--was swung open by the breech tender.
It was then only the work of a second to flash the projectile into the
glistening chamber.
"Ram HOME!"
With one quick movement, that seemed to occupy no longer period than
the tick of a clock, the projectile was slid to its proper place by a
long wooden rammer.
All this time the gun pointer--Jim Cooper by name--alert, watchful as a
mousing cat, was crouched on a little platform at the side of the gun,
sighting an imaginary mark through a telescope affixed to the gun's
side.
The lens of this sight was marked with tiny, hairlike crosslines,
affording the pointer the means of determining with almost unerring
accuracy, the exact second at which the target and the gun were in
line. In a heavy seaway, of course, or even in a moderate blow, the
work of the gun pointer is much more complicated, as a dozen different
elements and movements are at work to confuse and spoil his aim.
Then came the powder charge. Several canvas bags appeared on the
ammunition hoist.
"More like flourbags than powder," thought Herc to himself, as he
helped slap them into the carrying tray.
"Ram HOME!"
The powder was shoved in with the same flash-like rapidity that had
marked the placing of the huge projectile.
"Ready, sir!"
The chief of the loading crew saluted.
"Ready, Cooper?"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"Close breech! FIRE!"
The two commands seemed to be merged into one, so rapidly did they
come. The boys and the rest of the crew sprang to the back of the
turret and crouched low, as did the others as the command was given.
The gun pointer came last of all, springing backward like an acrobat.
As he did so there was a sharp click. The lieutenant in command had
thrown the switch that ignited the priming spark. The mighty charge had
been touched off--in imagination.
The lieutenant looked at his watch, which he had held on his open palm
while the crew worked.
"Twenty-five seconds! Good work," he announced. "Do as well as that at
battle practice, men, and we shall beat the _Idaho_ to rags--on speed,
at all events."
"And on targets, too," grimly remarked Cooper, wiping his nervous hands
with a bundle of waste.
This was the final practice of the afternoon, and the rest of the time
was devoted to familiarizing the two young recruits with their duties
about the turret.
Both were quick pupils and had already studied something of gunnery at
the Newport Training School, so that in a short time they thoroughly
understood the theory of firing the big guns.
With quick eyes both lads had noticed that the other twelve-inch
gun--the Varian projectile hurler--had not been unhooded, and its grim
breech was swathed mysteriously in waterproof coverings. It was in
the breech that lay the complicated mechanism which made it possible
to handle the terrific explosive power of Chaosite--at least, so the
inventor hoped.
As a final lesson, the boys were instructed in the elementary theory of
gun pointing, a much too technical subject to enter into here.
Herc was amazed when he took his place on the gun-pointer's little
steel platform, to find that by handling a lever close to his right
hand he could point the ponderous gun, weighing fifty-four tons, up or
down as easily as he used to sight his little "twenty-two" when he went
shooting "chucks" at home.
"That great gun is balanced as delicately as a microscope," explained
the lieutenant.
"How do you get it in lateral range?" inquired Herc.
For reply, the lieutenant indicated another lever.
Herc touched it.
Instantly the great turret itself began to quake, and then, with a soft
rattling of cogs, commenced slowly to revolve.
"Reverse it!" shouted the lieutenant.
Herc pulled the lever in the other direction.
As obediently as if it had understanding, the tons of triple-riveted
steel which composed the shelter for the heaviest guns in the navy
began to turn in the opposite direction.
"Electricity," laughed the officer. "Electricity is the life-blood of
the modern battleship. A vessel like this has a more complicated system
of circulation than the human body. We eat by electricity, fire the
guns by it, read by it, cook by it, coal by it, and----"
"Fight by it, sir," put in Ned quietly, carried away by enthusiasm.
The lieutenant gave him a quick look, as if to rebuke him for his
forwardness; but the shining light in the boy's eyes showed the officer
that, after all, it was real enthusiasm for the United States fighting
ships that had incited Ned's remark.
"Yes," he said quietly also, "and fight by it, too, Strong."
This concluded the great-gun drill, and the boys and the crew of the
forward turret joined the other tars assembled on the forward deck,
awaiting the sounding of the supper call. All over the ship, down to
the marine's little six-inch batteries, the same practice had been
going forward.
Already they felt set apart somewhat from their comrades, and proud in
the thought that they were part of the fighting force that commanded
the actions of the biggest guns in the fleet. That it really did confer
a sort of distinction upon them was evidenced, too, by the increased
cordiality with which their shipmates greeted them.
"Hurray! we're on our way to be admirals," whispered Herc to Ned, as
they passed among the groups of resting jackies, returning the running
fire of joking and congratulation to which they were subjected on every
hand.
"Only a very little way," laughed Ned, "though I feel as proud as if
that was my flagship yonder and I was entitled to fly the two-starred
blue flag."
He pointed to the van of the squadron--the big _Connecticut_--on which
flew the flag of Rear-Admiral Gibbons.
"If we do our duty as well as we can," he went on seriously, "we are
just as important to the fleet as any of the officers or our superiors."
"I guess that's right," agreed Herc. "At any rate, that's just what
I heard the captain saying the other day to two men who had the
misfortune to be my cellmates, and, by the way, that reminds me----"
Herc drew Ned into a quiet niche--a hard place to find on the busy,
crowded fore deck of the man-o'-war--and in whispers told him of the
conversation he had overheard.
"Ought we to tell the captain?" he concluded.
Ned hesitated.
"I don't think so. Not yet, at any rate," he decided after an interval
of thought. "We shall have shore leave at Guantanamo, I understand, and
we will employ it by keeping close on the track of those two fellows.
Neither of them imagine we know their plans, so that we have that
advantage, and we may be able to do something that will bring us really
in the line for promotion. I wonder how Kennell got into it, though?"
"I suppose the fact that he was familiar with the Varian gun, from his
detail in the fore turret, had something to do with their bribing him,"
suggested Herc. "However, we may be on the eve of finding out."
Destiny was holding big things in reserve for the Dreadnought Boys.