Taking it all in all, the scene was spectacular in the extreme.
"Boys," remarked No.

7 of our crew--"Morrie," we called him--"this sight is worth all the coaling and standing watches and poor food we have had to put up with.

I would experience it all over again just to see this bombardment." And we heartily agreed with him.
After a time it seemed as if the admiral was determined to plump shells into the vicinity of Santiago until there was nothing left to fire at.
There had been a continuous outpouring of projectiles from the guns of the fleet for over an hour, yet that grim line of gray steel fortresses still passed and repassed in front of the forts.
It was really growing monotonous, when something occurred at the gun to which I was attached that served to give us an exciting minute or two.
"Hay" had just fired a shot which caught one of the new batteries directly in the centre.

The shell was extracted, and another inserted, but when the second captain pressed the electric firing lanyard, there was no report.

The shell had missed fire.
"Long Tommy" reached forward to open the breech, but was stopped by a sharp order from the divisional officer.
"Don't open that breech till I give the word," he said.
The electrical connections were examined and the contacts scraped bright.
"Stand by," said "Hay" finally; "let's try her again." The great gun moved slowly on its pivot while "Hay" worked the elevating gear.