He lifted it, reset, readjusted it.
Ignorant themselves, those about him saw that he understood, saw that his work was good.
They raised a joyous, defiant cheer.

But a shower of bullets drove them to cover, bullets that ripped the deck, splintered the superstructure, smashed the glass in the air ports, like angry wasps sang in a continuous whining chorus.

Intent only on the gun, David worked feverishly.

He swung to the breech, locked it, and dragged it open, pulled on the trigger and found it gave before his forefinger.
He shouted with delight.
"I've got it working," he yelled.
He turned to his audience, but his audience had fled.

From beneath one of the life-boats protruded the riding-boots of Colonel Beamish, the tall form of Lighthouse Harry was doubled behind a water butt.