The Puncher dropped her stern two feet or so, and the
foam boiled brown round her propellers. The shock of the reversal
pitched the pilot up against the forward rail, where he clung like
a drowning man.
"For the love o' God, sah! Captain; sah, we've struck! Ah told
you so; Ah said--"
"And a half-three!" chanted Joe Byng.
"Stop her! Starboard engine ahead! Port engine ahead! Ease your
helm! Meet her! Half speed ahead!"
The Puncher pitched and rolled, kicking at the following monsoon that
thundered at her counter and tossing up the foam that seethed about
her bow. She trembled from end to end, as if the pounding of the
water hurt her.
"Helm amidships!" ordered the commander suddenly.
"'Midships, sir!"
"Full speed ahead, both engines!"
The Puncher leaped, as all destroyers do the second day they are
loosed. She sliced through the storm straight for the coral beach
beyond the bar, shaking her graceful shoulders free of the sticky
spray--reeling, rolling, thugging, kicking, bucking through the welter
to where quiet water waited and the ever-lasting, utterly unrighteous
stink of sun-baked Arab beaches.
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