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Napoleon’s sayings which had been drummed into him when he underwent his staff training: ‘Strike hard and strike quickly.’ ‘The moral is to the physical as three to one.’ ‘Victory will go to the side which suddenly produces an imposing force of guns.’
    ‘We’re going in through the minefield,’ said Crowe, like a bolt from the clear sky. ‘Take us in, Rowles.’
    His staff stared at him. It had not crossed their minds for a moment that, having given the enemy twenty minutes’ warning of their approach, Crowe would still continue to act upon the original daring plan. With a tremendous effort Rowles exchanged his astonished expression for one of a proper imperturbability. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he said, and turned to give the orders to the quartermaster.
    The flotilla moved down the sleeping shore and wheeled again at the entrance to the channel.
    The rhythm of the throbbing engines beneath their feet changed as Rowles rang down for reduced speed to enable the Apache to take the tricky turns. His nerves were steady enough: Crowe was glad to note that, despite the need for haste, Rowles refused to be rattled into a rash handling of the ship. The flotilla followed behind like beads on a string, winding its way along the channel with invisible death on either hand.
    ‘Make the signal for “Commence firing”,’ said Crowe, and he glanced at Nickleby, who nodded back in return.
    Nickleby would give the word for the signal to come down; most of the signals of the British Navy, including this one, become operative at the moment when they are hauled down.
    Everyone on the bridge stood tense, waiting for the shore to break out into a thunder of gunfire. Still no shot was fired; the town of Crotona grew steadily more and more distinct as they neared it, the individual houses standing out like cubes of sugar scattered over the hillside.
    They could see the cathedral now, and the steeple of Saint Eufemia, the wireless masts and the gasworks - all the aiming points which were to direct the flotilla’s guns - and still there was no sign of activity on the shore.
    Safely through the channel, the second division of the flotilla diverged from the wake of the leading one and deployed for action. The long 4.7s were training round, and as the signal came down they burst into a fury of fire. The nine destroyers carried seventy-two 4.7s, and each one fired a fifty-pound shell every four seconds. Crowe stood on the bridge with the ear- splitting din echoing round him and grimly surveyed the ruin he was causing. He saw first one wireless mast and then the other totter and fall. There was a solid satisfaction in seeing the shells bursting in the clustered mass of MAS - the motor torpedo boats on which the Italians had always prided themselves. The factory chimney swayed over to one side and disappeared in a solid block, like a felled tree, and then over the ridge came the satisfactory sign of volumes of thick black smoke; the mixture of high explosives and incendiaries which Cheyenne and Navaho had been firing had done their business.
    A naval bombardment was a much more satisfactory affair than anything that could be attempted from the air; planes might drop bigger bombs, but not with one-tenth of the accuracy of a naval gun, and with none of the chance of correcting the aim which a gun permitted. The Apache ’s guns ceased fire for a moment and trained round on a fresh target, and then the cargo ships against the quay began to fly into pieces under the tremendous blows dealt them.
    But it was in that interval of silence that Crowe heard the rumble of shells passing overhead. The shore batteries had opened fire at last, but they had never been intended for use against ships within the minefield. The startled Italian gunners either could not or would not depress their guns far enough to hit.
    ‘Make the signal for “Second division discontinue the action”,’ said Crowe. When he heard the harshness of his own voice - the