Presently Farrar pointed to a ridge of mountains slightly on the "Avenger's" port bow.
"That's the show," he declared. "I recognise it by the conical peaks."
"Sure?" asked Barcroft dubiously. "I've flown all along the coast and across those hills, but not a trace of a U-boat base did I twig—and I was mighty particular. Searched every inlet with my binoculars. Not a sign of a wharf, workshop, or anything of that nature."
"I'll eat my hat if I'm wrong," said the sub confidently, as he reached for a pair of powerful glasses. "There you are! See those patches of green in the water?"
"Yes," admitted Barcroft. "They were there last time. Reeds on the mudbanks."
"Camouflage," corrected Farrar. "The whole show is covered with boughs and branches to escape aerial observation. Each of those patches screens a Fritz."
"Does it, by Jove!" ejaculated the flight-lieutenant. He swung round and nodded significantly to his second-in-command. Not a word was exchanged between Barcroft and Kirkwood. Old hands at the strafing business each seemed to know instinctively the other's mind.
A slight depression of the horizontal rudders, a faint click as the ignition was switched off, and the "Avenger" commenced her two-mile glide, descending to two thousand feet, her consorts following her example.
Fascinated, Farrar leant over the side of the hull. This sort of warfare was new to him. It seemed a very one-sided business, for not a shot was fired from the enemy base. Optically there was little to be noted—merely a forked arm of the sea with an island lying almost athwart the entrance, a range of hills enclosing the water, and a number of what appeared to be patches of verdure on the surface of the harbour and also on the sloping ground on the east side.
Suddenly the motor fired again. The flyingboat, quivering under the powerful pulsations, changed her volplane to a horizontal movement, Simultaneously Kirkwood released the first bomb.