Blake noticed the look of enquiry on Athol's face.
"Magdeburg," he announced laconically. "Know the place well. We're fairly on the right road now—Brandenburg, Potsdam and then Berlin. Another quarter of an hour."
Up into the clouds climbed the raiding aircraft. The now furious gale was completely in their favour, for it was impossible for the Germans to send aloft any of their numerous captive balloons that formed a part of the aerial defences of the capital. The wind was beginning to rend the bank of clouds. Brilliant shafts of sunshine shot through the rifts. Over the ground the shadows chased each other with a speed that gave the aviators a knowledge of the strength of the gale.
Blake, holding the steering wheel, spoke hardly a word. His whole attention seemed to be centred upon the task of "keeping station" with the rest of the squadron. His left hand was almost continuously upon the timing lever of the motors, checking the speed of the battleplane whenever, as frequently happened, she showed a tendency to overhaul the biplanes.
Far below lay an extensive and irregularly shaped lake with at least two considerable towns on its banks. Surrounding the lake was a dense forest, of which a large part had been but recently cleared, for newly-felled trees were plentifully in evidence.
"Potsdam," announced Blake. "If we imitated the methods of the Kultured Huns we should drop a few bombs on Kaiser Wilhelm's palace. That lake is the Havel. They've cleared a lot of the Spandau and Potsdam forests, I see. Not that they are hard up for timber. I suppose it is chiefly for wheat growing, in anticipation of the day when the German frontiers are most considerably restricted. But stand by—the leading machines are turning head to wind."
The attack had been magnificently planned. One division of the biplanes had flown over the southern environs of Berlin; the other over the northern; now both were turning inwards and just holding their own against the wind. They had the city at their mercy.
Before the utterly surprised artillerymen manning the anti-aircraft guns were fully aware of the presence of the British raiders, powerful bombs were hurtling through the air, each missile aimed with deliberate intent upon a specified objective and not dropped haphazard under cover of darkness as in the case of the Zeppelin raids over England. The railway stations and other public buildings of military importance were carefully singled out by the airmen, in spite of the now furious but erratic fire of the German guns, particular attention being given to the official buildings in the Wilhelmstrasse, not omitting No. 13—the headquarters of the Imperial Admiralty.
It was by no means a one-sided engagement, for shrapnel shells were bursting heavily all around the British machines. As far as Athol and Dick were concerned they rather welcomed the warm attentions of the enemy. It was far better to run a fighting risk than to hover deliberately over a defenceless town and hail projectiles upon a populace unable to raise a little finger in self-protection.
Already fierce fires were raging in a dozen different quarters of the German capital. The air trembled with the terrific detonations of exploding bombs. The dense columns of smoke, beaten almost flat with the strong wind, prevented the airmen from making definite and accurate observations of the result of their work, but on the other hand the vapour hid the attacking aircraft from the artillerymen. Nevertheless two British biplanes were hit. One, taking fire, streamed earthwards, leaving a trail of smoke and flame in its wake. The other, its engine disabled, contrived to land in Thiergarten, where the pilot and observer were made prisoners.