"Sixteen small and four large bombs," Meriwell answered.
"Get ready," he warned. He turned to the navigator. "Back and over the town."
"Back and over the town?" the navigator queried stupidly. "Over the town?"
"Yes," the commander barked. His face seemed queerly white and strained. "Let them have all you've got, Mr. Meriwell."
"You don't mean—?" Meriwell nearly laughed in amazement. "Bombard the town?"
"Yes. Quick. Circle around and let go."
A great, tawny lake of flame poured over the acreage of cars in the junction. It lighted the town dully and they could see it hazily, through a smoke screen, as it were. The narrow Gothic buildings showed up as in a painting; the peaceful cathedral; the great, squat municipal hall; the queer dolls' houses—it all seemed like a theatrical spectacle. Southward the gunners still threw their white stars and the artillery of the forts stabbed red and blindly into the murky fog.
"Take the wheel," the navigator told the steersman. "Planes up eighteen and swing in a circle." He looked at the commander with grave, disquieted eyes.
Meriwell caught at the commander's sleeve.
"My God, sir! You can't do that!" he shouted in horror. "You can't fire on civilians."