Leisurely, Ronnie came over the town, flying high and in silence, until, when just over where the darting flames were showing up the buildings all around, he suddenly released his remaining bombs—all but one.
Terrific explosions sounded in quick succession, and, though so far above, they could both feel the concussion. Indeed, “The Hornet” very narrowly escaped a serious nose-dive in consequence. Next moment they saw that the row of buildings facing the docks was aflame from end to end, and beginning to burn almost as fiercely as the submarine oil-depôt.
Ronnie, however, did not have it all his own way.
Ten seconds after dropping those bombs, and causing panic in the occupied Belgian port, the sky was again ablaze with searchlights. At that moment Ronnie was out of one cloud, and travelling very swiftly into another.
The searchlights were, however, too quick for him, and picked him up.
“H’m!” he grunted. “They’ve found us at last! Now for home!”
Hardly had he spoken when the anti-aircraft guns from below commenced to bark sharply, with now and then a deep boom. They could both hear the shells whistling close to them, but so high were they by this time that accurate aim by the enemy was well-nigh impossible.
In such a circumstance the wisest course was to fly in a wide circle, descending and ascending, a course which Ronnie, expert airman that he was, adopted.
Those were highly exciting moments! Beryl held her breath. Her hand was upon the Lewis gun, but her lover had given no order. In her observer’s seat she sat alert, eager, with every nerve strained to its fullest tension. They were in the danger-zone, surrounded by what seemed a swarm of aeroplanes, which had ascended in order to prevent their returning to sea.
The little bulb in front of Ronnie burnt on, shedding its meagre light over instruments and maps. Beryl saw by the altimeter—which she had so often watched when flying the machine alone—that they were up five thousand six hundred feet.