"Yes, there's a Zeppelin in there, I'll swear to it. Else it would never blaze like that." Scarcely had he spoken, when a terrific explosion rent the air, fifty times as loud and terrible as that caused by the bursting of the twenty-pound bombs. At the same instant, a huge column of smoke, flame and debris shot up into the sky, making the very aeroplanes tremble with the tremendous vibration. "Great Scott, you're right, Jock! We've done it this time. It must have been a Zeppelin. There is nothing left of the shed now. It has been clean lifted away." The destruction wrought down below had been terrible. The casualties caused by the bombs had been as nothing compared to the terrible death-roll amongst the German soldiery by the explosion of a million cubic feet of gas and the wreckage of the huge hangar. The burning, blazing missiles of bent, twisted iron, steel, timber and aluminium came down from the skies, and wrought death and havoc amongst the labour battalions which must always be on duty near a Zeppelin hangar. Once they were out of range of the enemy's guns Dastral looked round upon his companions. So far they had come through pretty well. No vital hit had been made, but every machine had received its quota of shrapnel. Not a 'plane amongst them but had its fifty or sixty jagged tears through the planes. Mac's propeller had also been hit, but as it was only slightly splintered, it still enabled the pilot to carry on. However, as he wheeled round his flight, Dastral saw that it would take his brave followers all their time to get back nearly a hundred miles to safety. He gave the signal, therefore, for every pilot to make a bee line for the English trenches, and thus get home before the Aviatiks, Rolands and Fokkers came, which he knew would be climbing up already to attack them, from the aerodromes in the vicinity of Brussels. Two of the observers had also been wounded, though slightly, and signalled accordingly, so that Dastral became uneasy, lest, after all, their return to safety should be hindered. Most of all did he fear that it might be necessary to leave one of his machines behind, for, if an aeroplane is forced to land in enemy territory, there is small chance of escape, either for man or machine. The whole flight, therefore, had fallen into position for return, with Dastral leading, for he had signalled his men to keep together, as far as possible, till they were about to cross the lines. Suddenly, however, when they had proceeded some eight or nine miles on their way, Jock, who had been scanning the north-western horizon, called out: "A Zeppelin! A Zeppelin!" "Good heavens, where?" shouted Dastral. "Away over there on the right, low down on the horizon." "Phew! So it is. One of their lame ducks coming home to roost, after raiding some English village, I expect." "The devils. I say, Dastral?" "Yes?" "Let's strafe the baby-killer!" shouted Jock.