Describing the fall in flames of the raider, a Metropolitan special constable writes: ‘I was on duty on Monday, September 3, when the Zeppelin was brought down at Cuffley, and again during the raid in the early hours of yesterday morning (September 26). I had a particularly clear, though distant, view of both events, which, though they resembled one another in some respects, had at least one important point of difference. When the Cuffley airship took fire she sailed helpless across the sky, a blazing tomb drifting for miles through the air at an angle which brought her steadily nearer to the ground. That was the first stage. Then her nose dipped, the fire enveloped her completely, and she fell almost perpendicularly; that was the last stage. But this time the end came more swiftly. I watched one of the Zeppelins under fire for some minutes; in the searchlight beams she looked like an incandescent bar of white-hot steel. Then she staggered, and swung to and fro in the air for just a perceptible moment of time. That, no doubt, was the instant when the damage was done, and the huge craft became unmanageable. Then, without drifting at all from her approximate place in the sky, without any other preliminary, she fell like a stone—first horizontally, then in a position which rapidly became almost perpendicular she went down, a mass of flame.... From the place where I was I could see and hear some of the rejoicings which greeted the victorious end of this latest battle in the air. Policemen, special constables, firemen, and ambulance men had their eyes turned on the combat in the eastern sky, and cheered and cheered again. From houses of all sorts men, women and children ran out in their night-clothes to listen to the bombardment, and to stare at the vast glow which for a few seconds lit up darker London.’