Berliners know the road the big planes take from England. Far out to the westward last week, soon after the sirens sounded, they could hear the first mutter of the flak, see the pale searchlights fingering the clear sky. In its nest of lakes, canals, rivers, their city lay dark and deserted, its only voice the growing clamor of the guns.
The planes came in over the hills beyond the Havel, and the people in their cellars could hear the motors' hum. The guns were speaking now in chorus, their individual bangs and roars...
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