MacCaulley's Monster

Claussen was a thin, bony, sinuous man. On occasion, his craggy facial features caused him to be mistaken for Field Marshall Montgomery—another source of annoyance. He began as an air sergeant flying the Hawker Hurricane at the beginning of the great battle. During that period, the Hurricane was, in number, the largest complement of British fighters—then along came the glamorous Spitfires. “We got the Germans; Spit’s got the headlines,” Claussen would grouse. He guided the plane in a southern vector, traversing the coast to Lands End and then turning east across the Channel. He would then fly north within twenty miles of the German-occupied French city of Calais. After that would come the short leg west and the turn again to the east, back to Lands End. The duty was to continue the circle until the four-hour shift was up, when a replacement plane would intercept and relieve him. The Mosquito was ideal for air surveillance. Its wooden design inhibited radar detection, and in addition to being fast, it was nimble and heavily armed. Navigation and gunnery were Lucas’s primary duties. Disposing of the 405-liter drop tanks was another. On the whole, the second officer was generally considered excess baggage. There was but one set of controls, so he couldn’t fly the plane. The British philosophy of outfitting their aircraft with dual controls only for the purpose of training was an ongoing subject of controversy. The debate was well founded, since many a disabled American aircraft was spared by the hand of an alternate pilot. On the seventh pass flying northeasterly in the vicinity of Dover, Claussen’s eyes picked up an object coming at an angle toward him. At first, he thought he was hallucinating. He knew that happened to all pilots during times of boredom or unexpected crisis. He shook his head, focusing. Whatever the thing was, it appeared to be a few thousand feet higher than his craft. It was silver, gleaming in the moonlight. Reflexively, he jerked the yoke, causing his airplane to snap to port. Lucas had been daydreaming, and his head slammed against the canopy. He swore at Claussen. Claussen cut him off, pointing at the shining object flying diagonally across the channel. The lieutenant turned, clasping the throttles positioned at his right thigh, fire-walling them. The Mosquito vaulted ahead and upward toward the vessel, quickly closing the distance between the two. It was an airship all right. Nearing the aircraft, Lucas exclaimed, “Holy Jesus! That bugger is as long as a football pitch!” Claussen’s left hand fumbled for the radio microphone clipped to the bulkhead. He could now hear the roar of the giant engines above the sound of his own plane. Shakily, he switched the transmitter on to inform his boss, Air Vice Marshall Keith Park at Group Headquarters in Uxbridge. “Blimey!” he shouted into his mike. “It’s the biggest damned thing I ever saw. I would look like a sparrow beside an eagle! I tell you, it’s a bloody monster. I’m underneath it now, and it’s so damned big I can’t even see the ends of the wings! I think I’m under a by-god battleship!” The reflection from the light of the moon off the lengthy propellers resembled circular waterfalls. From his position, Claussen took note of the gigantic black landing gear tucked in the wheel wells of the titanic vehicle. “What’s the insignia?” Park asked. “I don’t see any markings.” “Be certain. How fast is it moving?” “Around four hundred kilometers.” “That fast? What’s its altitude?” “About nine thousand meters.” Claussen waited anxiously for a response. “Do you know anything about it?” he pleaded. “I haven’t a clue,” the marshal said. His voice was high-pitched and tense. “Then what do I do?” the pilot asked. “Hold on. Let me get the air minister.” “You’d better be quick about it! This prop wash is shaking the shit out of us!” Park called the private number at the Air Ministry. He shouted into his phone, “Get me Hugh Dowding. This is Keith Park—most urgent!” The answer was immediate. “He’s in the bunker with the prime minister and not to be disturbed,” said Paul Goldwin. “You must reach him!” “He is to be totally out of touch until sometime tomorrow,” the voice answered without explanation, switching off his set. “Damn!” Park cursed, hanging up the phone. Claussen was now flying alongside the roaring silver airplane, examining its breadth. With trepidation, he monitored its slight upward-downward shuddering movement. He was feeling the vibrations from the great craft on his own. He tried desperately to find any insignia. There was nothing on the wings, fuselage, or empennage. He knew he had to act fast—he could not risk being detected. “You’re sure there’s no markings on the plane?” “No, sir! There is none!” “What the hell are we to do?” the flustered marshal asked. “I haven’t a sausage!” Claussen exclaimed. He was dangerously close to the aircraft now. The disturbance from the engines was overwhelming. He saw fire discharging from the immense exhaust ports and the smoky rings surrounding the manifolds. “Where are you now?” “About fifty kilometers south of Plymouth.” “What’s its bearing?” “Two forty degrees!” “Hell, that’s straight for London! Shoot it down! “It might be friendly!” Claussen warned. “If it’s friendly, it would be marked. If it’s full of bombs you can kiss London goodbye! Shoot it down! ” “I don’t like the idea!” “It has to be a bloody flying bomb, Claussen. We can’t take the chance that it’s not!” “I prefer that we—” “Goddammit Claussen! Shoot it down! That’s an order!” There were but two men in the UK who officially knew about the aircraft and its purpose: Air Chief Marshall Sir Hugh Dowding and Winston Churchill.