That night, crews came and washed everything down to cleanse the place of any evidence of the disaster. The papers were forbidden to run the story for two days, and when they finally did print, the name of the station itself, and any mention of the strange sounds of the rockets firing, were ruthlessly censored. The word ‘panic’ was stricken from any accounting of the incident.
Thankfully, Peter Waller would find his family safe in the cellar of a nearby café, where they had fled when the hiss and roar of those rockets caused the palpable stir on those stairs. In her wisdom, Liz had pulled the children to safety there rather than trying the crush on the stairs to the Tube. He wandered up Old Ford Road that night, close by Victoria Park to have a smoke. It was late, and very dark and foggy, and he must have slipped right through a security line, for he suddenly heard voices.
“That was nuthin’ this morning,” came the voice of a man. “That was just a recon of sorts. We’d best be ready when those big fat Zeppelins come calling. Some even say tonight’s the night, so get them rockets sorted out and reloaded.”
“But Sergeant,” came another voice. “Them Zeppelins fly way too high for this lot to get up after them. It’s work for the big Ack, Ack guns, isn’t it?”
“Well you bloody well don’t think they’ll just float over a few bloody Zeppelins, do ya Cobber? They’ll be bombers too, just like this morning, so step lively when you hear the sirens. No more muckin’ about!”
Realizing he had most likely wandered into a secure area, Peter Waller put out his cigarette, crushing it under foot, and then made a hasty retreat. Something is up after all, he thought. Something’s got the Ack, Ack boys all rattled tonight. He would soon learn what it was. The sirens were winding up yet again.
Hitler had hoped that the attack could be made on February 1st, and that had been pre-empted by the unexpected bombing of Berlin. Enraged, he ordered an immediate reprisal, but the Luftwaffe urged him to allow time to make a preliminary run over the target area, and test enemy defenses.
“We must determine the depth and strength of their anti-aircraft defenses, and also determine their response time by fighters.”
“You told me our Zeppelins can fly higher than their planes. What is the bother?”
“True, my Führer, but if we wish to deliver our ordnance on target as planned, we must fly lower. Besides, London is under heavy cloud cover and fog tonight.”
“All the better. That will serve to mask the approach of our Zeppelins. We will have the element of surprise, which you propose we throw to the wind so you can test the enemy’s defenses. No! The attack will be made tonight. Fafnir will be the sole ship assigned, and the other bombers will make diversionary strikes as we have planned.”
Hitler, as always, would have his way.
The great silver mass of Fafnir was up high that night; so high that no observer on the ground could have ever hope to see the airship, or hear the drone of its powerful engines. It had flown to Bremerhaven the previous day, under a signals deception cover story that high altitude reconnaissance would be conducted over the North Sea the following day. Bletchley Park picked it up and passed the intelligence along to both the RAF and Admiralty Commands.
Encouraged by his dramatic glide bomb raid on the Russian fleet the previous month, Hitler had summoned his great sky dragon home for an important mission. He had something, to deliver that day, a very special attack. He would set Fafnir loose upon his enemies, and show them that no Spitfire could ever again protect the British capital from certain destruction. Fafnir would strike a single blow, and it would send chills right on through the mandarins of Whitehall for ever after.
To further deceive the enemy, three groups of medium bombers would take off from bases in France, hopefully to give the British Radar operators something to chew on. They would vector on targets well south of the Thames, while Fafnir would make its way to the heart of the city, hopefully unseen, and undetected, from the northeast. Even if it was seen, the British Vickers Model 1931 gun only had an effective firing range of 5,000 meters. The QF 3-inch gun would max out at 7,200 meters, and the QF 3.7 had a ceiling of 9,000 meters. Fafnir would be up at 15,000 meters, and not even a QF 5.25 could touch it there.
The Germans were deploying a few old tricks, and one new one that day. Fafnir would let loose a raft of 1000 kg parachute Mines, the Luftmine B. Released at high altitude, they would free fall until the desired altitude for detonation was reached, when they would deploy a parachute, slowing the descent to about 40 miles per hour. Inside, a clock would tick off the seconds, calculating the altitude and detonating the mine half a minute later. The air burst was much more destructive than a ground bomb, and could take out an entire street on detonation, with a shock wave that could extend a full mile in radius.
Yet they were just cover for the real attack that night. Fafnir was carrying something else, a jealously guarded secret, the Gift of the Magi. It had been found by Kapitan Heinrich aboard the Kaiser Wilhelm in the deep south Atlantic, almost a year to the day earlier, in February of 1942. It had come home safely to Toulon, moved by rail to Germany, and was soon being studied by the very best minds in Germany.
It was not long before they realized what they had. The two long needle-nosed rockets delivered by Kapitan Heinrich had been analyzed and studied ever since. Their design would do much to influence and advance German rocketry, thought to be well behind the skills of the Allies. Naval rockets had been Admiral Raeder’s bane for years….
Yet these rockets, though they were found aboard a derelict ship, were not thought to be the same class weapon that had been used with such terrible effect against the German surface navy. They were, in fact, a kind of long range ballistic missile, and with a most unusual warhead. The German scientists studied it extensively, determining what it was, but could never be certain of what it might do without actually detonating the weapon. Yet they were unwilling to expend one of the missiles to do so, not really understanding yet how to properly aim it and ensure it would strike its intended target. So instead, they kept the rocket safe and sound for further study, and a planned single flight test over the Baltic—but they removed the warhead.
It was now aboard Fafnir the Great, about to write a new and terrible line into this history as it soon followed those parachute mines down through the grey mist, aiming right for the heart of London. St Paul’s Cathedral had been the aiming point, and a trial flight the previous day during the air raid that caused that crush in the Tube had told the Germans precisely when to turn, what heading to set on approach. So they knew when to release, calculating the glide fall as closely as possible, but even so, the overcast sky made this attack a haphazard affair.
Yet Hitler had ordered it, and that night, Fafnir would deliver the bomb. It would careen down, on an approach angle of about 45 degrees. The release point was well above Chelmsford, and the bomb would glide some 30 miles to the intended target from that location, passing over Landbourne End, Newbury Park and Stratford. Yet it would fall short of the city center by some 2.5 miles, which was very fortunate. The Museum of London, the Tower, London Bridge, National Theater, Shakespeare’s Globe, the Royal Opera House, Somerset House, Big Ben, and the Palace at Westminster would all be spared.