The Last Eagle

by Michael Wenberg

  “Leave something important behind, Captain?” Stefan asked. He was peering through the binoculars, his lips set in a straight line.

  Sieinski smiled. Careful now. “Yes and no. A gift from my dear mother. Expensive. Worth a year’s pay.” He watched Stefan’s lips thin as he finished the sentence: “…for someone like you, but that was his only response. Not bad, not bad at all, he thought. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. Marie will take care of the coat. Or perhaps it will find its way onto the back of someone who needs it more than I.”

  “That is an admirable sentiment, sir,” Stefan said.

  Sieinski glanced sharply at Stefan, ready to pounce. But he gave no indication that he meant anything else other than the compliment. Yes, indeed, Sieinski sniffed, it was an admirable sentiment. And if the poor slob discovered what he had left in the pocket, what would it matter? It was war now. He had told Marie he could give it up at any time. But could he? He supposed that now he would discover if it was bluster or true. It was the kind of test his father would have loved. He could almost hear his father’s remark: “It’ll be a test of character.”

  Yes, it would.

  Both men turned their heads in unison. There was a distant popcorn crackle to the southeast. Antiaircraft shells blossomed like flowers in the early morning air, and then began marching from the horizon toward the Eagle.

  “Goddamn Germans,” Sieinski hissed.

  Stefan glanced at the boy, Henryk, and the other gunner behind them. He noted with satisfaction that they had already rotated their gun in the direction of the approaching aircraft. Stefan reached for the speaker tube, glanced at the captain. He was frozen in place, hypnotized by the approaching aircraft.

  “Take us up to flank speed,” Stefan said.

  “Sir?” came the puzzled response.

  “Do as I say,” Stefan snarled. “And on my mark, set a new course. One-four-five degrees. Prepare for evasive maneuvers. Ready? Mark.”

  As the roar from the submarine’s diesels deepened, the wave at Eagle’s bow rose sharply and then parted, foaming white. Despite the previous night’s attacks, the harbor was still filled with enough freighters and other vessels of every size and disposition to make even a normal passage to open sea tricky. At full speed, it was foolhardy at best. Stefan, however, wasn’t prepared to be an easy target. He glanced at Sieinski, but he was still captivated by the approaching aircraft, mouth open. Stefan knew the feeling. He doubted that Sieinski had ever experienced the thrill and horror of knowing that someone was about to try and kill him.

  “Here it comes,” Sieinski shouted, pointing to the approaching shadow.

  It was a single plane. He snuck a quick look, and then returned his gaze to the obstacle course ahead of them. Messerschmitt. ME109, he thought they called it. The aft gun opened fire, barking rhythmically. And then it was roaring past them, banking gracefully and climbing steeply into the sun, a tracer trail, too slow to catch it, marking its path.

  “It didn’t attack!” Sieinski exhaled with astonishment, turning to Stefan. “It didn’t attack.” The relief was almost too much for him. He clutched the edge of the conning tower, his mouth open, breathing heavily, shaking his head.

  “Port 10 degrees. Now,” Stefan barked. The Eagle heeled over, the bow turning away from the side of a barge directly in their path, low in the water, burdened by a small mountain of gravel. The astonished men who had been sitting on the gravel flanks, holding shovels in their hands, watched the dagger prow of the Eagle turn away, waved and shouted as they passed. Stefan couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at his mouth. Probably thought they were crazy, or terrified. Might be a little of both, he imagined. But he had no intention of slowing down even if Sieinski ordered it. There would be more planes. And soon. They wouldn’t be safe until they made it to deeper water.

  In the meantime, he realized he was enjoying himself for the first time in weeks. Sick bastard, he thought.

  “Why don’t you go below, sir,” Stefan suggested. “You don’t look well.” And then seeing the look cross Sieinski’s face, he soothed the suggestion with a lie. “We’re going to need you later on.”

  That killed the retort forming in the back of Sieinski’s throat. “Of course you’re right,” he croaked agreement, unable to keep the faint whine of a little boy from creeping into his voice. “No sense pushing myself too hard.” He moved carefully toward the open hatch and paused. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t it attack?”

  “Single plane. Fast. Perhaps out of ammunition.” Stefan snapped his fingers at the sudden thought. “No, probably doing reconnaissance, taking our picture. Too bad we didn’t smile as it flew by. Or better yet, give it the finger.”

  “There will be more.”

  “No doubt,” Stefan said.

  “I leave it in your hands. Have someone get me when we’re on station.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Stefan replied. He watched Sieinski’s head disappear. Given the size of the bruise on his forehead, Stefan wondered if the man was suffering from a concussion in addition to the usual penalties from the previous night’s frolics. How did one feel after opium? Stefan had tried and enjoyed nearly every type of alcoholic beverage ever created, even smoked cannabis one night in Manila. He had managed to avoid opium. One look at the sorry creatures living in the netherworld of that opium den in Hong Kong had been enough to immunize him.

  The staccato rhythm of the Bofors interrupted his thoughts.

  He glanced over his shoulder. No solitary fighter this time. The Stuka dive bomber was screaming out of the sun, two more circled like buzzards high above, ready to dip their wings and begin their own attack.

  As the dive bomber grew in size, transforming from a distant toy into something real and deadly, he leaned into the speaker tube, holding another course change until the last moment. “Wait, wait, wait,” he chanted, his mind gauging the speed of the diving Stuka and the reaction time of the helmsman below. He waited another fraction of a second and then bellowed. “Hard starboard 15 degrees.”

  The Eagle began turning to port, sheering away from a tramp freighter that was struggling to get underway, her captain standing outside the bridge, shaking his fist and screaming unheard profanities in Stefan’s direction. And then his mouth opening wide with astonishment as he noticed the Stuka’s bomb, released too late by the pilot, tumbling over the Eagle’s conning tower, directly toward his own ship. Stefan watched him disappear in an orange flash. He ducked down behind the steel lip of the conning tower as the blast washed over the speeding submarine. He felt it, like a rabbit punch in the gut. And then it was past, his ears ringing and the air raining hot metal and wood and the pulverized remains of what had once been human beings.

  Henryk and the other gunner behind him began firing again. Stefan noticed blood running from a long jagged cut on the other boy’s face. He was concentrating so intently on the next onrushing fighter, he didn’t even notice the wound. It occurred to Stefan that he didn’t know this boy’s name.

  Stefan barked another change of direction. The Eagle swung around the dying freighter, smoke and fire billowing from a jagged hole where the bridge had once stood. A steady, offshore breeze, pushed the oil-fueled smoke, thick and gray, like a midwinter fog, toward the harbor opening, There was a splash on his right, a sudden blast of spray as the next bomb missed, exploding harmlessly 100 meters away from its intended target.

  “Pathetic,” Ritter remarked.

  “You shouldn’t be up here,” Stefan hissed with surprise. He was about to order the man back below deck, when he noticed the gunner with the bleeding cheek slump suddenly over the grips of the Bofors engines. A beet-colored stain had blossomed on the side of his shirt.

  Stefan pushed Ritter aside, wrestled the boy out of the seat and held him dangling feet first over the hatch. “Take him, take him,” he bellowed below. “And you,” he said to a white-faced Henryk, who was still sitting stiffly behind the gun, “make sure he gets help and then get back up here.”


  Stefan felt a sudden release of his weight as the men in the control room began to grab hold of the injured gunner’s legs, and then pull him carefully into the safety of the sub. He stepped away, and Henryk dropped down the hatch. When Stefan wheeled around, Ritter was already settling into the gunner’s seat.

  “Get the hell out of there.”

  Ritter winked, swung the AA gun in the direction of the approaching bomber and opened fire.

  Stefan was furious. First the injured boy. And now this civilian to worry about. But if he wanted to die, so be it. He turned his attention back to the submarine’s course. It would do no one any good if he was so distracted he ran the Eagle aground.

  Stefan’s lips parted in a snarl as the smoke from the burning freighter obscuring the channel ahead parted, giving him what should have been his first unobstructed view of the open sea.

  Unfortunately, there were two fishing boats in the way, one a medium-sized trawler, booms sprouting from her deck like teepee poles, the other a smaller, coastal purse seiner. The screws of both vessels were frothing madly like a pair of hyperactive ducks as they tried to escape the harbor. Fast but not nearly fast enough to clear the channel before the Eagle arrived.

  Stefan barked another correction to the submarine’s course. No room to zigzag now. It was steady as she goes. He would have to rely on the smoke and the shooting of the Dutch engineer for cover. He glanced over his shoulder again. This Hans seemed to know what he was doing. He was even smiling faintly as he fired, his eyes narrowed with concentration.

  Stefan clamped down tightly on the stem of his pipe, focused his attention ahead. It would be a tight fit. There would be nothing elegant in the maneuver. Stefan was going to part the two vessels with the pricklike prow of the submarine like they were the thighs of a beautiful woman. The Eagle would speed between them, and then out into the Baltic. If they were lucky, he wouldn’t shove either ship onto the rocks. If not? He didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  As the Eagle consumed the open water between her bow and the fishing boats, Stefan relayed a series of slight course corrections below. He made a mental note to reward the boy at the helm—if they managed to survive the next few moments.

  A shadow passed overhead. Out of the corner of his eye, Stefan watched the dive bomber veer away to the right, noticed smoke trailing from its engine. He gave an approving nod in Ritter’s direction. “Good shooting,” he shouted. Ritter shook his head and gestured at the boats ahead.

  The bomb punched like an iron fist through the deck of the fishing boat on the right side of the channel. There was a flash and then a mushroom of fire blossoming high into the air. The boat immediately lost power and slued to the port. The captain of the other fishing boat never had a chance. The bow of the crippled vessel sliced into his boat amidships, and then both were engulfed in explosions.

  “You must give way,” Ritter shouted, hopping out of the gun well and grabbing Stefan by the shoulder. “We can’t make it through that.”

  The forward gun crew was already scrambling out of their seats, seeking cover down the forward hatch. Stefan glanced at the hand on his shoulder.

  “Forgive me, Commander.” Ritter stepped back, folded his arms.

  Stefan ordered another course correction. The smoke and haze made it a guess. The channel ahead was almost completely blocked by the two ships in a death embrace. One option, which Stefan dismissed out of hand, was to slow the Eagle, and then feel her way by the wreckage. That would leave her an easy target for the Stukas. The other option was crazy. But Stefan had noticed that the fishing boat hit by the bomb had sagged in the middle as she veered in front of them. If he was right, her back was broken. And if the Eagle struck her near the break, he could slice through the wreckage like a hot knife through butter. If not, their fight would end right here.

  “What about those men?” Ritter said it almost as a taunt. High above, the wings of one of the remaining Stukas dipped. She carried no more bombs, but her machine guns could be almost as deadly. “I need you on the gun,” Stefan barked.

  Ritter hesitated and then climbed back into the gunner’s seat.

  Stefan turned around just in time to see a man, trailing flames, jump from the deck of the larger vessel into the water. When he surfaced, he waved weakly at the approaching submarine. Stefan wondered if anyone else noticed him. It wouldn’t prevent him from doing what he had to do next, but it would save the second guessing.

  Stefan leaned into the speakerphone, chanted another slight change in the Eagle’s course.

  “You’re not going to stop, are you?” Pablo exclaimed as he crowded in next to him. “If you give way, I’ll throw him a line.” Two parallel lines of spray began to chase the Eagle up the channel. When the lines crossed the aft end of the Eagle, the bullets rang like the clang of jackhammers off the hull, and then continued on ahead, chewing over the burning vessels and stopping as the Stuka wheeled away for another pass.

  “If we stop,” Stefan said, “we die.”

  “If we don’t?”

  Stefan shrugged. “Everyone dies.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Rescue boats are on their way. They will have to do their jobs. We still need to do ours.”

  What would he do if he was in his place? Eryk didn’t know. And that was when he realized that command of a ship at war would never be for him. Stefan seemed to be enjoying himself. Eryk, on the other hand, was afraid he might wet himself. He crossed himself, muttered a silent prayer, turned away from the growing horror as the Eagle arrowed toward the burning vessels ahead and the man in the water. “I’m needed below,” he mumbled. Without waiting for permission or a reply, he disappeared through the hatch.

  Ritter’s gun began a drum roll as he fired on another Stuka. Damn that Göring, Ritter thought. He wondered what the penalties would be if he strangled the head of the Luftwaffe himself. He had to survive this mission first, of course. He continued firing even though the tip of the Bofors began to glow red. When he felt a shudder convulse along the Eagle’s spine, the wail of tearing steel, he released his hand from the trigger and ducked.

  At the moment she stabbed into the side of the burning fishing boat, the Eagle was racing along at top speed, better than 20 knots

  Smoke obscured anyone watching from shore what was about to happen. The keeper of a nearby lighthouse, however, had a perfect view. He watched the Eagle split open the remains of the fishing boat like a ripe cantaloupe. There was another explosion as fuel tanks ruptured and the Eagle disappeared from view, completely engulfed by smoke and flames.

  The keeper held his breath. Whoever was in charge of the submarine was insane, magnificently insane. But did he have any other choice? The keeper shook his head in answer to his own, unspoken question. A veteran of two wars, and countless skirmishes at sea, he was a man who knew the value of decision making. Often, hesitation came not from failure to ask the right question, but a fear of the answer. To stop dead in the water while under attack by the German aircraft would have been stupid and suicidal. Attempting to reverse course in the narrow channel would have been equally foolhardy. The only protection for the submarine was the deep waters of the Baltic. The captain had had only seconds in which to embrace the answer he must live with from now on. Surely, men would die either way he decided. His own men on the submarine, or the crews of the two fishing boats. Either way, the fate of many were resting on what he would decide. It was not a choice most men would have had the courage or the audacity to make. But the submarine, the old man saw with satisfaction, did not pause, did not waver, as she disappeared from view into the burning vessel.

  The old man caught his breath, afraid the submarine had been hung up in the wreckage, but then the bow of the Eagle darted out of the billowing smoke and flames. Even from the distance, the keeper could see the fresh scarring on her flanks, slashed by the talons of torn metal. The identifying number on the side of the conning tower—87-A in big, white characters—was seared black in places. The Polish flag on the stern
trailed flames. But the Eagle didn’t pause. She cleared the wreckage, darted past the harbor entrance, and churned out into the Baltic. A fogbank was lying in wait offshore. A few weeks earlier, the weather would not have been so kind. But it was fall. Already the hint of winter in the air. The keeper watched the Eagle, grunting with satisfaction as she disappeared from view. He pulled his coat tightly around his thin frame. A smile brightened his face when he saw the German planes give up, wheeling back to the east and then climbing. He heard a whistle from his stove below. “Tea time,” he muttered. He began the long, winding descent down the tower, holding the railing carefully with his right hand and humming the Polish national anthem quietly to himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stefan hated fog. Particularly the gray stew that plagued the jagged Baltic coastline from fall to spring. It was a special menace that for centuries had made even the most stoic skippers old men well before their time.

  Today, Stefan decided it was his favorite kind of weather. As the bow disappeared into the cloud, he tilted back his head, watching as tattered gray tendrils began to rush by overhead, diffusing the light, changing the quality of the sound of the sea, and muffling the bass-drum hammer of the racing diesels. Just before the fog completely obliterated the sky, Stefan grunted with satisfaction as he noticed the last Stuka turn away and begin heading back to its airfield in Germany.

  They were safe, for the moment.

  The Eagle plunged deeper into the refuge of the fogbank. Stefan closed his eyes, relishing the sudden change in temperature on his exposed cheekbones, the condensation growing like moss on his shaggy beard. After the madness of the preceding minutes, Stefan felt like they were entering a cathedral, everything gray, insulated from outside cares and desires. Perfect place for me, he thought, suddenly more tired than he could ever remember before, the last of the adrenaline, all that had kept him going the past hours, leaking from his bloodstream.