He knew he should be euphoric. If not for his direction, his decisions, the Eagle would still be bottled up in the harbor, or, more likely, sinking, many of her crew, his men, already dead. Instead, she was free and they would fight on.
He watched as the memory of the man on fire, leaping into the water, began to replay before his eyes. There was nothing he could have done for him, and yet, he knew that he had also died because of the decisions he had made. He also knew it was only the beginning. There would be more memories to add to the collection. This was only a start. “Better get used to it, buddy boy,” he muttered.
At fifteen years old, Stefan had been lucky enough to discover his passion. The sea. That was also the year he joined the crew of a feisty Swedish fisherman, Cy Westling, captain and owner of the fishing trawler Melina.
Already capable of doing a man’s work, Stefan went out of his way to be helpful on board. Despite the taunts and jabs of older deckhands, no job was too unpleasant for him. But Stefan had a plan. Eventually his eagerness caught the eye of Westling. He seized the opportunity, making it clear to the captain that he had no intention of remaining a deckhand for the rest of his life.
He still remembered the evening he had approached the captain. The Melina was in port in Gdansk, her hold already emptied of fish. Stefan knocked on the door.
“Enter.”
He stepped into the cabin, nervously twisting the cap he held in his hands, knowing that this was a critical moment in his life, his future. Westling was sitting at the small desk in his cabin, doing paperwork. He didn’t look up, writing for another minute.
Finally, he set down his pen, leaned back in his chair. “Yes?”
Stefan took a deep breath, and then launched into a speech he had been practicing for weeks, trying it out on the nets, and the pots and pans in the galley, and even a fish or two. He explained that he wanted to learn how to become a master of his own vessel and was hoping the captain would be willing to take him on as an apprentice.
“That so?” Westling replied, looking sharply at the near-man over the top of his reading glasses.
Stefan nodded. His eyes were drawn to the tips of his own boots under the pressure of Westling’s gaze. But he knew that how he reacted was important, too, so he forced himself to meet the captain’s eyes without wavering.
Westling studied Stefan for what felt like hours. He had known other men like Westling in his village back home. Important men. But they also seemed to treat any boys who were not their own, those who showed promise and spunk, as threats, competition to be crushed. He had watched as they had gone out of their ways to do just that, their abuse becoming as incessant as spring rain. But Stefan hoped Westling was not this kind of man. He had treated him fairly from the first day on the job. The other men in his employ didn’t like him, but they respected him for his knowledge and his equal treatment. He must have finally seen something he liked. He pulled open a drawer, pulled out a well-worn book and then handed it to Stefan. “Here,” he said, “read this. It’s called Lord Jim. Written by a countryman of yours, and a sea captain, as well. His name is Joseph Conrad. When you’re finished, let me know. We’ll talk about what you’ve learned. If I’m satisfied, we’ll go on from there.”
Stefan hesitated, turning the book over in one hand.
“What is it?”
Stefan’s face reddened with shame. “I… I. . ,” he stuttered. “I don’t know how to read.”
Westling tipped his chair against the cabin wall, scratched the top of his bald head. “You didn’t go to school?”
Stefan opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut, gripped by an overwhelming sense of dread. Reading? How could he have been so stupid. Of course, it wasn’t just a matter of a strong back and willingness to work. To become a captain you also had to know something upstairs, too. Stefan slapped the side of his head with his hat, then held out the book. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry?” Westling exploded. “You’re sorry?”
Stefan’s heart felt like it was in free fall, dropping into a black well that had no bottom. It was all he could do not to cry out.
Westling sighed. “No reason for you to be sorry, son,” he said, the rage leaking from his voice. “The fault of your ignorance rests with others. But after this moment, if you do nothing to correct it, the fault will become your own. And understand this. Doesn’t matter what happened before. You are responsible. So, are you willing to learn to read and write?”
Stefan nodded.
Westling smiled and Stefan felt hope rush back into his soul like a warm breeze from heaven itself. “Good enough. It’ll just take a little longer. That’s all. You keep the book with you. Tomorrow night, 7 p.m. You come here and we’ll start your lessons. Polish, Swedish and English and maybe some German, too. When we’re done, you’ll be able to speak and read all four. Can’t captain the Baltic or the North Atlantic without them.”
“What about my evening duties?”
“You arguing with your captain?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight. I have work to do.”
Stefan opened his eyes again with effort. Westling had been one of the first ever, besides his mother, to show him a kindness, expecting nothing in return. He knew he had been lucky. In all the years he had been on his own, he had come to understand that true kindness was a rarity, something usually found in Bible stories, not in the everyday life of a seaman. The result was a whole class of men and women who kept their pain and cynicism in check with alcohol. It was a path that Stefan suspected he would have taken, too. If not for Westling. Much of what he had today was do to the kindness of that old Swede. He would be forever grateful to him.
Stefan wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, surprised by the sudden show of emotion. Wouldn’t do to fall apart now, he thought. Plenty of time for that later.
He glanced over his shoulder, following the foam of their wake back along the path they had just taken until it disappeared into the fog. Soon enough, the Kriegsmarine would be after them. They would do well, he thought, to survive the week. And yet, this Eagle still had talons. And now, she was out of her cage and ready to do some hunting.
“Forgive me once again, commander.” Ritter jumped over the edge of the railing, landing lightly on the bridge deck. Stefan jerked surprise. He had forgotten all about the man.
Ritter’s face was blackened with smoke, his blue eyes red rimmed. He rubbed his short cropped hair and gave Stefan a rueful smile. “I guess that stint I did in the Home Guard came to some use after all. In any case, I was out of line back there. I should have kept my yip shut.”
“No apologies necessary, Hans,” Stefan said, his voice hoarse. He gestured toward the gun. “I may need a new gunner. You interested?”
Ritter laughed. “I think I’ll leave it to the professionals. I’m not paid enough.”
“Foolish of you and your men to come along, you know,” Stefan remarked. He refilled his pipe, took a moment to light it in the swirling breeze in the conning tower. “We don’t have much of a chance, or other options. You do… or did. Not that I don’t appreciate your help. But it will be difficult, now, to find a safe moment to let you off that doesn’t leave us too exposed.”
Ritter shrugged. “We’re big boys. We knew what we were doing. Or, at least, I thought we knew it. That little bit at the end…” He shook his head with real wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Stefan restrained a shudder. “It seemed the right decision.” Stefan wasn’t sure he said it out loud, or if it was just the echo of an excuse that he would play back again and again for the rest of his life.
“Where are we headed?”
Stefan blinked, drew on his pipe, let the smoke trickle out of the corner of his mouth. He gestured with his arm. “This will be our hunting grounds. The Gulf of Gdansk. We’ll stay here until we receive other orders or run out of fish.”
“After that?”
Stefan shrugged.
>
“I still can’t believe Germany attacked,” Ritter said. “Will England and France help out?”
“You know what I know. England said if Poland is attacked it will be war. So did France. Whether they do anything, your guess is as good as mine. In any case, I think it will be over soon. You think that is too fatalistic for an officer to say?”
“You aren’t a typical officer.”
“I will take that as a compliment,” Stefan said. He stared out at the fog. “But Germany will have to make to do with one less Stuka, eh?” He clapped Ritter on the back.
“Beginner’s luck that, I think,” Ritter said with an uncomfortable shrug. “If there were problems, I suppose we’d have heard from Chief K by now. But I should check with my men below.”
“No doubt.”
“Well then, congratulations, commander.”
As he watched Ritter disappear down the hatch, Stefan knew he should order the deck gun crew back out, find a replacement for Ritter, post lookouts. But another moment alone wouldn’t hurt anything. That was the problem with submarines, one of them anyway. You could never find a place to be alone. There was always someone breathing over your shoulder or farting in your face. Now they had—Stefan mentally added up the number—that woman Kate and Reggie, Hans and his two men. Sixty-six. And one toilet among them all. Stefan couldn’t repress a smile. Sharing a toilet with that many men would be an experience for the woman. What was her name? Kate. And the men, too, though in a pinch, always easier for them to drop their trousers and hang their butts over the side.
Stefan shifted his pipe in his mouth. He’d delayed long enough. He spoke briefly into the speaker tube, felt the diesels slow. He watched with satisfaction as the forward hatch flipped open and the gun crew scramble sheepishly back into place. “Leave your posts again without my orders and I’ll have you all keelhauled.”
Embarrassed nods all around.
Stefan heard the lookout and a replacement gunner clamber into place behind him. The gunner was Henryk, and he was alone.
“How’s your partner doing?”
Henryk settled into position. He wiped his palm on his coat, pulled the metal helmet down low over his eyes. Only then did he respond, staring at Stefan, his eyes wide. “Andre’s dead,” he replied simply. “Looked like a flesh wound, but Cooky couldn’t find the exit wound. Said he was bleeding inside. No way to stop it.”
As he listened, Stefan clenched his pipe so hard he bit right through the stem. Andre? Now he learned his name. The pipe’s bowl clattered harshly on the deck of the conning tower, the wind swirling the tobacco and ash and sparks around Stefan’s legs and then carried them heavenward like some ancient tribal offering.
“Goddamnit,” he snarled, pulling the stem from his mouth and tossing it over the side. “Rotten luck,” was all he could think to say.
Henryk nodded. “Not your fault,” he intoned, gripping the handles of the Borfor more tightly. “No, sir, not your fault.”
Stefan turned away, cleared his throat. “Keep a sharp eye. No telling who or what is out here.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Stefan yelled down through the hatch. “Pablo, get your ass up here.” As he waited, he pulled a thick roll, already beginning to harden, from his coat pocket. Stefan’s mouth began to water. Strange how the body could react to sight of bread automatically, while the rest of him, the human part of him, grieved over the death of a boy. But it was more than just the boy. Stefan knew it deep in his heart. It was the man in the water, the freighter captain, and the dozens of others who were now gone because of the Eagle. No time for such thoughts. He shook his head, banishing them deep into his psyche, tore off another chunk with his teeth and chewed harshly. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. A glass of beer, and it would almost be enough. He took another bite. No doubt some poor German aviator would be catching hell for missing out on such an easy target. They had been lucky. One more time. No doubt, their next encounter with the Germans would be another matter.
Chapter Seventeen
Admiral Dönitz stared intently at the glossy black and white photograph lying on the top of his walnut desk. The senior researcher from Naval Intelligence was pointing out various details. Dönitz couldn’t recall the man’s name. He thought it was Schmitz, or Schmidt, or something like that.
“Minimal damage, sir,” droned the researcher. “Looks like only two areas were bombed. A surprising number of vessels still in the harbor, all things considered. You’d think they would have headed for open sea at the first sign of trouble. And there’s your target.” He tapped the gunmetal gray, pencil-thin shape in the center of the photograph. A white, S-shaped line uncoiled behind it. “You can see that she is underway at what must be close to full speed given the heightened visibility of her wake. Clearly taking evasive action. That Polish captain must be crazy to going so fast in such a confined space with that many obstacles in the way.”
Dönitz glanced up at the researcher. Pictures never did justice to the reality of the moment they captured, especially aerial photographs. Everything reduced to stark, aseptic hues of black and white and gray. Men and women becoming no different from trees and buildings and ants. And yet, it was the people in the photograph who were important, or rather their decisions that would in turn determine the shape of the next moments. There was no camera made that could take snapshots of what was in their minds and souls. Dönitz could imagine what it must have been like a thousand meters underneath the fighter at the moment the pilot had flicked the switch and the camera housed in the belly of the ME 109 had opened, exposing the film to light. Acrid smoke in the air so thick it burned your eyes, left a bitter taste on your tongue. The infernal noise. Shouts of men. Roar of engines, screaming gulls. “You ever captained a vessel?” he asked sharply. “And what is your name again?”
“Strasser, sir. And no, I’ve never had the privilege.”
“So, then, you have no idea what it must be like to be responsible for an entire ship and crew?”
Strasser looked like he had just taken a bite from a lemon. He shook his head.
“Nor do you have any idea what it takes to prevent your vessel from being sunk, your crew killed. You don’t know, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Until you do, then, keep your editorial comments to yourself. You see, that crazy Pole of a captain is doing exactly what I would do under similar circumstances: full speed and run like hell.”
Strasser bobbed his head. He glanced longingly at the door like a drowning man staring at the surface of the water that was still fathoms away.
Dönitz let a hiss of air escape from the corner of his mouth. Who did the fool think he was, commenting on something he had no business even considering? That was what was wrong with so many young people today. Arrogance and a stupidity. They were too stupid to realize what they didn’t know and to arrogant to keep quiet or ask for help.
And not just the young. Göring had the same problem. He had no respect for anyone except his own pet Luftwaffe. The German High Command, at Raeder’s insistence, had set Gdynia off limits in the initial attack. Even if they hadn’t decided to go after the Eagle, he needed the harbor and docks unscathed. Amazing what the Poles had done during the previous decade. What once was a sleepy fishing village of just a few thousand had been transformed into the busiest port on the Baltic. And within hours, it would be under control of the Kriegsmarine. Göring had disobeyed orders.
Dönitz flipped the photograph aside, peered closely at the next one. 87A on the side of the conning tower was clearly visible. Strasser cleared his throat to try again. “As you can see, definitely the Eagle,” he pointed. “Two officers in the conning tower. Probably Józef Sieinski, her captain, and the executive officer. I don’t seem to have his name. ”
Dönitz waved his hand aside. “I can see that.” He picked up the magnifying glass, hovered it over the photograph. “She looks undamaged.”
Strasser nodded. “But look here.” He pointed at two
vessels just entering the harbor’s outlet to the sea, a channel framed on either side by the two half mile long rock jetties. “She will quickly overtake these two. No way to get past them.”
“What did our contact at the Luftwaffe have to say.”
Strasser frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. Shortly after these photographs were taken, another mission was ordered.”
“Who gave the order?” Dönitz asked harshly.
Strasser stepped back, tugging nervously at his sleeves. “That sir, is unclear.”
Dönitz’s lips narrowed. Of course, Göring wouldn’t be stupid enough to give the order himself. And if he did, what would the Fuhrer do to him? Nothing, of course. Who would regret the loss of an enemy vessel?
Dönitz gestured curtly toward the door. The analyst was dismissed. After he was gone, his aide peered into the Dönitz’s office.
“Get me a meeting with Grossadmiral Raeder, as soon as possible.”
The aide disappeared.
Dönitz drummed his fingers on the surface of the photograph. It was still unclear what had happened to the Eagle. If Ritter and his men were not on the Eagle, the mission had failed. If the submarine had been destroyed, it was a matter he would bring up with Göring in private.
“Grossadmiral Raeder has a moment now, sir,” Dönitz’s aide said.
Dönitz stood, smoothed down the front of his jacket. He picked up the photographs on his desk, and then crossed the room. Time to tell the head of the Kriegsmarine about his plan. Perhaps he could do something about Göring.
Five hundred and thirty kilometers to the west, there was a knock at the door of a cottage in Chartwell, England. Winston Churchill glanced up from his breakfast plate, a piece of sausage dangling precariously from the tip of his fork.
Across the table, a former Scotland Yard detective by the name of Thompson dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Without a word, he picked up his pistol from the table, and went to answer the door.
The Last Eagle Page 10
