The Last Eagle

by Michael Wenberg

  Stefan dogged the conning tower hatch, slid down the aluminum ladder, and then waited, watching the second hand of his watch, listening to elaborate call and response between the diving officer, Squeaky, and the men around the control room:

  “Bleed air.”

  “Bleeding air, aye, aye.”

  “Pressure in the boat.”

  “Pressure, aye.”

  “Green board.”

  “Green board, aye.”

  “Five degrees down bubble.”

  “Aye, five degrees.”

  “Twenty meters.”

  “Twenty, aye.”

  “Mark,” announced Squeaky when the depth gauge touched 20 meters.

  “Not good enough,” Stefan said. “If a destroyer had been close, we’d be dead by now. He stood close to Squeaky. “Next time, I want everyone, and I mean everyone, who isn’t essential to the dive’s control crowd forward. Got it?”

  Squeaky nodded with understanding. This was a trick he’d heard about but they had never practiced. The extra weight in the bow would help get the Eagle below the surface much more quickly.

  “Okay, let’s surface and try again.”

  Throughout the rest of the day, Stefan continued to drill the crew. The practiced a dozen dives and still Stefan wasn’t satisfied. When they were surfaced, he ran the deck gun crews through their paces, having them practice loading and firing. Of course, he drilled them not just for the sake of practice. It also kept their minds and their bellies off what the German’s were preparing for them.

  Throughout the day, Stefan checked with the radio operator. Except for faint reports from the BBC’s Polish section, there were no messages from headquarters at Hel, or from any other Polish vessel, for that matter.

  It seemed as if all of Poland had been swallowed by a monster, and only the Eagle and her crew were left behind.

  Chapter Forty

  “Can’t get over how healthy you two look,” Stefan laughed, “for dead men, that is.”

  Talli grinned, his white teeth visible in the darkness, but the comment made Veski look even more worried than usual. He glanced around the deck, looking for sailors hiding with submachine guns. He was, in fact, half-convinced that Stefan was going to change his mind and machine-gun them both once the raft was a few meters away from the Eagle.

  The Eagle was now drifting in quiet seas a few kilometers east of Gotland, the largest island in the Baltic. It was early morning, just over twenty-four hours since they had escaped from Tallinn harbor. In that time, the Eagle had covered nearly 300 kilometers. More importantly, no one knew where they were. They had gone that entire distance without being spotted by surface ships or aircraft.

  There had been a slight break in the weather. The seas were almost gentle, slapping lazily against the Eagle’s gray flank like summer waves at the beach. Bobbing next to the Eagle was a yellow life raft, prevented from floating away by two crewmen who were holding the rope attached to a rubber ring sticking out like a baby’s binky along its lip.

  “All right, then. Off you go. We’ve put some food and drink in your raft. You have your paddles.” Stefan squinted into the dark. In the distance, a pale smear of beach marked Gotland. He reached into his pocket and surprised Veski by pressing a couple of bills into Veski’s hand. “Treat yourself and Talli to a couple of beers when you find a pub, okay?”

  Veski gave Stefan a suspicious look, glanced at the money in his hand, and then pocketed it. “Thank you,” he said.

  Stefan motioned toward the raft. Veski climbed over the side of the conning tower, disappeared from sight. Talli lingered. He held out his hand. “Don’t forget that drink you owe me, eh?”

  Stefan chuckled. “I won’t. And don’t forget what we discussed. I don’t expect it to fool the Nazis, but it might confuse them a bit.”

  Talli laughed. “I will play my part like, how do you say, like a Rudolph Valentino.”

  “Good enough,” Stefan said. “Luck be with you.”

  “And with you, my friend.” A moment later, the raft began to move away from the submarine. Talli was paddling steadily, but Veski looked like he was trying to shoo away flies with his. Stefan almost felt sorry for Talli. At the rate they were going, it would be a number of hours before they reached shore. Time enough for the Eagle to be faraway.

  Stefan met his officers and the ship’s cook in the control room. Kate joined them moments after he began, notepad in hand. She seemed almost cheerful in fact, flashing him a big grin as she entered the room like a fresh spring breeze.

  “I think I’m almost getting used to the smells,” she remarked, taking the chair at the chart table hurriedly vacated by Eryk. “Must have been what it was like in the Middle Ages, walking the streets of any major city. You know what I mean? Open sewers. Rats. Filth. Ick.”

  “How are the interviews going?” Stefan said, ignoring her commentary on the sanitary conditions of his boat.

  “Oh, yes, I’m digressing They’re fine. Very well, in fact. I need to get you in a day or two.”

  Stefan nodded, caught Squeaky and Eryk staring at him, barely repressed grins plastered across their faces. “Yes, as I was saying—” He grabbed the side of the periscope and continued. “The Germans will expect us to make for The Øresund straightaway. If we have enough food, I think we should dawdle a few extra days, make them wonder where we’re going and what we’re up to. Cooky, you round up all the food like I asked?” Most of the sausages and meats once hanging from the conduits and pipes overhead like hams in a smokehouse were gone, interned along with the crew and the boat by the Estonians. Stefan didn’t doubt they now occupied places of honor in kitchens across Tallinn or were already warming the bellies of their former captors.

  The Eagle’s cook, a bow-legged, flat-faced runt of a man named Kloczkowski, nodded. “Didn’t leave damn much behind,” he snarled. “But I done what you asked, with a little arm-twisting. Just so’s you know, you might be getting a few complaints.” He made a fist and blew on his bruised knuckles. “Oh, yes. You said look everywhere. Also turned up a few bottles,” he said, sneering in Squeaky’s direction. “It seems that a couple of someones— I won’t mention who—had a stash, against regulations.”

  “Well, I leave it to you to keep those under lock and key,” Stefan chuckled. “We’ll break them out when we met up with the British.”

  Kloczkowski liked that idea. He responded with a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “So, how long can we go?”

  “I figure everyone can tolerate quarter-rations. Five days. After that….” He shrugged.

  “How about water?”

  “Not much better, skipper. Those engine boys, though, they’re working on some ideas for getting more.”

  “I’ve heard what they’re doing and I’m not drinking water cut with piss,” Squeaky said. “I don’t care what kind of filter they run it through. No way.”

  Stefan was intrigued. He knew that the engine crew had been spending spare moments trying to devise ingenious ways to capture the condensation in the air. So far, they’d found nothing worked any better than licking the walls. They were still trying. He hadn’t realized they were experimenting with filtering urine.

  “Tell them to keep at it,” Stefan said, grinning at Squeaky.

  Cooky nodded, giving Squeaky another glare.

  “So instead of making for The Øresund,” Stefan continued, “we’re going to do the opposite, head back toward home, and then swing north, looking for targets, and then after that, run down the Swedish coastline…”

  The rest he had to say was drowned out by a collective cheer from everyone around the control room. The sound echoed throughout the boat. At last they were going to fight back. Even Kate couldn’t restrain a clap.

  “We have two torpedoes. We use them to cause as much mischief and mayhem as possible and then, when the Germans and the Soviets and whoever else is after our ass has given up on our leaving the Baltic, figuring we are simply wasting time until we tu
rn ourselves over to the Swedes, we make a run for the British. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “OK then, back to your stations.”

  As the meeting began to disperse, Stefan grabbed Eryk’s elbow. “How are the charts?”

  Eryk gestured at the table, unable to hide a look of pride. “I hope these will work.”

  Stefan propped his elbows on the table, staring closely at Eryk’s handwork, noticing the surprising level of detail that was shown.

  “I started with what I knew,” Eryk said. “Facts. Places. Positions. And those provided a rough framework for everything else. A few of the men had direct knowledge of specific areas. They helped fill in the blanks. Of course, the distances are just approximations, and the big holes are mine fields. I put down what I could remember, but you can bet the Germans are laying more. We could stumble into them at just about any time. I just hope this thing doesn’t get us all killed.”

  “Good job, Eryk,” Stefan said, meaning every word of it. “We get out of this, I’m recommending you for a decoration.

  “Just buy me some warm English beer, Stef,” Eryk said.

  “That too,” Stefan said, yawning. He was so tired he felt numb, his brain suddenly sluggish, like a river choked with ice. Not a good sign.

  “Why don’t you get some rest?” Eryk suggested. “Just tell me our next course.”

  Stefan glanced sharply at Eryk. His saying it out loud had triggered a flood of fatigue. “Yes, of course, you’re right,” Stefan said thickly, his voice running out of energy like a Victorola in need of cranking. He shook his head as he tried to get his eyes back into focus. “Run south to the Gulf of Gdansk… don’t want us spotted… men keep a sharp look out… dive at first sign of anything… hunt tonight, and then….” His voiced trailed off as he fought back a yawn.

  “Hunt tonight? You’re optimistic.”

  Stefan gave up and let the yawn happen. “We’re due,” he said slowly. “Have someone get me in an hour.” And with that, he staggered out of the control room, and aft toward his bunk.

  Eryk watched his friend leave, deciding right then to disobey a direct order from a superior officer. He had no intention of waking Stefan in an hour. He would let him sleep until he woke.

  After leaving Talli and Veski in their yellow raft, Eryk directed the Eagle south toward the Polish coastline, her speed a constant 20 knots, the only breaks coming when lookouts spotted a German plane and then a destroyer’s dark, menacing shape along the horizon an hour later. In both cases, the Eagle dove for safety and remained submerged until it was clear.

  At mid-morning, the clouds suddenly lowered and the weather worsened, winds climbing until the reached near-gale forces. As the Eagle bucked and swayed over a never-ending picket line of three meter rollers, the evil stew that was the submarine’s air became even fouler, filled with the stench of vomit. Those who didn’t know better complained. In between dry heaves, the rest thanked whatever god was watching over them, knowing that the weather would ground any aircraft and make it almost impossible for the low-slung submarine to be spotted by any vessel.

  Stefan slept until noon, right through two crash dives, stumbling into the control room red-eyed and mad after being rolled out of his bunk by a particular nasty wave. He was all ready to blister Eryk for ignoring his orders. But Kate’s presence at the navigation table, as she was working on her story, gave him pause.

  He rubbed his face, stifled a yawn. “I said one hour,” he grumped, glancing at Kate, and then back to Eryk.

  “I know,” Eryk replied.

  “Well?”

  “Well what? I thought you could use the sleep. You’re no good to us dead on your feet. You should know that. And you won’t get any shuteye tonight, so…”

  “So you should thank him for knowing when to ignore your orders,” Kate chimed in.

  “Jesus,” Stefan exclaimed, scratching his beard. “What a way to run a ship! My officers choose to ignore direct orders whenever they feel like it. Sorry, sir, I don’t feel like firing on that ship right at the moment. Or: Sorry, sir, I don’t think we should take that heading right now. Maybe later. What’s next is chaos, pure and simple.” He wagged a finger in Eryk’s direction. “Do it again and I’ll have your ass. Got it?”

  Eryk snapped to attention and saluted. “Sorry, sir.” Of course, he felt anything but sorry. Stefan would get over his pique soon enough.

  “I think somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed,” Kate commented. “And it occurs to me that a little more chaos among military leaders might lead to fewer wars against us civilian types.”

  “She’s got you there, sir,” Stefan heard the hydrophone operator comment drift out through the door in the sound room.

  Stefan’s face turned a brilliant shade of red. “Bullshit she does,” he barked. He spent the remainder of the afternoon ignoring them all, intently poring over Eryk’s handmade charts like they were Michelangelo’s recently discovered works.

  Twenty-two hours after leaving the waters north of Gotland, the Eagle was lurking at periscope depth in the Gulf of Gdansk, back again at the beginning.

  Stefan’s arms were draped over the periscope grips, face pressed against the rubber eye mounts. Seawater dripped down from above, drenching his already soggy hat. He didn’t notice. In fact, he looked close to happy.

  “Skipper, contacts closing,” sang out the hydrophone operator.

  Stefan’s shoulders tightened. He twirled the periscope around. And then he saw them. Three thousand meters off to the port. Two good-sized freighters. At least 10,000 tons each. Their distant shadows outlined with deck lights and lined up like a couple of railroad cars heading to market. Obviously, they had not been warned that a Polish submarine was still loose in the Baltic. Or they had been warned, and didn’t care. Just like Germans. Arrogant. Stefan watched them pass by the unseen submarine. “We’ll take them on top,” he said into the intercom mike. “Full rise on the bow planes. Prepare tube one.” He peered through the periscope again and chanted: “Rudder, port 15, steer eight-five.”

  Kate had remained in the control room throughout the day, leaving occasionally to do another interview, then returning to write it up. No one seemed to mind her presence. At first glance, she was nothing to look at. Her hair was pulled back and gathered at her neck, no makeup, broken nose, and men’s pants beneath the skirt she had worn into the ballroom just a day earlier. And yet, in some strange and mysterious way, she had never looked better to the men, more alive and dangerous and something else, as well. It was something that had never happened before in any submarine in the world. Because of her actions, they had come to see her as an extension of themselves. The world’s first female submariner in fact, if not in name.

  She gazed around the control room. Remember this, she told herself. Remember it all. Some of the boys were staring intently at the gauges and dials as if they could glean from them something even more profound than the state of the ship. Others, faces pale and haggard were turned toward Stefan, their eyes bright with emotion: fear, despair, excitement, hope, hatred. Almost every human feeling imaginable flickered in their eyes. And yes, love, too. She could see that, as well. They loved their big, burly captain in the love reserved by men for their true fathers. She didn’t doubt that if she could magically leap 100,000 years back in time and do inventory of the faces of a hunting party, she would see the same emotions playing across their faces. This was just another hunt in a long line of hunts.

  “Would somebody get me a cup of coffee?” Stefan said suddenly, a goofy grin splitting his beard.

  Blank stares all around. Did they hear him right? But Kate could feel the tension ease. A few of the boys laughed, admiring the courage of their skipper in the face of what was to come. Kate admired it, too. It was the kind of intuitive act that could never be taught. Her father had had the same touch with men. It was what made him such a good reporter. He would have relished being part of this. Of that Kate was sure. No doubt he would have
written up the Eagle’s story like an epic baseball game, good versus evil, the fate of the free world at stake.

  No one had moved. Kate moved to get the man a cup herself.

  Eryk shook his head. “Stachofski,” he bellowed.

  The radio operator stuck his head out the door.

  “Get the skipper some coffee.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me.”

  Stachofski pulled off his headphones, tried to pat down his hair, which was a nervous tangle of curls. “Cream and sugar, sir?”

  “Black,” Stefan said, “and hot enough to curl my dick.” He saw Kate’s mouth contort into a grin at those words, the look of shock on the faces of those around him. “Oh,uh, sorry,” Stefan stuttered with mock embarrassment. “Not used to having a woman on board.”

  Stachofski was back a moment later, handing the cup to Stefan. As Eagle’s bow began to tilt upward, he drank the cup quickly. It was black and hot, but that was where any resemblance to coffee ended. Having simmered for hours, it was the consistency of thick cream and tasted like diesel fuel. But, of course, everything aboard a submarine quickly took on the stench of diesel. There was no way to get away from it, and nothing anyone could do about it.

  As the conning tower broke the surface, Stefan gulped down the last of his coffee, pulled on a rain slicker, and then scrambled up the ladder. He opened the hatch, ducked beneath a curtain of water, and then stepped up onto the bridge deck, breathing heavily through his nose.

  It was raining, a steady wind from the northeast, unsettled waves chopping the surface. The storm from earlier in the day had moved on. Along the horizon, the underbelly of the clouds glowed faintly, indicating the location of Gdansk and the coastline more precisely than any compass.

  Stefan raised the Zeiss binoculars, scanned the black lengths of both freighters, grunted when he found what he was looking for: German flags, lit by spotlights on a pole above their bridges.