Of course, the Eagle had little in common with the fiasco at Gallipoli. And yet, it shared similar themes. A small band of men—and one American woman, if the accounts were correct—fighting against overwhelming odds. What was it about such events that captured the imagination? Was it the heady mix of hope, heroism, and, yes, fear? The Eagle’s escape dominated the free newspapers in Europe as well as the media in Germany. It was threatening to eclipse reports of Poland’s near collapse and driving Hitler into a rage. And still the submarine’s crew did the unexpected. Instead of attempting escape, they had attacked, sinking a German freighter loaded with fuel oil off Gdansk, and now this, going after the Russians. The chuckle came unbidden, rough and ragged like a worn-out engine, but chuckle nonetheless. Part of him wished the crew would port in Sweden, joining three other Polish vessels interned there. Survive and live to fight another day. They had already done enough. And yet another part of him, the one still inspired by childhood tales of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, wished them to continue the fight. What had the poet written: “To strive, to seek, to fight, and not to yield?”
Silently, he vowed. If the Eagle survived and made it to British-controlled waters, he would be one of the first to greet her and her captain. Maybe some of the Eagle’s magic could rub off. Churchill hoped it was so. He lifted his glass. “Godspeed, Eagle,” he growled into the air.
Chapter Forty-Four
Underwater, the Eagle was powered by electric motors using energy stored in her gigantic batteries tucked away in two places under her decks. And like every submarine of the late 1930s, she cruised at a tortoiselike speed of two or three knots. Of course, in a panic, she could accelerate to 9 knots, but that was still hardly an impressive speed. And if she remained at that pace for very long, she would quickly exhaust her batteries, forcing her back to the surface where she would need to remain until they were recharged by her diesel engines.
At the moment, Stefan was pondering these engineering constraints as he sat on his bunk, eating an apple. He was wearing a soggy shirt open at the collar, damp pants and salt-stained boots. His dark beard was unkempt, as was his hair, their dark color matched by the circles of fatigue—almost bruises—beneath each eye. Cooky had found the apple rolling in filthy water in a corner of the engine room when the entire crew had been dashing back forth like a herd of elephants. It was bruised, and the skin tasted like everything else, diesel. Stefan didn’t care. The flesh inside was firm and moist, its apple scent headier than any woman’s perfume. He was convinced it was the best apple he had ever eaten.
Stefan had often dreamed of a time when submarines would be more like the vessel imagined by Jules Verne in Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He had read the book many times—and hadbeen enchanted by it. It remained one of his all-time favorites, helped encourage him to pursue a career in Navy submarines when it came time to leave fishing. How much easier and safer if they could simply stay submerged for weeks on end at depths beyond the reach of their enemies? What a weapon a submarine would be then.
Faintly, Stefan could still hear the whoosh-whoosh sound of screws from the ships on the surface, prowling now in the distance. The Eagle had been submerged for four hours, creeping along 120 meters below the surface as destroyers, probably Russian, combed the waters overhead, flinging set after set of depth charges into the water in hopes of either destroying them or driving them to the topside.
Stefan listened to distant explosions, the Eagle’s hull creaking in response, as they began yet another run. Persistent devils, he thought. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Four depth charges per rack, two racks per side, twenty-four explosions in all, their sounds gradually diminishing as the destroyer and submarine moved in opposite directions. And then reload, perhaps reset the timers so the cans sank deeper or shallower before they detonated, and do it all again. It was monotonous as a factory assembly line. And just as effective.
Once the Eagle submerged, Stefan scampered forward once again to assess the damage to the bow. They were lucky. Only minor leaking. But there was one other problem that might have unforeseen consequences. Something was wrong with theEagle’s forward torpedo hatches. They wouldn’t open, the skin of iron that coated the bow twisted and dented just enough to keep them closed. Their one remaining forward torpedo was now useless.
Stefan set them on a course almost due west toward the Swedish coastline. Deeper waters that direction, Eryk promised, still feeling guilty about running aground, though Stefan, and everyone else, assured him it wasn’t his fault.
Nothing elegant about the plan now. Feel their way down the Swedish coast, avoiding minefields, aircraft, and Swedish and German ships. Keep everyone sharp despite little food and water. And then wait for dark, sneak through The Øresund, and on into the North Sea. As soon as they were free of The Øresund, they would contact the British Fleet.
Stefan finished the apple, core and all, licked his fingers clean. It was quiet now. The destroyers moving off, out of range, or perhaps giving up. He glanced at his watch. Dark soon. And then a long night ahead of them.
There was a knock on the bulkhead. “Enter,” Stefan said.
Kate stuck her head past the edge of the curtain, and Stefan was suddenly aware of how he must look and smell. Her pale face looked freshly scrubbed. She had finally gotten rid of the dress and was now wearing clothes borrowed from the crew, a clean men’s shirt, khaki pants and shoes. She jumped as the explosions began again. They sounded like some faraway giant whacking the side of a grain silo with a log.
“Can’t get used to those,” she said sheepishly. “Don’t know how you stand it. I thought I was going to go crazy earlier….”
“Me, too,” Stefan said.
“You?”
Stefan nodded.
“Could have fooled me.”
Stefan shrugged, rubbed his burning eyes with his thumbs. “I’m the captain now,” he said wearily. “That’s my job. Just about pissed my pants, though, when I thought that bomber was going to drop a few high explosives down our throat.”
“Go on!” Kate exclaimed with a giggle and a shake of her head. She reached out and shoved him in the shoulder like she had often done when her first boyfriend teased her. There was a stretch of awkward silence after she realized what she had done. “Say, Reggie and I had an idea.”
“Now you want off?”
Kate’s eyes flickered with anger. “No, of course not. We’re with you and your men until the end.”
“Whatever end that may be,” Stefan finished for her.
“I’m an optimist,” Kate said, raising her chin.
“What’s your idea?”
“Eryk said we’re going to be staying close to the Swedish coastline, right?”
Stefan nodded. He motioned to a chair in the corner of the cubbyhole that masqueraded as his quarters. “Sit. Please.”
Kate shook her head. “Too jumpy,” she said, smiling an apology.
“Go on….”
“Well, we were wondering about making a Swedish flag, or sign, or something. Hang it from the conning tower, cover up the Eagle’s markings. Might not fool anybody, but on the other hand, if we’re surprised, it might give us some extra time.”
“Good idea,” Stefan said, smiling. “Thanks. Get a couple of the boys to help you. Might help them pass the time.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. You want to see it when we’re done?”
“Sure,” Stefan said.
“And what about that interview. When could we finish?”
The thought that had been dancing around the back of his mind ever since he had spied her in the pub in Gdynia jumped out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop it: “How about dinner with me when we get to England?”
Stefan watched Kate’s face change, thinking how much it reminded him of a spring sky, just when you get used to one look, it gives you another. He couldn’t read the one he was giving him now. She stared at him and then said, “I see underneath all the grime, you’re an optimist, too.
”
Stefan said nothing.
“Okay,” Kate said. “On one condition.”
“You can finish the interview over dinner, if you like.”
Another flash of anger. “You presume too much,” she warned. “That’s wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“Then what is your condition?” he said, stretching the last word out sarcastically.
“Dinner and drinks are on me,” Kate said, and then she was gone.
It was Reggie’s idea. “Why can’t you just move the damn thing,” he said out loud.
They were gathered in the control room a few hours later, the regular contingent of officers and crew, along with Cooky leaning in the hatchway. Stefan and Eryk we’re peering at Eryk’s hand-made charts, attempting to dredge up any missing details, arguing about the pros and cons of various courses.
Squeaky was restlessly prowling the crowded perimeter of the control room, lamenting for the moment the damage to the torpedo doors before moving on to other woes. “A moment longer, and we could have fired,” he said. “Then it wouldn’t matter what happened.”
That’s when Reggie wagged his finger in the air and asked his question.
Cooky’s response came with a sneer. He didn’t like the effete American and didn’t mind who knew it. Of course, Cooky didn’t like most everyone, particularly Brazilians, he was always quick to point out, though the actual reasons for picking on the natives of that particular part of the world remained a well-kept mystery. His apparent affection for Kate was one exception to his universal dislike. “Go ahead,” he said. “That damn fish just weighs—oh—1,600 kilos, give or take a few hundred. Yeah, by the look of your biceps, you could almost lug it to the aft torpedo compartment all by yourself.”
There was laughter around the control room. Stefan looked up from the chart, eyes bleary and red rimmed. He turned to Reggie. “What did you say?”
“He wondered why we don’t move that fucking torpedo aft,” Cooky interjected, laughing again with ill humor.
Reggie gave a wane smile and shrugged. “What do I know, eh?”
Stefan blinked slowly, his eyes feeling as if he had gravel in them. He was halfway surprised each blink wasn’t audible. Now that they were running for England, and, essentially, unarmed, he was particularly aware of their lack of torpedoes. That one still remained onboard, unusable, only add to the bitter taste in mouth. Why couldn’t they move it to the aft torpedo room? Of course. Now would be the time to do it, before they came closer to The Øresund. Under cover of darkness, in a calm sea, it would be tricky, but not impossible.
After days of close proximity, Squeaky was watching Stefan closely, aware of every slight change in his mood. “Nah, nah,” he said, “that would be a very bad idea.”
Stefan looked blandly at Squeaky.
“I know you’re thinking about that torpedo, moving it aft. Am I right?”
Stefan didn’t respond, he just continued to stare at Squeaky.
“It can’t be done. Not now. The crew is exhausted, you’re exhausted, and you expect to get it done out here in the middle of the Baltic? OK, OK, it’s not impossible, it’s just that it would be very, very difficult. It’ll be slick as a baby killer whale, and just as heavy… the deck will be like an ice rink… I suppose we could rig some sort of pulley system above deck, but then we’d have to wrestle it aft, and reverse the process… like I said…” His voice finally ran out of steam. A look of resignation washed over his features. Still Stefan said nothing. “Aw shit,” Squeaky submitted finally. “OK, we’ll move it. I’ll get the strongest men, just tell me when.”
Stefan glanced at his wristwatch. “How about now?”
The Eagle surfaced at dusk; her diesel engines coughed to life and began recharging the batteries, though her screws remained motionless. There was a slight breeze coming from the east. Though the surface was roughed by a sharp chop, the Eagle barely moved. It was about as close to perfect conditions as one could find in September fall in the middle of the Baltic.
Inside, the Eagle’s interior lights switched to red for the long night. In the torpedo compartment, Lech and two other sailors were already cranking loose the bolts holding the torpedo loading hatch in place. As it came free, a rush of cool sea air poured in the submarine.
“All set?”
Squeaky looked up through the hatch opening, saw Stefan’s form, features shrouded in shadows, peer from above. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said formally. “Eight men down here, another eight up there…”
“Nine,” Stefan interjected.
“Didn’t think you could stay away from the fun,” Squeaky said with a nod of appreciation. He hadn’t intended to ask for Stefan’s help—no sense getting the captain hurt or injured—but Stefan was by far the strongest man on the boat and so his offer wouldn’t be turned away. “I’ve got it trussed up with this canvas sling like a chicken,” he said, patting the torpedo’s steel flank in front of him. “Should make it easier to control. That’s the idea, anyway. It’s pointing the wrong direction. So, not only do we have to lift this bastard out of here, we’ve also got to pivot the nose in the other direction.”
“Up here?” Stefan asked skeptically.
“Naw. Not enough room. We’ll start the turn down here. We’ll lift up the nose, and then walk the ass end back underneath to get it going the right direction as you and the boys up there get your hands on it. Once you’ve lifted it free, we’ll skedaddle aft and be waiting for you. I’ve got ’‘em ready to crack open up the loading hatch as soon as you get there.”
Stefan stood, slapped his hands together. All he needed was talcum powder, and he would have been ready for a clean and jerk. He glanced around at the other sailors who would help. Henryk gave him an awkward grin. Stefan slapped him on the back in response. “Ready?”
Henryk’s eyes widened with alarm as the Eagle shifted nervously beneath their feet. But then he nodded. A pale, scrawny looking bunch, Stefan thought. They would have to do. Because of the space restrictions inherent to submarines, crews were not usually the biggest and brawniest.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Stefan roared. Until the job was done, they completely defenseless.
A moment later, the nose of the torpedo bobbed above decks like the snout of some ancient animal. Its appearance was accompanied by primal groans, as the men below strained against the dead weight.
“Come on you bastards, help…” Squeaky cried out.
The torpedo seemed to sniff the air, and then it was surrounded by sailors above deck, each grabbing an end of a sling. As they began to pick up the strain, the rest of the torpedo slowly appeared.
Stefan grabbed two slings, one in each hand, his arms forearms quivering with tension. Henryk, who was standing next to him, gasped from the effort, his lips peeling back from his mouth into a grimace.
As the full weight of the torpedo was taken up by the men on the deck, they quivered and moaned as one, trembling like a grove of aspens before a sudden, hot gust of wind. Silently—it was too much effort to say anything— and slowly, they began the awkward shuffle on the shifting, slick wood deck toward the submarine’s stern.
As the group—four on the inside, five on the outside, the torpedo in between —squeezed past the conning tower, the Eagle swayed abruptly as an irregular wave hit the bow, and then broke down the side. It was enough. The torpedo swayed in sympathy, and two of the men at the back, on the side nearest the conning tower, slipped. Stefan roared as the torpedo began to pinch him against the conning tower. He heard Henryk scream, and felt a sudden increase in weight as the men lost hold.
From some hidden place, Stefan found an untapped reservoir of strength. Even as the cartilage of his own ribs began to crackle, he lifted with all his might. “Don’t stop now,” he grunted between grinding teeth.
And just as quickly, the men regained control of torpedo, and continued to snake past the conning tower. Stefan noticed that Henryk had blood rimming his mouth. He coughed, and sprayed the torpedo with red m
ist. Still, he continued to lift, ignoring the agony of his shattered ribs.
As they approached, the aft access hatch opened. Stefan was ready to collapse. The others looked in similar condition, but grimly, everyone held on. This close to success, they didn’t dare let down their crewmates.
Now there were gasps of pain and effort. They lowered the nose of the torpedo first, and felt the exquisite relief as the men below began to take up the weight. And then it was below decks. The men as one collapsed on the deck, sobbing with success and relief.
“Get Cooky,” Stefan screamed, but he was already on deck, handing around one of the precious bottles of cognac, and then he was at the boy’s side, dabbing his mouth with a cloth.
“What the hell happened?”
“He was squeezed between the torpedo and the conning tower,” Stefan gasped, placing his hand on his own ribs, wincing at the pain, realizing he might have cracked a few ribs of his own.
Albert, that was his name, Stefan remembered. One of Chief K’s boys in the engine room.
“We did it?” he whispered. The effort brought a spasm of coughing, and more blood.
“Jesus, don’t say anything,” Cooky yelled with alarm. He shrugged at Stefan as if to say he’d do what he could for the boy but this was beyond his meager skills.
“Yes, Albert.” Stefan touched his cheek, surprised at its softness. “We did it indeed. And now we’re going to find you a quiet place to rest. We’ll be in England before you know it. Just do what Cooky says, okay?”
The boy closed his eyes and nodded.
As Cooky and Henryk took the boy below, Stefan turned away. He would be surprised if he saw another dawn. Had it been worth the risk, worth one life? He didn’t know. Not at the moment.
The Last Eagle Page 29
