The Last Eagle

by Michael Wenberg

  Unlike the chokepoint of the passage at The Øresund, the Kattegat was nearly 80 kilometers wide and nearly twice that long. Even though the Kriegsmarine had fifty ships looking for the Eagle and dozens of airplanes patrolling the skies overhead, that still left plenty of places for the Eagle to hide, and deep water to run.

  Stefan scanned the horizon and then the waters ahead of them, half listening as the gun crew and the lookouts scrambled into position.

  He already knew that Kate was staying below. She wanted to finish her story before they met up with the British. Stefan took it as a good sign.

  There was a steady breeze whistling out of the north, already roughing the water into 10-foot swells. Stefan didn’t need a weather report to tell him there would be no fog this night. But there was a black line along the horizon ahead. The wind was being pushed along by a storm front. He sniffed the air again. More help was on its way.

  Hour after hour, the Eagle burrowed through swells of ever-increasing size. And with every passing moment, Stefan began to believe that they would make it after all. As the band of darkness seeped across the night sky, the stars were swept away and the wind continued to increase. By midnight, the sky was as dark as a sack full of black cats and the wind was now howling like an enraged witch, whipping spray off the top of the waves and driving it hard against the conning tower. Bundled into his oilskin slicker, Stefan glanced down a the foredeck, awash in water, felt the Eagle buck beneath his legs and almost shouted in glee. With this weather, Eagle was like a Polish needle in a haystack.

  The Germans would never be able to find her.

  By 5 a.m., Stefan estimated their position northeast of The Skaw. The storm had moderated, though the sea was white-capped and angry, and a steady wind continued to blow in his face. He decided it was time to begin the turn west into the North Sea. As he leaned into the speaker tube, one of the lookouts screamed. After hours of wind and waves, the sound of a human voice seemed unnatural.

  He looked aft, and stared dumbfounded as the destroyer slid dimly into view, bobbing and dancing in the surf behind them.

  She was already too close for the Eagle to dive, so Stefan yelled, “Full speed ahead,” realizing even as he said it that they were already going at maximum speed.

  He watched the destroyer’s signal lamp began to flick off and on.

  “She’s the Leberecht Maass,” cried one of the lookouts who did double duty as the signal operator aboard the Eagle. “German. She’s ordering us to surrender or she’ll fire.”

  Stefan watched the destroyer’s bow wave leap into the air it began to gain on them.

  “Where the hell did they come from?” Squeaky said.

  “Does it matter?” Stefan said evenly. Under the circumstances, he was strangely calm, part of him watching the events unfold like it was a scene unfolding on the sidewalk outside a café. They were nearly free, and now this one last challenge. It was almost if God was checking to make sure that they were still worthy. Or worse, he had changed his mind in the infernal chess match he seemed to play with happenstance and human life and was now curious to see how the crew would deal with dashed hope and despair.

  “I guess not,” Squeaky said.

  “Sir, what do you want me to tell them?” The signalman had been in the conning tower nearly as long as Stefan. He was as soaked as a wet poodle and shaking so violently from the chill he looked like a spastic.

  Stefan struggled to think of some pithy response he could have the boy relay back. Even wide awake, and well-rested, he was never one for the quick comeback. And right at the moment, he was so tired that he feared that if he closed his eyes for just a moment, he would fall asleep right where he stood. Nothing came to mind. “Just send, ‘Long live Poland.’”

  The boy began clicking the signal lamp, still shaking so hard Stefan wondered how many additional letters and words he was adding to the message.

  “You think they’ll get the message?” Squeaky asked when he was done.

  The destroyer’s forward deck gun was already swinging toward them. There was a flash of light, then a sharp crack, as the sound lagged behind. White water erupted skyward ahead of them, the wind tearing it apart as it fell back.

  “Yes, sir. I think they got the message,” said the signalman, his haggard face brightened with a grin.

  Another shot. Another column of water danced into the air. “Damn. She’s got us bracketed,” Squeaky yelled, turning his head away in anticipation of the blast that was bound to come next.

  Stefan barked an order into the speaker tube, and the Eagle suddenly slowed like a cabdriver jamming on the brakes.

  “What are you doing?” Squeaky said with alarm, glancing over his shoulder.

  There was another shot from the destroyer. A moment later, the shell hit the water directly ahead of them. If they had continued at full speed, it would have struck the Eagle dead center.

  “Ready aft tube.” Stefan yelled, watching the destroyer continue to eat up the space between them. “Full speed and helm hard port on my mark.”

  Squeaky closed his eyes and sank to the bridge deck. He reached the end. He couldn’t watch anymore. What would happen would have to happen without him.

  Stefan noted the drop in the height of the destroyer’s bow wave, as her helm reacted to the Eagle’s sudden drop in speed. He was too tired now to feel anything but curiosity. He wondered if Ritter was aboard the destroyer. Somehow he knew he was. They shared a connection, that wasn’t yet ready to be severed. And then he wondered what Ritter would think in just a moment.

  “Fire aft torpedo,” Stefan said as casually as ordering fish and chips and a mug of beer at an English pub. And then he screamed, “Mark!”

  Another wasted night, the captain of the Leberecht Maas was thinking to himself. After the fiasco of the night before, both he and Ritter were afraid to leave the bridge. For different reasons, of course. Ritter no longer trusted the destroyer’s officers any more than he now trusted the Estonians. And the captain feared the contents of whatever report would make its way back to Admiral Dönitz if they missed this last chance at nabbing the Eagle. Needless to say, after a half a dozen cups of coffee, the captain was beginning to think he would be forced to make a quick visit to the head. He couldn’t do what Ritter had done. It was hardly seemly. Ritter had simply stepped outside, not even bothering to close the door, and then peed over the side of the ship. He was still zipping up as he stepped back onto the bridge, giving the captain a knowing smile, as he settled back into his position to wait.

  “Ship!” came the yell from one of the lookouts. “Twenty degrees off the port bow.”

  “Holy hell, it’s her,” cried the helmsman.

  “Careful,” Ritter said, leaping to his feet, and crossing to the helmsman.

  “I’ve had enough,” snarled the captain. “This is still my ship until the admiral says otherwise. I know how to deal with this Polish scum.”

  Ritter stopped mid-tracks.

  “Helm, bring us in behind her. Signalman. Here’s what I want you to send them: ‘Surrender, or we’ll blow her out of the water.’”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Uh, captain, you might like to know that the Eagle has an aft torpedo tube.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Mr. Ritter,” the captain. “I also know that except for two forward torpedoes, all were removed in Estonia. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, but…”

  “It seems to me, that except for her forward deck gun, and possibly one torpedo in a forward tube, she’s defenseless. So let me handle this…. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  Ritter’s scars seemed to whiten on his face. He smiled coldly. “As you wish, captain.” He remained where he was standing, folded his arms.

  In the distance, the Eagle’s signal lamp began to blink. “What do they say?” the captain asked, barely able to contain his excitement. His ship had captured the renegade Polish submarine Eagle. Now the Reich newspapers would quit reporting about the submari
ne’s exploits and carry instead stories about his ship and her brave captain. He wondered what sort of medal would be in store for him. Maybe even a post in Berlin?

  The signal operator gave the captain a puzzled look.

  “Well?”

  “They, uh, they replied, ‘Long live Poland’… that was it. How do you want me to respond?”

  The captain smiled. “Fire at will,” he said. “And don’t stop until she’s sinking.”

  It was almost dawn, the light a gray wash, blending sea and sky. It was a miracle they had happened across the Eagle. Another moment earlier or later, and she would have escaped unscathed into the North Sea. He wasn’t surprised by their response. They couldn’t surrender now. Under the circumstances, he would have done same thing.

  He was watching the Eagle closely, saw the sudden darkening of the water at her stern as her screws slowed to a stop. “Nicely done,” he said under his breath, blinking at the flash from the forward gun, and then noticing the shell splash in front of her bow. There would be no more tricks. The next would be a direct hit.

  “Half speed,” the captain said “We’ve got her now.”

  Ritter was first to notice the streak of white begin to arrow toward the destroyer, saw the froth of water at the Eagle’s stern, her screws churning once again, her bow swinging to starboard. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. “Oh, damn,” he said.

  The explosion lifted the bow of the destroyer half out of the water, shattering the windows in the bridge. Ritter picked himself off of the deck, noticed the captain crumpled against the bulkhead, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He staggered forward, stared out through the glass-free openings, as the gray shape of the Eagle moved off in the distance. Sirens were screaming across the ship. He waved his hand in a half-hearted gesture of salute and then turned his attention to the crippled destroyer.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Two days after her confrontation with the Leberecht Maass, the Eagle rendezvoused with the British destroyer HMS Valorous, 70 kilometers east of the Isle of May, and was escorted through mine fields to the base at Rosyth, Scotland.

  Stefan remained in the bridge while the Eagle docked, proud at the way his men hustled to their lines even though they were all so exhausted and weak from their ordeal that many had barely been able to walk moments before.

  He waited until most of the men had filed over the gangplank, made their way down an obstacle course of officers, their fresh, clean, sharply pressed uniforms in stark contrast to the filthy rags worn by many of his crew. His boys, however, behaved like gentlemen, smiling, shaking their hands. Once past the group, they were intercepted by British sailors and a few nurses who, pantomiming gestures of food, drink and sleep, lead them off to a nearby building.

  “Shall we go, Commander?”

  Kate stepped up onto the bridge for the last time. The last few days of peace had helped repair some of the damage the stress of the previous weeks had caused. She still had dark circles under her eyes, but her hair looked freshly washed, and someone had found clean clothes for her. Stefan sniffed. She was even wearing perfume.

  Kate saw the look in his eye. “That Cooky, he’s a marvel. And know what the men did? They gave me some of their water ration sent over from the Valorous. Enough to wash my hair and take a spit bath. I must say that was the most marvelous bath I’ve ever had. And the water, I hated to get rid of it. It was more precious than holy water.”

  Stefan smiled. He’s heard about the gesture from his thirsty men, thought it was one of the nicest things he’d ever heard. “They’re good boys,” he said simply.

  “Well, I wanted to give you this,” Kate said. She thrust a damp envelope into his hands.

  “What’s this?”

  “My story,” Kate said, “I mean, your story. The story of the Eagle and what happened. All of it. What it was like all those hours underwater. The chase. Sieinski’s death. I had to write it you know, but the newspaper will never run it like this. Too long. Of course, I’ll have to write something for them. But this, well, this isn’t mine. You deserve to have it. Consider it returning a favor,” she said.

  Stefan glanced down at the folder in his hand. He leaned down and kissed Kate on the lips.

  “You two going ashore sometime or what?” Reggie yelled up from the base of the conning tower.

  “I still owe that dinner, you know,” Kate said, sniffing and then wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.

  “I didn’t forget.” Before Stefan lifted her onto the ladder, he kissed her again, this time accompanied by cheers by some of the Eagle’s crew. “I think I liked you better as a Roosevelt,” he said.

  Kate smacked him on the arm and slid down the ladder like an old hand before he had a chance to respond.

  Holding hands, Stefan and Kate were the last ones off the Eagle. A nearby band was again working its way through the Polish national anthem. Kate kissed him on the cheek and than hurried to catch up with Reggie. As Stefan approached the line of British officers waiting for him, he was so tired he could hardly keep on his feet. He saluted and shook hands with each in turn.

  The last in line was short, pudgy-faced man wearing a fedora and swathed in a khaki raincoat. He was watching Kate, who had grabbed Reggie by the arm and was walking off arm in arm with him. He barked out a laugh. “I wonder if there’s more like her where she comes from,” he said, shaking his head. And then he noticed Stefan. “Welcome to England, son,” he growled, grasping Stefan’s hand squeezing it hard. “I’ve followed your epic adventure with utmost interest. We have much to talk about. Much!”

  The voice and face were unmistakable. “Thank you very much, Mister Churchill,” Stefan said slowly, struggling with the English, his words thick with emotion. “We’re happy to be joining you in the fight.”

  “And we’re glad to have you, my boy,” Churchill said, gruffly, swiping at the tears in his eyes. “I want you to tell me everything. But first, why don’t you begin with that woman. I understand she’s related to Mr. Franklin Roosevelt…”

  Winston Churchill put his arm over the shoulder of the big Polish seaman, and together they walked off the dock.

  Epilogue

  Rear Admiral Karl Dönitz jumped high for the ball. The effort was not unrewarded. It knocked off his cap, which sailed in one direction, while the rubber ball struck the tips of his outstretched fingers, and careered in the other, bouncing twice before disappearing into a waist high crop of nettles.

  His granddaughter’s joyous screech split the late afternoon air, heavy with sunshine. Dönitz brushed back his hair and then smiled with embarrassment. Too much time in a chair, he thought. A year ago, he would have caught the ball.

  Movement caught his eye. A tall, lean German officer approached through the woods. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive. Its engine was still running, the driver leaning against the door, reading a newspaper. This wouldn’t take long.

  “Afternoon, Herr Admiral.”

  “Hello, Peter. How is your new command suiting you?”

  “Well, sir. And thank you. It was more than I deserved under the circumstances.”

  Dönitz smiled sharply. “I know,” he said. “One moment.” He turned and without hesitating walked into the nettles, noticed a flash of red, and reached down to pick up the ball, ignoring the pain in response to the stings. He tossed the ball to his granddaughter. “Go find your mother,” he said. “I’ll join you both in a moment. I feel like warm cocoa. How about you?”

  “With cream?” asked his granddaughter, her blue eyes bright.

  “But of course,” Dönitz said.

  “Beautiful child,” Ritter commented.

  “Yes, she is,” Dönitz said softly. “And I wonder what will become of her, of us all.”

  “Sir?”

  Dönitz shook his head. He had just learned of Hitler’s plans to break his agreement with the Stalin and attack the Soviets. German troops were already stretched to the breaking, fighting in the Baltic
states, in North Africa, in English skies and seas, and the North Atlantic, and now he wanted to add another front to the war, Russia. “Ever study Napoleon?”

  Ritter thought for a moment. “I’ve done a little reading on his campaigns.”

  “You might want to refresh your memory,” Dönitz suggested.

  Ritter gave him a puzzled look. He was about to ask another question, but he was familiar with the look on the admiral’s face, and decided against it.

  “What brings you out here, Peter?”

  “Sorry, sir. I was at headquarters when the word came. There was a standing order to let you know about it. I thought, under the circumstances, it might as well be me. It is the Eagle. Naval Intelligence has deciphered British transmissions. It’s been corroborated by our contacts in England. She’s missing. Haven’t heard from her in a week.”

  “Any survivors?”

  Ritter shook his head.

  “Ach. Too bad. It is always too bad. How strange, I almost feel like she was one of ours.”

  “She almost was,” Ritter quipped with humor. Dönitz flashed one of his infamous looks and Ritter continued on without missing a beat. “I know what you mean, sir. It doesn’t seem … right.”

  “Another story without a happy ending. I fear there will be more. Did we have any forces in the area she was patrolling?”

  “No.”

  “And so, she finally ran out of luck. Had her share of it, I would say, though I think we make most of the luck that comes our way. Or make ourselves ready or not when it presents itself. Could have been any number of things, you know. An accident. A catastrophic equipment failure. A mine… What did you say they called her captain?”

  “Ox.” When Ritter smiled, the scar on his face almost disappeared

  Dönitz closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “God in heaven… ” he chanted silently, the only fragment of a prayer he ever allowed himself when he heard about the loss of one of his own boats. In this case, it had come unbidden to his mind, an unconscious salute to a worthy foe. When he reopened them, the moment had past.