The Last Eagle (2011)

by Michael Wenberg

  Kate glanced around the room. She’d seen bigger closets. She was sitting on a narrow bunk covered in a wad of blankets. There was blood on the pillow. At first, she wondered if the original inhabitant had had a bloody nose, and then she realized the blood was her own. Gray metal walls covered in girlie pictures. A spaghetti of cables, conduit and pipes choked the ceiling. There was a small writing table in the corner with a quilt thrown over the chair. It was a garish touch of home.

  Kate pressed her palm against her eyes as another wave of nausea and pain threatened to return her to unconsciousness. “No,” she said, fiercely, biting her lips until she drew blood.

  When it passed, she staggered to her feet. She was tempted to hide and hope that by the time whoever called this particular bunk home remembered they were on board, they’d be at sea. And by then, it would be to late to kick her and Reggie off the sub.

  But hiding had never been Kate’s style. “Got to find whoever is in charge,” she said loudly to herself, wondering how she was going to convince them to keep her on board. She didn’t need a crack on the head to know that if she told the truth her chance of staying was slim to none. But like any good reporter, Kate wasn’t above stretching the truth every now and then to get what she wanted. And if they made a mistake and thought she was the American neice of a very important person. Perhaps even the Prime Minister of England himself, or better yet, the president of the United States, then her chances of staying on board might improve.

  Kate staggered out of the cabin, down the narrow passageway, not sure she was going in the right direction, but at least she was moving, and with only two choices, the wrong way would be easy to correct. Before she met the captain, she needed to talk with Reggie, make sure he didn’t ruin her tale of deception before she had a chance to tell it. She saw men step aside, noted, as if observing it all from a third story apartment, the expressions on their faces. “You were expecting Lana Turner?” she muttered under her breath.

  Chapter Twelve

  Squeaky fought back a yawn, his eyes watering like he was in the midst of a week-long drunk—if only he had been so lucky. He almost wished for another attack—anything—to help break up the boredom.

  The last false alarm had been an hour ago—a periscope in the harbor. After the firing stopped, and they had a chance to take a closer look, the periscope turned out to be nothing more than driftwood, floating and twisting in the swells.

  “I think you got that German snag,” Squeaky said, to sheepish laughter from the gun crews.

  There had been two visitors since Ritter and his group had boarded the submarine. The first, a courier from Navy headquarters, roared up to the submarine on his motorcycle, thrust orders for the Eagle to get underway into Squeaky’s hands. “Immediately!” the courier had underscored with obvious self-importance.

  Squeaky crumpled the sheet, and tossed it back in the courier’s face. “This is as helpful as a case of butt wipe,” he yelled, enjoying the release. Someone, finally, to retaliate against. “And tell those assholes you work for that next time we want them to send us down something useful, like a new hydraulic pump or two.” The courier had dropped his chin and then scuttled back to his motorcycle, the flaps on his leather helmet flopping like the ears of a basset hound.

  The other visitor was a butcher who had a shop a few blocks from the quay. He pulled a squeaking handcart loaded with meats and sausages up to the gangplank, pushed back his hat and whistled, hands on his hips, his gaze moving along the dark flank of the submarine. “Thought that damn airplane had done you in. Hoped not, though, mostly ’cause I wanted you boys to have these. Better to give ’em away to some brave Polish warriors than let the damn Huns have ’em.” And then he leaned close to Squeaky. “There’s also a few bottles of you-know-what under the meat,” he said. “My gift to you and your officers. Toast for all of us when you make your first kill.”

  “Indeed we will,” Squeaky had replied formally, bowing his head. He reached under the seat, held a bottle of Klasno vodka up to the faint lights from across the harbor. “Thank you, Pops.” Squeaky slipped the bottle into his jacket and then waved for the man on the bow of the boat and one of the gun crew to come down. Five minutes later, the meats and sausages were on board, hanging from the overhead pipes that ran along the main passageway, adding their particular aroma to the submarine’s cocktail of smells.

  Squeaky didn’t bother to fight back the yawn this time, feeling the outline of the vodka bottle with his right hand, wondering if there would be any harm in taking a nip or two. Not to be left out, his stomach gave a greedy rumble.

  He almost didn’t notice the silent, easily recognized figure take shape out of the shadows. “Hold the light,” Squeaky barked hoarsely, setting his rifle aside and rushing forward. “I was beginning to think you had other plans, Squeaky said with a broad grin. “Let me give you a hand. The captain?”

  Stefan nodded.

  “Dead?”

  “Don’t ... think ... so,” Stefan gasped. He staggered to a halt, and let Squeaky grab the captain and lower him to the ground.

  Stefan stood there, swaying slightly as if pushed by an unseen breeze, sucking in great drafts of air. “Not dead. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “What happened?”

  Stefan looked up, dark eyes glittering. “Tell the men it was a Nazi bomb. It hit the hotel, wounded our captain and others. It was only a miracle of God that he is still alive.”

  Squeaky frowned.

  “If anyone asks, tell them,” Stefan said fiercely, reaching forward and grabbing Squeaky by the shirt. “In fact, you tell the story first thing, and make sure everyone else knows it. Understand?”

  Squeaky nodded slowly.

  “Good,” Stefan grunted. He smoothed the front of Squeaky’s shirt, patted him on the cheek.

  “He smells like shit,” Squeaky remarked, “and so do you.”

  Stefan put a hand on Squeaky’s shoulder, loosened his belt, and stepped out of his vomit-stained trousers. He put them in Squeaky’s arms. “There you go,” he said, smiling broadly. “Now so do you. Please get our dear captain aboard. Have someone clean him up. And get someone to bring me some clean pants. I can’t go onboard like this.”

  Stefan rubbed his face wearily. What a sight. Stinking, white-legged Stefan. And now is the perfect time for the admiral to drive up in his staff car. The old fart wouldn’t crack a smile, Stefan’s appearance simply confirming what he had known all along.

  Five minutes later, Squeaky was back. “Here you go,” he said, tossing the trousers at his friend.

  Stefan had been leaning up against the gangplank, ignoring the grinning guards. He held the trousers out, sniffed the air, and then nodded to himself. They’d have to do. “Chief K on board yet?” he asked, buckling the belt.

  “He said he needs another two hours.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Squeaky shrugged. “I think he’s only concerned about being shot. We won’t do much good if we get out to sea and then run into mechanical trouble.”

  “I know,” Stefan replied, rubbing his face again. “But we do Poland no good staying here. We’ve been lucky so far, but—” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  “Have you heard anything?”

  Stefan shook his head.

  “How do you think we’re doing?”

  Stefan gestured for a cigarette, waited for Squeaky to fumble in his jacket and then hand one over. He lit it, taking his time to reply. “Haven’t heard many of our planes, have you?”

  Squeaky shook his head.

  “That tells you how we’re doing in the air. The Army? Well, we have brave men, yes. And I suppose we’re about evenly matched in terms of numbers. The French and English did us no favors warning against mobilization. The trick is what the French will do now. If they attack, we might have a chance. But I fear that they will stay safely in their warm bunks behind their Maginot Line, and the Englanders are too far away to do us much good. We are on our own
.”

  “But we cannot lose!”

  Stefan didn’t reply. He finished his cigarette, flicked the butt into the water. He patted Squeaky on the shoulder. “We must do our part,” he said simply. “That is all we can do. You OK here?”

  Squeaky nodded.

  “Pablo and the rest of the men on board?”

  “An hour ago,” Squeaky said. “We’re all here.”

  Stefan glanced to the east. There was already a faint hint of light. They didn’t have much time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stefan could smell the stink of hydraulic fluid two compartments away. Not a good sign. He increased his pace, ducking and weaving his way down the choked passageway, surprisingly agile for such a big man, but still finding the time along the way for a word in one sailor’s ear, a joke for another and a pat on the back. It was the behavior of a natural leader. Of course, he didn’t think of it that way. Wasn’t even aware of it. But it was exactly what his crew needed. His presence wafted through the ship like a fresh breeze.

  “How soon?” Stefan asked, standing in the opening to the compartment, staring down at the huddle of men so stained with grease, it was hard to distinguish one from another.

  Ritter glanced up from the pump, wiped his face with his sleeve, started to reply but held back. He and his men weren’t even supposed to be on board.

  Chief K banged a pipe with his wrench, not sure how long Stefan had been watching and hoping it would create the impression that he had been in the thick of the repairs instead of sitting on the side, holding his aching head. He flashed yellow teeth. “One, maybe two hours. I got this sonofabitch patched together. But we need a goddamn new pump. Or a complete rebuild. The seals on this damn thing are kaput.”

  “How long will it last?” Stefan interrupted.

  The chief winced and then glanced in Ritter’s direction. “You’d have to ask him.”

  “Commander.” Ritter stood, held out his hand.

  “Hans?” Stefan said with surprise, grabbing Ritter’s soiled hand, feeling the strength in the grip. “Not the safest place to be right at the moment.”

  Ritter couldn’t help smiling. He liked this man. He was smart, a good sailor. If he had been in command, he had no doubt they would have been sent packing weeks ago and the Eagle would be war-ready.

  “We couldn’t stay away,” Ritter said. “And I know you are a man who likes direct answers, so I will give you one. I don’t know how long it will last. It could last minutes, or it could last months. It is, of course, our fault. We should have caught and fixed this problem when the Eagle was still in dry dock. You have my deepest apologies. We have played with the lives of you and your men. Offering our help is the least we can do.”

  “If we survive this, I will look up the fellow who installed this pump the first time and, uh, have a little chat with him.”

  Ritter laughed. Yes, indeed, he liked this man very much. It almost made what would happen a shame. “It is the least we can do.”

  “A permanent fix—what will it take?”

  “A new pump, or time to rebuild this one and then time to make sure the lines are purged of contaminants,” Chief K chirped in, unwilling to defer everything to Ritter.

  “Where can we get our hands on a new pump?”

  “Maybe Hel or Warsaw, but now—?” Chief K shrugged.

  “We have some at our facility in Tallinn,” Ritter suggested.

  “We may end up there,” Stefan muttered. “At this point, I’d sail to hell and back if it would get this boat healthy. Right at the moment, we don’t have time to take a little summer vacation. Your repairs will have to do. Let me know when you’re done, Hans. I’ll want to see you before you go.”

  Ritter cleared his throat. “Yes, about that, sir. We were wondering if you could use some extra hands for the next few days?”

  “I could use the help,” Chief K chirped hopefully.

  Stefan’s first reaction was “No.” A submarine was hardly the place for civilians during war. On the other hand, they were in a pinch, and if these men could help— “Have you notified your company?”

  Ritter shook his head. This is on our own.”

  “You understand the risks? Last time I checked, this wasn’t your war.”

  Ritter smiled.

  “Welcome aboard,” Stefan said, slapping Ritter on the shoulder. “You work for the Chief, but you report to me. You’ll have to bunk where you can find space. You stay as long as the captain and I say so and when we say go, you go without any arguing. OK?”

  Ritter nodded. “Thank you,” he said with feeling. He meant it.

  “Torpedo tube leaks?” Stefan barked.

  “Fixed ’em yesterday,” Chief K replied, tiredly. He needed a nap, but it might be days before he would get the chance.

  “We leave in an hour,” Stefan announced. “I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”

  Stefan pulled on a heavy wool coat and grabbed a mug of coffee before climbing up into the conning tower. Still soaked with sweat from his trek with Sieinski, he was cold in the predawn chill.

  Stefan took a sip from the mug, the coffee just the way he liked it, hot and bitter, and surveyed the scene. Smoke softened the waterfront and his view of the city. The last flames had been doused hours earlier, but crews continued to pour water on the piles of blackened rubble, columns of smoke and steam angling into the cloudless sky, already glowing pink with approaching sunrise. If there were more attacks, they would get no help from the weather.

  He had men on the stern, adding a few more liters of diesel to their tanks and topping off their supply of fresh water. No telling when they would be able to get back into a Polish port, if ever. The Polish Corridor, the narrow tongue of land that was Poland’s only access to the sea, was squeezed on one side by Germany herself, and by the German province of East Prussia on the other. If it wasn’t already severed by the German Army, it was only a matter of days before it would happen. Gdansk and Gdynia would fall. And then they would be on their own.

  Stefan wondered where they could go. It was hard not to think about it. It was too soon to consider while Poland was still fighting, but the time would come soon enough. By then Sieinski would be recovered. Stefan was glad he wouldn’t be forced to make the decision. Stefan knew how to fight. Surrender or exile was a choice he hoped he never had to make.

  “Sir?” The call came from the open hatch at Stefan’s feet.

  “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was the captain or Chief K.”

  The sailor gave him a puzzled look, and then disappeared. He was back a moment later. “Sorry, sir, but, but she insists that she speak with you.”

  “She?” Stefan roared.

  “Any more surprises?” Stefan asked, as Squeaky slid down the ladder into view. Stefan stood on one side of the chart table in the control room, arms folded, his face impenetrable. Kate was on the other side, sitting on a stool. Her head was bandaged, her skirt torn and stained, but her eyes bright and amused.

  “Well?”

  Squeaky scratched his head, and gave Stefan a crooked grin. “Commander Stefan Petrofski, let me introduce you to—” He leaned toward Kate. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

  Kate adjusted the bandage on her head. “Roosevelt,” she said crisply, “Kate Roosevelt. And who are you?”

  Squeaky blushed. “Lieutenant Jan Wallesa, but everyone calls me Squeaky.” What a beauty, Squeaky couldn’t help thinking to himself.

  Kate held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Squeaky.”

  “Likewise,” Squeaky replied, grasping her hand as lightly as he would touch a butterfly, afraid that a firmer grasp would crush it.

  Stefan cleared his throat. “This, of course, won’t do,” he said firmly. “We can’t have a woman on board. She’ll have to get off immediately.”

  Kate’s responded by closing her eyes, reaching out and grabbing Squeaky’s shoulder for support.

  “I don’t think that would be a go
od idea, Stef,” Squeaky interjected, grabbing Kate by the elbow to steady her. “She was unconscious when she came aboard. Took a severe smack to the head.”

  “I thought my orders were clear enough?”

  “She was with Hans and his team. I thought … I thought we could use their help. She and her partner were attacked. I didn’t think we could just send her away, not like that.”

  “There’s someone else?”

  Squeaky held out a hand of caution. “But it’s all right. He’s a man, not a woman.”

  Stefan pushed his back his cap, exhaled loudly. “Why don’t we start at the beginning.”

  Squeaky glanced at Kate, who took the cue and started in. “Like Squeaky said,” she began, her voice faint and shaking. “My name is Kate Roosevelt. My partner, Reggie, and I work for the North American News Service.”

  “For an American you speak very good Polish,” Stefan interrupted.

  “I’d pass the complement on to my mother,” Kate replied, “if she were still alive.”

  Stefan’s mouth swung open like a barn door in the wind, but Kate didn’t give him a chance to respond. “We’ve been doing background stories on Polish arts and culture and how regular Polish families are dealing with threat of war. You know, warm and fuzzy pieces about painters, poets, women and children. We were to leave for England in two days and from there back to the United States. But, well, you know what happened. And since I’m a reporter, I wanted to get some photographs of the attack for my stories. I also thought my uncle might appreciate it”

  “Nothing like a few dead bodies and burning buildings to fire up your readers, eh?” Stefan remarked. “Uncle? Who might that be?”

  Kate smiled. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him. We share the same last name. His first name is Franklin.”