Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

The man frowned, scratched his unshaven chin. “That would be bad on a night of bad news. No one has said anything to me. I don’t see much of a problem with those German dogs, but if Stalin’s boys get into the fray at the same time…”

“We’re done,” Stefan finished for him. He gave a wave of goodbye, lowered his head and resumed his trek to the harbor. “Of course,” he continued to himself, breathing heavily, “we’re finished anyway. And what do you think my dear, sweet, darling captain?” Stefan jiggled his load, but there was no reply.

When Stefan was a younger man, his nickname had been The Ox. His feats of strength were still talked about by the older seamen who had served with him. None of the younger sailors believed them, of course. “Tall tales” was the polite reply. “Bullshit” was what they said behind their backs, until, of course, they happened to see Stefan act with their own eyes.

But Ox no longer, thought Stefan, wiping away the sweat that burned his eyes, shifting the captain’s weight from a shoulder gone numb to the other side. He turned a corner, thankful as the way began to flatten. Almost there, he thought, hustling on, hoping that any guards would challenge first and shoot second, and not the other way around.

“What the—?” Sieinski’s words were slurred, the tongue thick. “I’m going to be—”

Stefan felt the captain’s body convulse, the sound of vomit spattering on the pavement, and the warmth spreading across the back of his legs, Another groan, muffled profanities. Stefan’s face contorted in disgust. He angled toward the wall of the nearby building, jerked to the left as he came close. There was a thud as the captain’s skull bounced off the bricks, a moan, and then silence as his body went limp once again.

“Won’t remember a thing,” Stefan muttered, sweat dripping from the ragged edges of his beard. He wrinkled his nose at the stink of vomit that now followed them like a bad joke. “Aren’t we a sorry sight. And you, wounded in battle. That’s what we’ll call it. Nasty bomb bounced you right out of your lover’s arms and onto that hard, hard floor.”

Stefan talked to keep his mind off the searing pain in his arms and legs. He was half tempted to try another smack, harder this time, and then again and again until his captain’s head burst like an overripe grape. Problem solved. Drop this sorry piece of humanity right here in the gutter and then be done with it. It wouldn’t be that hard. He had killed before. Those other times, however, had been in fair fights. Sure, the first one, in that back alley in Manila, his attacker had a machete and Stefan had been stuck with the problem of finding something, anything to use against his mad rushes. He’d finally settled on the broken end of a broom sticking out of a garbage can. He’d ducked as the machete whistled by, a blow that would have surely severed his head if it had landed, and without thinking any more about it, thrust the jagged end of the stick into the little man’s belly before he had a chance to dance out of the way. And then Stefan had run like hell all the way back to his ship. But this would be different. Stefan would answer to many names, but murderer was not one of them.

At least not yet.

He paused to catch his breath, wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket, and then patted his captain on the rump with something that was almost affection: “Almost home,” he wheezed. “And then maybe you’ll surprise us all by your warrior qualities.” Stefan rather doubted it, but he hoped he was wrong, for all their sakes.

Squeaky heard them first, the sound of their footsteps echoing across the pier. There had been a bustle of activity right after Stefan had left. A lorry filled with troops, their commander stopping by, making sure everything was under control, and then racing off down the wharf in the direction of the distant fires that still raged. And then the boy sent for Chief K. Still in socks, the chief leaning heavily on him for support.

“You smell like a brewery,” Squeaky said.

“Dank you berry much,” the chief said, still cheerfully drunk.

“What are your orders, sir?”

Squeaky stared at the boy’s feet and winced. His socks were blackened with dirt and crusted with blood. They must have hurt, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. “Get him on board and pour some coffee into him. When he’s able, get him down to the engineering. He’s got to get the bow rudder hydraulics fixed. Stefan said he’d shoot him if we aren’t underway by dawn.”

“Sir?”

Squeaky smiled. “I wouldn’t want to find out if he was serious. So tell him that. Every word. Might help him sober up.”

The boy pulled Chief K’s arm over his shoulder and started up the gangplank.

“And get your feet taken care of,” Squeaky said.

“Don’t hurt.”

“Even so, can’t have them getting infected. We’ll need you in the days to come. And well done, son.”

The boy beamed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

After that, it was quiet. The fires drawing attention like insects are drawn to light, leaving the Eagle alone in the center of a pool of blackness, pulling at her ropes like an impatient dog on a leash as the tide changed.

The Eagle was ready for the next attack. Sailors stood at the ready on the bow and stern with rifles, the forward gun crew, manning the 105 mm Bofors main deck gun in a trainable turret, was in place; another pair of gunners were at the retractable 40mm Bofors AA gun located in a vertical watertight well in the aft part of the conning tower. There was also a sailor in the conning tower with a rifle, and another handling the searchlight.

“Ahoy light,” Squeaky called softly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait until I give the word.”

“Very good, sir.”

Squeaky waited thirty seconds, fingering the trigger guard as the party approached. When they were close enough, he yelled out, “Halt!” At the same time, a beam from the Eagle’s powerful searchlight stabbed into the darkness, illuminating a party of five, who responded as if they were hit by spray from a fire hose. The recoiled, raising their hands.

“This is a restricted area,” Squeaky barked. “Identify yourselves.”

“Turn that damn thing off before you blind us all.”

“It’s those Dutch engineers,” hissed the searchlight operator.

Squeaky eyed the party suspiciously. He was right. But there was someone else with them and the chief engineer, Hans was his name, was carrying a woman in his arms.

“What’s going on?”

“Christ, man, we’ve an injured woman here,” Ritter yelled back. “Couldn’t very well leave her where we found her.”

“Well, uh, you’d best all get back to your hotel,” Squeaky interrupted. “You’ll be safe there, at least safer than here. Looks like the damn Germans have attacked. We’re preparing for sea. This is no place for civilians.”

Ritter’s scarred face twisted into a smile that looked particularly ghoulish in the bright light. He continued to approach the submarine. “Right now, this is the safest place to be,” he said, glancing along the submarine length at the sailors with rifles and the others manning the two deck guns. “And besides, we were sent here to do a job, to help get your vessel fixed. That’s still not done. You’re going to need us.”

As he talked, Ritter came to the end of the gangplank and pushed his chest against the barrel of the rifle in Squeaky’s hand.

Squeaky didn’t flinch, didn’t move the rifle away. Something about the man had always bothered him. Maybe it was the scar on his face. Tangled with a fence as a kid, he said. But he wore it like it was a fucking medal or something. On the other hand, Squeaky knew that now wasn’t the time for refusing help. Tonight, Satan himself might deserve a free pass and a kiss on the cheek if he was willing to help them fight.