Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

Squeaky signaled his decision by dropping the butt of the rifle to the ground. He motioned for the rest of his men to relax.

“What about the woman and this other?”

“Reginald P. Goldberg at your service.” Reggie replied in broken Polish. He reached up to touch the brim of a hat but frowned when it wasn’t there. “Hooligans. I have half a mind to head back there and find them.”

“Where did you learn Polish?”

“From my dear departed mother, God rest her soul,” Reggie replied. “Grew up in a some godforsaken village near Cracow where the men were men and the goats were afraid. Managed to get out when she was in her late teens.

“I’m from Cracow,” Squeaky said, his eyes narrowing. “It’s a nice place.”

“That so?” Reggie’s lips cracked into a nervous smile. “Maybe we’re related?”

“I think not.”

Reggie straightened his tie, and stood taller. “I’ll have you know I’m only half Jewish,” he said stiffly. “And it’s the better half. But under the circumstances, I’d prefer American.”

“He and this woman are reporters from America,” Ritter added. “Imagine what they will write about their saviors, the brave men of the Polish Navy, and one officer in particular.”

Squeaky rubbed his face and smiled. “Reporters from Hollywood?”

“New York City,” Reggie replied. When he saw the disappointment flicker across Squeaky’s face, he quickly added, laughing nervously. “Almost the same thing, old bean. In fact, we like to call it East Hollywood.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Squeaky said after a moment, nodding with approval. He appraised the group, weighing Stefan’s admonition with the need to get the boat underway. “You know the way?” he said, pointing at Ritter.

Ritter nodded. “Chief K on board?”

“Ah, yes, Chief K. Drinking coffee, I suspect, at this very moment. Or pissing beer. One or the other. In any case, I expect him to be ready for work shortly.”

“Where can I stash these two?” Ritter said, gesturing with the unconscious woman still in his arms in Reggie’s direction.

“I hope she’s not hurt too badly,” Squeaky said, catching himself before he reached out to caress her hair. “I may catch hell for this, but, for now, they are under the protection of the Polish Navy as well as my personal protection.” He stepped aside and gestured with a flourish. “I don’t want them underfoot. Put the woman in my bunk for now. Setfan will know what to do with them. He wants to be underway by dawn.”

That stopped Ritter. “How?”

Squeaky shrugged. “You know Stefan. Or maybe you don’t. But mark my words, he will find a way even if he has to take the rope in his teeth and drag the Eagle out of the harbor all by himself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ritter said thoughtfully.

Ritter held his breath, wondering which way it would go. The barrel of the rifle stabbed painfully at the thin skin over his ribs.

His plan had always depended upon this moment. He and his men had to be onboard the Eagle when she fled for open sea. Of course, Ritter hadn’t expected the Eagle to be a target of the Luftwaffe . Surely it had raised the risks of the mission, not to mention the risk of death to Ritter and his men. But it also made the danger to the Eagle more imminent. Because of that, the men in charge of the submarine would be more amenable to the help of the civilian engineers from the submarine’s maker.

Ritter had stared blankly at the man, careful to keep his own emotions in check. He hadn’t liked this officer, this Squeaky, from the first moment. He had no doubt the feeling was mutual. The man was insolent and sarcastic, something that Ritter had never tolerated in his own subordinates.

The attractive American reporter in his arms had made all the difference. Hard to turn them away with her there in front of them, blood on her head, a visible example of what war was all about. Violence and death.

When Squeaky had relented, Ritter moved quickly up the gangplank and kept going past the conning tower. At the forward hatch, Bergen slid down the ladder first, standing there, arms outstretched, as Ritter gently lowered the woman’s limp form through the opening. “Take her to that officer’s bunk and then get to the engine room. I’ll meet you there. We have work to do.”

“What about me?” Reggie whined.

Ritter frowned. “See if they have any medical personnel or supplies on board, and do what you can with your friend’s head. After that, stay out of the way. You understand that, American?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about us,” Reggie said properly, as he disappeared into the submarine.

Ritter glanced up at the night sky. Soon it would be light. He wondered if more planes were on the way. Foolish to speculate. Of course they were—

“It’s all right,” murmured the young sailor standing nearby. “I don’t they’ll be back tonight. Besides, we’re ready for them now.”

“Is that so?”

“You can count on it. And mark my words. This war will be over in a week or two.” The sailor slung the rifle over his shoulder, liking this older man, this professional, listening to his advice.

“And it is because most Germans are cowardly dogs, eh?” Ritter suggested.

“Oh, yes,” replied the sailor. “But they make fine weapons. My brother, you know, is on the front. I asked him to keep a helmet for me. Or a rifle. I need a new hunting rifle.”

“But it isn’t the weapons, it is the quality of the men that is important. Is that what you’re saying?” Ritter savored the smell of fresh air, enjoying the delicious hesitation before his work would truly begin. He hated one thing about submarines: the stink of their atmosphere, thick with the smells of men and machines and fear.

“Yes!” the sailor said emphatically. “You’re quite right.”

“Then we agree,” Ritter said, slapping the sailor on the back. “The most superior people will prevail.” And with that, he dropped down into the belly of the submarine.

It was a pleasant dream.

Kate was in a rowboat with her dead father. Of course, he wasn’t dead in the dream. And that was one of the things that made it so enjoyable. Some part of her still knew he was gone. But in this world, facts didn’t matter. And so, he was alive, laughing and talking about his beloved Dodgers, asking questions about her career and her loves. Kate was rowing while he sat in the stern of the boat, feet propped on one side of the gunnels, his hat tipped back on his head. A pale mist hung over the water smooth as whalebone. It was so pristine, Kate felt guilty about dipping the oars, disturbing its perfection.

“So, you married yet?”

“No, Dad.”

“Why the hell not? Except for the nose, nothing wrong with your looks. What happened to it? Looks like you went a few rounds with Joe Louis.”

Kate shook her head. “Don’t want to talk about it, Dad.”

“I see,” her dad said, languidly drawing on his cigarette, appraising her through the smoke. “Gotta know how the other guy looked.”

Kate noticed her knuckles, white on the oars. “I took care of him,” she said.

“That’s my girl,” the man chuckled. “Nobody crosses my Kate. Say, want me to introduce you to a Dodger? Good guys. I know ’em all. Some of ’em even know how to treat a lady right. You could do worse, you know.”

Of course her dad knew all of the Dodgers. Yankees, too. And Cubs. It came with being a sports reporter for one of the major New York papers. Newspapers were still media kings in 1932, and that made reporters, the well-known ones, royalty.