Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

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.

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.”