Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“You aren’t a typical officer.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Stefan said. He stared out at the fog. “But Germany will have to make to do with one less Stuka , eh?” He clapped Ritter on the back.

“Beginner’s luck that, I think,” Ritter said with an uncomfortable shrug. “If there were problems, I suppose we’d have heard from Chief K by now. But I should check with my men below.”

“No doubt.”

“Well then, congratulations, commander.”

As he watched Ritter disappear down the hatch, Stefan knew he should order the deck gun crew back out, find a replacement for Ritter, post lookouts. But another moment alone wouldn’t hurt anything. That was the problem with submarines, one of them anyway. You could never find a place to be alone. There was always someone breathing over your shoulder or farting in your face. Now they had—Stefan mentally added up the number—that woman Kate and Reggie, Hans and his two men. Sixty-six. And one toilet among them all. Stefan couldn’t repress a smile. Sharing a toilet with that many men would be an experience for the woman. What was her name? Kate. And the men, too, though in a pinch, always easier for them to drop their trousers and hang their butts over the side.

Stefan shifted his pipe in his mouth. He’d delayed long enough. He spoke briefly into the speaker tube, felt the diesels slow. He watched with satisfaction as the forward hatch flipped open and the gun crew scramble sheepishly back into place. “Leave your posts again without my orders and I’ll have you all keelhauled.”

Embarrassed nods all around.

Stefan heard the lookout and a replacement gunner clamber into place behind him. The gunner was Henryk, and he was alone.

“How’s your partner doing?”

Henryk settled into position. He wiped his palm on his coat, pulled the metal helmet down low over his eyes. Only then did he respond, staring at Stefan, his eyes wide. “Andre’s dead,” he replied simply. “Looked like a flesh wound, but Cooky couldn’t find the exit wound. Said he was bleeding inside. No way to stop it.”

As he listened, Stefan clenched his pipe so hard he bit right through the stem. Andre? Now he learned his name. The pipe’s bowl clattered harshly on the deck of the conning tower, the wind swirling the tobacco and ash and sparks around Stefan’s legs and then carried them heavenward like some ancient tribal offering.

“Goddamnit,” he snarled, pulling the stem from his mouth and tossing it over the side. “Rotten luck,” was all he could think to say.

Henryk nodded. “Not your fault,” he intoned, gripping the handles of the Borfor more tightly. “No, sir, not your fault.”

Stefan turned away, cleared his throat. “Keep a sharp eye. No telling who or what is out here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Stefan yelled down through the hatch. “Pablo, get your ass up here.” As he waited, he pulled a thick roll, already beginning to harden, from his coat pocket. Stefan’s mouth began to water. Strange how the body could react to sight of bread automatically, while the rest of him, the human part of him, grieved over the death of a boy. But it was more than just the boy. Stefan knew it deep in his heart. It was the man in the water, the freighter captain, and the dozens of others who were now gone because of the Eagle . No time for such thoughts. He shook his head, banishing them deep into his psyche, tore off another chunk with his teeth and chewed harshly. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. A glass of beer, and it would almost be enough. He took another bite. No doubt some poor German aviator would be catching hell for missing out on such an easy target. They had been lucky. One more time. No doubt, their next encounter with the Germans would be another matter.

Admiral Dönitz stared intently at the glossy black and white photograph lying on the top of his walnut desk. The senior researcher from Naval Intelligence was pointing out various details. Dönitz couldn’t recall the man’s name. He thought it was Schmitz, or Schmidt, or something like that.

“Minimal damage, sir,” droned the researcher. “Looks like only two areas were bombed. A surprising number of vessels still in the harbor, all things considered. You’d think they would have headed for open sea at the first sign of trouble. And there’s your target.” He tapped the gunmetal gray, pencil-thin shape in the center of the photograph. A white, S-shaped line uncoiled behind it. “You can see that she is underway at what must be close to full speed given the heightened visibility of her wake. Clearly taking evasive action. That Polish captain must be crazy to going so fast in such a confined space with that many obstacles in the way.”

Dönitz glanced up at the researcher. Pictures never did justice to the reality of the moment they captured, especially aerial photographs. Everything reduced to stark, aseptic hues of black and white and gray. Men and women becoming no different from trees and buildings and ants. And yet, it was the people in the photograph who were important, or rather their decisions that would in turn determine the shape of the next moments. There was no camera made that could take snapshots of what was in their minds and souls. Dönitz could imagine what it must have been like a thousand meters underneath the fighter at the moment the pilot had flicked the switch and the camera housed in the belly of the ME 109 had opened, exposing the film to light. Acrid smoke in the air so thick it burned your eyes, left a bitter taste on your tongue. The infernal noise. Shouts of men. Roar of engines, screaming gulls. “You ever captained a vessel?” he asked sharply. “And what is your name again?”

“Strasser, sir. And no, I’ve never had the privilege.”

“So, then, you have no idea what it must be like to be responsible for an entire ship and crew?”

Strasser looked like he had just taken a bite from a lemon. He shook his head.

“Nor do you have any idea what it takes to prevent your vessel from being sunk, your crew killed. You don’t know, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Until you do, then, keep your editorial comments to yourself. You see, that crazy Pole of a captain is doing exactly what I would do under similar circumstances: full speed and run like hell.”

Strasser bobbed his head. He glanced longingly at the door like a drowning man staring at the surface of the water that was still fathoms away.

Dönitz let a hiss of air escape from the corner of his mouth. Who did the fool think he was, commenting on something he had no business even considering? That was what was wrong with so many young people today. Arrogance and a stupidity. They were too stupid to realize what they didn’t know and to arrogant to keep quiet or ask for help.

And not just the young. Göring had the same problem. He had no respect for anyone except his own pet Luftwaffe . The German High Command, at Raeder’s insistence, had set Gdynia off limits in the initial attack. Even if they hadn’t decided to go after the Eagle , he needed the harbor and docks unscathed. Amazing what the Poles had done during the previous decade. What once was a sleepy fishing village of just a few thousand had been transformed into the busiest port on the Baltic. And within hours, it would be under control of the Kriegsmarine . Göring had disobeyed orders.

Dönitz flipped the photograph aside, peered closely at the next one. 87A on the side of the conning tower was clearly visible. Strasser cleared his throat to try again. “As you can see, definitely the Eagle ,” he pointed. “Two officers in the conning tower. Probably Józef Sieinski, her captain, and the executive officer. I don’t seem to have his name. ”