Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“Aren’t we the lucky ones,” Sieinski replied sarcastically.

Stefan stared at the ceiling of the cabin. “We’ll stay in it as long as we can, and then submerge until nightfall. I imagine we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. Every plane in the Luftwaffe will be on the lookout for us. We’re on course to reach our station off Gdansk shortly after 2000 hours.”

“Very well,” Sieinski groaned.

“I heard you lost one of the gunners?”

Stefan nodded. “Yes,” was all he said. He didn’t want to prolong the present conversation any longer than necessary. The smell from the pan was making him dizzy.

“Rotten luck having something like that on your conscience. But I warned you all to keep a sharp eye, didn’t I?”

Stefan didn’t trust himself to say anything. He kept his eyes on the wall above the captain’s head.

“Make sure you contact headquarters before we submerge. I imagine they’ll want to know that we’re still in one piece.”

As Stefan began to back out of the cabin, Sieinski lifted the crook of his arm off his face, pointed it languidly at the vomit in the pan. “Since you’re here, please take care of that. Bring the pan back. Clean enough to eat on, of course. I still don’t trust my stomach.”

Stefan bared his teeth in a weak approximation of a grin. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, saluting sharply. He took a deep breath, picked up the pan and disappeared.

What an odd man, Sieinski thought to himself. You’d think Stefan would have more to say after the death of a crewmen—one of his own men. Perhaps it was an indication of the depth of character. Sieinski would have continued along that path if it wasn’t interrupted by a vague memory. Since regaining consciousness, his overcoat had never been far from his mind. Now he had a fuzzy recollection of waking aboard the Eagle , recognizing the warmth of his overcoat, draped over him like a blanket, the touch of someone’s hand on his forehead, the tug on a leg as someone removed his boots, and then everything had become black again.

Perhaps it was here after all?

“Radioman?” Sieinski yelled, suddenly anxious.

“Aye, sir,” came the reply from the small cubbyhole on the other side of the passageway. A pale, narrow-faced boy wearing headphones stepped out of the opening. He rapped on the bulkhead next to the curtain door of the captain’s cabin.

“Come, come, don’t be shy.”

Radioman Igor Radovic stuck his head past the cloth, restrained an impulse to pinch his nose at the lingering stench. “What is it, sir?”

“Ah, yes. See if you can raise M10 for me. Tell her captain I want to meet. Rendezvous Beta. He’ll know the place and the time.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, yes. Let me know immediately if you receive any messages from headquarters. That’s me alone. Understand?

“Aye, sir,” the radioman replied, raising his eyebrows. “Anything else.”

“Ah, yes, yes.” Sieinski had to grab the edge of the blanket to stop his shaking hands. “And get someone to find my coat. You know, my good one. It must be here somewhere. And I want to know who took it.”

Stefan stomped down the passageway like a man possessed, his face red with rage, the pan filled with Sieinski’s vomit held at arm’s length. Unfortunately for Squeaky, he was the first one he met. He grabbed the startled man by the shirt collar, thrust the pan of vomit in his hand. “Get rid of this,” he choked. “And make sure the captain gets the pan back. And I want it clean enough to eat off, got that?”

Squeaky nodded.

Stefan continued on down the passageway like a fast moving squall. He didn’t stop until he ducked into his own cabin. He leaned heavily against the bulkhead, breathing deeply through his nose. He had to be more careful. No good if he lost control. He held out his hand. It was vibrating like a tuning fork. He clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall, and then again. No, he would not allow himself to lose control, not in the face of the dangers the Eagle faced. But it was the last time he would let the captain—any captain—treat him like an ordinary stableman.

“I can probably find you a ball peen hammer.”

Kate stood in the doorway, a bemused look on her face. Her red hair was combed, the bloody bandage that had been wrapped around her head was gone, replaced by a six-inch piece of gauze. She touched her forehead. “Cooky—is that his name?—says I’ll have a nice scar. Not as nice as that Dutch engineer, what’s his name?”

“Hans,” Stefan said after a moment, his voice hollow and without emotion. He glanced down at his throbbing hand and wondered if he had broken a bone. It would serve him right for his schoolboy tantrum.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” continued Kate. “Hans. He was at the pub, too, you know. Just luck that he and his men happened along when Reggie and I…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered.

She had been laughing when he first noticed her. She’d thrown back her head, her face bright with humor, revealing a smooth, pale neck. It would be hard to make her laugh now, Stefan thought.

“Anyway, he has a real beauty. Nothing I hope to match. Probably some dueling thing.”

“He’s Dutch,” Stefan prompted.

“They do it, too?”

Stefan smiled.

“That’s better. You don’t look so fierce when you’re smiling. Not all that bad having me and Reggie aboard, I hope. Though I do have a few complaints about the state of the toilet. You’d think grown men would know how to aim it right. It’s not like I’m the only one who has to sit on the darn thing.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stefan said.

“Would you please? I’d be so grateful. If I hadn’t grown up with a bunch of brothers, I probably couldn’t stand it. You’d have to rig something for me up on deck. It would smell better.”

“We could do that, too,” Stefan said. “Might be a bit cold.”

Kate’s eyes widened and she began a chuckle that quickly changed into a moan. “Please don’t do that,” she said, grabbing her head.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stefan apologized.

Kate composed herself with a deep breath. “That’s better. So, I’m going to have a nice scar. It should go nicely with my nose, don’t you think?” She struck a movie-star pose, head cocked to one side, hand behind her neck, chest out, revealing ample breasts pushing against a soft green wool sweater.

Stefan swallowed hard. It was hard not to stare. “I think you look…”

“Magnificent,” Reggie finished for him, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve been looking all over this floating deathtrap for you.”

Stefan frowned. Actually, the word that came to mind was ‘wonderful.’ But magnificent would work, too. He kept quiet.

“I needed some exercise,” Kate said. “Thought I’d get some background on the second in command—for my story, of course.”

“Of course,” Reggie smirked.

“I’m very busy,” Stefan said. “What can I do for you?”

“Drop us off at the nearest port, that’s what,” Reggie quipped.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Okay, nearest friendly ship.”

Stefan stared at him.

“See what you’re doing, Reggie? He’s getting that scary look on his face again.” Kate turned toward Stefan. “Don’t listen to him. We like it here. We’re grateful for you getting us out of there.”

“Thank the captain,” Stefan said.

Kate smiled. “And as long as we’re here,” she continued, “you won’t mind if we interview your crew. You’ll remember that I promised that you would end up famous—if you don’t get us killed, that is.”

Stefan took a deep breath, fully prepared to give a harsh retort, but the absurdity of the situation gave him pause: he served an untested captain on an untested boat with an untested crew in a time of war; his vessel was being held together by band aids and the good intentions of three civilian volunteers from the Netherlands; his crowded, all male crew was playing host to an attractive, female American reporter who said she was the neice of the the president of the United States and her photographer, while heading out to help keep the Kriegsmarine from attacking Polish port cities. Now that he thought about it, it couldn’t be much worse. Stefan leaned against the bulkhead, and began laughing. The sound of his mirth turned heads up and down the passageway.