Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“What a load of bullshit…. ,” one of the lookout’s whispered.

“Stow it, sailor,” Stefan thundered, glaring over his shoulder. “I’ll have none of that on my bridge.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Stefan spoke into the speaker tube. “Helm, bring us about. Two-five-four degrees. Flank speed.”

As the bow of the Eagle turned away from Gdansk, Stefan pulled a spare pipe out of his pocket. He stuffed the bowl with tobacco and lit it, shielding the flame from his lighter from the stiff breeze. When he was done, he clenched the pipe in his set jaw, and then gripped the lip of the conning tower.

Of course the lookout was right. It was bullshit. Attack. That’s what submarines did. Risk was inherent with the mission. Stefan’s long years on the bridge of Westling’s fishing boats had taught him a thing or two about freighters—ones from Bremen were as different from ships that hailed from Dublin as a cod was from a herring. To hell with danger. There was a perfect target nearby—a German target, he felt like shouting—and they were turning away.

“It’s time, Stef,” Squeaky said four hours later.

Stefan panned the darkness with his binoculars. In the starlight, he could just make out the Polish motorboat, M10, right where it should be.

“Send them a greeting,” Stef ordered the signalman. “See if anyone is awake over there. Captain to the bridge,” he said into the speaker tube.

The signal light began to click.

There was a pause, and then a responding light winking from across the water. Squeaky began to chuckle.

“They’re wondering if we’ve happened across Adolf,” he said.

Stefan cracked a smile, his first in hours. “Tell them we were hoping they’d taken care of the bastard.”

Squeaky relayed the message to the signalman, who flashed a buck-toothed smile and then began clicking furiously. Just as he finished, the captain’s head appeared through the opening in the floor of the bridge. If anything, he looked even worse than he had a few hours earlier, Stefan thought. Squeaky made a move to help him up, but Stefan grabbed his arm and held him in place. The bastard had no business topside if he couldn’t handle the ladders.

“Ahead slow,” Stefan said into the speaker tube. As the sub began to nose through the chop, the motorboat came around next to her starboard side. Seamen tossed lines from her bow and stern, dropped bumpers off her side, and pulled her close. “All stop,” Stefan said.

A figure jumped down from the motorboat onto the deck of the Eagle , trotted over to the conning tower, and disappeared from view as he scrambled up the ladder.

“I could use a good, stiff drink,” said the man, reappearing again as he flung a leg over the side and dropped down onto the deck of the bridge.

“Welcome aboard the Eagle , Wictor,” Sieinski said his mouth twisting into a grin.

“Holy mother,” exclaimed Wictor Sopocko, captain of the Polish motorboat M10. “What the hell happened to you?”

“A Stuka ,” Sieinski said.

“So that was her name,” Sopocko interrupted lightly. “Looks like she got the better of you.” He tapped Sieinski lightly on the shoulder and then frowned with concern when he shivered in response. “You need a doctor, you should be in your bunk with a glass of cognac.”

“There’s a war on,” Sieinski said.

“Ah, yes, thanks for the reminder,” Sopocko sighed. He glanced around the conning tower. “Gentlemen,” he said, acknowledging Stefan and then Squeaky. He held out his hand to them.

Officers of the Polish Navy were a small, select club. Stefan had, of course, met Sopocko before. He was another blueblood like Sieinski. But Sopocko’s father owned a couple of shipyards and a large estate outside of Warsaw. Stefan had seen the shipyards many times. He had, of course, never been invited to the estate. Unlike Sieinski, however, Sopocko didn’t wear his family’s influence on his sleeve. Stefan had liked him from the start, and though not friends, their years as fellow Polish naval officers had done nothing to change that impression.

Sieinski waited for last handshake and then surprised everyone by saying, “Clear the bridge. You too,” he barked at the lookout. “Captain Sopocko and I need a few minutes alone.”

Stefan hesitated, looked at Sopocko for support. But he wasn’t paying attention. His head was tilted back and he was staring open-mouthed at the stars.

“Let’s get some coffee,” Squeaky said, grabbing Stefan by the arm and leading him to the hatch.

“Very good to see you, sir,” Stefan said softly.

“Likewise,” responded Sopocko without taking his eyes off the heavens.

Stefan and Squeaky crossed to the hatch opening and disappeared from sight.

“What do you want?” Sopocko said when they were finally alone.

“Your advice,” Sieinski said. There was a hollow tone in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

Sopocko was silent. He stared down at his motorboat. The hull was pockmarked with holes, but in the darkness, they were just faint smudges. He had two men below decks, wounded from an air attack earlier in the day. He doubted they would be alive when morning dawned. He lit a cigarette, gazed back at Sieinski, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap, and waited.

Sieinski licked his lips. “How many destroyers went to France? Three? Four?”

Sopocko said nothing.

“And look at your vessel,” Sieinski said pointedly. “Can you survive another day out here?”

“What is it you want, Josef? Absolution? Okay. I say it, now. Your sins are forgiven, your sins from the past, the sin you are about to commit.”

Sieinski recoiled as if struck. “I thought I could at least talk with you,” he hissed. “Of all my friends, I thought you would understand the logic of it.”

“That the war is lost?” Sopocko’s laughter echoed over the water. “Of course it is lost. You fool. It was lost five years ago. And now brave men are dying. Did I tell you that my father is in Switzerland? Yes, that patriot left a week ago. He didn’t tell my brother, who is an officer in the cavalry, or me. How do you think my brother and his men are doing against the German tanks? Horseflesh versus steel. If it weren’t so horrific, so personal, I would laugh despair. I suppose the old man kept quiet because he knew what we would say. And now the sound of my last name makes me sick. Imagine that?”

Sieinski reached out, grabbed the sleeve of Sopocko’s jacket. “The army—your brother—they have no choice,” Sieinskihe said fiercely. “We do. We have other options to continue the struggle. By ourselves, it is a lost battle. But with the French, we could fight on. Think about it? That’s why the chief of staff sent those destroyers away. He knew…. he knew….” Sieinski’s words ended in a near shriek. He glanced nervously at the gun crew below, wondered if they heard what he had said.

Sopocko shook his sleeve free of Sieinski’s clutches, and nodded without conviction. “Perfect sense. I agree. And so you want me to say it? Will it make it easier for you? Okay, I say it. You go, then. Take the Eagle and your men and race to France as fast as you can. And you can believe that no one will think ill toward you. As you pointed out, we have already sent some of our destroyers away for safety. My father has left. Why not a submarine or two?”

Sieinski’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. “Yes,” he choked. “My thinking, exactly.”

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sopocko said, waving his arm at the canopy of stars above his head. “On some nights I have often wished that we could sail to the horizon, skip over the edge, and continue on, up there. Imagine what it must be like? They say there are a billion stars out there. I wonder if… ” He swept his gaze over the vast expanse, and then stopped at the eastern sky. It was already beginning to show faint hints of light. “Ah, dawn soon. A last dawn, I think, for me and my men.” He saw Sieinski wince. “Is that too harsh for you, my dear Józef? So be it. But I think it will be the most precious dawn of my life. I will squeeze every last second from it—cherish it like no other. Out here, we cannot hide during the day like you, and the Luftwaffe , I fear, will be at us by mid-morning like flies on the ass of a cow. Time to be off, I think. Give my best to your officers and men,” Sopocko said. “Good luck whatever you decide.”