Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

Churchill shook his head. “Send a message to the ambassador and our naval attaché there. Have them do what they can. The last thing we need is another German submarine on the prowl, not that we’ll be able to do much about it right at the moment.”

The young messenger ducked out of sight.

Churchill sucked on his cigar, the bright end glowed. He held the smoke in his mouth, letting his tongue taste its richness, and then he let it trickle out a corner. Another German submarine? He restrained a shudder. Even though England was unprepared for this war, few of the obstacles facing her were fatal. German U-boats, however, were causing nightmares that haunted his sleep. How many U-boats did Dönitz have? And now, one more to torment them with. Churchill’s gaze drifted to the half-eaten sandwich sitting on a plate on the corner of his desk. They had enough food for now. Six months from now it might be different. He reached out, pulled the plate closer. Time to set a good example and get in the habit of not wasting food, he thought to himself. He sat the ever present cigar in the ash tray, and picked up the remainder of his sandwich. He took a hearty bite and went back to work.

Captain Duncan McBride of the Royal Navy gave the woman standing in front of his desk a lingering glance—he couldn’t help himself—and then he carefully placed his magnifying glass on the desktop, closed the worn leather notebook containing his stamp collection. She was definitely a looker, he thought, giving her another long gaze. Beautiful red hair. Green eyes. And the kind of mouth you would never grow tired of kissing. Unconsciously, he reached up and straightened his tie, brushed back the sides of his hair.

She had barged into his office when he was right in the middle of adding three new stamps to the notebook that had once been his father’s, and before that, his grandfather’s. Something about a bunch of Poles, he thought she’d said. He’d always had trouble following the American accent.

“I don’t suppose you would mind repeating yourself, umm?” he said, the clipped, measured tones of an Oxford graduate wrestling with a rich Scottish brogue. When he was angry or excited, which, at the moment, he was neither, the brogue always won out.

Kate glanced over at Reggie, who was leaning against the doorframe, hat tilted back on his forehead. He shook his head as if to say, He’s all yours.

Kate put her hands on the top of the desk, smiled sweetly. “Okay, Mac, pull your dick out of your ear and listen up. I’m in no mood to repeat myself. The Estonians have interned the Polish submarine Eagle . Maybe that’s not news to you. But here’s the kicker. It looks like it is at the behest of their buddies, the Nazis, who are already pawing over it. Reggie and I saw one guy looking her over like he was checking out the latest Buick. Anyway, I don’t think your superiors would be happy to learn that you did nothing about it when you had the chance. So I’m here to see if maybe you’re interested in becoming a hero.”

McBride smiled. What a refreshing change. Nothing like your typical English woman, he thought to himself, but then again, he’d always heard that Americans were more volatile. More like the Scots. And by the look of this one, she definitely had some Scottish in her.

“What did you say your last name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s McLendon. Kate McLendon.”

“And mine is Goldberg,” Reggie added.

McBride began to beam. Scottish after all. He offered Kate a cigarette. She shook her head. He gestured at the chairs in front of his desk, motioned for Reggie to take a seat. McBride took his time lighting his own cigarette. “I suppose I deserved some of that,” he said. “But telling me to extract my, what did you call it, dick from my ear…a little uncalled for don’t you think?”

Kate settled awkwardly into the chair. She looked at Reggie for help.

“She’s upset,” Reggie volunteered. “It’s American, for,uh, a pickle. You know, cucumber in vinegar… ”

“I see,” McBride said. “Pickle, eh? I never liked them. Thank you, though. I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe I’ll have the opportunity to use it sometime. As to the point you were trying to make, Of course I know about the Eagle . I’m not sitting here with my – and here’s some Scottish slang for you – thumb up my Arse.” He emphasized his point by raising his voice and then swallowed hard, continuing on in softer tones. “In fact, I know your friends are being held in a once lovely sixteenth-century mansion in the old part of the city. The previous occupant, a wealthy Jew, owner of a local glass factory, had the place completely renovated. Wonderful man. Gave some of the best parties in town. About a year ago, however, he decided to relocate his family. Alarmed with the government’s move to cozy up to the Germans. So they left for Sweden all of a sudden. Smart man. Can’t say I blame him. Troubling news….. In any case, it seems it is the only place they could find on short notice to hold them all. Not a prison, but it might as well be. Built like a fortress, narrow windows, few access points, easily guarded. As for being a hero, most of them end up dead. And I’m not ready for that—not yet anyway. So what’s your interest in this matter?”

Kate settled back in the chair. “Nothing official. I mean, we’re not representatives of the U S of A, if that’s what you mean. We’re with North American News Service. We were in Poland doing some reports when the Nazis invaded. The boys on that sub got us out of Gdynia,” Kate said, “and we’re feeling obligated.”

“That’s N.A.N.S. for short,” Reggie added.

“My partner and I – well, we just couldn’t sit by and do nothing,” Kate said.

McBride nodded. “I see. What do you expect from His Majesty’s government?”

Kate waved her hands. “What else. We help bust my friends out of the clink—give ’em a chance to get their boat back!”

McBride smiled. After months of quiet, activity had suddenly quickened at this Baltic outpost of the British Empire. A few days earlier, the ambassador had dropped by his office. “I suppose you’ll need to see this,” he sneered, letting the slip of paper flutter out of his hand. It was brief. Just two words: “Winston’s back!” No wonder the ambassador was in a foul mood, McBride realized immediately. He was a die-hard Churchill hater from the first war. This was the worst possible news. McBride, on the other hand, felt energized. This would mean his recall back to England. He was sure of it. But more importantly, with Winston back at the Admiralty, maybe they had a fighting chance against the Huns. And then, an hour ago, a message from the old man himself: he was to do what he could to help the crew of the the Eagle . Just the kind of open-ended request that could get him back in the good graces of his superiors. Never hurt to do a favor for the Admiralty. And so McBride had pulled out his stamps. He always thought better when he had something to occupy his hands.

McBride gave an appraising look at the pair across from him. He’d always heard Americans were an idealistic bunch. News reporters, she had said. McBride took his time smoking, his mind racing with the outlines of a plan. Maybe they could do something after all. And these two could be a key. He felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. It had been a long while since he had felt the call of battle. Athena was surely singing at the top of her lungs now. He slapped his hands together. “All right,” he said. “It occurs to me that you two – news people – can go places that I cannot. I imagine the Poles could use a few weapons, don’t you think?”

“Guns? I don’t know about that….” Reggie said nervously. “And what would you be doing, Mr. Brave Navy Man?”