Michael Wenberg: The Last Eagle

“I expect nothing but a smile in return. Honest.”

A wink coaxed a harried smile to her face followed by a throaty and giggle of appreciation she couldn’t restrain. “I suppose I could use some new silk stockings.”

“And so!” Stefan exclaimed. “Another fair maiden pulled away from abyss. New stockings it is.”

A shout from the bar pulled her eyes away. She slipped the bill into her blouse, nodded her thanks, and then braved another passage across the crowded pub.

Stefan watched her leave, shaking his head regretfully. “It is done, Pablo,” he said, using his friend’s nickname and pausing to half-drain the glass. “Once I get the boat squared away for our new captain, I’ll be reassigned or booted out on my ass. He’ll want someone of his own. And so, I follow orders. That is the way it is.”

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Stefan knew it, and so did Eryk. No one loved submarines more than Stefan. While other officers went out of their way to avoid service aboard these dank, moldy, sour-smelling, leaking cylinders of steel, Stefan had done just the opposite. As a result, he had more firsthand knowledge of submarines than anyone in the Polish Navy. It was all the other aspects of being an officer in the Polish Navy that he didn’t handle so well.

“But not in America,” Pertek said, leaning over his mug and pointing his thumb at a couple sitting quietly at a table in the far corner.

At first glance, they looked English—their clothes had probably been picked up during a stopover in London—but, of course, everyone in the pub knew they were Americans all the way from New York City. At the moment, the only makeup the woman wore was a faint, amused smile. She had pushed away her plate of pork chops and steamed cabbage, but her hands kept returning to it as if they needed something to keep them out of trouble. The man was already working steadily, head down, on a second helping, pausing every now and then to tip back his head and take a swallow or two of beer before resuming.

Rumors had them from Hollywood, but the owner of the hotel where they were staying had set everyone in the dockside pub straight the night before. Hollywood? No. She was a foreign correspondent for an American newspaper syndicate, traveling around the country, doing a series of articles about Polish poets and artists. He was her photographer. No more, no less.

Definitely not less, Stefan thought, eyeing the woman. Not the most beautiful he had ever seen, but there was something about the way she looked that he found intriguing. Perhaps it was her nose. Once broken, it had been set improperly. On anyone else it would have been a distraction, but on her, this imperfection only seemed to enhance her beauty.

He watched her scan the room, stopping for a moment when their eyes met. Did her smile brighten, perhaps recognizing in him someone like herself? And then she was distracted by a comment from her companion. She tossed back her thick red hair and laughed. Stefan wondered what made a sophisticated woman like that laugh. A subtle joke? A cynical comment? Surely not anything a rough seaman could ever say or do.

“I tell you that two men like you and me could go far in the American Navy,” Pertek continued. “Over there, what counts is what is in here and here,” he pointed at his head, and his heart, “and not who your father or grandfather happens to be.”

Stefan clenched his fists, feeling his fingernails bite into his palms. Don’t be fooled, my young friend, he thought. Those count, too. Even in America. It didn’t help that Pertek’s older brother had been sending letters from Chicago for six months, tormenting him with tales of abundance and promise. If only half of them were true, anyone over sixteen and younger than sixty was a fool to remain a moment longer in Poland.

Especially with the threat of war.

But Stefan knew they were not entirely true. As a younger man, he had visited ports around the globe, including those along the American west and east coasts. His first visit to New York had been a wonder. The graceful lady towering above the harbor. The Empire State Building. Stefan had spent so much time looking up in the air, his neck had ached for a week. Two hours sitting on a bench in front of the Macy’s department store had sobered his opinion about America. Not everyone in New York was rich, Stefan realized, as he had watched the crowds surge past him. In fact, most of them didn’t look any better off than he. And a few older crones looked exactly like the old women that populated every small village in Poland, backs twisted into pretzel shapes by endless years of stooping and hauling.

As for the occasional rich person who passed by, they looked suspiciously like the aristocracy of his own land. The same shimmer in their eye, the arrogant cock to their smooth chins. They may not have the title or the family history, but they had everything else. Class distinctions were as prevalent in America as anywhere else, Stefan suspected. They were just better disguised in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Stefan finished the beer, suppressed a belch. “I am a Polish sailor,” he said, more to himself than to his young friend across the table. “That is who I am. That is how I will die.”

Pertek shook his head with exasperation. It was no use arguing. He’d seen that glint in Stefan’s eyes before. It was time to change the subject. He brushed his hand through thick, curly black hair that was the envy of many women. “And so, will it be war?” he asked, persistent as a child.

“I am only second in command,” Stefan said with a harsh laugh, the bite to his words revealing the sting he still felt from once again being denied command of not just any ship, but a vessel he had dreamed about his entire career. “What do I know about such things? Best to ring up that shit Hitler and ask yourself.”

“I mean it,” Pertek insisted, grasping his older friend by the arm. “What do you think?”

Perhaps it was the beer that was made this night different. Or perhaps it was something else? Sailors were nothing if not superstitious. His shoulder had been aching since that morning. It hadn’t bothered him years. Why had it chosen today to awaken? “You know, there’s this wonderful invention,” he said. “More powerful than any crystal ball, it provides the key to many secrets. It even tells me what Hitler will do next. I’ve tried to convince our fearless leaders of its importance, show them its secrets, but they…” Stefan shrugged.

“What is it?” Pertek knew he was being suckered, but he couldn’t help it.

“Reading. Pick up a newspaper or book now and then and you might not be so ignorant about the intentions of Mr. Herr Heil Hitler.”

“Come on, Stef,” Pertek said impatiently.

Stefan sighed. “It is only a question of when, not if. And very soon, if my shoulder has anything to say about it.”

“Shoulder? What about reading?”

“Oh, yeah. That too.” Stefan winked. He pulled the brim of his cap down low, stood suddenly, sending his chair tumbling to the floor. “I will sleep on board the Eagle tonight,” he announced.

He pushed off across the room, unsteady at first, and then gaining steam, heads turning here and there as shipmates followed his progress. They turned to Pertek to see if they should follow. He shook his head, raised a hand for them to stay put. Even drunk, Lieutenant Commander Stefan Petrofski was in no danger from anyone he might encounter on the docks. A stocky six-footer, he was equipped with a pair of bricklike fists and well skilled in their many uses. In fact, Pertek almost wished a thug or two would attack his friend on his way back to the boat. It might improve his mood. It couldn’t make it any worse.

It was common knowledge that Stefan was his own worst enemy. He had little patience for the subtle political game playing that was required in order to rise to the higher ranks. All of that could be overlooked if you happened to be the son of the vice chairman in charge of this or that, or the grandson of a grand duke. But Stefan had neither of these advantages. If he were not the best submariner in the Polish Navy, he would have been court–martialed, or worse, long ago. Fortunately, the staff at Polish Navy Headquarters were not that stupid. For now, they needed Stefan’s experience on the Eagle .