Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“Oh, yes, I’m digressing They’re fine. Very well, in fact. I need to get you in a day or two.”

Stefan nodded, caught Squeaky and Eryk staring at him, barely repressed grins plastered across their faces. “Yes, as I was saying—” He grabbed the side of the periscope and continued. “The Germans will expect us to make for The Øresund straightaway. If we have enough food, I think we should dawdle a few extra days, make them wonder where we’re going and what we’re up to. Cooky, you round up all the food like I asked?” Most of the sausages and meats once hanging from the conduits and pipes overhead like hams in a smokehouse were gone, interned along with the crew and the boat by the Estonians. Stefan didn’t doubt they now occupied places of honor in kitchens across Tallinn or were already warming the bellies of their former captors.

The Eagle’s cook, a bow-legged, flat-faced runt of a man named Kloczkowski, nodded. “Didn’t leave damn much behind,” he snarled. “But I done what you asked, with a little arm-twisting. Just so’s you know, you might be getting a few complaints.” He made a fist and blew on his bruised knuckles. “Oh, yes. You said look everywhere. Also turned up a few bottles,” he said, sneering in Squeaky’s direction. “It seems that a couple of someones— I won’t mention who—had a stash, against regulations.”

“Well, I leave it to you to keep those under lock and key,” Stefan chuckled. “We’ll break them out when we met up with the British.”

Kloczkowski liked that idea. He responded with a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“So, how long can we go?”

“I figure everyone can tolerate quarter-rations. Five days. After that….” He shrugged.

“How about water?”

“Not much better, skipper. Those engine boys, though, they’re working on some ideas for getting more.”

“I’ve heard what they’re doing and I’m not drinking water cut with piss,” Squeaky said. “I don’t care what kind of filter they run it through. No way.”

Stefan was intrigued. He knew that the engine crew had been spending spare moments trying to devise ingenious ways to capture the condensation in the air. So far, they’d found nothing worked any better than licking the walls. They were still trying. He hadn’t realized they were experimenting with filtering urine.

“Tell them to keep at it,” Stefan said, grinning at Squeaky.

Cooky nodded, giving Squeaky another glare.

“So instead of making for The Øresund,” Stefan continued, “we’re going to do the opposite, head back toward home, and then swing north, looking for targets, and then after that, run down the Swedish coastline…”

The rest he had to say was drowned out by a collective cheer from everyone around the control room. The sound echoed throughout the boat. At last they were going to fight back. Even Kate couldn’t restrain a clap.

“We have two torpedoes. We use them to cause as much mischief and mayhem as possible and then, when the Germans and the Soviets and whoever else is after our ass has given up on our leaving the Baltic, figuring we are simply wasting time until we turn ourselves over to the Swedes, we make a run for the British. Any questions?”

There were none.

“OK then, back to your stations.”

As the meeting began to disperse, Stefan grabbed Eryk’s elbow. “How are the charts?”

Eryk gestured at the table, unable to hide a look of pride. “I hope these will work.”

Stefan propped his elbows on the table, staring closely at Eryk’s handwork, noticing the surprising level of detail that was shown.

“I started with what I knew,” Eryk said. “Facts. Places. Positions. And those provided a rough framework for everything else. A few of the men had direct knowledge of specific areas. They helped fill in the blanks. Of course, the distances are just approximations, and the big holes are mine fields. I put down what I could remember, but you can bet the Germans are laying more. We could stumble into them at just about any time. I just hope this thing doesn’t get us all killed.”

“Good job, Eryk,” Stefan said, meaning every word of it. “We get out of this, I’m recommending you for a decoration.

“Just buy me some warm English beer, Stef,” Eryk said.

“That too,” Stefan said, yawning. He was so tired he felt numb, his brain suddenly sluggish, like a river choked with ice. Not a good sign.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Eryk suggested. “Just tell me our next course.”

Stefan glanced sharply at Eryk. His saying it out loud had triggered a flood of fatigue. “Yes, of course, you’re right,” Stefan said thickly, his voice running out of energy like a Victorola in need of cranking. He shook his head as he tried to get his eyes back into focus. “Run south to the Gulf of Gdansk… don’t want us spotted… men keep a sharp look out… dive at first sign of anything… hunt tonight, and then….” His voiced trailed off as he fought back a yawn.

“Hunt tonight? You’re optimistic.”

Stefan gave up and let the yawn happen. “We’re due,” he said slowly. “Have someone get me in an hour.” And with that, he staggered out of the control room, and aft toward his bunk.

Eryk watched his friend leave, deciding right then to disobey a direct order from a superior officer. He had no intention of waking Stefan in an hour. He would let him sleep until he woke.

After leaving Talli and Veski in their yellow raft, Eryk directed the Eagle south toward the Polish coastline, her speed a constant 20 knots, the only breaks coming when lookouts spotted a German plane and then a destroyer’s dark, menacing shape along the horizon an hour later. In both cases, the Eagle dove for safety and remained submerged until it was clear.

At mid-morning, the clouds suddenly lowered and the weather worsened, winds climbing until the reached near-gale forces. As the Eagle bucked and swayed over a never-ending picket line of three meter rollers, the evil stew that was the submarine’s air became even fouler, filled with the stench of vomit. Those who didn’t know better complained. In between dry heaves, the rest thanked whatever god was watching over them, knowing that the weather would ground any aircraft and make it almost impossible for the low-slung submarine to be spotted by any vessel.

Stefan slept until noon, right through two crash dives, stumbling into the control room red-eyed and mad after being rolled out of his bunk by a particular nasty wave. He was all ready to blister Eryk for ignoring his orders. But Kate’s presence at the navigation table, as she was working on her story, gave him pause.

He rubbed his face, stifled a yawn. “I said one hour,” he grumped, glancing at Kate, and then back to Eryk.

“I know,” Eryk replied.

“Well?”

“Well what? I thought you could use the sleep. You’re no good to us dead on your feet. You should know that. And you won’t get any shuteye tonight, so…”

“So you should thank him for knowing when to ignore your orders,” Kate chimed in.

“Jesus,” Stefan exclaimed, scratching his beard. “What a way to run a ship! My officers choose to ignore direct orders whenever they feel like it. Sorry, sir, I don’t feel like firing on that ship right at the moment. Or: Sorry, sir, I don’t think we should take that heading right now. Maybe later. What’s next is chaos, pure and simple.” He wagged a finger in Eryk’s direction. “Do it again and I’ll have your ass. Got it?”

Eryk snapped to attention and saluted. “Sorry, sir.” Of course, he felt anything but sorry. Stefan would get over his pique soon enough.

“I think somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed,” Kate commented. “And it occurs to me that a little more chaos among military leaders might lead to fewer wars against us civilian types.”