Michael Wenberg: The Last Eagle

“Exactly. Now be off with you.”

“Thank you, sir.” He saluted, spun around awkwardly, and then marched up the gangplank.

Stefan watched him for a moment and then barked, “Seaman!”

Stachofski stopped in his tracks. “Sir?”

“Forgetting anything?”

Stachofski looked down at his fly, and then remembered the rifle on his shoulder. He smiled with embarrassment. “Sorry, sir.” He scurried back, handed the rifle to Stefan. “It isn’t loaded,” he confessed.

“Then why don’t you leave me with a few rounds, if you don’t mind? This isn’t much good without them.”

Stachofski bobbed his head, dug a handful of cartridges out his coat pocket.

“Thanks again, sir,”

“Get outta here,” Stefan growled.

Stefan shook his head as he watched the boy scamper up the gangplank. He should have placed him on report. An unloaded weapon while standing watch was against regulations. But it probably saved an accidental shot in the foot or something worse, the memory of the barrel pointing at his chest still fresh. Besides, overlooking the infraction would deny the captain the pleasure of demeaning the boy in front of his mates tomorrow morning. That alone made it worthwhile.

As the echo of the boy’s footsteps faded away, Stefan loaded five rounds into the rifle’s internal magazine and then leaned against a wooden crate, his mind drifting back to Eryk’s questions earlier in the evening. Of course it would be war. What was he thinking? Hitler was nothing if not direct. His desires and threats were clear enough even for the fools and idiots who were Poland’s military and political leaders. He still couldn’t believe that they had listened to the English and French, warning against mobilizing all of the Polish reserve troops for fear of provoking Hitler into an attack. Brave men who would have been happy to wear a uniform and squat in trenches along the Polish-German border were now out harvesting a second cutting of hay and picking pears. At least the idiots at naval headquarters weren’t that stupid. The Eagle’s sister submarines were out on patrol in the Baltic. If not for an inexplicable series of breakdowns, the Eagle would have been, too.

Stefan stared past the harbor entrance, marked by cold, green lights glowing like Christmas decorations in the distance. He pulled up the collar of his thick wool pea coat. Better out there. Room to run from danger, hide in the Baltic’s chill depths if threatened. Until the Eagle was fixed, they were as exposed as a baby’s bare ass.

Stefan reached for his pipe. Frowned when he pulled out a stub of a cigar instead. Must be in the other coat, he thought. A cigar would have to do. He struck a match, and then sucked in the strong acrid smoke. Of course, mechanical problems were not all that unusual, especially with a new boat. Any piece of machinery as complex as a submarine required a shakedown period. Everyone expected it. But something wasn’t quite right with this boat. It was like a stink too faint to detect, a mouse rotting away in some obscure duct. Hard to find, but there nonetheless. At times he had been tempted to dismiss the boat as jinxed, and look for help from one of the gypsy crones he’d see from time foretelling the future in the street markets. But that was nonsense.

The past few months had gone so badly, the Eagle’s builders had even sent a trio of engineers to help with the problems. At first, Stefan welcomed their arrival. But after two weeks, they were no closer to reducing the number of the Eagle’s problems. If anything, the Dutch had only added to the confusion. Stefan had pointed out that very fact earlier in the evening. The captain, however, wouldn’t hear any discussion of it.

“And where did you get your university degree from, Lieutenant Commander?” he had asked, stopping by the submarine on his way to a party, not even bothering to get out of the back seat of his car.

“You know I’m not a university-educated man, sir” Stefan admitted, squeezing the door handle so hard his knuckles cracked.

Commander Józef Sieinski didn’t need to say any more. Argument won, he gave Stefan a condescending look. “How does my tie look?”

“Fine, sir.” It could have looked like it had been tied by a trained monkey and Stefan would have said fine.

“These men are experts. They built this vessel, for chrissakes. They also have the faith of headquarters, and I think we should give them our faith, as well. You know where to find me if anything comes up.”

“As you will, sir,” Stefan said abruptly, stepping away from the car and saluting. He watched the taillights of Sieinski’s car disappear around the corner. What was the point of arguing?

Stefan buttoned the front of his coat. Cold tonight. He cocked his head and listened. Planes. Probably military if the deep, throaty sound of their engines was any indication. Good to have the air force watching overhead. He leaned his rifle against a crate, opened his fly and pissed a long, satisfying stream over the edge of the pier.

He was zipping up when the first explosion rocked the far end of the harbor. He watched with fascination as fire ballooned into the night sky. Seconds later, another explosion, nearer this time, rattled windows up and down the waterfront. There was a flash of light, and then secondary explosions as chemicals and fuel began to detonate.

“Goddamn,” was all a stunned Stefan could say. And then he heard it, a growing shriek that announced an attack by one of the most feared planes in the world: a Junkers Ju 87, universally known as the German Stuka dive bomber.

Stefan didn’t bother to scramble for cover. He grabbed the rifle, pulled the butt tightly against his shoulder, raised the barrel to the black sky and waited. As the plane flashed overhead, the side of its engine cowling illuminated by blue fire from the exhausts, Stefan fired three quick shots, and then it was gone. “Take that, you German dog!” he roared, surprised by the sense of relief that coursed through his body despite the futility of his gesture.

Hitler had finally made his move.

“Sir?”

That farm boy, Stachofski, was back, standing motionless on gangplank, pointing at the nearby fires. Already, Stefan could hear distant shouts and the clank of anchor chains as crews along the waterfront scrambled to get their vessels underway. If more planes came, the harbor would become a shooting gallery.

Stefan waited as four other young seaman crowded in behind Stachofski. “Are you boys ready for war? It has finally come to our doorsteps.”

There was no response. They all stared wide-eyed at the fires, entranced by the sudden violence that in a moment had changed everything.

Stefan didn’t let their eyes linger. “Rouse the rest of the ship,” he barked. “Battle stations everyone. This isn’t a drill—”

His voice was drowned out as another Stuka shrieked by overhead, so close he imagined he heard a metallic clink as the dive bomber released its bomb. He sensed the shadow of it go by. A moment later, a column of water erupted into the air 50 meters beyond the prow of the submarine. Stefan tensed for an explosion. Nothing. Dud. Even vaunted German craftsmanship couldn’t avoid an occasional failure.

Next time, they wouldn’t be so lucky. Stefan glared at the lights on poles towering above the quay, illuminating the Eagle’s flanks like an elephant in a circus center ring. What an idiot. He chambered a round. Raised the rifle and shot out the nearby light. One more crack from the rifle, and the Eagle was hidden by darkness.

“Can’t hit what they can’t see.” Stefan noticed that the group was still on the gangplank. They hadn’t twitched, not even when the bomb had sailed by.