Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

He already knew what he would do if they were discovered. He wouldn’t let them be captured by the Germans. He would scuttle the ship first, or make a run for the shoreline—either Denmark or Sweden—and beach the Eagle in shallow water.

He felt a lump in the pocket of the pea coat. He slipped his hand inside and pulled out his pipe. Someone had had the presence of mind to put it in the pocket before handing him the coat. Only one problem. He had bitten off the stem earlier. Damn. He would have to be content with memory again. He set his legs apart, brought the binoculars up to his face. There were a scattering of running lights to the east and west, a few to the north. “Eyes sharp,” he said to the lookouts behind him, though the words weren’t necessary. They understood how important they would be this night.

“Here we are,” Kate announced, pulling herself up the ladder and walking gingerly over to Stefan. Following closely behind were Reggie and Squeaky.

Even in the dark, Stefan was shocked by the change in her appearance, wondering at the same time how he must look. The skin of her face seemed stretched over her skull. She seemed lost in her man’s clothes. Stefan was afraid the breeze would pick her up and blow her into the night. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the sound of her voice. If anything, it was more vibrant and alive than ever before.

She shook loose the bundle she held close to her chest. “Ta-da. Where do you want it?”

In the dark, it took Stefan a moment to realize what it was. “Isn’t that breaking the rules?” he said, chuckling dryly at the sight of the Swedish flag that was now flapping around Kate’s legs like a skirt.

“Oh, don’t be an old woman.” Kate replied with a giggle that was touched with just a hint of hysteria.

“You all right?”

“Hell no,” Kate said, her voice trembling. “I’ll never be the same again….”

“Where can we put it?” Reggie interjected.

Stefan stared closely at their handiwork. They had done a nice job. It actually looked like a flag, large enough, and detailed enough to fool anyone from a distance. He couldn’t imagine where they had scrapped up enough cloth of the right color to do the job, but the proof was there before him.

“Who did the sewing?”

Squeaky pointed at Kate.

“Nice work. Handy with a pen and a needle.”

Kate’s laugh was brittle as ice. “It helped keep me from losing my mind when those damn… damn things were going on, and on, and… .” Her voice trailed off and Stefan didn’t doubt that she was telling the truth.

“Squeaky, have one of the men pry off the numbers. Pull down our colors, and the flag at the bow. Hang this over the edge of the conning tower, secure it to the sides. It might come in handy tonight. If we’re lucky and get the pitter-patter of fog, who knows, we might even make it.”

“Still the optimist I see,” Kate said. “And a poet, too. Pitter-patter? From the American poet Carl Sandburg. His poem was called, “Fog.” I didn’t know you were so widely read.”

Stefan shrugged.

When he remained quiet, Kate asked: “Mind if I stay up here? I don’t think I could …”

“Stay as long as you like,” he said.

When Squeaky was done securing the flag, he turned to Stefan and said: “OK, what do we call her? Can’t be the Eagle anymore. She’s a Swedish sub now.”

“How about Ursula,” Reggie said, remembering the name of a woman he had met in a Chicago club a few years earlier. Blonde. Tall. Gorgeous. As he recalled, she’d said she was from Sweden, though with her accent it had been hard to tell. In fact, she had been so beautiful he hadn’t cared where she’d been born.

“Shut up, Reggie,” Kate said sharply. She knew him well enough to suspect what he was thinking.

“I think tonight,” Stefan said, “we’ll be the Westling after my old captain. Any objections?”

Reggie raised a finger, and then let it droop when Kate gave him a glare.

Just past midnight, Stefan’s wish was granted. The clouds began to lower, the lights on the shoreline softened and then disappeared altogether as everything was enveloped by fog.

The wind dropped as well, and in the quiet, the sounds began to echo strangely. At one point, they could hear a man singing softly in the distance.

“He’s singing in German,” Reggie remarked. He observation received a jab in the side from Squeaky, and a shush from Kate. There was the rattle of chains on a metal spool, the clang of a restless buoy, and always, the grumble of distant motors.

“Popular, aren’t we?” Kate whispered. “I think I rather like it the other way.”

The boats appeared suddenly in front of them, their stern lights winking dimly. Stefan caught himself before he issued the order to dive. It would have been useless anyway. The Øresund along most of its stretch was too shallow. And then he recognized them. Instead of fleet of German torpedo boats, they were, instead, a half a dozen fishing trawlers, heading out to sea. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all: in the midst of a war, men were still going out to fish. It was a signal. Life would continue—men and women falling in and out of love, children singing, brothers and sisters quarreling—whatever happened to the Eagle .

“Quarter speed,” Stefan said quietly into the speaker tube, not wanting his voice to carry. The throb of the Eagle’s twin diesels slowed, and suddenly all of them could hear the sounds of the engines from the fishing boats. They didn’t seem to notice the shadow trailing in their wake. Their course never wavered.

“Angels,” Kate breathed.

“What?”

“They’re our guardian angels, sent to lead us to safety.”

“No, they’re just…” Reggie began, but then he noticed Stefan’s gaze and let it drop. “Yep, goddamn angels,” he said.

They followed the fishing boats past Skåne like a halfback following blockers. On half a dozen occasions, they dimly saw ships—or more accurately, saw lights—approach the trawlers. As Stefan whispered all stop, they watched as each vessel was inspected by powerful beams, and then released to move on.

On the last occasion, however, as they neared Helsingborg, one of the stray beams of light discovered the Eagle lurking in the rear. “Oh, shit,” Reggie exclaimed, smiling sickly into the light like a deer about ready to be shot. “Game’s up.”

As the light danced over the side of the Eagle , everyone held their breath. Everyone except Stefan. He gave a friendly wave, yelled something back at light. Instead of shouts of alarm, or the crack of gunfire or the boom of deck guns, the light suddenly flicked off, and they heard the vessel move off.

“Someone smack me in the chest to restart my heart,” Kate said. “What the hell just happened? Would somebody tell me?”

On impulse, Squeaky leaned over and kissed her unexpectedly on the lips. “I’ve been meaning to do that since I first saw you,” he said brightly. “I don’t think I’ll get another chance.”

“Try that again and I won’t be so friendly.”

“Don’t worry.” Squeaky was beaming proudly.

Then they all stared at Stefan. “What?” he said. “We’re the Westling. Remember? I was just acting friendly.”

“What did you say?” Kate asked.

“That was Swedish,” Stefan said. “I told them good luck finding any fucking Polish submarines in this soup. At least, that’s what I think I said.”

“I think it was the flag,” Kate said, nodding.

Stefan couldn’t restrain the laugh any longer. “I think you’re right,” he said. “My Swedish isn’t that good. They ignored me, saw the flag, and thought we were a Swedish submarine.”