Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“Yes, sir. I think they got the message,” said the signalman, his haggard face brightened with a grin.

Another shot. Another column of water danced into the air. “Damn. She’s got us bracketed,” Squeaky yelled, turning his head away in anticipation of the blast that was bound to come next.

Stefan barked an order into the speaker tube, and the Eagle suddenly slowed like a cabdriver jamming on the brakes.

“What are you doing?” Squeaky said with alarm, glancing over his shoulder.

There was another shot from the destroyer. A moment later, the shell hit the water directly ahead of them. If they had continued at full speed, it would have struck the Eagle dead center.

“Ready aft tube.” Stefan yelled, watching the destroyer continue to eat up the space between them. “Full speed and helm hard port on my mark.”

Squeaky closed his eyes and sank to the bridge deck. He reached the end. He couldn’t watch anymore. What would happen would have to happen without him.

Stefan noted the drop in the height of the destroyer’s bow wave, as her helm reacted to the Eagle’s sudden drop in speed. He was too tired now to feel anything but curiosity. He wondered if Ritter was aboard the destroyer. Somehow he knew he was. They shared a connection, that wasn’t yet ready to be severed. And then he wondered what Ritter would think in just a moment.

“Fire aft torpedo,” Stefan said as casually as ordering fish and chips and a mug of beer at an English pub. And then he screamed, “Mark!”

Another wasted night, the captain of the Leberecht Maas was thinking to himself. After the fiasco of the night before, both he and Ritter were afraid to leave the bridge. For different reasons, of course. Ritter no longer trusted the destroyer’s officers any more than he now trusted the Estonians. And the captain feared the contents of whatever report would make its way back to Admiral Dönitz if they missed this last chance at nabbing the Eagle . Needless to say, after a half a dozen cups of coffee, the captain was beginning to think he would be forced to make a quick visit to the head. He couldn’t do what Ritter had done. It was hardly seemly. Ritter had simply stepped outside, not even bothering to close the door, and then peed over the side of the ship. He was still zipping up as he stepped back onto the bridge, giving the captain a knowing smile, as he settled back into his position to wait.

“Ship!” came the yell from one of the lookouts. “Twenty degrees off the port bow.”

“Holy hell, it’s her,” cried the helmsman.

“Careful,” Ritter said, leaping to his feet, and crossing to the helmsman.

“I’ve had enough,” snarled the captain. “This is still my ship until the admiral says otherwise. I know how to deal with this Polish scum.”

Ritter stopped mid-tracks.

“Helm, bring us in behind her. Signalman. Here’s what I want you to send them: ‘Surrender, or we’ll blow her out of the water.’”

“Aye, sir.”

“Uh, captain, you might like to know that the Eagle has an aft torpedo tube.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Ritter,” the captain. “I also know that except for two forward torpedoes, all were removed in Estonia. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, but…”

“It seems to me, that except for her forward deck gun, and possibly one torpedo in a forward tube, she’s defenseless. So let me handle this…. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Ritter’s scars seemed to whiten on his face. He smiled coldly. “As you wish, captain.” He remained where he was standing, folded his arms.

In the distance, the Eagle’s signal lamp began to blink. “What do they say?” the captain asked, barely able to contain his excitement. His ship had captured the renegade Polish submarine Eagle . Now the Reich newspapers would quit reporting about the submarine’s exploits and carry instead stories about his ship and her brave captain. He wondered what sort of medal would be in store for him. Maybe even a post in Berlin?

The signal operator gave the captain a puzzled look.

“Well?”

“They, uh, they replied, ‘Long live Poland’… that was it. How do you want me to respond?”

The captain smiled. “Fire at will,” he said. “And don’t stop until she’s sinking.”

It was almost dawn, the light a gray wash, blending sea and sky. It was a miracle they had happened across the Eagle . Another moment earlier or later, and she would have escaped unscathed into the North Sea. He wasn’t surprised by their response. They couldn’t surrender now. Under the circumstances, he would have done same thing.

He was watching the Eagle closely, saw the sudden darkening of the water at her stern as her screws slowed to a stop. “Nicely done,” he said under his breath, blinking at the flash from the forward gun, and then noticing the shell splash in front of her bow. There would be no more tricks. The next would be a direct hit.

“Half speed,” the captain said “We’ve got her now.”

Ritter was first to notice the streak of white begin to arrow toward the destroyer, saw the froth of water at the Eagle’s stern, her screws churning once again, her bow swinging to starboard. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. “Oh, damn,” he said.

The explosion lifted the bow of the destroyer half out of the water, shattering the windows in the bridge. Ritter picked himself off of the deck, noticed the captain crumpled against the bulkhead, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He staggered forward, stared out through the glass-free openings, as the gray shape of the Eagle moved off in the distance. Sirens were screaming across the ship. He waved his hand in a half-hearted gesture of salute and then turned his attention to the crippled destroyer.

Two days after her confrontation with the Leberecht Maass , the Eagle rendezvoused with the British destroyer HMS Valorous , 70 kilometers east of the Isle of May, and was escorted through mine fields to the base at Rosyth, Scotland.

Stefan remained in the bridge while the Eagle docked, proud at the way his men hustled to their lines even though they were all so exhausted and weak from their ordeal that many had barely been able to walk moments before.

He waited until most of the men had filed over the gangplank, made their way down an obstacle course of officers, their fresh, clean, sharply pressed uniforms in stark contrast to the filthy rags worn by many of his crew. His boys, however, behaved like gentlemen, smiling, shaking their hands. Once past the group, they were intercepted by British sailors and a few nurses who, pantomiming gestures of food, drink and sleep, lead them off to a nearby building.

“Shall we go, Commander?”

Kate stepped up onto the bridge for the last time. The last few days of peace had helped repair some of the damage the stress of the previous weeks had caused. She still had dark circles under her eyes, but her hair looked freshly washed, and someone had found clean clothes for her. Stefan sniffed. She was even wearing perfume.

Kate saw the look in his eye. “That Cooky, he’s a marvel. And know what the men did? They gave me some of their water ration sent over from the Valorous . Enough to wash my hair and take a spit bath. I must say that was the most marvelous bath I’ve ever had. And the water, I hated to get rid of it. It was more precious than holy water.”

Stefan smiled. He’s heard about the gesture from his thirsty men, thought it was one of the nicest things he’d ever heard. “They’re good boys,” he said simply.