Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“Well, I wanted to give you this,” Kate said. She thrust a damp envelope into his hands.

“What’s this?”

“My story,” Kate said, “I mean, your story. The story of the Eagle and what happened. All of it. What it was like all those hours underwater. The chase. Sieinski’s death. I had to write it you know, but the newspaper will never run it like this. Too long. Of course, I’ll have to write something for them. But this, well, this isn’t mine. You deserve to have it. Consider it returning a favor,” she said.

Stefan glanced down at the folder in his hand. He leaned down and kissed Kate on the lips.

“You two going ashore sometime or what?” Reggie yelled up from the base of the conning tower.

“I still owe that dinner, you know,” Kate said, sniffing and then wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.

“I didn’t forget.” Before Stefan lifted her onto the ladder, he kissed her again, this time accompanied by cheers by some of the Eagle’s crew. “I think I liked you better as a Roosevelt,” he said.

Kate smacked him on the arm and slid down the ladder like an old hand before he had a chance to respond.

Holding hands, Stefan and Kate were the last ones off the Eagle . A nearby band was again working its way through the Polish national anthem. Kate kissed him on the cheek and than hurried to catch up with Reggie. As Stefan approached the line of British officers waiting for him, he was so tired he could hardly keep on his feet. He saluted and shook hands with each in turn.

The last in line was short, pudgy-faced man wearing a fedora and swathed in a khaki raincoat. He was watching Kate, who had grabbed Reggie by the arm and was walking off arm in arm with him. He barked out a laugh. “I wonder if there’s more like her where she comes from,” he said, shaking his head. And then he noticed Stefan. “Welcome to England, son,” he growled, grasping Stefan’s hand squeezing it hard. “I’ve followed your epic adventure with utmost interest. We have much to talk about. Much!”

The voice and face were unmistakable. “Thank you very much, Mister Churchill,” Stefan said slowly, struggling with the English, his words thick with emotion. “We’re happy to be joining you in the fight.”

“And we’re glad to have you, my boy,” Churchill said, gruffly, swiping at the tears in his eyes. “I want you to tell me everything. But first, why don’t you begin with that woman. I understand she’s related to Mr. Franklin Roosevelt…”

Winston Churchill put his arm over the shoulder of the big Polish seaman, and together they walked off the dock.

Rear Admiral Karl Dönitz jumped high for the ball. The effort was not unrewarded. It knocked off his cap, which sailed in one direction, while the rubber ball struck the tips of his outstretched fingers, and careered in the other, bouncing twice before disappearing into a waist high crop of nettles.

His granddaughter’s joyous screech split the late afternoon air, heavy with sunshine. Dönitz brushed back his hair and then smiled with embarrassment. Too much time in a chair, he thought. A year ago, he would have caught the ball.

Movement caught his eye. A tall, lean German officer approached through the woods. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive. Its engine was still running, the driver leaning against the door, reading a newspaper. This wouldn’t take long.

“Afternoon, Herr Admiral.”

“Hello, Peter. How is your new command suiting you?”

“Well, sir. And thank you. It was more than I deserved under the circumstances.”

Dönitz smiled sharply. “I know,” he said. “One moment.” He turned and without hesitating walked into the nettles, noticed a flash of red, and reached down to pick up the ball, ignoring the pain in response to the stings. He tossed the ball to his granddaughter. “Go find your mother,” he said. “I’ll join you both in a moment. I feel like warm cocoa. How about you?”

“With cream?” asked his granddaughter, her blue eyes bright.

“But of course,” Dönitz said.

“Beautiful child,” Ritter commented.

“Yes, she is,” Dönitz said softly. “And I wonder what will become of her, of us all.”

“Sir?”

Dönitz shook his head. He had just learned of Hitler’s plans to break his agreement with the Stalin and attack the Soviets. German troops were already stretched to the breaking, fighting in the Baltic states, in North Africa, in English skies and seas, and the North Atlantic, and now he wanted to add another front to the war, Russia. “Ever study Napoleon?”

Ritter thought for a moment. “I’ve done a little reading on his campaigns.”

“You might want to refresh your memory,” Dönitz suggested.

Ritter gave him a puzzled look. He was about to ask another question, but he was familiar with the look on the admiral’s face, and decided against it.

“What brings you out here, Peter?”

“Sorry, sir. I was at headquarters when the word came. There was a standing order to let you know about it. I thought, under the circumstances, it might as well be me. It is the Eagle . Naval Intelligence has deciphered British transmissions. It’s been corroborated by our contacts in England. She’s missing. Haven’t heard from her in a week.”

“Any survivors?”

Ritter shook his head.

“ Ach . Too bad. It is always too bad. How strange, I almost feel like she was one of ours.”

“She almost was,” Ritter quipped with humor. Dönitz flashed one of his infamous looks and Ritter continued on without missing a beat. “I know what you mean, sir. It doesn’t seem … right.”

“Another story without a happy ending. I fear there will be more. Did we have any forces in the area she was patrolling?”

“No.”

“And so, she finally ran out of luck. Had her share of it, I would say, though I think we make most of the luck that comes our way. Or make ourselves ready or not when it presents itself. Could have been any number of things, you know. An accident. A catastrophic equipment failure. A mine… What did you say they called her captain?”

“Ox.” When Ritter smiled, the scar on his face almost disappeared

Dönitz closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “God in heaven… ” he chanted silently, the only fragment of a prayer he ever allowed himself when he heard about the loss of one of his own boats. In this case, it had come unbidden to his mind, an unconscious salute to a worthy foe. When he reopened them, the moment had past.

“When does your patrol begin?”

“Two days.”

“How about your boat?”

“She is an excellent example of German engineering,” Ritter said mechanically.

“I hope you know you don’t have to do that with me,” Dönitz said softly, giving his former aide a glacial smile.

Ritter nodded his head. “Sorry, sir. One has to be more careful nowadays.”

“Indeed.”

“She is a decent boat. We have found and fixed a few problems. Makes me wonder who they have working in the factories now. Definitely not patriots of Germany. I just hope we found them all. My crew. My God, how young they seem. They call me ‘the old man’ behind my back. I suppose I am. We will see what happens. We will do our best.”

“I expect good hunting as a reward for my trust in you,” Dönitz growled with affection.

“Of course, sir.” Ritter snapped to attention with a click of his heels.

Dönitz watched him march back across the perfectly manicured lawns, slip into the rear seat of the Mercedes. There was a grind of gears, and then the car was off. Dönitz was alone. He stood there, silently flexing the hand that still burned and tingled from the sting of the nettles. Nasty weeds. And yet, even they had their uses. In the bleak days after the first World War, he could remember a number of meals where nettles were the chief ingredient. His wife had read somewhere that if they were boiled, they were as nutritious as spinach. Dönitz had intended to tell his estate manager that he wanted them all destroyed. It wouldn’t do to have his granddaughter stumble into them. On the other hand, news of the upcoming attack on the Soviets had left him with a feeling of dread. On second thought, the nettles would stay. Not a bad thing for his granddaughter to learn: the world had stinging nettles, and much worse.