Michael Wenberg - The Last Eagle

“Why are you still standing here?” he roared. “Move!”

“The Eagle …she can’t go anywhere. What if there’s more?…” It was Stachofski pointing out the obvious.

“That’s your job.”

“What?”

“They send any more our way, I want you to catch them.”

A blank look from the white-faced farm boy. He licked his lips and then gave a shaky “Aye aye, sir.”

Stefan laughed. “I half believe you’d give it a try, too.”

“Sir?”

“I was just kidding about catching the next bomb.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.”

Stefan watched color darken his cheeks. “Where are you supposed to be?”

Stachofski pointed conning tower. “Gunner. But I’m the only one. The others—” He gestured toward the town.

Stefan swore. “Just as well. Any shots from us are only bound to attract attention. Don’t want to do that. Still, we don’t know what’s coming next from out there.” Stefan gestured with his chin at the harbor entrance. “Get your boots on and go find your mates. Back in thirty minutes with whoever you can scare up. You there. Pimples. I’ve seen you in engine room, yes?”

The boy next to Stachofski rubbed the acne on his face and nodded. “Jerzy Rudzki, sir.”

“Is Chief Kosciuszko on board?”

Rudzki shook his head solemnly.

“Know where he is?”

The boy giggled. “Chief K’s with his…girlfriend,” he said in a high pitched voice.

“Get him! And tell him that if we’re not underway by first light, I’ll shoot him myself.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Tell him that. Every word.”

The boy gave Stefan a gap-toothed grin. “Aye ,sir.” Before he disappeared into the shadows, Stefan noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

One left.

“Name?”

“My friends call me Andre.”

“Then I will, too. Who’s the officer in charge on board?”

“Squeaky, I mean, Lieutenant Wallesa, sir.”

“Get him out here. Now, go!” Andre scrambled for the forward hatch.

Jan Wallesa, the officer everyone called Squeaky, stepped out onto the bridge a few moments later. He yawned, and then noticed the flames billowing into the black sky to the north and south. “What the hell?”

“Get your ass down here,” Stefan roared from the quay.

Squeaky tumbled over the lip of the conning tower, slid down the ladder, a stunned look on his sleep-puffy face. “What’s going on?”

“One guess. And here’s a hint: we nearly had our conning tower skewered by a Stuka’s bomb.” Stefan thrust the rifle into his hand. “You’re in charge. Nobody but crew gets aboard, got that?”

Squeaky nodded. “Where are you going? Christ, Stef, most of the crew are ashore. Most are probably—”

“I know,” Stefan interrupted, grimacing as the enormity of what was happening begin to weigh on him. “But most of them, I wager, have sobered up and are on their way back. Hitler just gave us a calling card. No way they could have missed it.”

“But what are we going to do? We still can’t get underway.”

“I’m off to retrieve our fearless leader. I’ll be back in an hour. We need to be gone by first light, with or without him. Any objections, now’s the time.”

Squeaky hefted the rifle. “None from me,” he said.

“Goddamnit,” Peter von Ritter exclaimed as soon as he realized the scream wasn’t coming from the mouth of the woman writhing beneath him in mock orgasm but from an attacking German dive bomber.

He rolled away, flicked on the bedside lamp.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Ritter checked the time. Two in the morning. He picked her clothes off the floor and tossed them in her direction. “I want you out now,” he snapped, wondering if this one moment of indiscretion was going to ruin it all.

A distant explosion made the ornate mirror above the dresser tap the wall nervously. Muffled shouts. A siren wailing. Noises in the hallway as guests began to spill out of their rooms.

“Hans?” said the woman, now alarmed. She sat up, not bothering to cover her cantaloupe-sized breasts with the sheets.

Ritter didn’t notice. “Come on you Polish cow,” he said as he pulled on his pants. “Move.”

She glanced to the window, where the blush of reds and yellows from faraway flames were reflecting on the curtain.

Ritter couldn’t wait any longer. He flung away the sheets, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of bed. He wadded up her clothes, stuffed them into her grasp, and then propelled her to the door, the palm of his hand planted firmly in the small of her back. A shriek of panic began rising in the back of her throat as she realized what was about to happen. Before it reached a crescendo, he opened the door and shoved her into the hallway naked.

By the second explosion, he had his boots on. At the sound of the dive bomber swinging around for another pass, he rushed to the window of his hotel room, flung it open and leaned out. As it roared by fifty meters overhead, Ritter saw the cross of the German Luftwaffe , red in the reflected firelight, on its wing.

There were never to be any planes. Ritter crossed the room to the closet. Dönitz had promised that the Luftwaffe would stay away from Gydnia. Someone had screwed up. Or? Ritter shook his head at the thought. Göring. Of course. It had to be him, or some zealous subordinate acting at his behest. If true, he had to admire that devious, back-stabbing bastard. It was common knowledge that he resented any threat to the status of his beloved Luftwaffe . The U-Bootwaffe , in particular, had a mystique that rivaled that of the Luftwaffe . The fat man must have learned of their plans, despite all of Dönitz’s best efforts, and decided to contribute in his own special way. After all, what blame could come his way if a Polish submarine was caught napping in port and destroyed? Just examples of Polish stupidity and his Luftwaffe’s efficiency.

Ritter pulled on his coat, thought about grabbing his pistol, but decided against it. If he was stopped, it would be hard to explain a German Luger in his belt. He stepped into the hallway, kicked aside the large black bra dropped by his earlier companion who was nowhere to be seen, turned to lock his door.

“Freak accident,” a gaunt Englishman wearing a bright red robe said in passable Polish. “Nothing to worry about. Authorities will soon have everything under control.”

“It certainly didn’t sound like an accident,” said a woman at his side, unaware that the brown wig on her head was slightly askew.

“Excuse me,” Ritter said, moving to slip by.

“And where are you going?” said the Englishman, hands on his waist, blocking the hallway. “The authorities are asking everyone to stay in their rooms.”

Ritter flicked out a punch, catching the man in the solar plexus. He slumped to the floor, wheezing like an accordion.

“My God, why did you do that?” admonished the woman, not bothering to help the Englishman to his feet.

“He was in my way,” Hutter said mildly. “And I can assure you,” he said, pointing toward the ceiling, “that was no accident.”

“Yes?” breathed the woman.

“Yes, indeed,” Ritter said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It’s the Russians. I saw the red star on the wings of the plane with my own eyes. They’re invading. And you know what they do to attractive women, don’t you?”

The woman pulled her sweater tightly around her torso. “No, what?”

Ritter leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

The woman’s face whitened, little squeaks began to tumble out of her mouth. “No, no, no…” she said, backing toward the doorway, blindly feeling for the door handle to her room.