The Last Eagle (2011) (11 page)

Stefan took his time filling the bowl of this pipe with tobacco and lighting it. He smoked quietly for a few minutes, the routine helping to diffuse his anger. What had he done to deserve this, he wondered.

He remembered the first time he had asked himself that question, the memory still as fresh, and sharp as a midwinter storm. It was when he learned the meaning of the epithet hurled by the teenage boys at his mother. Whore. Soon enough, a variant had been directed at him—son of a whore. About the same time, the beatings from the sons of the village’s well-to-do had begun. Many afternoons after school, they hunted him like a pack of dogs after a rat. It was sport for them. Terror for Stefan. He still remembered the first time they attacked him. Alone in the barn behind the blacksmith’s shop.

He let the smoke trickle from the corner of his mouth, exploring the old familiar scar with his tongue.

“My dear boy,” his mother had wept, wiping the blood from his torn mouth when he staggered into their small room and collapsed on the floor.

But even then, Stefan had learned it was better not to cry. The pain made his eyes water, but he kept silent, staring at his mother with the accusing eyes of a child as she pawed at his face, weeping. Of course, she wouldn’t apologize this time, or any other. She would never seek the forgiveness of the church, her parents, or anyone else in the village. Too stubborn. “I loved your father,” was all she would say to Stefan.

The town tolerated her pride—barely—because she was the daughter of an important man, the owner of the local flour mill. But she would pay the rest of her life for her mistake, scraping by with hand-me-downs from her family and washing clothes for the wealthier members of the village.

Stefan would pay, too.

After she cleaned his mouth, she grabbed him by the shoulders and said the words that would become his one commandment: “You must fight back!”

And so, Stefan learned—as did his enemies. When he fought, he became a child possessed, a boy with nothing to lose because he had nothing. He soon discovered that that gave him the advantage. They, of course, had to explain bloody noses, torn clothes, soiled faces to their parents. He did not. He never picked fights, but he was quick to defend himself and his mother at the slightest provocation. Before long, even the older boys were leaving him alone.

In the month of December when Stefan was barely twelve years, his mother became sick. At first, it was just a wet cough. She ignored it, continuing to wash laundry by hand, working day after day in temperatures so cold it froze the clothes stiff as driftwood before she had a chance to get them inside. By the time she gave in to Stefan’s pleas, it was already too late. She was dead within a month. Pneumonia, the doctor said.

Of course, Stefan knew who was truly to blame. That night, he set fire to one of the barns on his grandparent’s farm, the grandparent’s who has always refused to acknowledge his existence, making sure, first, to open the stalls and the huge barn doors, so the horses inside would have a path to safety. After all, they weren’t to blame. As Stefan jogged out of town, the glow from the flames lit up the western sky. He didn’t think his mother, watching down on him from heaven, would mind too much what he had done.

He never looked back.

Stefan glanced back over the city. He had expected a return of the bombers, but after the first pair, the sky had been quiet. This lull was almost more ominous than another attack. It wouldn’t last.

“Hello there!” Reggie stuck his head out of the hatch, a big grin animating his face. He scrambled up next to Stefan. “Oh, this is much better. Mind if I smoke?”

Stefan shook his head, wondering what other rabbits that Squeaky had neglected to tell him about might appear next. He opened his mouth to order this one below. “What the hell,” he muttered instead. He reached into his pocket, held the lighter up to the tip of Reggie’s cigarette.

“Ahh,” Reggie exhaled. “Damn wretched down there,” he said. “Can’t imagine what it must be like after a few weeks.”

“You get used to it,” Stefan replied. “And you are? ...”

Reggie grinned, held out his hand. “Reginald P. Goldberg at your service. My friends call me Reggie. You can, too, if you like. And who are you?”

Stefan chuckled. “Lieutenant Commander Stefan Petrofski.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Reggie said.

“Yet another American who speaks passable Polish. How did we get so lucky?”

“You’d be surprised how many of us there are. Some places in Chicago and New York. Christ, you’d think you were walking the streets of Warsaw.”

“You are with the woman?”

“You mean, Kate? Yes. We’re partners. She talks and writes. I shoot.”

“Shoot what?”

Reggie laughed nervously. “Oh, I see. Yes, you might think I’m talking about shooting—killing—or using that thing there.” He pointed to the barrel of the deck gun. “No, I shoot a camera. I take pictures.” He pantomimed the action as if he was demonstrating it to a child or a peasant. “Or, I did, anyway. Before those thugs smashed my equipment.”

“I know what a camera is,” Stefan said stiffly. “We Poles aren’t all backward bumpkins with straw in our hair. And you might be surprised what you can do—if you have no choice. I imagine you would make quite a good marksman.” He puffed on his pipe, appraising Reggie. “Good eyes, steady hands. That’s all it takes. Oh, yes. And the ability to kill.”

“I don’t know about killing and not much about fist fighting,” Reggie snorted, embarrassed. “I was known as that Jewish punching bag when I was younger.”

“I meant no offense,” Stefan said.

“None taken.”

“I suppose you know by now that you leave with us.”

Reggie frowned. “Uh, yes, I can’t say I’m very happy about that. On the other hand, I can’t very well leave Kate by herself. Someone has to keep her out of trouble. Might as well be me.” Reggie sighed.

“There is that,” Stefan said.

“I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it. And who knows,” Reggie smiled brightly at Stefan, “you might all be heroes. What a great story that will make back home. And we’ll be the ones getting credit for reporting it.”

 “What about your cameras?”

“Yes, well, there is that.” Reggie’s faced darkened. “Rotten luck.”

“I have a Hasselblad camera under my bunk. You’re welcome to use it,” Stefan offered. “I won it in a card game a few months ago. Haven’t had the time to sell it or give it away.”

“That’s decent of you!” Reggie exclaimed, grasping Stefan’s arm with excitement. “I suppose you have film for it, as well?”

Stefan waited just long enough for Reggie to begin to deflate, and then nodded. “Of course. What good is a camera without film.”

Reggie wagged a finger at Stefan. “I see how it is. You aren’t a nice man, are you?”

“Not very.”

“Well, forewarned is forearmed, as my mother liked to say. We’ll make heroes of you and your crew anyway.”

“Know what they call heroes in Poland?”

Reggie shook his head.

“Dead!” Stefan’s laughter echoed across the quay.

There was the grind of the starter. The
Eagle’s
twin Sulzer diesel engines roared awake, their valves clattering for a few moments before settling into a well-lubricated rumble. Blue exhaust drifted out of the exhaust ports, and spread over the debris studded and fuel-fouled water. Seagulls lining the pilings next to the submarine screamed in protest over the sudden commotion. They raised lazily as a group into the pale morning air and then settled back down again.

Stefan signaled casually with his right hand. Sailors at the bow and stern dropped the forearm-thick ropes, holding the
Eagle
in place against the quay, into the water. They were immediately pulled up out of the way by young boys—not much younger then they sailors—racing to see who would be first to have a coil piled neatly at his feet.

Stefan pointed to the small, rust-scabbed tug idling patiently off the submarine’s bow, raised his hand, spinning his index finger in the air. White water frothed from beneath the tug’s stern, spreading out in front of her bow like a bridal train as she pulled against the dead weight of the submarine. The line connecting the two vessels quivered like a plucked guitar string, and just when it seemed it would break, force overcame inertia and the
Eagle
began to move away from the pilings.

Stefan glanced along the length of the
Eagle
, admiring her sleek, shark-like lines. Even though she represented the latest in submarine technology, she was still, unmistakably, a submarine. The engineering requirements for a vessel that could fight from above and below the ocean’s surface meant any submarine manufactured the past three decades had a cylindrical hull, tapered to a bow at one end, ballast tanks on either side, bow and stern diving planes, diesel engines for surface travel, and battery-powered motors for underwater propulsion at much slower speeds. Even the weapons of choice were common among all submarines: deck guns when surfaced, torpedoes, miniature submarines in their own right but packed with enough high explosives to split a ship in half, spit from fore and aft tubes when submerged.

Stefan had been aboard French, British, and even German submarines. Except for the labels on the valves and gauges, they were all essentially the same. He could fight effectively aboard any of them. And fighting is what lay in their future.

Stefan watched the sailors hustling across the deck below, his eyes burning with fatigue and nagged by a growing sense of uncertainty about their fate and future. He wondered how long they would be able to survive, hunted by the
Kriegsmarine
. They were all just one mistake away from transforming the
Eagle
into a coffin. Stefan couldn’t hide the grim smile that split his bearded face. With Sieinski in command, it would be a miracle if they lasted the week. And the fault would be his alone.

There was a small crowd on the pier, a brave few willing to venture out to see the submarine off despite the threat of more German air attacks. The old man who had brought the meats in the middle of the night was waving a huge red and white Polish flag. “Good hunting,
Eagle
,” he screamed hoarsely. “Bring us back some German heads!”

It took the tugboat only a few minutes to pull the
Eagle
far enough out into the bay so she could maneuver on her own. Stefan leaned over the edge of conning tower and signaled the bow crew. They cast off the tug’s line, and it backed quickly away, signaling her goodbye and good luck with a blast from its whistle before wheeling around and steaming off in the other direction.

“Your orders, sir,” Stefan said. He had the brim of his cap pulled low over his eyes. His eyes scanned the water ahead. Both hands clasped the Zeiss binoculars hanging against his chest.

Sieinski stood motionless, a slight figure next to the big-boned bulk of his executive officer. He was still hatless, despite the bite in the early morning air. The blow to his head had made it impossible to fit his cap over the swelling without some discomfort. A breeze tousled his thinning hair, the pale skin around his eyes tight as he scanned the morning sky.

“Sir?” Stefan said again.

“Oh, what’s that?”

“Orders?”

“Yes, of course. Take us out. I double checked with Hel. We’re to patrol the Gulf of Gdansk. You there, stay sharp!” Sieinski directed an angry stare at the young gunner sitting behind the Bofors AA gun in the aft part of the conning tower. His hands were up in the air, his face bright with excitement, waving at the crowd on the pier. At the captain’s shrill reprimand, his expression froze and then disappeared completely, his eyes immediately drawn skyward.

“Aye, aye,” Stefan said dryly. He pulled the speaker tube up to his mouth. “Ahead slow. Port five degrees,” he relayed to the helmsman in the control room below decks.

“I suppose I owe you my thanks.”

Stefan shrugged. He didn’t want to be reminded of the evening. His legs still ached from the marathon up to the hotel and back again, and something still smelled vaguely of vomit. It was probably his boots.

“I suppose you met Marie?”

“Yes, sir,” Stefan said. “An interesting woman.”

Sieinski gave a coarse chuckle. “Yes, indeed. I suppose you could say that.”

“She was worried about you,” Stefan said.

“Of course she was,” Sieinski said lightly. “By the way, I can’t find my overcoat. I don’t suppose?”

“Sorry, sir. Don’t recall whether I managed to grab it or not.”

Sieinski’s gave Stefan an appraising glance. He had always been careful about his personal habits. Damn bad luck the Nazis would pick the previous night to attack. Hard to tell with this one, he thought. Despite his reputation, Stefan had kept his emotions under wraps, though Sieinski could tell he was seething over being skipped over for captaincy of the
Eagle
. But life wasn’t fair. And resentment was something Sieinski could use. He was always good at sniffing out the weakness in an adversary, turning it to his advantage. Of course, it was a mistake to have gotten so out of control at the party. Perhaps Stefan was considering how to use that fact to his advantage. Who could fault him? It is what Sieinski would do in his place. But that was the difference between the two.