The Last Eagle (2011) (13 page)

“If we don’t?”

Stefan shrugged. “Everyone dies.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Rescue boats are on their way. They will have to do their jobs. We still need to do ours.”

What would he do if he was in his place? Eryk didn’t know. And that was when he realized that command of a ship at war would never be for him. Stefan seemed to be enjoying himself. Eryk, on the other hand, was afraid he might wet himself. He crossed himself, muttered a silent prayer, turned away from the growing horror as the
Eagle
arrowed toward the burning vessels ahead and the man in the water. “I’m needed below,” he mumbled. Without waiting for permission or a reply, he disappeared through the hatch.

Ritter’s gun began a drum roll as he fired on another
Stuka
. Damn that Göring, Ritter thought. He wondered what the penalties would be if he strangled the head of the
Luftwaffe
himself. He had to survive this mission first, of course. He continued firing even though the tip of the Bofors began to glow red. When he felt a shudder convulse along the
Eagle’s
spine, the wail of tearing steel, he released his hand from the trigger and ducked.

At the moment she stabbed into the side of the burning fishing boat, the
Eagle
was racing along at top speed, better than 20 knots

Smoke obscured anyone watching from shore what was about to happen. The keeper of a nearby lighthouse, however, had a perfect view. He watched the
Eagle
split open the remains of the fishing boat like a ripe cantaloupe. There was another explosion as fuel tanks ruptured and the
Eagle
disappeared from view, completely engulfed by smoke and flames.

The keeper held his breath. Whoever was in charge of the submarine was insane, magnificently insane. But did he have any other choice? The keeper shook his head in answer to his own, unspoken question. A veteran of two wars, and countless skirmishes at sea, he was a man who knew the value of decision making. Often, hesitation came not from failure to ask the right question, but a fear of the answer. To stop dead in the water while under attack by the German aircraft would have been stupid and suicidal. Attempting to reverse course in the narrow channel would have been equally foolhardy. The only protection for the submarine was the deep waters of the Baltic. The captain had had only seconds in which to embrace the answer he must live with from now on. Surely, men would die either way he decided. His own men on the submarine, or the crews of the two fishing boats. Either way, the fate of many were resting on what he would decide. It was not a choice most men would have had the courage or the audacity to make. But the submarine, the old man saw with satisfaction, did not pause, did not waver, as she disappeared from view into the burning vessel.

The old man caught his breath, afraid the submarine had been hung up in the wreckage, but then the bow of the
Eagle
darted out of the billowing smoke and flames. Even from the distance, the keeper could see the fresh scarring on her flanks, slashed by the talons of torn metal. The identifying number on the side of the conning tower—87-A in big, white characters—was seared black in places. The Polish flag on the stern trailed flames. But the
Eagle
didn’t pause. She cleared the wreckage, darted past the harbor entrance, and churned out into the Baltic. A fogbank was lying in wait offshore. A few weeks earlier, the weather would not have been so kind. But it was fall. Already the hint of winter in the air. The keeper watched the
Eagle
, grunting with satisfaction as she disappeared from view. He pulled his coat tightly around his thin frame. A smile brightened his face when he saw the German planes give up, wheeling back to the east and then climbing. He heard a whistle from his stove below. “Tea time,” he muttered. He began the long, winding descent down the tower, holding the railing carefully with his right hand and humming the Polish national anthem quietly to himself.

Stefan hated fog. Particularly the gray stew that plagued the jagged Baltic coastline from fall to spring. It was a special menace that for centuries had made even the most stoic skippers old men well before their time.

Today, Stefan decided it was his favorite kind of weather. As the bow disappeared into the cloud, he tilted back his head, watching as tattered gray tendrils began to rush by overhead, diffusing the light, changing the quality of the sound of the sea, and muffling the bass-drum hammer of the racing diesels. Just before the fog completely obliterated the sky, Stefan grunted with satisfaction as he noticed the last
Stuka
turn away and begin heading back to its airfield in Germany.

They were safe, for the moment.

The
Eagle
plunged deeper into the refuge of the fogbank. Stefan closed his eyes, relishing the sudden change in temperature on his exposed cheekbones, the condensation growing like moss on his shaggy beard. After the madness of the preceding minutes, Stefan felt like they were entering a cathedral, everything gray, insulated from outside cares and desires. Perfect place for me, he thought, suddenly more tired than he could ever remember before, the last of the adrenaline, all that had kept him going the past hours, leaking from his bloodstream.

He knew he should be euphoric. If not for his direction, his decisions, the
Eagle
would still be bottled up in the harbor, or, more likely, sinking, many of her crew, his men, already dead. Instead, she was free and they would fight on.

He watched as the memory of the man on fire, leaping into the water, began to replay before his eyes. There was nothing he could have done for him, and yet, he knew that he had also died because of the decisions he had made. He also knew it was only the beginning. There would be more memories to add to the collection. This was only a start. “Better get used to it, buddy boy,” he muttered.

At fifteen years old, Stefan had been lucky enough to discover his passion. The sea. That was also the year he joined the crew of a feisty Swedish fisherman, Cy Westling, captain and owner of the fishing trawler
Melina
.

Already capable of doing a man’s work, Stefan went out of his way to be helpful on board. Despite the taunts and jabs of older deckhands, no job was too unpleasant for him. But Stefan had a plan. Eventually his eagerness caught the eye of Westling. He seized the opportunity, making it clear to the captain that he had no intention of remaining a deckhand for the rest of his life.

He still remembered the evening he had approached the captain. The
Melina
was in port in Gdansk, her hold already emptied of fish. Stefan knocked on the door.

“Enter.”

He stepped into the cabin, nervously twisting the cap he held in his hands, knowing that this was a critical moment in his life, his future. Westling was sitting at the small desk in his cabin, doing paperwork. He didn’t look up, writing for another minute.

Finally, he set down his pen, leaned back in his chair. “Yes?”

Stefan took a deep breath, and then launched into a speech he had been practicing for weeks, trying it out on the nets, and the pots and pans in the galley, and even a fish or two. He explained that he wanted to learn how to become a master of his own vessel and was hoping the captain would be willing to take him on as an apprentice.

“That so?” Westling replied, looking sharply at the near-man over the top of his reading glasses.

Stefan nodded. His eyes were drawn to the tips of his own boots under the pressure of Westling’s gaze. But he knew that how he reacted was important, too, so he forced himself to meet the captain’s eyes without wavering.

Westling studied Stefan for what felt like hours. He had known other men like Westling in his village back home. Important men. But they also seemed to treat any boys who were not their own, those who showed promise and spunk, as threats, competition to be crushed. He had watched as they had gone out of their ways to do just that, their abuse becoming as incessant as spring rain. But Stefan hoped Westling was not this kind of man. He had treated him fairly from the first day on the job. The other men in his employ didn’t like him, but they respected him for his knowledge and his equal treatment. He must have finally seen something he liked. He pulled open a drawer, pulled out a well-worn book and then handed it to Stefan. “Here,” he said, “read this. It’s called
Lord Jim
. Written by a countryman of yours, and a sea captain, as well. His name is Joseph Conrad. When you’re finished, let me know. We’ll talk about what you’ve learned. If I’m satisfied, we’ll go on from there.”

Stefan hesitated, turning the book over in one hand.

“What is it?”

Stefan’s face reddened with shame. “I ... I. . ,” he stuttered. “I don’t know how to read.”

Westling tipped his chair against the cabin wall, scratched the top of his bald head. “You didn’t go to school?”

Stefan opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut, gripped by an overwhelming sense of dread. Reading? How could he have been so stupid. Of course, it wasn’t just a matter of a strong back and willingness to work. To become a captain you also had to know something upstairs, too. Stefan slapped the side of his head with his hat, then held out the book. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry?” Westling exploded. “You’re sorry?”

Stefan’s heart felt like it was in free fall, dropping into a black well that had no bottom. It was all he could do not to cry out.

Westling sighed. “No reason for you to be sorry, son,” he said, the rage leaking from his voice. “The fault of your ignorance rests with others. But after this moment, if you do nothing to correct it, the fault will become your own. And understand this. Doesn’t matter what happened before. You are responsible. So, are you willing to learn to read and write?”

Stefan nodded.

Westling smiled and Stefan felt hope rush back into his soul like a warm breeze from heaven itself. “Good enough. It’ll just take a little longer. That’s all. You keep the book with you. Tomorrow night, 7 p.m. You come here and we’ll start your lessons. Polish, Swedish and English and maybe some German, too. When we’re done, you’ll be able to speak and read all four. Can’t captain the Baltic or the North Atlantic without them.”

“What about my evening duties?”

“You arguing with your captain?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now get out of my sight. I have work to do.”

Stefan opened his eyes again with effort. Westling had been one of the first ever, besides his mother, to show him a kindness, expecting nothing in return. He knew he had been lucky. In all the years he had been on his own, he had come to understand that true kindness was a rarity, something usually found in Bible stories, not in the everyday life of a seaman. The result was a whole class of men and women who kept their pain and cynicism in check with alcohol. It was a path that Stefan suspected he would have taken, too. If not for Westling. Much of what he had today was do to the kindness of that old Swede. He would be forever grateful to him.

Stefan wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, surprised by the sudden show of emotion. Wouldn’t do to fall apart now, he thought. Plenty of time for that later.

He glanced over his shoulder, following the foam of their wake back along the path they had just taken until it disappeared into the fog. Soon enough, the
Kriegsmarine
would be after them. They would do well, he thought, to survive the week. And yet, this
Eagle
still had talons. And now, she was out of her cage and ready to do some hunting.

“Forgive me once again, commander.” Ritter jumped over the edge of the railing, landing lightly on the bridge deck. Stefan jerked surprise. He had forgotten all about the man.

Ritter’s face was blackened with smoke, his blue eyes red rimmed. He rubbed his short cropped hair and gave Stefan a rueful smile. “I guess that stint I did in the Home Guard came to some use after all. In any case, I was out of line back there. I should have kept my yip shut.”

“No apologies necessary, Hans,” Stefan said, his voice hoarse. He gestured toward the gun. “I may need a new gunner. You interested?”

Ritter laughed. “I think I’ll leave it to the professionals. I’m not paid enough.”

“Foolish of you and your men to come along, you know,” Stefan remarked. He refilled his pipe, took a moment to light it in the swirling breeze in the conning tower. “We don’t have much of a chance, or other options. You do ... or did. Not that I don’t appreciate your help. But it will be difficult, now, to find a safe moment to let you off that doesn’t leave us too exposed.”

Ritter shrugged. “We’re big boys. We knew what we were doing. Or, at least, I thought we knew it. That little bit at the end …” He shook his head with real wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Stefan restrained a shudder. “It seemed the right decision.” Stefan wasn’t sure he said it out loud, or if it was just the echo of an excuse that he would play back again and again for the rest of his life.

“Where are we headed?”

Stefan blinked, drew on his pipe, let the smoke trickle out of the corner of his mouth. He gestured with his arm. “This will be our hunting grounds. The Gulf of Gdansk. We’ll stay here until we receive other orders or run out of fish.”

“After that?”

Stefan shrugged.