The Last Eagle (2011) (34 page)

“That’s it.”

“I only ask one thing.”

Yes?”

“Don’t forget to write about Chief K and Jerzy. And don’t forget Sieinski, either. That sonofabitch was a captain at the end, you know. Can you do that?”

Kate didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She nodded, and then turned away. For the first time since the war began, she was weeping.

Ritter finished his third cup of coffee, fought back a yawn that threatened to rip open the stitches that held the gash on his cheek together.

It had been two long days. First the flight from Tallinn to Berlin, his brief report to Dönitz with the admiral, ever the one for details, paying particular attention to where the plan had fallen apart. He made Ritter repeat the account of Sieinski running the yacht up the freighter’s ass, peppering him with questions the second time. Ritter explained that the pathetic excuse for a man had been completely broken. Seen it with his own eyes as he left him sprawled across the back seat of the wrecked Mercedes.

And yet, he had been wrong. Beneath the masks of privilege and avarice, there had remained a faint image of a man. And when he had nothing to live for, he had discarded the masks, and chosen a path of honor.

“It is what separates a few from the beasts,” Dönitz commented. “At times, we do the unexpected, what is contrary to our nature. If not for this captain, the freighter would have blocked the escape, and we would have kept our prize. You should have taken his possible actions into consideration, don’t you think?”

Ritter had just nodded in response, holding himself as close to attention as one could get while sitting as Dönitz stared at his underling for what felt like hours, though it was probably only seconds. As sweat began to trickle down Ritter’s spine, Dönitz saw something that must have satisfied him. He flicked his hand dismissively. “Learn from it, Peter.” That’s was it. No punishment. At least, not yet. Meeting over.

 “Aye, aye, sir.” Ritter couldn’t keep the relief out of his voice. As he left the admiral’s office, it had taken every ounce of strength not to bolt for the door.

And then another flight to Pilawa, where he met up with the
Kriegsmarine
destroyer
Leberecht Maass
. Her captain had been less than pleased when Ritter handed him his new orders, essentially placing the destroyer under Ritter’s command. They were to patrol just beyond The Øresund the chokepoint between Sweden and Denmark, that last obstacle in the
Eagle’s
path before she entered the Kattegat. From there, it would be aesy for her to make the North Sea. Of course, all of this assumed she would make it as far as The Øresund. And there were a score of German ships and plans combing the Baltic, intent on making sure that didn’t happen.

As they bucked through heavy seas toward their destination, a flotilla of German ships were already laying additional minefields, to join the maze of shoals and shallows and islands and peninsulas that the
Eagle
would need to navigate before she could escape into the North Sea. Every
Kriegsmarine
fighting vessel in the Baltic had been alerted to the
Eagle’s
presence and given strict orders to destroy her on sight. She wouldn’t be allowed to disrupt German sea traffic. There was even a hint at rewards and decorations for the captain and crew of the vessel that managed to bag the Polish submarine. German pride was at stake.

Dönitz had swallowed his own pride and accepted Göring ’s offer to help discover the
Eagle’s
position. Of course, Dönitz knew the Nazi air marshal would not be content to leave it at that. The
Eagle’s
escape gave Göring another opportunity at oneupmanship over Dönitz in their ongoing duel. Dönitz didn’t care about that. He couldn’t allow the
Eagle
to escape. The humiliation of that on the eve of the Reich’s stunning victory over Poland would be too much to bear.

The side bets Ritter overheard being made among Dönitz’s staff gave the Poles little hope. A few expected them to bumble into a mine field, or run aground. Others figured they would scoot like scared chickens to a neutral port, joining other Polish fighting vessels and at last count, two submarines on the Swedish sidelines where they would spend the rest of the war. After all, they were Poles, weren’t they? And should they have second thoughts, the Swedes, unlike the Estonians, wouldn’t jeopardize their own neutrality by letting them escape.

Ritter, however, thought most of his fellow officers naïve. He knew these Poles. Grudgingly respected them, even. Of course, they were like any other: a few brave, and a few fools, and the rest just flesh and blood human beings. And the admiral’s staff conveniently chose to ignore numerous accounts of Polish bravery that had managed to sneak their way into the tightly controlled German newspapers. The recent charge of a horse cavalry against German tanks—touted as a sign of Polish futility—was one of the most noteworthy.

Ritter couldn’t help it. He made his contribution to the office pot. Of course, he had an advantage. He’d seen the
Eagle’s
crew in action. They were young, yes. And naïve. But they were not the bumbling fools everyone seemed to think. But what made them dangerous even was their commander, Stefan Petrofski. He would not give up, not this one. He had two torpedoes with which to fight.

Ritter expected Stefan to make for England. Knew it in his heart. Petrofski would want to fight, not surrender. It was a move Ritter understood completely. Under similar circumstances, it is what he would do, as well. But when
Eagle
made it as far as The Øresund—and Ritter had no doubt that she would—he would be waiting for her. Before they died, the disappointment would break the hearts of everyone on board. And that too, was how it should be for the defeated.

The
Leberecht Maass
nosed into another dark green swell, her sharp bow peeling the water to either side like a paring knife. He felt the vessel hesitate, her screws racing in the froth, and then biting again and pushing her forward. Ritter knew the
Eagle
was without charts. As a result, he expected Stefan to be careful. He wouldn’t charge immediately for the exit to the Baltic. No, he would take his time. Stealth was the
Eagle’s
best bet. And that meant, despite the dangers of running aground, operating on the surface only at night, spending the rest of the time hidden underwater. Of course, those tactics carried with them their own risks. All of this meant, however, that despite his stop in Berlin, there was no urgency to get into position. They had time to get in place, and then the wait would begin. There were many eyes and ears watching and listening for
Eagle
. He had no doubt that one of them would soon bear fruit. Petrofski would make a mistake. It was inevitable. When that happened, the German fleet would be ready.

“More coffee, sir?”

The seaman stood stiffly at attention, legs spread to maintain his balance. “Yes, that would be kind of you,” Ritter replied.

The captain had gone to bed, leaving Ritter alone on the bridge with the helmsman and the night watch. Rain began to lash the windows. Ritter smiled to himself. It was almost pleasant.

Almost.

Stefan watched Kate crying, wanting to comfort her, make it somehow better. He raised a hand in her direction and then let it drop to his side. He backed out of the galley and immediately grabbed Reggie, who was standing in the passageway, by the front of his shirt. “When she’s ready, I want you to take her to the captain’s quarters, OK?” Stefan whispered. “It’s hers for as long as she’s here.”

Reggie nodded, then posed the question he couldn’t keep back: “What about me?”

Stefan resisted an impulse to fling Reggie against the bulkhead. Instead he gave him a sharp pat on the cheek.

“Ouch!” Reggie rubbed the red mark left behind.

“Because I’m fond of you,” Stefan said, “you can have Jerzy’s bunk. He won’t need it anymore.” Stefan decided to keep to himself the fact that Jerzy was notorious for never changing or washing anything—blankets, clothes, hair. In the submarine, perpetually rich with smells, his bunk was a particular standout. “Oh yes, you can share it with our other guest, that Veski what’s-his-name.”

Before returning to the bridge, Stefan gave the
Eagle
a quick inspection, double-checking for himself her various mechanical systems, dispensing reassuring jokes and words of advice to the crew along the way. Typically, submarines were manned by the youngest sailors in the fleet.  Stefan apart, the
Eagle
was no exception. Not that he needed to say anything to any of them. Stefan was one of those rare individuals who could radiate confidence like a wood stove in winter. He didn’t miss a thing, pointing out three broken valves, a pile of greasy rags in a corner—a fire hazard, deadly on a submarine—and half a dozen other minor items

On his way back to the bridge, he noticed that the galley was deserted. That was a good sign. Stefan knocked on the bulkhead outside the captain’s quarters. No answer. He peered through a crack in the curtain. Kate was curled up on the bunk, her notepad on the mattress beside her, pen still in her hand. She was asleep. Stefan hesitated for a moment, and then. stepped inside. He closed the notebook, pulled the pen from her hand, and then draped one of Sieinski’s wool sweaters over her shoulders, lingering a moment to watch the peaceful expression on her face. This is worth fighting for. The thought came unbidden to his mind. Not pride, or honor, or country even, but for her and those like her. It seemed enough.

Stefan was still preoccupied with thoughts of the woman as he set his arms on the smooth edge of the conning tower and leaned into the breeze, letting it scour his face like a cold shower.

The Estonian gave him a few moments. “Will you be joining me in Sweden?” he asked.

Stefan turned his attention to his pipe. He packed the bowl with tobacco, and then, shielding it from the wind, lit it carefully. He let smoke trickle out of the corner of his mouth and then clamped down on the stem with his teeth. “Not Sweden,” he said, finally addressing the question. “We will make for England— after we drop you and your friend off—and not right away.” Stefan had already decided that despite the danger, they would not try to escape the Baltic immediately. That’s what the Germans would expect. They would know that the
Eagle
was low on food and water, hampered by lack of charts. Instead, as the German’s grew tired of waiting for them near The Øresund, the
Eagle
would go to war elsewhere.

Talli nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

Stefan was surprised he was that obvious. “Why?”

“It is where I would go,” Talli answered.

“You can come with us, you know. I could use another man. We could boot your partner off the boat by himself.”

Talli considered the offer, and then shook his head with regret. “Tempting, yes. But I think Sweden is for me. You see, my help does not mean I am not a loyal Estonian. I must make my way home.”

Stefan understood. They were not that unlike, he and Talli. “We’re making good time?”

Talli nodded. “She is a wonderful vessel, you know.

“I know,” Stefan said.

“Light soon, what then? Dive?”

Stefan pulled up his collar, peered at the sky to the east. There was a hint of horizon, a pale line with darker gray above and below. No answers in the captain’s handbook for this particular problem. What would they do when night no longer protected them? It was a tossup: stealth or speed. Each had its risks. Stealth meant they would spend the day underwater, powered by electric motors, cruising at a pace little faster than a quick walk. On the surface, they could fly along at nearly ten times the speed. But of course, all that might be for naught if they were spotted from the air. And so, the decision became one more of art than science, more intuition and gut feeling than facts and logic. “Steady as she goes, commander,” Stefan decided, and then more loudly for the new lookouts in the conning tower. “Eyes sharp. We dive at the first sign of anyone. We don’t fight, not yet. Got that?”

Brief nods in response.

“Yes, they will be looking first to the southwest,” Talli said. “When they find nothing, then their eyes will swing this way. Now it is the time to run with the wind.”

Stefan clenched his pipe tightly and chuckled. “You sound like a poet.”

“Just an ordinary seaman,” Talli responded.

“Like I said,” Stefan muttered to himself. “A poet.”

Soon enough, the
Eagle
was caught by dawn. Stefan and Talli and the rest of the men on deck watched the sky lighten, marveling at the fresh pastels like children emerging from a world made up entirely of gray and black, their senses no doubt heightened by their recent brushes with death. And as the day began to age and the weather continued to worsen, the sky and sea remained strangely empty of all pursuers except for the occasional gull.

At noon, Talli ordered a course correction. The bustling Swedish port of Stockholm was but 250 kilometers west of Tallinn and
Eagle
had been racing at top speed almost directly toward the Swedish capital city ever since leaving the last Estonian buoy behind and curving west around Naissaar Island. Talli didn’t need navigation charts to sense that every passing mile greatly increased their chance of detection. The busy sea route between Helsinki and Stockholm was just over the horizon to the north. Their luck was bound to change.