The Last Eagle (2011) (39 page)

Dönitz sucked on his cigarette, faint hollows appearing on each cheek. He glanced at the paper. He already knew what it reported. The
Eagle
had attempted to torpedo a freighter south of Helsinki—what the hell were they doing up there?—and in the process ran aground. Russian forces were called. Bombers were unsuccessful in their initial attack. The search by sea and air units continued.

“Goddamnit,” Dönitz muttered. He admired pluck as much as the next man, but these Poles didn’t know when the fight was lost. Poland itself was just a week or so away from complete surrender. Warsaw was surrounded. German forces were shelling and bombing it incessantly, softening the city up before ground forces moved in, wiping out the few remaining fighters. And yet this submarine, this
Eagle
, kept fighting.

He knew of the bets made by his office staff. The ones who had placed their money on the
Eagle
making for Sweden were already counting winnings. Possibly. But Dönitz still thought it unlikely. There was something to be said for character, and surrender, even in the form of interment, was not in the character of this crew. No, they would make for the North Sea. Ritter was right about that. Dönitz had received requests for a change of orders from his forces in the Baltic. He made a mental note to tell them to keep searching with appropriate reminders of what failure would mean. No need, though, to contact Ritter. Dönitz smiled. Despite his failure with the
Eagle
in Tallinn, he was one of his best men. He understood the power of character.

He finished his cigarette, reached for his intercom button. “Bring me some hot peppermint tea,” he said, “and a little cognac.”

“Yes, sir,” came the faint response.

Peppermint to settle his stomach, cognac to sharpen the mind. Already late, he had a stack of reports to read. It would be early morning before he arrived home. And required back again a few hours later.

As he waited for his tea, he let his mind wander. If he were the
Eagle’s
captain, what next?

His wife knew. No one else. Easy enough to understand why: they were never around when he woke in the middle night, moaning.

“That dream again, Winston?” she said, flicking on the bedside light.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. In oversize pajamas, he looked like small child, not the soon-to-be leader of the fight against Nazi Germany.

“Gallipoli wasn’t your fault,” she said, trying to soothe him. The reports cleared you.”

“And they were poppycock,” he sighed. “Can’t sleep anyway. I’ll do some work.”

“Oh, Winston.”

“I’ll be all right,” he said. His boxer’s face softened. He kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

He pulled on his robe and shuffled out of the room. Instead of heading to his office, he went to his painting studio. Half-finished watercolor paintings lay scattered around the room. Interrupted by that damn Hitler, Churchill thought. He wondered when, if ever, he would get the chance to finish them. When he peered into the future, it was bleak at best, dominated by the struggle that he knew would soon engulf the entire world. He had been right about Hitler when no one was listening, when members of the House of Commons thought he was a one-note fool: Hitler this, Nazi threat that.

Churchill poured himself a few fingers of Scotch, settled into the wicker chair in front of his easel, held the glass up in the light, staring into the rich liquid as if it were a crystal ball.

Of course, she was wrong. It had been his fault. He knew it, even if the reports had glossed over his culpability. Men had been butchered because of his mistake, his arrogance. He shook his head, took a drink, let the rich liquid trickle down his throat, warm his belly. He had vowed to never let it happen again. And yet, how could he prevent it? Already he was playing with men and ships like they were pieces on a board game. They were not. Others might forget, but he wouldn’t let himself. Even so, he was bound to make mistakes, and men would die as a result of them. And part of him would die with them. And that too was how it should be. If he wasn’t changed and scarred by the consequences of his decisions, then he was a monster, no different than the raging lunatic who had bewitched the German people.

It was the Polish submarine
Eagle
that had stirred up the memories. She was like a cat. How many lives had she already used up? British Intelligence had picked up messages from the Russians and Finns that the
Eagle
had run aground. He had waited throughout the day for confirmation of her demise, but it never came, and then a message just after dinner with the PM: she had escaped and was being pursued.

Of course, the
Eagle
had little in common with the fiasco at Gallipoli. And yet, it shared similar themes. A small band of men—and one American woman, if the accounts were correct—fighting against overwhelming odds. What was it about such events that captured the imagination? Was it the heady mix of hope, heroism, and, yes, fear? The
Eagle’s
escape dominated the free newspapers in Europe as well as the media in Germany. It was threatening to eclipse reports of Poland’s near collapse and driving Hitler into a rage. And still the submarine’s crew did the unexpected. Instead of attempting escape, they had attacked, sinking a German freighter loaded with fuel oil off Gdansk, and now this, going after the Russians. The chuckle came unbidden, rough and ragged like a worn-out engine, but chuckle nonetheless. Part of him wished the crew would port in Sweden, joining three other Polish vessels interned there. Survive and live to fight another day. They had already done enough. And yet another part of him, the one still inspired by childhood tales of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, wished them to continue the fight. What had the poet written: “To strive, to seek, to fight, and not to yield?”

Silently, he vowed. If the
Eagle
survived and made it to British-controlled waters, he would be one of the first to greet her and her captain. Maybe some of the
Eagle’s
magic could rub off. Churchill hoped it was so. He lifted his glass. “Godspeed,
Eagle
,” he growled into the air.

Underwater, the
Eagle
was powered by electric motors using energy stored in her gigantic batteries tucked away in two places under her decks. And like every submarine of the late 1930s, she cruised at a tortoiselike speed of two or three knots. Of course, in a panic, she could accelerate to 9 knots, but that was still hardly an impressive speed. And if she remained at that pace for very long, she would quickly exhaust her batteries, forcing her back to the surface where she would need to remain until they were recharged by her diesel engines.

At the moment, Stefan was pondering these engineering constraints as he sat on his bunk, eating an apple. He was wearing a soggy shirt open at the collar, damp pants and salt-stained boots. His dark beard was unkempt, as was his hair, their dark color matched by the circles of fatigue—almost bruises—beneath each eye. Cooky had found the apple rolling in filthy water in a corner of the engine room when the entire crew had been dashing back forth like a herd of elephants. It was bruised, and the skin tasted like everything else, diesel. Stefan didn’t care. The flesh inside was firm and moist, its apple scent headier than any woman’s perfume. He was convinced it was the best apple he had ever eaten.

Stefan had often dreamed of a time when submarines would be more like the vessel imagined by Jules Verne in
Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
. He had read the book many times—and hadbeen enchanted by it. It remained one of his all-time favorites, helped encourage him to pursue a career in Navy submarines when it came time to leave fishing. How much easier and safer if they could simply stay submerged for weeks on end at depths beyond the reach of their enemies? What a weapon a submarine would be then.

Faintly, Stefan could still hear the whoosh-whoosh sound of screws from the ships on the surface, prowling now in the distance. The
Eagle
had been submerged for four hours, creeping along 120 meters below the surface as destroyers, probably Russian, combed the waters overhead, flinging set after set of depth charges into the water in hopes of either destroying them or driving them to the topside. 

Stefan listened to distant explosions, the
Eagle’s
hull creaking in response, as they began yet another run. Persistent devils, he thought. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Four depth charges per rack, two racks per side, twenty-four explosions in all, their sounds gradually diminishing as the destroyer and submarine moved in opposite directions. And then reload, perhaps reset the timers so the cans sank deeper or shallower before they detonated, and do it all again. It was monotonous as a factory assembly line. And just as effective.

Once the
Eagle
submerged, Stefan scampered forward once again to assess the damage to the bow. They were lucky. Only minor leaking. But there was one other problem that might have unforeseen consequences. Something was wrong with theEagle’s forward torpedo hatches. They wouldn’t open, the skin of iron that coated the bow twisted and dented just enough to keep them closed. Their one remaining forward torpedo was now useless. 

Stefan set them on a course almost due west toward the Swedish coastline. Deeper waters that direction, Eryk promised, still feeling guilty about running aground, though Stefan, and everyone else, assured him it wasn’t his fault.

Nothing elegant about the plan now. Feel their way down the Swedish coast, avoiding minefields, aircraft, and Swedish and German ships. Keep everyone sharp despite little food and water. And then wait for dark, sneak through The Øresund, and on into the North Sea. As soon as they were free of The Øresund, they would contact the British Fleet.

Stefan finished the apple, core and all, licked his fingers clean. It was quiet now. The destroyers moving off, out of range, or perhaps giving up. He glanced at his watch. Dark soon. And then a long night ahead of them.

There was a knock on the bulkhead. “Enter,” Stefan said.

Kate stuck her head past the edge of the curtain, and Stefan was suddenly aware of how he must look and smell. Her pale face looked freshly scrubbed. She had finally gotten rid of the dress and was now wearing clothes borrowed from the crew, a clean men’s shirt, khaki pants and shoes. She jumped as the explosions began again. They sounded like some faraway giant whacking the side of a grain silo with a log.

 “Can’t get used to those,” she said sheepishly. “Don’t know how you stand it. I thought I was going to go crazy earlier. …”

“Me, too,” Stefan said.

“You?”

Stefan nodded.

“Could have fooled me.”

Stefan shrugged, rubbed his burning eyes with his thumbs. “I’m the captain now,” he said wearily. “That’s my job. Just about pissed my pants, though, when I thought that bomber was going to drop a few high explosives down our throat.”

“Go on!” Kate exclaimed with a giggle and a shake of her head. She reached out and shoved him in the shoulder like she had often done when her first boyfriend teased her. There was a stretch of awkward silence after she realized what she had done. “Say, Reggie and I had an idea.”

“Now you want off?”

Kate’s eyes flickered with anger. “No, of course not. We’re with you and your men until the end.”

“Whatever end that may be,” Stefan finished for her.

“I’m an optimist,” Kate said, raising her chin.

“What’s your idea?”

“Eryk said we’re going to be staying close to the Swedish coastline, right?”

Stefan nodded. He motioned to a chair in the corner of the cubbyhole that masqueraded as his quarters. “Sit. Please.”

Kate shook her head. “Too jumpy,” she said, smiling an apology.

“Go on. …”

“Well, we were wondering about making a Swedish flag, or sign, or something. Hang it from the conning tower, cover up the
Eagle’s
markings. Might not fool anybody, but on the other hand, if we’re surprised, it might give us some extra time.”

“Good idea,” Stefan said, smiling. “Thanks. Get a couple of the boys to help you. Might help them pass the time.”

“Okay, I’ll do that. You want to see it when we’re done?”

“Sure,” Stefan said.

“And what about that interview. When could we finish?”

The thought that had been dancing around the back of his mind ever since he had spied her in the pub in Gdynia jumped out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop it: “How about dinner with me when we get to England?”

Stefan watched Kate’s face change, thinking how much it reminded him of a spring sky, just when you get used to one look, it gives you another. He couldn’t read the one he was giving him now. She stared at him and then said, “I see underneath all the grime, you’re an optimist, too.”

Stefan said nothing.

“Okay,” Kate said. “On one condition.”

“You can finish the interview over dinner, if you like.”

Another flash of anger. “You presume too much,” she warned. “That’s wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“Then what is your condition?” he said, stretching the last word out sarcastically.