The Last Eagle (2011) (5 page)

The past few months had gone so badly, the
Eagle’s
builders had even sent a trio of engineers to help with the problems. At first, Stefan welcomed their arrival. But after two weeks, they were no closer to reducing the number of the
Eagle’s
problems. If anything, the Dutch had only added to the confusion. Stefan had pointed out that very fact earlier in the evening. The captain, however, wouldn’t hear any discussion of it.

“And where did you get your university degree from, Lieutenant Commander?” he had asked, stopping by the submarine on his way to a party, not even bothering to get out of the back seat of his car.

“You know I’m not a university-educated man, sir” Stefan admitted, squeezing the door handle so hard his knuckles cracked.

Commander Józef Sieinski  didn’t need to say any more. Argument won, he gave Stefan a condescending look. “How does my tie look?”

“Fine, sir.” It could have looked like it had been tied by a trained monkey and Stefan would have said fine.

“These men are experts. They built this vessel, for chrissakes. They also have the faith of headquarters, and I think we should give them our faith, as well. You know where to find me if anything comes up.”

“As you will, sir,” Stefan said abruptly, stepping away from the car and saluting. He watched the taillights of Sieinski’s car disappear around the corner. What was the point of arguing?

Stefan buttoned the front of his coat. Cold tonight. He cocked his head and listened. Planes. Probably military if the deep, throaty sound of their engines was any indication. Good to have the air force watching overhead. He leaned his rifle against a crate, opened his fly and pissed a long, satisfying stream over the edge of the pier.

He was zipping up when the first explosion rocked the far end of the harbor. He watched with fascination as fire ballooned into the night sky. Seconds later, another explosion, nearer this time, rattled windows up and down the waterfront. There was a flash of light, and then secondary explosions as chemicals and fuel began to detonate.

“Goddamn,” was all a stunned Stefan could say. And then he heard it, a growing shriek that announced an attack by one of the most feared planes in the world: a Junkers Ju 87, universally known as the German
Stuka
dive bomber.

Stefan didn’t bother to scramble for cover. He grabbed the rifle, pulled the butt tightly against his shoulder, raised the barrel to the black sky and waited. As the plane flashed overhead, the side of its engine cowling illuminated by blue fire from the exhausts, Stefan fired three quick shots, and then it was gone. “Take that, you German dog!” he roared, surprised by the sense of relief that coursed through his body despite the futility of his gesture.

Hitler had finally made his move.

“Sir?”

That farm boy, Stachofski, was back, standing motionless on gangplank, pointing at the nearby fires. Already, Stefan could hear distant shouts and the clank of anchor chains as crews along the waterfront scrambled to get their vessels underway. If more planes came, the harbor would become a shooting gallery.

Stefan waited as four other young seaman crowded in behind Stachofski. “Are you boys ready for war? It has finally come to our doorsteps.”

There was no response. They all stared wide-eyed at the fires, entranced by the sudden violence that in a moment had changed everything.

Stefan didn’t let their eyes linger. “Rouse the rest of the ship,” he barked. “Battle stations everyone. This isn’t a drill—”

His voice was drowned out as another
Stuka
shrieked by overhead, so close he imagined he heard a metallic clink as the dive bomber released its bomb. He sensed the shadow of it go by. A moment later, a column of water erupted into the air 50 meters beyond the prow of the submarine. Stefan tensed for an explosion. Nothing. Dud. Even vaunted German craftsmanship couldn’t avoid an occasional failure.

Next time, they wouldn’t be so lucky. Stefan glared at the lights on poles towering above the quay, illuminating the
Eagle’s
flanks like an elephant in a circus center ring. What an idiot. He chambered a round. Raised the rifle and shot out the nearby light. One more crack from the rifle, and the
Eagle
was hidden by darkness.

“Can’t hit what they can’t see.” Stefan noticed that the group was still on the gangplank. They hadn’t twitched, not even when the bomb had sailed by.

“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.

“Yes, yes,” Ritter said recklessly in German, blowing the woman a kiss. “
Auf Wiedersehen
.”

His men were waiting in front of the hotel, smoking cigarettes, ignoring all the commotion with professional disdain.

“What do we do now?” said Helmut Bergen, his short blond hair pulsing blue from the flickering neon light above them.

Ritter stared up at the sky. The glow from the city lights washed out any stars. Too bad. He would have liked to see the stars on this night. He wrinkled his nose. He wished for stars almost as much as he now wished he had taken time to shower. He stank with the musky scent of the woman. It clung to him like stale beer. He wondered if his men could smell it, too. A mistake to have the woman in his room, but Ritter had figured that he deserved a little reward and recreation before the delicate part of his plan began.

Ritter gestured with his hand. Helmut offered his cigarette. Ritter inhaled, held the smoke until he felt dizzy, and then exhaled. “After all of our hard work, it would be a shame to let the
Luftwaffe
destroy our prize, eh?” he said with a cough, handing back the cigarette. “But this attack might help make our task all the easier if, of course, we don’t get killed in the process.”