The Last Eagle (2011) (40 page)

“Dinner and drinks are on me,” Kate said, and then she was gone.

It was Reggie’s idea. “Why can’t you just move the damn thing,” he said out loud.

They were gathered in the control room a few hours later, the regular contingent of officers and crew, along with Cooky leaning in the hatchway. Stefan and Eryk we’re peering at Eryk’s hand-made charts, attempting to dredge up any missing details, arguing about the pros and cons of various courses.

Squeaky was restlessly prowling the crowded perimeter of the control room, lamenting for the moment the damage to the torpedo doors before moving on to other woes. “A moment longer, and we could have fired,” he said. “Then it wouldn’t matter what happened.”

That’s when Reggie wagged his finger in the air and asked his question.

Cooky’s response came with a sneer. He didn’t like the effete American and didn’t mind who knew it. Of course, Cooky didn’t like most everyone, particularly Brazilians, he was always quick to point out, though the actual reasons for picking on the natives of that particular part of the world remained a well-kept mystery. His apparent affection for Kate was one exception to his universal dislike. “Go ahead,” he said. “That damn fish just weighs—oh—1,600 kilos, give or take a few hundred. Yeah, by the look of your biceps, you could almost lug it to the aft torpedo compartment all by yourself.”

There was laughter around the control room. Stefan looked up from the chart, eyes bleary and red rimmed. He turned to Reggie. “What did you say?”

“He wondered why we don’t move that fucking torpedo aft,” Cooky interjected, laughing again with ill humor.

Reggie gave a wane smile and shrugged. “What do I know, eh?”

Stefan blinked slowly, his eyes feeling as if he had gravel in them. He was halfway surprised each blink wasn’t audible. Now that they were running for England, and, essentially, unarmed, he was particularly aware of their lack of torpedoes. That one still remained onboard, unusable, only add to the bitter taste in mouth. Why couldn’t they move it to the aft torpedo room? Of course. Now would be the time to do it, before they came closer to The Øresund. Under cover of darkness, in a calm sea, it would be tricky, but not impossible.

After days of close proximity, Squeaky was watching Stefan closely, aware of every slight change in his mood. “Nah, nah,” he said, “that would be a very bad idea.”

Stefan looked blandly at Squeaky.

“I know you’re thinking about that torpedo, moving it aft. Am I right?”

Stefan didn’t respond, he just continued to stare at Squeaky.

“It can’t be done. Not now. The crew is exhausted, you’re exhausted, and you expect to get it done out here in the middle of the Baltic? OK, OK, it’s not impossible, it’s just that it would be very, very difficult. It’ll be slick as a baby killer whale, and just as heavy ... the deck will be like an ice rink ... I suppose we could rig some sort of pulley system above deck, but then we’d have to wrestle it aft, and reverse the process ... like I said ...” His voice finally ran out of steam. A look of resignation washed over his features. Still Stefan said nothing. “Aw shit,” Squeaky submitted finally. “OK, we’ll move it. I’ll get the strongest men, just tell me when.”

Stefan glanced at his wristwatch. “How about now?”

The
Eagle
surfaced at dusk; her diesel engines coughed to life and began recharging the batteries, though her screws remained motionless. There was a slight breeze coming from the east. Though the surface was roughed by a sharp chop, the
Eagle
barely moved. It was about as close to perfect conditions as one could find in September fall in the middle of the Baltic.

Inside, the
Eagle’s
interior lights switched to red for the long night. In the torpedo compartment, Lech and two other sailors were already cranking loose the bolts holding the torpedo loading hatch in place. As it came free, a rush of cool sea air poured in the submarine.

“All set?”

Squeaky looked up through the hatch opening, saw Stefan’s form, features shrouded in shadows, peer from above. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said formally. “Eight men down here, another eight up there ...”

“Nine,” Stefan interjected.

“Didn’t think you could stay away from the fun,” Squeaky said with a nod of appreciation. He hadn’t intended to ask for Stefan’s help—no sense getting the captain hurt or injured—but Stefan was by far the strongest man on the boat and so his offer wouldn’t be turned away. “I’ve got it trussed up with this canvas sling like a chicken,” he said, patting the torpedo’s steel flank in front of him. “Should make it easier to control. That’s the idea, anyway. It’s pointing the wrong direction. So, not only do we have to lift this bastard out of here, we’ve also got to pivot the nose in the other direction.”

“Up here?” Stefan asked skeptically.

“Naw. Not enough room. We’ll start the turn down here. We’ll lift up the nose, and then walk the ass end back underneath to get it going the right direction as you and the boys up there get your hands on it. Once you’ve lifted it free, we’ll skedaddle aft and be waiting for you. I’ve got ’‘em ready to crack open up the loading hatch as soon as you get there.”

Stefan stood, slapped his hands together. All he needed was talcum powder, and he would have been ready for a clean and jerk. He glanced around at the other sailors who would help. Henryk gave him an awkward grin. Stefan slapped him on the back in response. “Ready?”

Henryk’s eyes widened with alarm as the
Eagle
shifted nervously beneath their feet. But then he nodded. A pale, scrawny looking bunch, Stefan thought. They would have to do. Because of the space restrictions inherent to submarines, crews were not usually the biggest and brawniest.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Stefan roared. Until the job was done, they completely defenseless.

A moment later, the nose of the torpedo bobbed above decks like the snout of some ancient animal. Its appearance was accompanied by primal groans, as the men below strained against the dead weight.

“Come on you bastards, help …” Squeaky cried out.

 The torpedo seemed to sniff the air, and then it was surrounded by sailors above deck, each grabbing an end of a sling. As they began to pick up the strain, the rest of the torpedo slowly appeared.

Stefan grabbed two slings, one in each hand, his arms forearms quivering with tension. Henryk, who was standing next to him, gasped from the effort, his lips peeling back from his mouth into a grimace. 

As the full weight of the torpedo was taken up by the men on the deck, they quivered and moaned as one, trembling like a grove of aspens before a sudden, hot gust of wind. Silently—it was too much effort to say anything— and slowly, they began the awkward shuffle on the shifting, slick wood deck toward the submarine’s stern. 

As the group—four on the inside, five on the outside, the torpedo in between —squeezed past the conning tower, the
Eagle
swayed abruptly as an irregular wave hit the bow, and then broke down the side. It was enough. The torpedo swayed in sympathy, and two of the men at the back, on the side nearest the conning tower, slipped. Stefan roared as the torpedo began to pinch him against the conning tower. He heard Henryk scream, and felt a sudden increase in weight as the men lost hold.

From some hidden place, Stefan found an untapped reservoir of strength. Even as the cartilage of his own ribs began to crackle, he lifted with all his might. “Don’t stop now,” he grunted between grinding teeth.

And just as quickly, the men regained control of torpedo, and continued to snake past the conning tower. Stefan noticed that Henryk had blood rimming his mouth. He coughed, and sprayed the torpedo with red mist. Still, he continued to lift, ignoring the agony of his shattered ribs.

As they approached, the aft access hatch opened. Stefan was ready to collapse. The others looked in similar condition, but grimly, everyone held on. This close to success, they didn’t dare let down their crewmates.

Now there were gasps of pain and effort. They lowered the nose of the torpedo first, and felt the exquisite relief as the men below began to take up the weight. And then it was below decks. The men as one collapsed on the deck, sobbing with success and relief.

“Get Cooky,” Stefan screamed, but he was already on deck, handing around one of the precious bottles of cognac, and then he was at the boy’s side, dabbing his mouth with a cloth.

“What the hell happened?”

“He was squeezed between the torpedo and the conning tower,” Stefan gasped, placing his hand on his own ribs, wincing at the pain, realizing he might have cracked a few ribs of his own.

Albert, that was his name, Stefan remembered. One of Chief K’s boys in the engine room.

“We did it?” he whispered. The effort brought a spasm of coughing, and more blood.

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” Cooky yelled with alarm. He shrugged at Stefan as if to say he’d do what he could for the boy but this was beyond his meager skills.

“Yes, Albert.” Stefan touched his cheek, surprised at its softness. “We did it indeed. And now we’re going to find you a quiet place to rest. We’ll be in England before you know it. Just do what Cooky says, okay?”

The boy closed his eyes and nodded.

As Cooky and Henryk took the boy below, Stefan turned away. He would be surprised if he saw another dawn. Had it been worth the risk, worth one life? He didn’t know. Not at the moment.

About then, everyone who remained on deck turned to watch the sun peek through the gap between clouds and sea, sending dazzling orange rays streaming across the restless Baltic. A moment of wonder, and then, just as quickly, the show was over, and the sun disappeared below the horizon

“Smells like a storm tonight,” Eryk said, appearing at Stefan’s elbow. He handed his captain an oil-slicked rain coat and then his cap. 

Stefan was too exhausted to respond with anything more than a grunt. He shrugged wearily into the coat, watched as two sailors pushed the aft torpedo access hatch back into place.

That boy, that Albert. They had almost made it. One random wave. That was all it took. He had seen crushing injuries many times before, some not all that different than the one experienced by Albert. In every case, the men had died. They had been too far from doctors. The broken ribs had flayed the delicate lungs as effectively as any butcher’s knife.

Stefan followed Eryk slowly up to the bridge, climbing the rungs like an old man, and then gasping with pain as he climbed over the edge.

“You all right?” Kate asked, her face etched with concern.

“I’ll live,” Stefan said. It was more than he could say for Albert. “Would you see about the boy? Make sure he’s comfortable?”

Kate nodded, and disappeared below. 

Stefan leaned into the speaker tube. “Set course one-nine-five,” he ordered hoarsely. “Flank speed.”

“I’m worried about mine fields, Stef,” Eryk said. “In the dark, we’re not going to be able to spot them until it is too late.”

Stefan shrugged. “That’s why we’ll hug Swedish waters. Can’t imagine the Germans mining their waters. I mean, those bastards are arrogant, but not that arrogant.”

Eryk mumbled something into the top of his coat.

“What was that?”

“Just said, I hope not. How long, do you think it’ll be before we get there?”

Stefan thought for a moment. Hard to think. But he couldn’t stop now. “We’ve got 620 kilometers, give or take. We’ll do maybe 170 kilometers tonight, another 30 or more tomorrow. … We’ll be close in three nights. Maybe wait until the fourth night to give The Øresund a go. Of course, could be longer if we run into any trouble.”

“Of course,” Eryk repeated under his breath. “And to think I chose this instead of becoming an artillery officer.”

“If you’d chosen artillery, Stefan said quietly, “you’d probably be a prisoner now ... or dead.”

“There is that,” Eryk said.

The weather began to worsen about midnight. By early morning, the
Eagle
was corkscrewing through heavy seas, and the foredeck was constantly awash. Long before that time Stefan had sent the deck gun crew below. The last thing he needed was a man, or woman, washed overboard.

The monotony of the night was interrupted about 3 a.m. by an appearance from Reggie, who needed a smoke. He stood the entire time, legs apart, back to the bullet- hard rain, hands cupped over his cigarette to keep it from fizzling out completely. As soon as it was done, he lit another. He smoked and talked nonstop for a half an hour about his family and friends in America, his job, his car, his wife’s sexual preferences. At one point, Eryk interrupted him to ask innocently enough about Kate.

“She’s busy working on her story,” Reggie said, staring suspiciously at him. “Something about finishing it before we get to England. When did you start falling for her?”

Eryk stumbled for a response.

Reggie cut him off. “Yeah, right. Don’t bother. Just get in line, bub. You don’t think there aren’t a dozen lugs just like you. She’ll break your heart, she will.”

“You sound like someone who knows,” Stefan interjected.

“Nope. Not me,” Reggie said bitterly. “I’m happily married.”

When Reggie finally left, hands shaking, teeth chattering from the soaking, both Eryk and Stefan were glad to see him go.