The Last Eagle (2011) (3 page)

Though aspects of Ritter’s plan had changed over the months, its main objective had always remained the same: Ritter and his men were going to take the
Eagle
from the Poles—steal her. And if they couldn’t have her, no one would.

Ritter had vowed to himself that it wouldn’t come to that.

Breathing easily through his nose, he scrambled up a steep embankment. All his years at sea had failed to completely disguise the sure steps of an experienced woodsman.

The evening air was sharp with the smell of decaying leaves and burning coal from the nearby town. The scent reminded him of the small Prussian village his family had called home for nearly over five hundred years.

He wondered what would become of it. It had survived countless invaders: Swede. French. German. Russian. The walls of the family castle were dominated with the brooding portraits of his ancestors—warriors all—while the outside still bore the scars of time and weather, cannon balls and bullets.

And now it was his turn. A new war was about to begin. Or, as his crippled father, the ex–general, would snort with derision, his voice thickened with brandy and regret: “It won’t be new. Just a continuation of the Kaiser’s last bollix.”

Ritter glanced at his Rolex. A few more hours.

The telegram awaiting him in his room earlier had been innocuous enough: “Baby and I are fine. Hope you are having a good time. We miss you. Love, Greta.” Once decoded, it relayed the message he had been waiting for. Tomorrow, the war and his part in it, would begin.

He quickened his pace, feeling the steady thump in his chest, his legs burning. Though he looked younger, he was approaching thirty-five. His close-cropped blond hair was already beginning to whiten at the temples. No longer a young man. And yet, he refused to slow down, refused to yield to weakness and age.

Of course, he was not senior enough to be privy to the overall German plans, just his small, unimportant piece of the conflict. But that had been augmented with occasional comments and knowing laughter from friends in places and positions to know.

He didn’t need their help or the skills of a fortune-teller to imagine how it would begin. A trumped-up provocation on the frontier. Some poor son-of-a-bitch of a Polish commander, his troops suddenly under fire, wondering why hell itself has been revealed, trying to raise his superiors, lamely explaining that he had done nothing to provoke the massive German response. And then the wire would go dead, the commander and his men soon to follow.

That lucky fool corporal. Over the years, Ritter had watched with amazement as no one had called his bluff. Oh, they had blustered and barked, like poodles in the arms of their masters. He had continued to take, and take again. The German High Command, waiting for a response, an excuse to get rid of him and step into power, and yet hoping beyond hope that he would not be stopped. Who could have imagined that none would strike back? And now he was untouchable, and they were stuck with him whatever the end might bring.

Ritter slipped on a patch of exposed clay, his knee striking hard against a rock. He gasped from the pain, but pulled himself up and continued on, barely limping though his leg was numb. In some strange way, he was glad for the pain and what it told him. He was alive.

That wise old bulldog, Churchill, Ritter thought, knew what was to come. And yet, he had been discarded by the English like an old can of peas.

What had Dönitz said? Churchill was off painting landscapes? How British of him. He probably wrote poetry, as well, and ate dainty little cakes while sipping tea with his pinky raised like a surrender flag in the air. Members of the British aristocracy were not known for their masculine vigor. What little they had came from mating with vigorous German royalty the previous century.

Despite his infatuation with watercolors, Churchill was not so distracted that he hadn’t warned of the coming whirlwind or recognized the primal roar of the German people in the background of Hitler’s speeches for what it was. But no one had listened to him. He was alone. The English preferred the soothing words of Chamberlain.

The French were even more foolish. It was understandable. They had left 1.5 million of their best men on the shattered battlefields of France twenty years earlier. The idea of another war was too soon, nightmares and memories still too fresh in so many minds. Ritter was confident that when confronted by the combined might of the German
Wehrmacht
,
Luftwaffe
and
Kriegsmarine
, their resolve would vanish like smoke before a Teutonic gale.

As the trail crested a final rise, Ritter began to jog, the pain in his knee finally subsiding. He hurried along the trail as it headed toward his destination, anxious now to get to the prow of land that gave a panoramic view of the city and the harbor.

He stepped out onto a huge rock discarded by a receding glacier 12,000 years earlier, and looked out. Below him, the lights of Gdynia twinkled in the dusk. A dozen ships hung on their anchors in the harbor. Assorted freighters and fishing boats, mostly. The Baltic beyond lay black and quiet and smooth, a mist already beginning to erase the horizon. Closer in, however, huddled next to the quay, was a Polish submarine.

He had wanted one last look, remembering the De Schelde shipyards and the first time he had gazed at the
Eagle
, remembering how it felt.

Early tomorrow, hundreds of kilometers to the west, the dying would begin, but if luck held, he and his men would soon be in possession of what he and Admiral Dönitz desired most.

After he seized command, his first order as her new captain would be to replace the Polish flag flying above her bridge with one bearing the German swastika.
Eagle
, however, she would remain.

“It’s not fair,” Sublieutenant Eryk Pertek of the Polish Navy’s submarine
Eagle
said pointedly, slapping the scarred tabletop for emphasis.

His boss, Lieutenant Commander Stefan Petrofski, scratched the side of his beard and shrugged in the direction of his navigator and friend. As second in command of the
Eagle
, he knew he shouldn’t have another beer. In addition to Pertek, there were a dozen other members of the
Eagle’s
crew scattered throughout the pub. Part of Stefan’s job as a Polish naval officer was to be a good example to his men. And that meant staying reasonably sober when he was out in public. Tonight, he didn’t care. He drained his mug, and then roared “Beer!” in a voice that demanded obedience.

His shout was like a slap on the bottom of the plump waitress behind the bar. She filled another mug to overflowing and began waddling in their direction, not bothering to stop and apologize to the customers she wet with spilled beer along the way.

Stefan admired the way she wove between the tables like a skilled soccer player on the attack, avoiding slaps and pinches, twisting away from grabs and caresses, using a combination of bluster and sweetness to get her message across: look, but don’t touch. There was enough to enjoy, particularly in the bounce of her ample breasts.

A few years earlier he might have made a try for her. Flirting was a holy obligation of every sailor. If he put his mind to it, he might have succeeded in convincing her that he was more than a worn-out sailor. He knew from experience that a smile transformed his bearded, sea-weathered face into something that some women found appealing or, at least, sympathetic. But tonight was not the night. So instead, he said “Tthank you” when she slammed his beer on the table, pushing a bill in her direction that more than covered the price of a dozen.

“Too much,” she protested, glaring at him with suspicion, brushing aside a dark wet strand plastered to her forehead.

“I expect nothing but a smile in return. Honest.”

A wink coaxed a harried smile to her face followed by a throaty and giggle of appreciation she couldn’t restrain. “I suppose I could use some new silk stockings.”

“And so!” Stefan exclaimed. “Another fair maiden pulled away from abyss. New stockings it is.”

A shout from the bar pulled her eyes away. She slipped the bill into her blouse, nodded her thanks, and then braved another passage across the crowded pub.

Stefan watched her leave, shaking his head regretfully. “It is done, Pablo,” he said, using his friend’s nickname and pausing to half-drain the glass. “Once I get the boat squared away for our new captain, I’ll be reassigned or booted out on my ass. He’ll want someone of his own. And so, I follow orders. That is the way it is.”

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Stefan knew it, and so did Eryk. No one loved submarines more than Stefan. While other officers went out of their way to avoid service aboard these dank, moldy, sour-smelling, leaking cylinders of steel, Stefan had done just the opposite. As a result, he had more firsthand knowledge of submarines than anyone in the Polish Navy. It was all the other aspects of being an officer in the Polish Navy that he didn’t handle so well.

“But not in America,” Pertek said, leaning over his mug and pointing his thumb at a couple sitting quietly at a table in the far corner.

At first glance, they looked English—their clothes had probably been picked up during a stopover in London—but, of course, everyone in the pub knew they were Americans all the way from New York City. At the moment, the only makeup the woman wore was a faint, amused smile. She had pushed away her plate of pork chops and steamed cabbage, but her hands kept returning to it as if they needed something to keep them out of trouble. The man was already working steadily, head down, on a second helping, pausing every now and then to tip back his head and take a swallow or two of beer before resuming.

Rumors had them from Hollywood, but the owner of the hotel where they were staying had set everyone in the dockside pub straight the night before. Hollywood? No. She was a foreign correspondent for an American newspaper syndicate, traveling around the country, doing a series of articles about Polish poets and artists. He was her photographer. No more, no less.

Definitely not less, Stefan thought, eyeing the woman. Not the most beautiful he had ever seen, but there was something about the way she looked that he found intriguing. Perhaps it was her nose. Once broken, it had been set improperly. On anyone else it would have been a distraction, but on her, this imperfection only seemed to enhance her beauty.

He watched her scan the room, stopping for a moment when their eyes met. Did her smile brighten, perhaps recognizing in him someone like herself? And then she was distracted by a comment from her companion. She tossed back her thick red hair and laughed. Stefan wondered what made a sophisticated woman like that laugh. A subtle joke? A cynical comment? Surely not anything a rough seaman could ever say or do.

“I tell you that two men like you and me could go far in the American Navy,” Pertek continued. “Over there, what counts is what is in here and here,” he pointed at his head, and his heart, “and not who your father or grandfather happens to be.”

Stefan clenched his fists, feeling his fingernails bite into his palms. Don’t be fooled, my young friend, he thought. Those count, too. Even in America. It didn’t help that Pertek’s older brother had been sending letters from Chicago for six months, tormenting him with tales of abundance and promise. If only half of them were true, anyone over sixteen and younger than sixty was a fool to remain a moment longer in Poland.

Especially with the threat of war.

But Stefan knew they were not entirely true. As a younger man, he had visited ports around the globe, including those along the American west and east coasts. His first visit to New York had been a wonder. The graceful lady towering above the harbor. The Empire State Building. Stefan had spent so much time looking up in the air, his neck had ached for a week. Two hours sitting on a bench in front of the Macy’s department store had sobered his opinion about America. Not everyone in New York was rich, Stefan realized, as he had watched the crowds surge past him. In fact, most of them didn’t look any better off than he. And a few older crones looked exactly like the old women that populated every small village in Poland, backs twisted into pretzel shapes by endless years of stooping and hauling.

As for the occasional rich person who passed by, they looked suspiciously like the aristocracy of his own land. The same shimmer in their eye, the arrogant cock to their smooth chins. They may not have the title or the family history, but they had everything else. Class distinctions were as prevalent in America as anywhere else, Stefan suspected. They were just better disguised in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Stefan finished the beer, suppressed a belch. “I am a Polish sailor,” he said, more to himself than to his young friend across the table. “That is who I am. That is how I will die.”

Pertek shook his head with exasperation. It was no use arguing. He’d seen that glint in Stefan’s eyes before. It was time to change the subject. He brushed his hand through thick, curly black hair that was the envy of many women. “And so, will it be war?” he asked, persistent as a child.

“I am only second in command,” Stefan said with a harsh laugh, the bite to his words revealing the sting he still felt from once again being denied command of not just any ship, but a vessel he had dreamed about his entire career. “What do I know about such things? Best to ring up that shit Hitler and ask yourself.”