Churchill shook his head, forked some fried tomato into his mouth. A week earlier, he had met with French General Georges over lunch. The General had detailed the French and German armies strengths and weaknesses. The analysis was impressive. Then the General had warned that the Germans had a strong army and the will to fight.
When Churchill asked him if there would be war, the old general had merely sighed, and then stared at him with eyes that had already seen too many men die.
They were too comfortable, Churchill thought. Their wall of guns and concrete, their Maginot Line, it had given them the illusion of security. It would be foolish to attack the French directly. Even Churchill agreed with that. But what if Hitler chose to race around it through another country? The thought hadn’t occurred to Churchill before. “My God,” he muttered to himself with sudden realization, “that’s what he’ll do.”
He heard an exchange of words at the door. Thompson, no doubt, pistol out, demanding identification papers, though Churchill couldn’t imagine a Nazi assassin being so polite as to knock on the door first before opening fire. And if one happened to come around the back way, Churchill had his own weapon close to his side. Not quite as good a shot as Thompson, Churchill had picked a shotgun. He had it nestled like a cat on his lap.
Thompson came in first, followed by the man at the door. He recognized him as one of Chamberlain’s men. “Breakfast?” Churchill offered brightly.
The man shook his head, a lock falling across his forehead. He brushed at it absent-mindedly. “Sir, the Prime Minister would like to meet with you this afternoon,” he said.
“Very well,” Churchill replied. He had been expecting this. “We’ll leave right now.”
“Oh, yes, almost forgot.” The aide was fiddling with the AWOL hair again. “He wanted me to pass along some news that he thought you might appreciate given your longstanding interest in matters of the high seas.”
“Yes, yes?” Churchill said impatiently.
“Our man in Gdynia reports that the last Polish submarine in port—the Eagle—has managed to escape.”
A broad smile split Churchill’s pug face. “Bully them!” he exclaimed. “On such a dark day we can take heart from at least one bright spark.”
Churchill stuck a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth. He had no illusions about the conflict with Germany. The very survival of England would be in the balance, of that he was certain. He was ready for the fight to come. In some sense, his whole life and career had been pointing to this moment. He would serve King and country in whatever way the prime minister deemed fit. “Let’s go, Thompson,” he growled, “and don’t forget your pistol.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sieinski lay on his bunk, one leg up, his arm flung across his face. A pan on the floor was completely filled with vomit. Even if he had been so inclined, he was too weak to dispose of the former contents of his stomach on his own. That’s why God made some men seaman, he thought wryly to himself.
He had tried to eat. Some eggs and potatoes whipped together by the cook. It had stayed down just a moment, then come back up again. He had retched until his stomach was completely empty of not only the most recent attempt at a meal but of what had remained of the banquet he had enjoyed the night before. Memories of it were already disappearing like a spring snow.
Sieinski tried a sip of tea, sweet and tepid, successfully fought back a spasm and tried another sip. He needed something. He was almost too weak to walk, and his head felt very much like the time he had been struck by a polo mallet that had slipped out the hands of one of his opponents. Accident. At least, that’s what the man said later on, when he stopped by Sieinski’s hospital bed to apologize. Sieinski had never believed him.
“Sir?”
“Enter,” Sieinski groaned.
Stefan slipped into the captain’s cabin, wrinkled his nose when he noticed the foul soup on the floor.
“We’re out of the harbor,” Stefan said sourly, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.
“We haven’t dived yet?”
“No need. We’re in a fogbank …”
“Aren’t we the lucky ones,” Sieinski replied sarcastically.
Stefan stared at the ceiling of the cabin. “We’ll stay in it as long as we can, and then submerge until nightfall. I imagine we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. Every plane in the Luftwaffe will be on the lookout for us. We’re on course to reach our station off Gdansk shortly after 2000 hours.”
“Very well,” Sieinski groaned.
“I heard you lost one of the gunners?”
Stefan nodded. “Yes,” was all he said. He didn’t want to prolong the present conversation any longer than necessary. The smell from the pan was making him dizzy.
“Rotten luck having something like that on your conscience. But I warned you all to keep a sharp eye, didn’t I?”
Stefan didn’t trust himself to say anything. He kept his eyes on the wall above the captain’s head.
“Make sure you contact headquarters before we submerge. I imagine they’ll want to know that we’re still in one piece.”
As Stefan began to back out of the cabin, Sieinski lifted the crook of his arm off his face, pointed it languidly at the vomit in the pan. “Since you’re here, please take care of that. Bring the pan back. Clean enough to eat on, of course. I still don’t trust my stomach.”
Stefan bared his teeth in a weak approximation of a grin. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, saluting sharply. He took a deep breath, picked up the pan and disappeared.
What an odd man, Sieinski thought to himself. You’d think Stefan would have more to say after the death of a crewmen—one of his own men. Perhaps it was an indication of the depth of character. Sieinski would have continued along that path if it wasn’t interrupted by a vague memory. Since regaining consciousness, his overcoat had never been far from his mind. Now he had a fuzzy recollection of waking aboard the Eagle, recognizing the warmth of his overcoat, draped over him like a blanket, the touch of someone’s hand on his forehead, the tug on a leg as someone removed his boots, and then everything had become black again.
Perhaps it was here after all?
“Radioman?” Sieinski yelled, suddenly anxious.
“Aye, sir,” came the reply from the small cubbyhole on the other side of the passageway. A pale, narrow-faced boy wearing headphones stepped out of the opening. He rapped on the bulkhead next to the curtain door of the captain’s cabin.
“Come, come, don’t be shy.”
Radioman Igor Radovic stuck his head past the cloth, restrained an impulse to pinch his nose at the lingering stench. “What is it, sir?”
“Ah, yes. See if you can raise M10 for me. Tell her captain I want to meet. Rendezvous Beta. He’ll know the place and the time.”
“That’s it?”
“Oh, yes. Let me know immediately if you receive any messages from headquarters. That’s me alone. Understand?
“Aye, sir,” the radioman replied, raising his eyebrows. “Anything else.”
“Ah, yes, yes.” Sieinski had to grab the edge of the blanket to stop his shaking hands. “And get someone to find my coat. You know, my good one. It must be here somewhere. And I want to know who took it.”
Stefan stomped down the passageway like a man possessed, his face red with rage, the pan filled with Sieinski’s vomit held at arm’s length. Unfortunately for Squeaky, he was the first one he met. He grabbed the startled man by the shirt collar, thrust the pan of vomit in his hand. “Get rid of this,” he choked. “And make sure the captain gets the pan back. And I want it clean enough to eat off, got that?”
Squeaky nodded.
Stefan continued on down the passageway like a fast moving squall. He didn’t stop until he ducked into his own cabin. He leaned heavily against the bulkhead, breathing deeply through his nose. He had to be more careful. No good if he lost control. He held out his hand. It was vibrating like a tuning fork. He clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall, and then
again. No, he would not allow himself to lose control, not in the face of the dangers the Eagle faced. But it was the last time he would let the captain—any captain—treat him like an ordinary stableman.
Chapter Nineteen
“I can probably find you a ball peen hammer.”
Kate stood in the doorway, a bemused look on her face. Her red hair was combed, the bloody bandage that had been wrapped around her head was gone, replaced by a six-inch piece of gauze. She touched her forehead. “Cooky—is that his name?—says I’ll have a nice scar. Not as nice as that Dutch engineer, what’s his name?”
“Hans,” Stefan said after a moment, his voice hollow and without emotion. He glanced down at his throbbing hand and wondered if he had broken a bone. It would serve him right for his schoolboy tantrum.
“Ah, yes, that’s right,” continued Kate. “Hans. He was at the pub, too, you know. Just luck that he and his men happened along when Reggie and I ...” Her voice trailed off as she remembered.
She had been laughing when he first noticed her. She’d thrown back her head, her face bright with humor, revealing a smooth, pale neck. It would be hard to make her laugh now, Stefan thought.
“Anyway, he has a real beauty. Nothing I hope to match. Probably some dueling thing.”
“He’s Dutch,” Stefan prompted.
“They do it, too?”
Stefan smiled.
“That’s better. You don’t look so fierce when you’re smiling. Not all that bad having me and Reggie aboard, I hope. Though I do have a few complaints about the state of the toilet. You’d think grown men would know how to aim it right. It’s not like I’m the only one who has to sit on the darn thing.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Stefan said.
“Would you please? I’d be so grateful. If I hadn’t grown up with a bunch of brothers, I probably couldn’t stand it. You’d have to rig something for me up on deck. It would smell better.”
“We could do that, too,” Stefan said. “Might be a bit cold.”
Kate’s eyes widened and she began a chuckle that quickly changed into a moan. “Please don’t do that,” she said, grabbing her head.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stefan apologized.
Kate composed herself with a deep breath. “That’s better. So, I’m going to have a nice scar. It should go nicely with my nose, don’t you think?” She struck a movie-star pose, head cocked to one side, hand behind her neck, chest out, revealing ample breasts pushing against a soft green wool sweater.
Stefan swallowed hard. It was hard not to stare. “I think you look ...”
“Magnificent,” Reggie finished for him, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve been looking all over this floating deathtrap for you.”
Stefan frowned. Actually, the word that came to mind was ‘wonderful.’ But magnificent would work, too. He kept quiet.
“I needed some exercise,” Kate said. “Thought I’d get some background on the second in command—for my story, of course.”
“Of course,” Reggie smirked.
“I’m very busy,” Stefan said. “What can I do for you?”
“Drop us off at the nearest port, that’s what,” Reggie quipped.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Okay, nearest friendly ship.”
Stefan stared at him.
“See what you’re doing, Reggie? He’s getting that scary look on his face again.” Kate turned toward Stefan. “Don’t listen to him. We like it here. We’re grateful for you getting us out of there.”
“Thank the captain,” Stefan said.
Kate smiled. “And as long as we’re here,” she continued, “you won’t mind if we interview your crew. You’ll remember that I promised that you would end up famous—if you don’t get us killed, that is.”
Stefan took a deep breath, fully prepared to give a harsh retort, but the absurdity of the situation gave him pause: he served an untested captain on an untested boat with an untested crew in a time of war; his vessel was being held together by band aids and the good intentions of three civilian volunteers from the Netherlands; his crowded, all male crew was playing host to an attractive, female American reporter who said she was the neice of the the president of the United States and her photographer, while heading out to help keep the Kriegsmarine from attacking Polish port cities. Now that he thought about it, it couldn’t be much worse. Stefan leaned against the bulkhead, and began laughing. The sound of his mirth turned heads up and down the passageway.
When he finally stopped, he had to wipe his eyes. “Thank you, Miss Roosevelt,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed with so much pleasure.”
“You’re welcome,” Kate replied, her eyes narrowing.
“Under the circumstances, why would I have any objections to interviewing my crew. Just don’t interfere with their duties. You’ll agree with me that there’s no sense in having us all get killed because one of my boys is paying more attention to you than to their jobs. Of course, I’ll need to double-check with the captain. If he says otherwise, I’ll let you know.”
“I’m sure you will,” Kate said, giving him a warm smile. She wrinkled her nose, looking up at the spaghetti of pipes and conduit on the ceiling. “What’s that smell? Salami? God, is that it? Did you know, Mr. Petrofski, that there’s meat hanging from pipes in the ceiling. Bags of onions, too. It’s like the corner grocer from Hell in here.”
“I’m sure you’ve notice that space is precious on a submarine,” Stefan said. “And now, I must get to the bridge.” His eyes lingered for a moment on Kate, and then he carefully brushed past her.
“What about that interview with you?” Kate said.
“I’m a nobody,” Stefan said. As he continued on down the corridor, he reached into his pocket, felt a warm, greasy hunk of meat in his pocket, leftovers from his visit to the captain. He’d forgotten all about it.
“Where are we?” Ritter asked.
Chief K didn’t look up from the gauges. “Somewhere off Gdansk. We’ll sit on the bottom till dark, and then see if we can’t bag us a few Germans.”
“How does everything look?” Ritter was squatting on the deck next to Chief K. They were both watching Ritter’s men clean up, using already filthy rags as best they could. Their clothes and faces were still streaked with grime. Ritter had some bread and meat for them when they were done. He was famished, as well, but he would wait and eat with them.
“So far, so good,” Chief K grunted with satisfaction, flashing yellowed teeth in Ritter’s direction. “You boys finally did the trick.”
Ritter nodded, returned the smile. Fool. During the preceding weeks, when they had been doing everything they could to keep the Eagle in port, he had been easy to distract and when that didn’t work, they had simply appealed to his vanity. He would set down the wrench, ignoring what was going on, and the begin a long discourse on some obscure topic or long-ago experience that only he cared about.
The pimply-faced boy watching behind them, however, had been another matter. He was like an unwanted shadow, observing everything they did, rarely said a word. Probably nothing more than a dumb farm boy, nonetheless, he had made Ritter uneasy. He still did, though this time, instead of sabotaging equipment, they were repairing it.
“You there, boy, run get us some coffee, would you?”
The boy looked at Chief K, who flicked his hand with impatience. “Yes, yes, get to it.”
Jerzy Rudzki swung down from the pipes and padded down the passageway. As he moved away, Ritter noticed he was wearing tattered, blood-stained socks.
Chief K noticed Ritter’s glance. “Won’t take ’em off. A little slow, I think. Follows me around like a pet rooster, you know. But a good boy.”
Ritter feigned a smile.
Chapter Twenty
Stefan trained his binoculars at the distant glow along the southeastern horizon that marked the port city of Gdansk. What interested him, however, had nothing to do with the city. It was the dark shape si
lhouetted against the light. A ship. At least 10,000 tons by the look of her. Their first target.
Stefan glanced at his watch. He had just heard from the captain about a meeting at sea with a Polish Navy motorboat. Unusual timing. What was so important it couldn’t be handled by a radio message? He wondered. Of course, the fact that the captain hadn’t shared any details only added to Stefan’s growing frustration. But that meeting was still three hours away. They would have plenty of time to skewer this fat pig of a German freighter and make it to their planned rendezvous. No escorts in sight. Just like the Germans. Overconfident to a point of arrogance, or stupidity. And definitely German by the look of her. They would get closer before firing, but Stefan didn’t need the confirmation. He knew it in his bones.
He spoke briefly into the speaker tube. “Get the captain,” he said. As a tingle of excitement warmed his belly, he brought the glasses back to his eyes.
After escaping from Gdynia, the Eagle had zigzagged for nearly two hours in a northeasterly direction, protected from German aircraft flying high above by the fog’s gray shroud. By mid-morning, however, the fog began to thin. Stefan ordered the decks cleared, and the Eagle submerged, taking refuge in the black-green depths of the Baltic. Under battery power, and at a much slower 2 knots, Stefan changed course, south toward Gdansk. She had cruised in this direction until mid-afternoon. He had ordered all stop, and the Eagle had settled quietly, 15 fathoms below the surface, waiting here until nightfall.
The captain joined Stefan and three lookouts on the bridge. He was breathing heavily from the climb up the ladder. Stefan slipped the binoculars from around his neck and offered them to the Captain.
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