The Last Eagle Read online

  The Last Eagle

  Michael Wenberg

  Forced into a neutral Estonian port for repairs during the chaos of the opening days of World War II, the Polish submarine, the “Eagle” and her crew are betrayed by their captain and captured by Nazi sympathizers. The crew, however, isn’t content to sit out the war. With help from unexpected sources—a naval attaché with the British Embassy and a courageous American reporter and her photographer sidekick—they overcome their captors, regain control of the “Eagle,” and escape. The German’s are convinced the “Eagle’s” crew has no stomach for a fight and will seek refuge in Sweden. But the Poles have something else in mind—join up with the British Fleet and continue fighting against their homeland’s Nazi conquerors. They face stiff odds. The “Eagle” has little food and water, few torpedoes, and no sea charts. And before she can rendezvous with the British somewhere in the North Sea, she must traverse the Baltic, which has become little more than a Nazi-controlled lake.

  This story is inspired by the exploits of the Polish submarine, “Orzel,” during the early weeks of World War II.

  Winston Churchill called her escape from the Nazis “an epic.”

  THE LAST EAGLE

  A novel of World War II

  by Michael Wenberg

  The only thing that really frightened me during the war was the U-boat peril.

  —Winston Churchill

  Człowiek człowiekowi wilkiem. (Man is man’s wolf.)

  —Polish proverb

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to the officers and crew of the World War II-era Polish submarine, ORP Orzel, and my own family members who fought and served this country bravely in times of war: Cuyler Wenberg, USMC; Allen R. Miller, US Navy; William “Uncle Bill” Pile, US Navy; William “Uncle Ernie” Frost, USAF; and David “Uncle Dave” Bowman, USAF.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my beloved wife, Sandy, for putting up with my many hours in front of the keyboard and my obsession with telling stories.

  I also want to thank David Barrett for that invitation years ago to spend the day on the USS Michigan (SSBN-727) beneath the waters of Hood Canal’s Dabob Bay.

  I still owe you that beer, Dave.

  Chapter One

  They were almost finished when the man Albert Blum knew only as Tolefson had surprised his guide with something more than a grunt and a nod.

  “She is a beauty,” he said as he pulled a silver flask from the pocket of his jacket, unscrewed the cap, and then took a swig. “Happy New Year!” he added. He didn’t bother to offer a drink to Blum.

  It was January 1, 1939. Dawn was still hours away. Except for this pair, a watchman and his cat snoozing inside the coal-warmed guardhouse at the main gate, the De Schelde shipyards in the Dutch city of Vlissingen were deserted.

  “One last look,” this Tolefson had insisted a few minutes earlier, stepping back out into the sleet before Blum had a chance to object, forcing him to follow onto the icy catwalk bolted to the side of the red brick office building, home to the shipyard’s directors and engineering staff.

  Blum knew it was a mistake as soon as he stepped outside and his feet began to slide toward the edge. He grabbed the railing with both hands, stifling a gasp of terror as a gust swirling in off the distant harbor made the catwalk shiver like an old dog. He closed his eyes for a moment and fought back a rush of vertigo and an impulse to drop to his knees. He was tempted to scramble back inside where it was warm, dry and safe to wait for his guest, this Tolefson, or whatever the fool decided to call himself an hour from now. Not that the man would have noticed Blum’s absence. Or even cared what he did. After the first greeting a few hours earlier, he had barely even acknowledged his presence.

  Arrogant bastard. Blum licked his lips and glared at his companion. He could use a drink. He suspected the man was enjoying his discomfort. There had to be more to it then just one last look. But Tolefson acted the part. Hands now pushed deeply into the pockets of his worn seaman’s coat, he was staring intently into the distance.

  Blum released one hand, swiped at the soggy tip of his nose, jabbed his gold-framed glasses back into position and followed Tolefson’s gaze. What was it about ships that made some men stare at them with such lust? He had always wondered. Blum wasn’t even particularly fond of the sea, so its more romantic aspects he had never understood.

  A ship was just a ship, he was fond of saying to his wife. And De Schelde had been churning them out for nearly three centuries. Blum’s father and grandfather had spent their careers at De Schelde. Blum had already put in twenty years. Ten more behind a De Schelde desk, and he could retire. Ships were nothing to get excited about, nothing at all.

  And yet, he had to admit the object of Tolefson’s admiration was no ordinary ship. From this distance, she looked like any submarine. But looks were deceiving. She was, in fact, one of the most advanced submarines in the world. At nearly 85 meters in length, her unique double-hull design was the wave of the future. Every major submarine manufacturer in the world had double-hulled submarines on the drawing boards or already under construction. Powered by twin Sulzer six-cylinder diesel engines, she could knife through even the roughest seas at speeds exceeding 20 knots. Underwater, batteries provided enough current to keep her electric motors running for hours, long enough to take her far away from any harm. When she found a target, she could surface in seconds, sending high-explosive-tipped torpedoes racing toward her victims. In short, she was more than a match for any vessel, deadly even to the immense battleships of the British Navy, or her more likely foe, the Germans.

  Blum had heard rumors that the Germans were building an immense battleship of their own. A De Schelde–built, Orzel class submarine versus the best of the Kriegsmarine. Stealth versus brute strength. It would be a classic battle that he would love to see from a safe distance.

  Blum wondered if the taciturn Tolefson would offer another observation; perhaps make up for the insult by congratulating him on the submarine’s fine workmanship. Just twenty minutes earlier, they had finished a close-up look at the submarine. Even then Tolefson had been maddening, taking his time, opening every hatch, checking valves and fittings, tapping on pipes with his knuckles, as if he could detect some flaw where teams of inspectors had not. But he remained silent, and so Blum decided to brave an observation of his own. “And yet such a waste,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Blum jerked with surprise. “Isn’t it obvious?’ he stammered, leaning against the solid mass of the building for reassurance.

  “Humor me,” Tolefson said, glancing over his shoulder at Blum as if seeing him for the first time.

  “The Polish Navy, for God’s sake.” Blum retorted with the snort of a professional know-it-all, noticing how the cold made the old scar that curved from Tolefson’s chin to ear stand out like a chalk line on a blackboard. He had wondered about the scar when they met. But sensing that the exotic tale of its origin would only highlight the inadequacy of his own life, he had kept quiet. He was tempted to ask him about it now, but instead, waved his frozen hands dismissively. “They are better suited to fishing scows than one of the finest submarines in the world,” he continued. “And Eagle? A name for a thing of the air, not for a creature of the sea. She won’t be appreciated and used in the way that she might in, well, other organizations. You’ve just had a chance to see first hand what a fine vessel she is. Sound as a Swiss-made watch. Turning it over to the Poles is a bloody shame, if you ask me. That’s all I meant!” He punctuated his last words with a knowing wink.

  Tolefson lit a cigarette with practiced movements, cupping the lighter flame with his hand, standing as comfortably on the slick catwalk as if he was waiting for a bus. He exhaled smoke through h
is nose. “"Yes, I suppose that explains it. Though I don’t think you’re right about her name. A bird of prey suits her.” He closed his bullet-colored lighter with a click, slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. “Are you a sailor, Assistant Director Blum?”

  “What does that—” Blum began to retort before habit took over. “Of course I love the sea,” he said evenly, “but my business responsibilities leave little time for such, uh, leisure pursuits.”

  “I see…” Tolefson didn’t bother to hide a faint smile as he let his words trail off. He continued smoking, watching the mist, blown in from the North Sea, begin to soften the monstrous skeletons of half-finished ships that gave the shipyards its nighttime form and texture.

  Prick. With a sudden twist of his soft, flour-colored face, Blum decided they weren’t paying him enough. He’d agreed to provide information about ships under construction at De Schelde to a man who said he was an investment researcher for a bank in exchange for discreet payments on a regular basis into Blum’s Swiss bank account. Despite the money, Blum was the one taking all of the risks. And now he was subjected to personal insults? Maybe it was time to consider other offers. There was plenty of interest in what was happening at De Schelde. Besides, who did this Tolefson think he was dealing with? Blum was no low-level functionary. He was an assistant director at one of the world’s leading shipbuilders.

  Blum calmed himself with three deep breaths and then watched with relief as Tolefson finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the darkness. At last. Blum watched the tip flare bright red as it arced graceful as a cliff diver toward the ground below.

  “Ah, something for you,” Tolefson said, touching his forehead like a forgetful uncle. At first Blum though he was going to offer him a drink from his sliver flask. Instead, he held out a plain, unmarked envelope.

  Blum took it with both hands, turned it over, a puzzled look on his face.

  Tolefson shrugged. “Perhaps a bonus for taking such good care of me tonight,” he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  “You think so?” The right amount might help him forgive all the earlier slights and inconveniences.

  “Save it for later,” Tolefson ordered before Blum had a chance to tear open the envelope.

  Blum felt a flutter of unease. Was he that transparent? “Yes, of course,” he said, clearing his throat. He glanced at his pocket watch. “We really should be going. It would be awkward for me if we are discovered.”

  Tolefson didn’t move. “How high are we?” he said, gesturing in the direction of his just departed cigarette.

  “Sorry?”

  “How high?”

  ”How should I know,” Blum snapped, finally deciding at that moment that whatever bonus money was in the envelope, it didn’t compensate for this kind of aggravation. He was tired of this man’s games, observations, and silly questions, and so cold his balls ached. “Fifteen meters. Twenty perhaps. Why do you ask?”

  Tolefson shrugged. “I can still see the glow from my cigarette below. It doesn’t seem that high.”

  Blum gave an exasperated snort and slid forward to look for himself, angry enough to ignore his fear of heights, ready to set him right and then be done with him.

  As Blum drew close to the railing, Tolefson pivoted quickly, shoved him forward with his left hand, grabbed him by the back of his trousers with his right, and lifted him into the air.

  Blum shrieked as he flipped over the fulcrum of the railing, arms flailing wildly. As he began to fall, he realized with sudden clarity that he had been a greedy fool all along and was now about to die for it.

  Tolefson took his time lighting another cigarette. He peered over the edge. Blum was lying chest-down, his right arm bent awkwardly at the elbow. A broken neck had allowed his head to twist around nearly 180 degrees. He gazed up at his killer with the look of a surprised owl, his pale blonde hair glowing faintly in the dark. Tolefson was no longer surprised when he came across a Jew with blonde hair. He finished his cigarette, letting the cold night air and the smoke wash away the distaste of what he had just done.

  Someone would notice the body in a few hours. They would find the suicide note inside a plain white envelope in his coat pocket. It would explain everything. Money troubles. Women troubles. A man of weak character. No one had particularly liked Blum anyway. The investigation would take just a day or two, and then it all would be forgotten. No one had seen the pair enter the shipyards together. No one would see Tolefson leave.

  Tolefson had nothing against the Jews. And just being a Jew was no reason for Blum to be killed. Greedy, however, that was another matter. And, of course, being greedy was just like a Jew. It was the kind of inane logic that convinced so many that Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister, was right after all. He had almost turned down the Gestapo’s orders, despite the risk to his career. He was not afraid of killing in the line of duty, but he was no murderer. He was a soldier. The Gestapo officer must have sensed his conflict. That’s when he had told him about Blum’s contact with the British. “He was already working for us,” he said as if commenting on the indiscretions of a club member. “We just can’t allow that kind of thing.”

  “I suppose not,” he said now, his words sounding hollow in the cold night air. He lingered for another moment longer, staring hard at the Polish submarine visible under distant lights, strangely reluctant to leave.

  Earlier, he had walked the Eagle’s decks with Blum trailing behind like a lost dog, inspecting every pipe, locker and fitting. He was surprised by how familiar and comfortable it all seemed.

  Of course, the Eagle was nothing like the submarines he had served on in World War I, or even the more updated version he had captained before assuming his current post. She was faster and more lethal than any submarine in the world. There was something right about this ship. He had sensed it as soon as he stepped onto her deck. That’s when he began to envy the man who would soon be her captain. Lucky Polish bastard.

  What was it Blum had said? “A shame,” no, “a bloody shame.” Those had been his words.

  The fool was right about one thing. It was a shame. When war began, she would be an early target. If the Luftwaffe didn’t sink her, the Kriegsmarine would hunt her down and blow her out of the water. A vessel as fine as the Eagle deserved better, but her fate was all but sealed. Tolefson flicked his cigarette into the night, glanced one last time at the Eagle and smiled at a sudden thought.

  Or was it?

  Chapter Two

  Karl Dönitz, chief of the German Navy’s U-boat operations—U-Bootwaffe—stared out the window of his top-floor office, across the broad boulevard choked with traffic, to the park beyond. In recent years, it had bustled with constant activity. Old men playing chess, young lovers strolling along the sidewalks and paths, children kicking soccer balls, playing hide and seek, or running for the sheer joy of it beneath the hawk-eyed gazes of their keepers. And for the hungry, there was the ever-present bratwurst cart, gleaming red in the sunshine like a circus wagon.

  Dönitz smiled to himself at the thought of the cart’s crafty, one-armed owner. Did anyone else ever notice? He was always stationed upwind, making sure the tantalizing perfume of his sizzling brats didn’t miss a nose, working on the subconscious of the unwitting like a gastronomical Pied Piper.

  His name was Friedrich Pfundt. He’d introduced himself without apology months earlier, when Dönitz’s rumbling stomach had led him across the street and the admiral decided to stretch his legs and go himself instead of sending one of his aides on the errand for him.

  “Will there be war, Admiral, sir?” he had asked, recognizing Dönitz’s face from his frequent photograph in the newspaper. He deftly slapped chunks of sausage on a paper plate, adding dabs of hot mustard and horseradish, and then holding it out for him to take.

  Dönitz picked up a piece of bratwurst with his fingers, eyeing the man as he considered his response. One-armed vet, not even bothering to pin up the sleeve of his yellowed shirt,
letting it flap at his side like an appendage with a mind of its own. Black, shapeless pants and sturdy work boots finished a costume that was topped off by a sunburned face that looked as if it had once been crumpled in anger like a sheet of paper.

  More than likely he was just a sausage vendor. But he had been fooled before. Nowadays, anyone could be Gestapo.

  “Goddamn right there’ll be war,” Pfundt answered for him, following his words up with a cackle of glee. “About goddamn time, too. I’d go again if they’d take me—”

  “You have already given more than enough to the Fatherland.” The admiral wiped mustard from his lips, slipped another hunk of sausage into his mouth and began to chew.

  Pfundt shrugged as if it was nothing. “I left my goddamn arm hanging from a smoking snag in the Ardennes. But at least it wasn’t something more important, if you know what I mean.” He wagged an uncooked brat near his crotch for emphasis, and then cackled again, startling crows in a nearby oak. “I can still fight. Best damn one-armed shot in all of Germany. If you ask me, we should sit tight, act nicely nice, take care of what we’ve got, maybe get the Yanks and the Brits on our side, and then we strike when they least expect it.”

  “I’ll pass that along to my superiors,” Dönitz said, dryly. “How many children?”

  “Seven. Five boys, two girls.”

  “I’m sure you’re proud.”

  “Goddamn right,” Pfundt said fiercely.

  “As you should be,” the admiral said, smiling for the first time as he finished his last bite, and dropped his plate into a battered trash. “Thank you for the snack, Herr Pfundt, and the advice.” He gave the man a crisp salute before pivoting away.

  Dönitz would have liked to talk to Pfundt again. Today in particular. But Pfundt was nowhere to be seen, the park deserted, a chill Siberian wind convincing even the desperate to stay inside. Blowing steadily since the night before, it was driving horizontal sheets of rain through trees stripped naked months earlier. And too soon it would be dark again.