The Last Eagle (2011) by Michael Wenberg Page A

the hotel, wounded our captain and others. It was only a miracle of God that he is still alive.”
    Squeaky frowned.
    “If anyone asks, tell them,” Stefan said fiercely, reaching forward and grabbing Squeaky by the shirt. “In fact, you tell the story first thing, and make sure everyone else knows it. Understand?”
    Squeaky nodded slowly.
    “Good,” Stefan grunted. He smoothed the front of Squeaky’s shirt, patted him on the cheek.
    “He smells like shit,” Squeaky remarked, “and so do you.”
    Stefan put a hand on Squeaky’s shoulder, loosened his belt, and stepped out of his vomit-stained trousers. He put them in Squeaky’s arms. “There you go,” he said, smiling broadly. “Now so do you. Please get our dear captain aboard. Have someone clean him up. And get someone to bring me some clean pants. I can’t go onboard like this.”
    Stefan rubbed his face wearily. What a sight. Stinking, white-legged Stefan. And now is the perfect time for the admiral to drive up in his staff car. The old fart wouldn’t crack a smile, Stefan’s appearance simply confirming what he had known all along.
    Five minutes later, Squeaky was back. “Here you go,” he said, tossing the trousers at his friend.
    Stefan had been leaning up against the gangplank, ignoring the grinning guards. He held the trousers out, sniffed the air, and then nodded to himself. They’d have to do. “Chief K on board yet?” he asked, buckling the belt.
    “He said he needs another two hours.”
    “Do you believe him?”
    Squeaky shrugged. “I think he’s only concerned about being shot. We won’t do much good if we get out to sea and then run into mechanical trouble.”
    “I know,” Stefan replied, rubbing his face again. “But we do Poland no good staying here. We’ve been lucky so far, but—” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
    “Have you heard anything?”
    Stefan shook his head.
    “How do you think we’re doing?”
    Stefan gestured for a cigarette, waited for Squeaky to fumble in his jacket and then hand one over. He lit it, taking his time to reply. “Haven’t heard many of our planes, have you?”
    Squeaky shook his head.
    “That tells you how we’re doing in the air. The Army? Well, we have brave men, yes. And I suppose we’re about evenly matched in terms of numbers. The French and English did us no favors warning against mobilization. The trick is what the French will do now. If they attack, we might have a chance. But I fear that they will stay safely in their warm bunks behind their Maginot Line, and the Englanders are too far away to do us much good. We are on our own.”
    “But we cannot lose!”
    Stefan didn’t reply. He finished his cigarette, flicked the butt into the water. He patted Squeaky on the shoulder. “We must do our part,” he said simply. “That is all we can do. You OK here?”
    Squeaky nodded.
    “Pablo and the rest of the men on board?”
    “An hour ago,” Squeaky said. “We’re all here.”
    Stefan glanced to the east. There was already a faint hint of light. They didn’t have much time.
     
     

Chapter Thirteen
     
     Stefan could smell the stink of hydraulic fluid two compartments away. Not a good sign. He increased his pace, ducking and weaving his way down the choked passageway, surprisingly agile for such a big man, but still finding the time along the way for a word in one sailor’s ear, a joke for another and a pat on the back. It was the behavior of a natural leader. Of course, he didn’t think of it that way. Wasn’t even aware of it. But it was exactly what his crew needed. His presence wafted through the ship like a fresh breeze.
    “How soon?” Stefan asked, standing in the opening to the compartment, staring down at the huddle of men so stained with grease, it was hard to distinguish one from another.
    Ritter glanced up from the pump, wiped his face with his sleeve, started to reply but held back. He and his men weren’t even supposed to be on board.
    Chief K