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.
(Man is man’s wolf.)
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 his 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.