And that’s what bothered him about the three Dutchmen, their leader, Hans, in particular. The music of his soul didn’t match his words. There was something not right about him. Nothing wrong with his mechanical skills, or the skills of the other two, either. They all seemed top-notch. It was something else, and Jerzy hadn’t been able to put a finger on it. Unfortunately, weeks of shadowing them as they attempted to fix the assorted problems that kept cropping up on board the Eagle had given him nothing more than confirmation of his vague sense of unease. If he had approached anyone with his suspicions, it would have only added confirmation to their opinion that he was just a country bumpkin.
He had even begged Chief K to let him take care of the fixes. He could see what needed to be done, the various steps unfolding in his mind like the pictures in a book. “I know what to do,” he said one evening, catching Chief K alone in the petty officers quarters. “Let these foreigners go home, and rely on me.”
But Chief K had just laughed. “You are just a boy from the farm,” he said. “How can you know what to do? If I leave it to you, you might kill us all.” And so, Jerzy had waited for his chance.
He worked quickly, searching through the bags of each of the Dutch engineers, keeping a nervous eye for anyone who might blunder by. Fortunately the boat was quiet, most of the crew resting. To be caught stealing or rifling through someone else’s belongings was a particularly serious offense on a submarine where privacy was highly valued because it was such a rare commodity.
The third and final bag was owned by the man named Hans. The one with the scar. Jerzy hissed silently, nervous to finish the job, frustrated because the prior two bags had revealed nothing out of the ordinary. His hand touched something metallic. He pulled it out, held it up to the dim light. A wristwatch. Swiss-made. The farm boy in him was fascinated by its elegant design, obvious expense. Rolex. He mouthed the word silently. He turned it over, staring blankly at the inscription on the back of the dial. His hand began to shake as he recognized words. Not Polish. Not Dutch. German. There could be no mistake.
“Ah, what have we here?”
Jerzy gasped with surprise, his hand releasing the watch. Ritter’s hand snaked out, catching it easily.
“Fencing,” Ritter said gently in Polish. “It heightens the senses and the reaction time.”
Jerzy nodded. “I was just….”
“That’s all right,” Ritter whispered. “I understand. The fault is not yours. It is mine. Something wasn’t quite right. And it tormented you. I could see that. If I had not been careless, that’s where it would have ended. And you found my watch. It is a very nice watch, is it not?”
Jerzy blinked, nodded again. “You’re…. you’re….”
“Yes, yes, you have it all figured out, you smart boy.” Ritter smiled sadly. He glanced in either direction down the passageway. No one in sight except for Kolb and Bergen, who had automatically positioned themselves to block the view like a pair of well-trained mobsters. “And for that, I’m sorry.” Ritter reached up, patted the boy on the cheek, and then whipped the ridge of his hand across the front of his neck, crushing his windpipe, and more importantly, preventing any screams. “There, there,” he crooned like a mother to her child, pressing the boy’s writhing body up against the bulkhead while his feet began a frantic staccato dance on the deck, soon slowed and then stopped altogether.
Stefan, Kate and Reggie had gone forward just moments before. Ritter knew that at any second the command would come to get underway and the Eagle would spring to life. They didn’t have much time. Ritter slung one of the dead boy’s arms over his shoulder and dragged him toward the back of the boat, Kolb keeping pace, blocking the view. Once in the motor room, Bergen lifted up the hatch covering the aft battery compartment. There was just enough room. Ritter rolled Jerzy through the opening, slammed the hatch back in place, and then held his breath, wondering if the boy would get final revenge by causing a short, or something worse. But the lights didn’t flicker. Ritter exhaled loudly, wiped his brow.
“Too fucking close,” said Bergen. “What did he find?”
Ritter opened his hand. “My watch,” he said with a shake of his head. “‘Too my dear Peter,’ it reads on the back. In German. From my wife.”
Even though Ritter was his superior officer, the stocky German named Bergen couldn’t restrain a shake of his head.
“Yes, my fault,” Ritter apologized. “No excuse of it. I should have kept it on my wrist. What does that make, one beer I owe you both?”
Bergen flashed a smile. Ritter rarely made mistakes, and when he did, he quickly acknowledged them. It was one of the reasons Kolb and Bergen were willing to follow Ritter to hell if need be. It wasn’t just loyalty. It was the fierce, brotherly love felt by comrades in arms who respect each other’s abilities. “A pitcher….,” Kolb said, “And a beautiful, blonde to sit on my lap to run her hands through my hair and keep my stein filled.”
“What hair?”
Kolb reached up and rubbed his grease-stained bald head. He stifled a laugh.
“He may be missed.” Bergen decided it was time to point out the obvious.
Ritter shrugged. “I will say he was sick. You saw how he was treated by the chief and the rest of the crew. The poor fellow was friend to no one.” The German glanced at his watch. “We will be in port in ten hours. He won’t be missed before then. After that, it won’t matter.”
Kolbwas putting away some of the tools Jerzy had left scattered near one of the diesel engines when the expected announcement came over the speaker. “All hands to stations. Prepare to surface.”
The passageway began to fill with young men in various stages of undress, hair askew, yawning.
Chief K appeared, stumbling down the passageway, scratching the gray stubble on his cheeks. He stepped through the compartment opening, and into the motor room. He grunted a greeting in the direction of the three Germans. “Next stop, Tallinn,” he said with a wide grin, grabbing the pipes overhead as the floor began to tilt and the Eagle began her climb back to the surface. “And maybe we get lucky and stay a few days.”
Ritter glanced at his colleagues, returned the smile. “Be careful what you hope for, Chief,” he said with a wink, “Two days might be long enough to get yourself back into trouble again. If we hadn’t left Gdynia when we did, who knows what might have happened to you at the hands of that crone who was warming your dick….”
Chief K’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, you tease me now,” he roared a protest. “A man has his pleasures. No harm in sampling some of the local pastries. How about you join me this time?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Ritter said, chuckling.
“Say, where’s the boy?” Chief K turned a slow 360, dug at his cheek with his fingernail.
“They all look like boys to me,” Ritter said, ignoring the glances from his men. “Which one do you mean?”