“Oh.”
“Oh is right. Sanitary accommodations leave a little to be desired. I think they have one you-know-what on this place. One that I can find anyway.”
“How’d we get here?” Kate closed her eyes, touched her head. It was swathed in bandages. “I don’t remember much.”
“The doc or the cook—take your pick; he does both on this boat—thinks you have a concussion. He might even be right. You took a mighty whack on the back of the head. Fortunately some fellas intervened before they, uh. . .”
“Now I remember.” She fought back a need to vomit. She felt her nose. At least they hadn’t broken it again. “And where were you while I was getting the holy hell beat out of me?” Kate took a deep breath and winced. Bruised ribs, too, maybe broken.
“Trying to protect the camera equipment,” Reggie retorted hotly.
“So, you managed to save it?” Kate was feeling less groggy by the minute. The opportunity to be on a submarine in the middle of the war was enough to help cut through the fog.She’d been hoping to find a great story, one that would ensure that newspaper publisher in the country recognized her byline. Maybe this was it? Her growing excitement was even lessening the pain in her head.
“No,” Reggie replied glumly. “I tried. Indeed I did. But it was to no avail. In the end, I was overcome by superior force.”
Kate squinted up at Reggie and held her tongue. He looked so forlorn, so hopeless, she didn’t have the heart to berate him. Later, perhaps.
“Those other guys. Well, they came in too late to save the cameras, but boy did they stomp the shit out of hose hooligans ’scuse my French, see blue play.”
“You’re welcome,” Ritter said in heavily accented English, pushing beside Reggie and peering past the curtain that functioned as a door and into her room. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Kate crinkled her forehead. She knew this man from somewhere else. She just couldn’t remember where and when.
“You aren’t Polish?” Kate said.
Ritter shook his head and smiled. “No. Indeed not. Dutch. An engineer with the company that built this fine vessel. My men and I have been in town the past few weeks helping the Poles with a few,uh, problems. You may have seen me around.”
“So, you’re one of the guys who, who —”
Ritter bowed his head and smiled with real embarrassment. “It was what any man would do under similar circumstances,” he said.
Kate glared at Reggie. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I owe you—we owe you. Thanks,” she said, holding out her hand. “My name is Kate, and my valiant protector and partner over there is Reggie.”
“Very happy to make your acquaintances,” Ritter said, taking Kate’s hand, squeezing it briefly, “though I regret the circumstances. It is now war, you know.”
Kate nodded, more convinced then ever that this was going to make a great story. If, of course, they didn’t find a way to kick her off this boat..
“I just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Ritter said, glancing down the passageway.
“I’ll be all right,” she said, tapping the side of her skull. “A Polish-Scottish noggin. Nothing harder.”
“Tough as nails,” Reggie said.
“I can see that,” Ritter replied with a smile. “Please. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me. And now I must get back to work.” He touched his forehead in salute, and then disappeared.
“Seems like a nice guy,” Reggie said. “Saved our asses.”
“Uh-hmm,” Kate mused. Distinctive. That was the word that came to mind as she considered Hans. Definitely more there than meets the eye, and not just because of the scar on his face, though that in and of itself would make him someone worth remembering. She still couldn’t place him, her mind still fuzzy from the attack. “Wish I’d been able to get in a few kicks,” she mused, flexing her hands, “and maybe a right cross or two.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Reggie smiled and grabbed his crotch. “You did some damage,” he said in falsetto.
Kate couldn’t restrain a grin of her own, but even that hurt. “Gotta cigarette, Reg?”
“I don’t think you can smoke down here.”
Kate stuck out her lower lip, though she didn’t need to do anything to look even more forlorn.
“Don’t let them blame me,” Reggie grumbled, feeling the front of his jacket. He shook his head. “Want me to look around?”
“Would you?”
He disappeared out the doorway. Kate waited a minute, then sat up, held the side of the bunk until the waves of dizziness passed. No cameras. That was a problem. On the other hand, a first-hand account of the war from inside a submarine, that was a scoop no one could match. The fact that she was on a boat full of men wouldn’t hurt either. She could play up that part as well. The trick would be figuring how to stay put, and then get her reports off the submarine and on to London.
Kate glanced around the room. She’d seen bigger closets. She was sitting on a narrow bunk covered in a wad of blankets. There was blood on the pillow. At first, she wondered if the original inhabitant had had a bloody nose, and then she realized the blood was her own. Gray metal walls covered in girlie pictures. A spaghetti of cables, conduit and pipes choked the ceiling. There was a small writing table in the corner with a quilt thrown over the chair. It was a garish touch of home.
Kate pressed her palm against her eyes as another wave of nausea and pain threatened to return her to unconsciousness. “No,” she said, fiercely, biting her lips until she drew blood.
When it passed, she staggered to her feet. She was tempted to hide and hope that by the time whoever called this particular bunk home remembered they were on board, they’d be at sea. And by then, it would be to late to kick her and Reggie off the sub.
But hiding had never been Kate’s style. “Got to find whoever is in charge,” she said loudly to herself, wondering how she was going to convince them to keep her on board. She didn’t need a crack on the head to know that if she told the truth her chance of staying was slim to none. But like any good reporter, Kate wasn’t above stretching the truth every now and then to get what she wanted. And if they made a mistake and thought she was the American neice of a very important person. Perhaps even the Prime Minister of England himself, or better yet, the president of the United States, then her chances of staying on board might improve.
Kate staggered out of the cabin, down the narrow passageway, not sure she was going in the right direction, but at least she was moving, and with only two choices, the wrong way would be easy to correct. Before she met the captain, she needed to talk with Reggie, make sure he didn’t ruin her tale of deception before she had a chance to tell it. She saw men step aside, noted, as if observing it all from a third story apartment, the expressions on their faces. “You were expecting Lana Turner?” she muttered under her breath.
Squeaky fought back a yawn, his eyes watering like he was in the midst of a week-long drunk—if only he had been so lucky. He almost wished for another attack—anything—to help break up the boredom.
The last false alarm had been an hour ago—a periscope in the harbor. After the firing stopped, and they had a chance to take a closer look, the periscope turned out to be nothing more than driftwood, floating and twisting in the swells.
“I think you got that German snag,” Squeaky said, to sheepish laughter from the gun crews.
There had been two visitors since Ritter and his group had boarded the submarine. The first, a courier from Navy headquarters, roared up to the submarine on his motorcycle, thrust orders for the
Eagle
to get underway into Squeaky’s hands. “Immediately!” the courier had underscored with obvious self-importance.
Squeaky crumpled the sheet, and tossed it back in the courier’s face. “This is as helpful as a case of butt wipe,” he yelled, enjoying the release. Someone, finally, to retaliate against. “And tell those assholes you work for that next time we want them to send us down something useful, like a new hydraulic pump or two.” The courier had dropped his chin and then scuttled back to his motorcycle, the flaps on his leather helmet flopping like the ears of a basset hound.
The other visitor was a butcher who had a shop a few blocks from the quay. He pulled a squeaking handcart loaded with meats and sausages up to the gangplank, pushed back his hat and whistled, hands on his hips, his gaze moving along the dark flank of the submarine. “Thought that damn airplane had done you in. Hoped not, though, mostly ’cause I wanted you boys to have these. Better to give ’em away to some brave Polish warriors than let the damn Huns have ’em.” And then he leaned close to Squeaky. “There’s also a few bottles of you-know-what under the meat,” he said. “My gift to you and your officers. Toast for all of us when you make your first kill.”
“Indeed we will,” Squeaky had replied formally, bowing his head. He reached under the seat, held a bottle of Klasno vodka up to the faint lights from across the harbor. “Thank you, Pops.” Squeaky slipped the bottle into his jacket and then waved for the man on the bow of the boat and one of the gun crew to come down. Five minutes later, the meats and sausages were on board, hanging from the overhead pipes that ran along the main passageway, adding their particular aroma to the submarine’s cocktail of smells.
Squeaky didn’t bother to fight back the yawn this time, feeling the outline of the vodka bottle with his right hand, wondering if there would be any harm in taking a nip or two. Not to be left out, his stomach gave a greedy rumble.
He almost didn’t notice the silent, easily recognized figure take shape out of the shadows. “Hold the light,” Squeaky barked hoarsely, setting his rifle aside and rushing forward. “I was beginning to think you had other plans, Squeaky said with a broad grin. “Let me give you a hand. The captain?”
Stefan nodded.
“Dead?”
“Don’t ... think ... so,” Stefan gasped. He staggered to a halt, and let Squeaky grab the captain and lower him to the ground.
Stefan stood there, swaying slightly as if pushed by an unseen breeze, sucking in great drafts of air. “Not dead. At least, I don’t think so.”
“What happened?”
Stefan looked up, dark eyes glittering. “Tell the men it was a Nazi bomb. It hit 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.