“France is defeated,” Reynaud said in English.
Churchill, assuming he’d misheard the words, pressed the receiver tight to his ear.
“The front is breached at Sedan,” Reynaud said, his voice filled with distress. “We have lost the fight.”
Churchill listened to the French prime minister provide an account of the battle in France, which was followed by a plea for more British fighter squadrons. He reminded Reynaud that there were many bleak moments during the Great War that seemed every bit as hopeless, but the French prime minister remained fearful that all would be lost. Churchill promised to provide additional air support and told him that he would fly to Paris the next day to meet with him. And, within hours of ending his call with Reynaud, Churchill received more grave news—the Netherlands surrendered to Germany.
Churchill rolled down a rear window of the limousine and peered at the Paris skyline and its emblematic Eiffel Tower. A burning resolve flowed through his veins. I must find a way to bolster the French leadership. Surely their great army can’t be on the brink of collapse so soon. He flicked ash and clamped his cigar between his molars.
Minutes later, Churchill and his envoy arrived at Quai d’Orsay, the French Foreign Ministry, located in the 7th arrondissement. He exited the limousine and was escorted into a majestic, four-story limestone building by two armed French soldiers. Inside a gallery with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a garden, Churchill was greeted by Reynaud, a Frenchman in his early sixties who was wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, a burgundy-colored tie, and a white handkerchief that flared from a breast pocket. The tonic in his slicked-back hair emitted a scent of eucalyptus, and his short neck gave him the appearance that his shirt collar was glued to his jaw.
“I wish we were meeting under different circumstances,” Reynaud said.
“Indeed.” Churchill removed his hat and shook his hand.
The British greeted their French counterparts, all of whom looked dejected. The meeting got underway with the men choosing to stand rather than sit at a large oak table.
An elderly, white-mustached general named Maurice Gamelin, who was the commander-in-chief of the French Armed Forces, walked to the front of the room where there was an easel that held a map of the Allied front. Gamelin’s military tunic was decorated with rows of colorful medals, and his hand slightly trembled as he pointed to a bulge on the front line—drawn in red—at Sedan.
“The Germans broke through here,” Gamelin said.
Churchill eyed the map, taking in the location of the breach, as well as the marked positions of Allied and Axis troops.
The French general spoke uninterrupted for several minutes. He described the collapse at Sedan, the catastrophic losses of French armored units, and the locations of German Panzer divisions that were moving toward the English Channel—250 kilometers away.
The British military men, their eyes wide, stared at the map.
Gamelin finished his debriefing and lowered his hands to his side.
The room fell silent.
“Where are your reserve troops?” Churchill asked in French.
Gamelin looked at Churchill. He shook his head and shrugged. “There are none.”
Anger boiled inside Churchill, yet his outward appearance remained calm.
The British officers glanced at each other.
Movement outside drew Churchill’s eyes to a gallery window. In the garden, smoke rose from several bonfires, where French officials were tossing wheelbarrows of papers onto the flames. They’re already planning to evacuate. Maintaining his composure, he looked at Gamelin and asked, “When and where do you plan to attack the flanks of the German line?”
Gamelin shifted his weight. “Inadequate quantities—inadequate armament—inadequate means.”
Churchill shook his head. Inadequate French military chiefs.
While the British military men asked questions of Gamelin, Churchill stepped aside with Prime Minister Reynaud.
“We need six more Hurricane fighter squadrons,” Reynaud said.
“After we spoke yesterday, I authorized four additional squadrons to be sent to France.”
“It’s not enough.”
Churchill’s mind raced as he weighed the risk. He glanced at the map. If the Panzers are ordered to turn south, they’ll take Paris. But if they continue their current path—and the French Army is unable to slow them down—the BEF in northwest France and Belgium could be placed in peril.
Churchill clasped the lapels of his suit jacket. “Very well. But nothing more. I need a minimum of thirty-nine fighter squadrons to defend British war industries.”
“Merci,” Reynaud said.
An hour later, the meeting was adjourned and Churchill and his envoy left Quai d’Orsay. He stopped at the British Embassy, where he sent a wire to London to deploy the fighter squadrons that he promised Reynaud. While he was there, he was given an envelope that contained messages. Eager to return to London, he slipped the envelope in his jacket and traveled to the airfield.
Thousands of feet above France, he opened the envelope and read his messages, one of which was a response to a request he’d made to US President Roosevelt for naval ships. He drew a deep breath and turned to General Ismay, sitting across the aisle from him. “Roosevelt says that a loan of destroyers will require an act of Congress.”
“As you suspected, sir.” Ismay shifted in his seat and turned to the prime minister. “I’ve given more thought about the decision to deploy more fighter squadrons.”
Churchill set aside his messages. “You don’t approve, I presume.”
“That is correct, sir,” Ismay said, candidly. “Given the failing state of French defenses, I think it would be prudent to keep them to protect Britain.”
“If we don’t provide them with more air support,” Churchill said, “France could crumble as swiftly as Poland.”
Ismay rubbed his chin. “With all due respect, sir, France may fall with or without more Hurricanes.”
“Perhaps, but if the French Army is unable to slow the progress of the Panzers, the vast majority of our BEF troops will be at risk of being cut off and pushed into the sea. It took months to deploy three-hundred-and-ninety-thousand soldiers. If we should need to evacuate them, the air support might grant us time to get them home.”
Ismay gripped a leather belt on his tunic and nodded. “Your point is well taken, sir.”
While the military staff discussed operational plans, Churchill looked out an aircraft window to the dark water of the English Channel. The severity of the situation weighed heavy on him as he pondered the day’s events. He toiled over options that might create a way out of the plight, which seemed to grow worse by the hour. Determined to exhaust every possible course of action, he retrieved a piece of stationery and a fountain pen from a case under his seat and began to draft a letter.
