Ismay stepped forward. “We have plans for two additional naval evacuations. The first one, called Operation Cycle, will be in Normandy.” He placed a finger on the map. “Within a week, we will commence an evacuation at the port of Le Havre. Our aim is to remove twenty thousand Allied soldiers.”
Churchill clamped his cigar between his molars.
“The port is currently one hundred fifty kilometers from the German line, and we expect Le Havre to fall within days of commencing the operation.”
Churchill puffed smoke. “We must do better, Pug,” he said, using the general’s nickname. “We have far more souls to save.”
“Yes, sir.” Ismay ran his finger down the French coastline on the map. “We have a second evacuation—Operation Aerial—that will commence in Brittany at Saint-Nazaire, near the mouth of the Loire River. It will be a large-scale mission. Our goal is to remove two hundred thousand British, French, Polish, and Czech troops, as well as some civilians.”
Operation Aerial, Churchill thought. “Given the name of the mission, I presume that the RAF will play a significant role.”
“Correct. The Allied rescue ships will be covered by five RAF fighter squadrons located at French bases. There will also be assistance from aircraft in England.”
Churchill took a drag on his cigar. “When will Operation Aerial commence?”
“The Admiralty is working on the precise date. Our best estimate is ten to fourteen days from now.”
“Too long.”
“With all due respect, sir, it will take time for the bulk of the troops to make their way to Saint-Nazaire.”
“It will also provide the enemy with ample time to arrive there as well.”
Ismay shifted his weight.
“I was contacted by French Prime Minister Reynaud this morning,” Churchill said. “He provided no details on the Luftwaffe bombing raid on Paris, but he did inform me that they have begun the process to relocate the French government to Tours.”
Ismay rubbed his jowl.
“Every effort should be exhausted to accelerate the timeline of Operation Aerial.”
“Yes, sir.”
Churchill gestured with his cigar to the map. “Italy is planning to enter the war on Germany’s side, Norway will likely negotiate its surrender to Hitler within the week, the French line at the Somme will soon succumb to Panzers, and France will inevitably fall.”
General Ismay drew a deep breath and nodded.
“It will be Britain that stands alone in the fight.” Churchill tamped out his cigar and looked into the eyes of his chief military assistant. “We shall not fail. We shall bring back our troops, rebuild our military might, and achieve nothing less than victory.”
Ismay raised his chin. “Indeed, sir.”
“I will call a war cabinet meeting after my speech at the House of Commons,” Churchill said. “I trust that you will inform the Chiefs of Staff about our discussion.”
“I will, sir. Have a good address at the House of Commons.” Ismay put on his cap, exited the room, and closed the door behind him.
Alone, the burden of the war weighed heavy on Churchill. The fight for Britain’s sur vival has barely begun, and yet far too many souls have been lost. He resumed his work on the draft of his speech. Unsatisfied with the words, he crumpled the paper and dropped it into a rubbish bin. He took out a fresh sheet of stationery and started over from scratch.
CHAPTER 30
PARIS, FRANCE—JUNE 4, 1940
Ruth’s back muscles flared as she helped Lucette and two gray-haired medics to place a stretcher—holding a wheezing, unconscious man with his body and face covered in soot—into the back of a hospital ambulance. The medics slid the man, his limbs limp, onto a cot and handed the stretcher to Ruth, who stood outside the vehicle. As the ambulance raced away from the parking lot, she and Lucette returned to the vast, smoldering remains of the Citroën automobile factory.
The factory, which had been converted to military production for the war, was now a mountainous mound of melted steel, fallen brick, and burned-out armored vehicles. It had taken a direct hit from German bombs, and the only part of the complex that remained unscathed was an annex, where manufacturing materials were stored. Scores of firefighters searched through the rubble, while hundreds of people—hoping to find their loved ones alive—stood vigil near the parking lot.
A piercing whistle shrilled through the air.
Ruth’s body stiffened.
“There,” Lucette said, pointing to a group of firemen pulling away chunks of debris.
Ruth, along with Lucette, lifted the stretcher and clambered over thirty meters of rubble. The air reeked of burnt chemicals, and Ruth coughed from breathing in ash. She pushed on, struggling to maintain her footing on mounds of broken bricks, until they reached the firemen.
Ruth and Lucette placed down the stretcher.
A fireman—his soot-smeared face streaming with sweat—looked at Ruth and shook his head.
Her heart sank.
The firemen placed a lifeless body onto the stretcher. Ruth, Lucette, and two of the firemen carried the corpse to a makeshift morgue in the annex building, where over two hundred perished men covered the ground.
Ruth and Lucette, along with dozens of civilian volunteers, had labored through the night to aid firemen with recovering victims from the wreckage. At the time of the Luftwaffe bombing raid, a thousand or more employees were working on the day shift at the factory. Firemen, who’d come from stations across the city, searched and removed victims from the rubble, while medics and ambulance workers carried away the casualties. In addition to the two hundred dead that were dug out of the ruins, three times as many injured workers were rushed away to hospitals across Paris. But as hours passed and night turned to day, few people were found alive.
Ruth and Lucette had not gone directly to the Citroën automobile factory. They initially reported for duty at the headquarters of the French Army’s ambulance corps, and Ruth found Lucette, waiting for her at the front of the building. The headquarters was sparse of military personnel and the parking lot—once lined with freshly painted ambulance trucks—was empty. They found Chief Corporal Faucher, the man who’d reluctantly admitted Ruth into the corps, seated at a desk in an office on the second floor. Faucher’s face was pale and his eyes were lackluster, as if the air raid had put him into a mild state of shock. He had difficulty recognizing Ruth and Lucette, and he twice asked for their names, which he verified with a list of volunteers in his desk.
“I am unable to assign you an ambulance,” the corporal had said, placing down his list. “The army has run out of vehicles.”
My God, Ruth had thought. How will the army transport their injured without ambulances?
