Fear flooded through her. She struggled to see through the masses of people, most of whom were racing to the sides of the ship.
Scores of soldiers climbed over the railing and jumped into the water.
“Take off your boots!” a seaman shouted. “You won’t be able to swim!”
Soldiers began to untie their laces and remove their boots. A few others stripped off their shirts.
Ruth, holding on to the rail, made her way over the sloped deck. Her eyes locked on an entrance that led to a stairwell, from which a few soldiers were scrambling to exit. She pushed her way forward and, as she was about to enter, a midshipman grabbed her hand.
“You can’t go in there!” the midshipman said.
“I need to find someone—he went to the hull to—”
“It’s too late,” the man said, pulling her away.
“No!” She fought to free herself but the man’s grip held firm.
The ship listed badly, and she and the man fell onto the deck.
The man released her. “Get to the side!”
Ruth, her heart breaking, crawled over the steeply sloped deck to the rail. She pulled herself up and looked out over the water, covered with debris, bodies, and oil from the Lancastria’s ruptured fuel tanks. With no other choice, she removed her shoes, secured her life jacket, and leaped from the vessel.
Ruth plunged hard into the frigid sea, shooting salt water and oil up her nose. She broke the surface, choking on the water and fuel that she swallowed. Around her were men, a few with life jackets, who were treading water to stay afloat.
“Get away from the ship!” a man, his face covered in oil, shouted. “It’ll suck us down when it sinks!”
Ruth paddled her arms and kicked her legs, but the current was strong and the oil was thick as tar. After a few minutes, her lungs and muscles burned with exhaustion. She stopped and floated, her life jacket bobbing her body like a cork in the water.
The Lancastria tilted higher, exposing its giant propeller. Three seamen cried out as they tumbled down the ship’s deck. A few soldiers escaped by crawling out of portholes, while dozens more jumped from the rails and fell into the sea.
Ruth struggled to clear oil from her eyes. She gasped for air and scanned the ocean and ship for Jimmie.
“Here they come again!” a soldier in the water shouted.
Ruth looked up and her muscles turned weak at the sight of a German plane descending toward them. It swooped low and strafed the Lancastria with machine gun fire. Bullets pelted its deck and sent more men jumping into the sea.
“Bloody bastards!” a soldier shouted, clinging to a floating piece of wood.
More German planes appeared, like sharks smelling blood. They dropped flares and strafed the sinking ship, again and again. But the Luftwaffe pilots did not solely target the vessel. They rained down bullets upon the defenseless soldiers in the water.
This is not war, Ruth thought, watching a German plane fire its guns over floating soldiers, it’s murder.
“Take off your life jacket!” a soldier called to Ruth. “Dive under when they come in!”
“I’m spent,” Ruth said, her voice strained. “If my life jacket comes off, I’ll drown.”
The roar of aircraft grew. She rolled onto her side as a German plane swooped in. Bullets pierced the water, inches from her body, and she prayed for it all to end.
CHAPTER 49
SAINT-NAZAIRE, FRANCE—JUNE 17, 1940
With the absence of light, Jimmie followed the sound of screams and gushing water to locate the hatch in the floor that led to the hull. Although the hatch remained open, it was blocked by a large steel beam and a section of bulkhead that had been sheared away in the blast.
“Try to squeeze through!” Jimmie shouted, searching with his hands for a gap in the debris.
“There’s no room!” Horace’s voice cried out from below. “Hurry—it’s flooding!”
Jimmie wrapped his arms around the beam and pulled, but it didn’t budge.
Wails grew from inside the hull, its steel groaning from immense pressure.
He adjusted his grip and placement of his feet. Using both hands, he heaved with all his strength. A piercing pain shot through his bad arm, he lost his hold, and fell back.
“I’m unable to move it!” Jimmie yelled. “Can you get to another stairwell?”
“No! It’s too late!”
“You must try!”
“Go!” Horace screamed. “Save yourself!”
“I’m not leaving you!”
Jimmie wrapped his arms around the beam. He desperately heaved—his muscles burning and pangs shooting through his wrist. Within seconds, the shrieks were silenced by water gushing through the steel debris above the hatch. No!
He fought to move the obstruction, but the force of water, like a powerful stream shooting from a breach in a dam, hurled him against a bulkhead. By the time he got to his feet, the water had reached his waist. The strength of the surge prevented him from returning to the hatch, and he blindly searched for the stairwell as the compartment flooded, now rising above his chest. His hand clasped a handrail and he pulled himself upward, but the water swelled over his head.
