Holding his breath, he swam upward and his face struck an overhead, shooting pain through his skull. He kicked his legs and paddled arms, his cast feeling like it was made of lead. He twisted through what he thought was a doorway, rose upward, and located an air pocket the size of a shallow upside-down bucket. Pressing his mouth and nose to the overhead, he sucked in deep, rasping inhales. The water level continued to rise. As the air pocket was about to vanish, he took a final breath and went under. He kicked and pulled as he propelled himself through the submerged passageway, littered with wreckage.
His eyes, burning from seawater, scanned for an opening but found only darkness. With each stroke, his oxygen depleted. His heartbeat hammered his eardrums. As he was about to give up, a glimmer of light appeared in the distance. He kicked harder, working his way through the murk. But his chest heaved, recycling used air in his lungs, and his body weakened with each stroke.
An image of Ruth flashed in his brain as he extended his hand toward the faint glow, too far to reach. His legs and arms gradually went limp. Amid his pain and regret, one vision held steady. Ruth. He relented to the water, and everything fell silent.
CHAPTER 50
SAINT-NAZAIRE, FRANCE—JUNE 17, 1940
Ruth, floating in the sea with her life jacket, struggled to wipe and blink away oil from her eyes. A roar of aircraft engines and shouts of despair filled her ears. Her vision began to clear and she raised her head. High in the sky, German bombers veered to the north and disappeared into clouds. Cold and exhausted, she gripped the front of her life jacket and scanned the water.
The coastline—approximately eight kilometers away—was too far to swim to safety, and at least a thousand people were clinging to buoyant debris or treading water to remain afloat. Soldiers removed life jackets from people who’d been killed by strafing and released their bodies to the deep. The few lifeboats that were deployed were drifting away from the masses, as if their occupants feared that their boat would be capsized by people fighting to climb aboard.
The Lancastria rolled over, exposing its hull and giant propeller. The vessel sank low in the water, and dozens of soldiers—their eyes filled with fear and fatigue—crawled onto the hull. Clustered together, some of the men began to sing a patriotic song called “There’ll Always Be an England.” Ruth, in a state of shock and anguish, fought to paddle through the oil-covered water in search of Jimmie.
Twenty minutes after the German bombs struck the Lancastria , it sank below the surface. The men, who’d rested on her hull, either swam away or were pulled under by the turbulence of the sinking ship. For nearly two hours, Ruth and the people in the water fought to survive. There were two more strafing attacks by German planes, which killed scores of soldiers and refugees. There were few life jackets and many drowned, and countless others perished from hypothermia or were choked by fuel oil.
Ruth’s teeth chattered uncontrollably, and her frigid joints were like seized pistons. She strained to move her arms and legs, and to keep her head upright. She felt her chances of surviving dwindle with each labored breath, until a fleet of rescue vessels appeared.
A mix of fishing boats, military ships, and sailing craft circled the area and plucked survivors from the sea. Ruth was pulled aboard a British antisubmarine trawler, wrapped in a wool blanket, and placed on a crowded deck that contained hundreds of survivors, some naked and nearly all covered in oil.
A young sailor, who was carrying a metal container that resembled a garden watering can, approached Ruth. “Excuse me, miss.”
Ruth, her body shivering, raised her head.
“Would you care for some tea?”
She nodded.
The sailor poured a steaming brew into a tin cup and gave it to her.
Her hands trembled, spilling tea. “Thank you,” she said, her voice raw.
“My pleasure, miss,” the sailor said. “You’re all right, now. You’re going home.” He turned and squeezed through the crowd.
Ruth took a sip of tea, cleansing a foul taste of oil from her mouth. As she finished off her drink, her body temperature rose and the fog lifted from her brain. She gathered her strength and mingled through the hundreds of survivors, all the while praying to see Jimmie. After hours of scouring the ship, she didn’t find him, nor did she encounter any RAF ground crew members who were confined to the hull of the Lancastria. Gutted and heartbroken, she collapsed onto the deck and wept.
CHAPTER 51
LONDON, ENGLAND—JUNE 17, 1940
Prime Minister Winston Churchill traveled down a corridor of the underground Cabinet War Rooms and entered his private bedroom. He sat at his desk, equipped with a radio receiver and a microphone that was linked to the BBC broadcasting room. Instead of preparing to give a speech, he lit a cigar and turned on the radio. Seconds of silence passed as the vacuum tubes warmed, and the voice of Marshal Pétain, the newly appointed French prime minister, filled the room.
An intense disappointment flowed through Churchill as he listened to Pétain’s first radio address, calling for France’s armistice with Germany. He took a drag, filling his lungs with smoke. France has fallen, and Pétain will be a puppet ruler for that barbaric dictator. It sickened him to think that Pétain, who’d been one of France’s prominent military heroes of the Great War, was bowing to the Nazis.
The day before, French Prime Minister Reynaud resigned and he was replaced by Pétain, who was adamant that France should seek an armistice. Churchill anticipated that Pétain might attempt to reach an agreement with Germany without Britain’s consent. Therefore, he sent a telegram informing him that Britain would agree to an armistice on the condition that the French naval fleet was moved to British ports. Pétain accepted. But if France did not comply with the provision, Churchill—who was resolute to prevent French vessels from falling into the hands of the enemy—would order the fleet to be sunk.
Churchill listened to Pétain’s speech, which lasted less than two minutes. He turned off the radio and flicked ash from his cigar. He imagined French soldiers setting down their weapons and surrendering to German troops. Vexation surged through him. He poured a glass of whisky from a crystal decanter, added a splash of water, and took a gulp. The warmth of the alcohol flowed into his stomach but did nothing to allay his unrest.
A knock came from the door.
“Come in,” Churchill said.
General Ismay entered, closed the door behind him, and removed his cap. “Good evening, sir.”
Churchill swirled his whisky. “Take a seat.”
Ismay sat in a green upholstered chair next to the desk.
“You listened to Pétain’s broadcast, I presume,” Churchill said.
“I did, sir—in the conference room with members of the Chiefs of Staff. Pétain’s speech was precisely what you expected.”
Churchill nodded and took a sip of his drink.
“As I was leaving the conference room,” Ismay said, “I was given an intelligence message on Operation Aerial.”
“Good news, I hope.”
“It’s not, sir.” He clasped the belt around his tunic. “During the evacuation, the Luftwaffe sank a cruise liner called the Lancastria off the coast of Saint-Nazaire.”
Churchill set aside his drink and looked at him. “How many casualties?”
“We expect a large loss of life—between five and seven thousand souls.”
An ache spread through Churchill’s chest.
“It’s a rough estimate. The ship was overloaded with soldiers, as well as some civilians.”
