Churchill lowered his head. Throughout his military career, ships under his command had suffered huge losses, but nothing in comparison to this. “If the estimate is accurate, it will be the largest loss of life in British maritime history.”
Ismay’s eyes filled with sadness. “Indeed, sir.”
Churchill suppressed his sorrow and fury. His mind toiled with potential ramifications that the news of the disaster would have on British morale, as well as German military strategy. He ground out his cigar in a bronze ashtray and turned his chair toward Ismay. “Has word about this gotten out?”
“Not yet, sir. Information coming out of France is collapsing, and the rescue ships—carrying the Lancastria’s survivors—will not reach England until tomorrow afternoon.”
“I will order a D-notice,” Churchill said, referring to an official request to newspapers and broadcasters to withhold information for purposes of national security.
Ismay shifted in his seat. “With all due respect, sir, the British people have a right to know. Are you sure about this?”
“I am,” Churchill said, despite a growing sense of disquietude. “I will release the ban when the time is right, perhaps in a few weeks. We’ve had enough bad news for today.”
Ismay nodded. “The news might spread once the rescue ships reach England.”
I cannot allow the spirit of our people to falter when we are at the eve of the fight for our island’s survival, Churchill thought. “Order the Royal Navy and the survivors not to speak about the Lancastria.”
“Yes, sir.” Ismay rubbed his jowl. “How do you wish to handle military death notifications to families?”
“Missing in action—nothing more.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Call a meeting with the Chiefs of Staff,” Churchill said. “I will personally inform them of my decision.”
“Of course, sir.” Ismay stood and exited the room.
Alone, Churchill’s decision chewed at his conscience. He poured whisky into his glass and gulped it down, all the while knowing that he would not repeal a ban to release news of the disaster. After the war is won, the families of those who perished on the Lancastria will know the truth. He rose from his chair, exited his bedroom, and made his way down the corridor to address his Chiefs of Staff.
CHAPTER 52
PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND—JUNE 18, 1940
Ruth clasped a deck rail and looked out over the coast as the British trawler approached port. Her hair was matted with oil and her uniform was filthy, but she was in a better state than many of the survivors of the Lancastria. Injured soldiers and refugees covered much of the main deck, and a slew of people, who’d shed their clothes to help them stay afloat in the sea, were wrapped in little more than newspapers.
She had nothing to eat on the voyage, except for cups of tea and a bit of warm milk with crushed aspirin. Her stomach ached with hunger and continuous dull pain ran through her muscles, but—most of all—her chest was filled with heartache. Despite her exhaustion, she didn’t sleep during the eighteen-hour journey from Saint-Nazaire to Plymouth. Each time that she’d closed her eyes to rest, her mind was flooded with images of Jimmie descending into the bowels of the Lancastria, exploding bombs, and passengers fighting to keep their head above water. She’d prayed that Jimmie found a way to escape and was on another rescue vessel, even though she knew that the men in the ship’s hull likely did not survive. Throughout the journey, her mind and heart remained on him, and their life together that might never be.
The trawler docked and passengers—a mix of Lancastria survivors, military evacuees, and refugees—began to disembark from a gangway. The injured were removed first, and the others followed. The line moved extraordinarily slow, and Ruth inched her way over the crowded deck that reeked of fuel oil and was covered in discarded clothes. At the end of the gangway, two Royal Navy officers spoke with passengers before allowing them to step foot on the dock. Initially, Ruth thought that they might be recording names, but as she moved close, she noticed that the officers did not have writing materials, and that one of them was speaking in French to civilian refugees.
A shirtless soldier, his skin and pants streaked with oil, stepped forward and saluted one of the officers.
“You are to never speak of the sinking of the Lancastria,” the officer said.
Ruth’s breath stalled in her chest.
“If you utter a word about what happened in Saint-Nazaire,” the officer continued, “you will be violating King’s Regulations and will face harsh discipline. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said.
“Carry on.”
The soldier stepped onto the dock and made his way into a crowd.
The officer eyed Ruth’s uniform and pointed to his comrade. “Français.”
Ruth disregarded his directive and approached him. “I speak English, and I overheard what you said. Why are we not permitted to talk about what happened?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Orders.”
“From whom?”
“The British government. You’re on our soil. You must adhere to the mandate, like everyone else, or suffer the consequences.”
She nodded reluctantly.
“Carry on.”
Ruth, barefoot and dirty, shuffled by the officer and left the dock. She followed the crowd to a food line where women—of the Salvation Army, British Red Cross, and Women’s Voluntary Service—were passing out sandwiches, canned bully beef, and tins of milk. Although Ruth desperately wanted to find Lucette and Aline, her body craved nourishment. So, she waited in line to receive a tin of milk and a fried egg sandwich on stale white bread with margarine. She sat on the ground near the dock, along with hundreds of ragged soldiers and refugees, and devoured her food.
A Red Cross woman, who was carrying a box of cards and pencils, approached Ruth. “Excuse me, miss. Would you like a postcard to write home to let your family know that you’re all right?”
Ruth got to her feet and wiped crumbs from her mouth. “Yes, but I’m from America.”
“It might take a long time to get there,” the woman said, “but we’ll put it in the post for you.”
Ruth accepted a postcard and pencil, and then scribbled the address and a message.
Dear Maman and Dad,
