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'The German planes were coming in so low we could see the pilots' faces'
It's not that Britons forgot the 5,000 who died two weeks after Dunkirk - they were just never told about them
ANNA PUKAS
SIXTY years ago this week the nation was rejoicing after the evacuation of troops from Dunkirk. With Hitler's advancing forces at their backs, 338,000 servicemen had managed to cross the Channel in the famous fleet of little ships.
The operation showed Churchill's flair as a spin doctor long before the term was invented. Glossing over the reason for the evacuation - that British troops were ill-prepared - the PM hailed the retreat as a glorious victory, snatched from incipient defeat.
What Churchill did not mention was that 140,000 servicemen remained in France after the boats sailed. The men's departure from western France three weeks later led to the biggest maritime tragedy in British history - and perhaps the least known.
On June 17, 1940, the troop ship Lancastria, loaded with between 7,500 and 9,000 people (the exact number is not known) was bombed by the Luftwaffe. The 17,000-ton ship sank in 20 minutes. Some 5,000 lives were lost - more than the Titanic and Lusitania combined.
The tragedy produced countless acts of bravery yet not a single military decoration. In France, it is still commemorated in respectful ceremonies in villages along the Atlantic shores of the Vendeé region, yet British histories devote barely a few paragraphs to it and documents concerning the event will remain sealed until 2040.
Sixty years on, the 2,447 survivors remain obscured by the legend of Dunkirk. But this week, 24 of them returned to the French coast to honour their lost comrades.
With them have come others to mourn at the graves of fathers and brothers. Tomorrow, they will lay wreaths at a sole memorial in the port of St Nazaire and afterwards they will sail out into the Bay of Biscay to the fateful spot. And they will perhaps wonder - privately, for these are not bitter men - why official silence and public ignorance of the fate of the Lancastria bedevils them still. At 8am on Monday June 17, 1940, the St Nazaire dockyards at the mouth of the Loire were teeming with 35,000 soldiers, airmen, civilians and refugees. It was a black day in France. Marshal Petain had broadcast that he was negotiating with the Germans, thus declaring France's capitulation.
The servicemen were from the British Expeditionary Force, some stationed in Brittany, others from Normandy.
Stan Flowers was then a 20-year-old private in the Royal Army Service Corps, stationed inland at St Etienne de Montluc. His unit marched on to St Nazaire. The Lancastria - a Cunard liner built to carry 3,000 passengers and crew - lay five miles offshore. Throughout the morning, small boats ferried troops out.
Michael Sheehan was the helmsman, counting the troops in. "By 2.45pm we estimated there were more than 7,000 on board plus the crew of 450 but we'd stopped counting at 6,000."
The Lancastria's captain, Rudolph Sharp, was keen to get away - the Luftwaffe had bombed another troop ship, the Oronsay, around noon, taking out her bridge. But there were reports of U-boats further north and the Lancastria had no escort, so she waited. On board the scene was surreal.
"As we walked up, there were stewards in white coats giving out tickets for breakfast which we ate off white tablecloths - our first good meal for days - and yet we could hear ack-ack all around," Stan Flowers recalls.
Laying at anchor on a clear sunny day, on a smooth sea, the Lancastria - with holds and decks full of people - was a sitting duck. The first German bomb struck at 3.30pm, hitting a hold at the front where hundreds of airmen were holed up. Michael Sheehan recalls: "The blast threw me 30ft and when I came to I saw terrible sights. I doubt if any of the airmen survived. The Germans were coming in so low, flying no higher than the ship's mast, that I swear I could see their faces."
The second bomb knocked out the engine room and at 3.50pm the third struck. The Lancastria began to sink.
From the upper deck, Stan Flowers and his friend Walter Smith heard the order to abandon ship. The two men were both from Faversham, Kent. "We stuck together like glue," says Stan. "When the order came, we stood up, took off our boots and placed them neatly on deck as though we were coming back to get them later, shook hands and jumped in the water. We managed to stay together for a few minutes. Then I looked round and Walter was gone. I never saw him again." Panic was breaking out. Some jumped off the wrong side of the ship, only to smash themselves on her sides and people spilled out of lifeboats and toppled 40ft into the water. Not only were there not enough lifejackets but, for many, they proved lethal. Made of solid cork, you had to hold them firmly down as you jumped into the water otherwise they would bounce up on impact and break your neck.
Before sailing, the Lancastria had taken on 1,700 tons of fuel which now spilled out, coating the sea in a thick, black film. Hundreds drowned in it or were choked to death. It made ropes too slippery to cling to and, all the while, German planes flew back and forth strafing those in the water and dropping incendiaries to set the oil alight.
As the sea finally sucked the liner down, those still on board began singing There'll Always Be An England and then there was a ghastly silence. At 4.10pm, 20 minutes after the last bomb hit her, the Lancastria was gone.
From St Nazaire and the coastal villages, dozens of fishing boats put out to sea to help the merchant ships that were now arriving.
Among the rescuers was 15-year-old Gaston Noblanc. "We had seen everything and my father said to me: 'Come on, we're going to try to save these men.' It was a terrible, unforgettable sight. We pulled as many in as we could but a lot were already dead or dying."
As a result of what he saw, Gaston joined the French Resistance and was later captured by the Gestapo.
One of the first British ships to arrive was the Highlander, a destroyer. On board was sailor Frank Clements, a keen amateur photographer. The photos he took of the Lancastria as she sank are still the only visual record of the disaster. Stan Flowers was rescued by the Havelock after 2d hours.
"I was totally exhausted. The sailors were shouting at me to grab the rope but I was at the point where I didn't care. Then suddenly I remembered June 17 was my mother's birthday. Her face came into my mind and that gave me strength. When they pulled me over saying, 'Come on, Tommy', they were the sweetest words I have ever heard."
A lifeboat from the Highlander picked up Fred Coe. "When they pulled me in I was so worn out they just draped me over a gun. Then the sailor at the tiller shouted at me: 'Don't just lie around there, Tommy. Get rowing.' So I grabbed the oar and did as I was told."
One of the most amazing survivors was Jacqueline Tilyer, then an eight-month-old baby, whose father gripped her nappy in his teeth as he swam.
Late in the evening the ships sailed, including the damaged Oronsay. Fred Coe, who was transferred on to her from the Highlander, recalls: "The captain spoke through a loudhailer and said: 'We've got no radio, no food, no escort and we are listing 10 degrees to port. Where are we going?' And the cry went up: 'Back to Blighty!' and off we went."
The rescue ships docked at Plymouth and Falmouth the next day, disgorging a mass of bedraggled humanity. They were met by hundreds of townsfolk bearing tea, food and spare clothes and cheering them through the streets.
"How they found out what had happened, God only knows," says Stan. "We were all taken to seamen's missions where we could write to our relatives to tell them we were safe."
But the order also went out that they were not to speak of the disaster. After the war, Churchill said: "When the news came to me, I forbade its publication saying the newspapers had quite enough disaster for today. I had intended to release the news a few days later but events crowded upon us so quickly I forgot to lift the ban."
In fact, the news broke six weeks later in the US, where the press were not bound by British censorship, and was swiftly picked up by the British papers. On July 26, the Daily Express published the first survivors' accounts and on July 30 was the first paper to carry Frank Clements' pictures.
Of the 2,447 recorded survivors, around 100 former servicemen are still alive today. Survivors have travelled from far and wide for this week's 60th anniversary. Arthur Snow, aged 88, journeyed from Western Australia and will lay a wreath tomorrow in St Nazaire, an honour accorded him as the most distant Lancastrian.
"Until about 10 or 15 years ago I couldn't even speak of it to my family," says Arthur. "But after 60 years I felt it was time to lay some ghosts to rest."
For others, the pilgrimage has reunited them with fathers and brothers for the first time. At Clion sur Mer, Eileen Vincent, 85, wept for her sibling Wilfrid Bourne. "It was six months before we found out where he'd been killed and my mother's hair went white overnight," she says.
Those soldiers who made it back home recuperated for a week and many were then posted to the deserts of North Africa or the jungles of Burma.
The airmen were swept up into the Battle of Britain and the sailors went on to wage war in the North Atlantic. Tomorrow, those who were given another 60 years of life will again be in the grey Atlantic which claimed so many of their comrades. Not so much forgotten by their nation as never known.
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