Chapter Two

"Clear Away The Boats!"

St. Nazaire, western coast of France, 17th June 1940.

It was just after twelve o'clock on what, in normal circumstances, would otherwise have been a beautiful summer's day.

All that morning, which had dawned cool and bright, the sky had throbbed with the sound of enemy aircraft. A moment later and here in St. Nazaire the air raid siren wailed mournfully once again; warning of yet another attack by German bombers. While those gathered on the quayside gazed fearfully at the sky for any sign of incoming enemy aircraft, heavy palls of thick black smoke continued to drift slowly over the town; much of it from the harbour installations, blown up by the hard pressed defenders so as to deny their use to the advancing Germans.

Diving and wheeling in the sky above their heads, the screeching seagulls were proving particularly bothersome. However, far more deafening, was the continued crump of heavy shells being fired in quick succession from British and French artillery; the gunners trying desperately to stem the advance of the oncoming tide of the German army, units of which were rapidly closing in on St. Nazaire from both the north and from the east. A moment later and there came a series of enormous explosions as ammunition, fuel, and oil dumps were detonated. For no-one waiting here on the quay, among them the Schőnborns, was under any illusion whatsoever that it was only a matter of time before the Germans routed what remained of the British and French forces, broke through to the coast, and captured both the port and town of St. Nazaire.

With what little luggage they had been permitted to bring with them, no more than a suitcase each, along with countless others, Friedrich, Edith and their two sons stood waiting nervously in line, all of them refugees desperate to escape the German advance which had swept like lightning right across northern France almost as far as the west coast of the country. Waiting with them were staff from the British Embassy in Paris, men, women and children, soldiers and sailors in uniform, many of the soldiers members of the Royal Pioneer Corps and from the Royal Army Service Corps, others who were Czech or else Polish, Royal Air Force personnel, along with British employees of Fairey Aviation from Belgium, and countless other civilians. All hoping and praying that, against the odds stacked heavily against them, somehow the German advance would be checked. Not stopped but held long enough to enable them to board the flotilla of ships and small boats which had been pressed into service to ferry them all out across the bay to the large passenger liners which had been commandeered by the British government and sent here in order to rescue as many refugees as possible from St. Nazaire before the inevitable happened and the town finally fell to the Germans.

Unfortunately, the port here was not deep enough for the liners to draw in any closer. So, in the ensuing scramble to evacuate all those who could be got away from St. Nazaire, while destroyers from the Royal Navy were constantly engaged ferrying troops away from the harbour, anything and everything else that was available and serviceable, barges, tugs, even fishing boats and smacks, was being used as lighters to rescue anyone else.

According to what they had been told, the ship the Schőnborns were destined to board and which they, along with everyone else, could see out there beyond the outer walls of the harbour, lying at anchor in the deeper waters of the bay, was the RMS Lancastria. If everything went according to plan, they would soon be on board her and on their way to safety in England. If Edith remembered correctly it was the very same ship on which Papa and Mama had sailed to America back in 1925, on a visit to Grandmama Levinson in New York. Even so, if it was the same steamer, in her present drab coat of battleship grey, the liner presented a very different appearance from how Edith recalled her, a lifetime ago, standing beside Matthew and Mary on the quay in Liverpool, waving their parents off on their trans-Atlantic voyage.

How, had it come down to this?

Having to flee their home for a second time in the space of but two years?

While she didn't have the answer to either question, the most important thing was that they were alive and were together. It was said that the darkest hour was just before dawn and Edith had no doubt that somehow the four of them would survive this too; that in years to come they would look back and laugh at their present trials and tribulations. After all, they had faced far worse with Max and his haemophilia and, while he was not and never would be cured, by taking good care of himself, he could, thank God, lead a relatively normal life. And they had been blessed with young Kurt born fit and healthy and free from the taint of the disease; a happy, laughing little boy so similar in temperament to Tom and Sybil's Bobby now aged thirteen. And thank God too for darling Matthew who, pressed by dearest Tom over the urgency of their situation, had used his influence and his contacts at the Foreign Office to pull strings and exert pressure on the British embassy in Vienna; to try and enable Friedrich to be issued with a British passport along with various other documents shortly before the whole family had to flee from Austria in the immediate aftermath of the Anschluss. By the time the Nazis had come calling at Rosenberg, they were all safely out of the country and living peacefully at La Rosière.

While the Schőnborns continued to wait on the quayside, inching forward at a veritable snail's pace towards the head of the steps leading down to the water's edge, suddenly Edith found herself recalling to mind a passage from Margaret Mitchell's novel, Gone With The Wind, describing Atlanta under relentless shell fire from the advancing Yankees and everyone who could do so trying to make good their escape from General Sherman and his encircling Union army, among them both Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara:

"Take a good look my dear. It's a historic moment. You can tell your grandchildren about how you watched the Old South fall one night".

Edith had read the book several years ago when they were still living at Rosenberg; had heard that a film of it had been released a few months ago in the United States. She was struck by the similarity between what had happened to those in Atlanta in September 1864 and what was now occurring here in St. Nazaire in June 1940. In Atlanta, its citizens had been painfully aware that the Union army was closing in on the town; could hear the shell fire from Kennesaw Mountain. Here in St. Nazaire, no-one could fail to hear the thunder of artillery and the crackle of small arms fire. While for the moment the Germans were still some distance away, it was only a matter of time before they reached and then took the town. Nonetheless, for the present, those waiting here on the quayside in the warm sunshine did their very best not to listen to the incessant shelling, tried instead to make light of their situation, to chatter, to laugh and to carry on as normal. Even so, there was no denying the fact that the seeming calm was deceptive and that panic lay just below the surface.

While this was another war, waged on a different Continent, in essence, thought Edith, it was not so very different here in St. Nazaire from what it must have been like for those fleeing from Atlanta during the American Civil War. For having been left with no choice but to leave La Rosière, much as in Gone With The Wind Honey and India Wilkes had been forced to flee from Twelve Oaks to the comparative safety of Macon, so too the Schőnborns had pressed on for several days and nights, in their case along the north bank of the Loire, to reach first Nantes, and now the temporary sanctuary of the harbour at St. Nazaire.

Their journey had been an absolute nightmare but with Friedrich insisting on driving the motor, at least Edith had been left free to do her very best to shield young Kurt from the worst of what they saw unfolding all about them. The roads were crowded with civilian refugees, young, middle aged and old, men, women and children, most travelling on foot, a goodly number of whom were pushing before them on hand carts the pitiful remnants of what yet remained of their worldly possessions. There were soldiers and sailors too, the able bodied, along with the the sick and the wounded, mixed up with all manner of transport: convoys of army trucks and lorries, private motor cars, horse drawn carts, and bicycles, all heading westwards and with the ever present threat of being machine gunned, strafed or bombed from the air.

Here on the quay, just as the Schőnborns reached the head of the steps, while the shellfire continued unabated, the All Clear sounded, heralding a brief, temporary breathing space from attack from the air. The two British sailors standing at the foot of the steps now nodded and Friedrich, Edith and the boys made their way carefully down the wet, slimy steps to the waiting fishing boat. As Max and Kurt clambered aboard, Edith squeezed Friedrich's hand and smiled. He nodded and grinned at her; this remarkable woman whom he had married in Florence in the summer of 1932 while they, along with Matthew, Mary, Tom, Sybil and all their children, had been staying at a villa up in the hills overlooking the city. Friedrich loved her so very dearly; was inordinately proud of her. When, in March 1938, with the Anschluss he had told Edith that they had no choice but to leave Austria and the splendours of Rosenberg behind them, and now but a matter of days ago the beauty of La Rosière too, she had raised no objection; had not seemed to mind in the least. She had simply nodded her head.

"Much as I love Rosenberg, nothing matters more to me than you and our two boys".

She had said very much the same thing to him when, jointly, they had made the decision to leave La Rosière. People were what mattered to her most; not possessions. Things; things she could do without. And after all what was a mansion, a chateau, if not a possession? In any event none of that mattered now; the die was cast and in a very short space of time they would all have boarded the Lancastria and be on their way across the sea to safety in England.

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 18th June 1940.

"What do you mean you knew?" Tom sounded aghast. He looked from his eldest son to Matthew and then shook his head in disbelief. "Matthew, I don't know what to say. I …"

Matthew smiled; shook his head.

"It's all right, Tom. Robert, I rather think, young man, that you have some explaining to do, don't you?"
Robert nodded.

"We would have told you earlier, father but ..." He smiled happily at Saiorse.

"So why didn't you?" asked Matthew with remarkable forebearance.

"Well, we thought ..."

"Thought what?"

"Da, what I mean is ...," began Danny. He sounded mortified; never before had he seen the expression which he now saw on his father's face; a mixture of both sadness and utter disbelief.

"Well son, either you knew about all of this or else you didn't! Which is it for sure?" demanded Tom.

Danny looked helplessly first at Robert and then at his sister both of whom, hand in hand, were still standing defiantly by the Drawing Room door. Danny swallowed hard. He knew Da hated deceit; said that honesty was always the best policy and so with that in mind, whatever it might cost him later, when now he answered his father Danny did so directly. He drew himself up, looked straight at his father and spoke the plain, simple truth.

"Yes, Da. I knew. Of course I did. Saiorse's my sister and I love her dearly. And Rob's my best friend too. Just as Uncle Matthew is yours. Of course I knew".

"But you still didn't think to say anything about it, either to your Ma or to me?" persisted Tom. He was beginning to feel slightly light headed; was aware of a slight pain in his chest. Perhaps he would feel better if he sat down and so he did so; beside Sybil on the sofa next to the fireplace.

"What was there to tell you, Da?" asked Danny. "I knew they'd fallen in love and wanted to get married; that they would tell you, all of you, in their own good time".

"That's what we intended, father," said Robert.

"For sure?" Tom nodded. He smiled weakly at both his nephew and his daughter. The pain in his side did not seem to be easing. In fact, if anything, it was growing worse.
"Yes, for sure, Uncle Tom. And then..."

"And then what?" asked Matthew. But before Robert could answer him, Sybil interrupted.

"So I suppose young lady that's why you wanted to do your nursing training over here in England as opposed to back home in Dublin?" Despite the constant pain in his chest, Tom shot Sybil a fond glance; even now after all these years when she referred to Dublin as home it made his heart swell with pride.

Saiorse said nothing; instead, while Robert continued to hold her hand with her other folded demurely across her belly, she looked steadfastly at the floor.

"You won't find the answer down there!" snapped Sybil. Saiorse now slowly raised her head, looked mutinously at her mother.

"Rob and I love each other and that' s all there is to it!"

"Oh no it isn't young lady! Not by a long way You go sneaking about behind our backs ... Tom are you all right?"

"For sure!" he nodded. "Just a touch of indigestion!"
"I'm not surprised! And as for you ..."

"For God's sake Ma! Don't be like this".
"Don't be like what?"

"Don't be so bloody Victorian!"

At her daughter's words Sybil shot Mary a sudden knowing glance; saw that in that very same instant her sister too was remembering back to something which had happened over twenty years before, in the aftermath of the beating Tom had received at the hands of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

The Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, Ireland, June 1919.

Having bathed the cuts to Tom's, Sybil busied herself helping him out of his jacket, deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat, removed that too, along with his tie, and then began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Edith gasped.

"Sybil, surely you don't mean to ..."

"Oh for goodness' sake Edith, don't be such a goose. You helped out with the soldiers in the convalescent home at Downton during the war, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but that was different. I was only fetching them books, writing letters, that sort of thing".

"For Heaven's sake, I've seen Tom in a great deal less than this!" exclaimed Sybil as she helped Tom, now shirtless, into a sitting position. Deftly raising his arms above his head while supporting his back she pulled off his vest. Realising what she had just said, Sybil coloured red, Mary raised an expressive eyebrow while Edith looked suitably embarrassed by their sister's startling revelation.

"Tom and I have no secrets from each other. We love each other dearly," said Sybil as she continued stripping Tom of his vest. A moment later and she gasped in horror at the rapidly darkening bruises and raw grazes now revealed to view upon Tom's naked torso.

Hearing her rapid intake of breath, Tom glanced down at his bare chest.

"It's all right, love, it ... it looks... worse than it is" he wheezed through gritted teeth.

"No. No it isn't," sobbed Sybil beginning to bathe the grazes on his chest. "How on earth could anyone do this, to you, of all people?"

Having attended to all of Tom's grazes, with infinite care, ever so gently, Sybil began feeling his ribs.

"Sybil," said Mary softly, "do you really think you should be doing ..."

Sybil seemed not to hear her. Then she looked up. "I'm sorry, Mary. What did you just say?"

Mary nodded towards Tom, now stripped to the waist, submitting patiently to Sybil's gentle and probing ministrations. Mary's practised eye missed nothing, took in Tom's masculine physique, battered and bruised to be sure, but strong and muscular all the same; the light patch of hairs nestling in the middle of his chest, saw where the curling hairs darkened and thickened as they disappeared downwards out of view beneath the waistband of his trousers.

"Darling, I know you're engaged, but do you really think..."

"Oh for goodness' sake, Mary, look at me!" Sybil indicated her uniform with an angry wave of her hand. "I'm a nurse! Given what I saw during the war, do you really think this sort of thing bothers me? Besides, I've seen Tom naked several times!"

Sybil heard Edith's sharp intake of breath.

"Oh Edith, don't be so ... so bloody Victorian!" snapped Sybil, not bothering to look up; to make any attempt to hide her evident irritation with her elder sister.

For her part, Mary said nothing by way of response but the twitch of her expressive eyebrows said it all. Evidently her baby sister no longer but instead a woman of the world; or so Sybil would have them believe.

"In fact," said Sybil, "you both might as well know it, not of course that it's really any of your business, but since we arrived here in Ireland, Tom and I ... well we've slept together, as man and wife, not once but several times now. And before you ask, no, Tom didn't force himself upon me. We made love together because we wanted to; the both of us".

At this juncture, Mary raised her eyebrows once again; a wry smile flickered at the corners of her mouth; a woman of the world indeed then. Edith, meanwhile, looked anywhere else other than at Sybil, or for that matter, at Tom, whose face had just turned a shade akin to vermilion.

"I really don't know why we all make such a ruddy fuss about something so completely normal," continued Sybil in her no-nonsense tone. "After all, between two people who love each other as much as Tom and I do, it's a perfectly natural thing to do. There's no point pretending we come out of the rainbow when we're eighteen, so there's an end to it! I assume neither of you have heard of Marie Stopes?" Sybil glanced casually from Mary to Edith then back again. "No, I thought not. Well no matter," said Sybil briskly.

"Love, I think... you've just ... just managed ... to shock ... your sisters," croaked Tom and grinned.

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 18th June 1940.

"Saiorse! Don't you dare swear at your Ma. Now, apologise to her this instant!" demanded Tom.

Knowing how she idolised her father, Sybil was not at all surprised when saw the colour flooding across her daughter's cheeks; saw too the engagement ring on the third finger of Saiorse's left hand.

"I'm sorry Ma". This was not how she had wanted this to be.

"So, you're engaged". This from Sybil. It was more a statement than a question.

"Engaged?" asked Cora questioningly who seemed not to quite to comprehend fully the sudden turn of events. "Who is?"

"Saiorse and I. We want to get married here, at Downton," explained Robert.

"Married!" gasped Mary. Dear God! What on earth was this world coming to? The next countess of Grantham; a chauffeur's daughter!

"And which, presumably, was why you came over to England a few weeks ago? And not for the interview, as you claimed, the one with the London paper you were so mysterious about?" asked Tom

Danny nodded his head.

"Yes, Da. I'm truly sorry. We all met up in a hotel in Liverpool, to talk things over". He saw the tears welling in his father's eyes and was the first of them to look away; realising just how hurt Da was. For her part, Sybil was watching Saiorse; saw how she held her left hand across the slight swell of her stomach and in that instant she knew.

"And when's the baby due?" Sybil asked quietly.

"Baby? What baby?" asked Mary dully, as, glancing at Saiorse, Matthew nodded his head in sudden understanding.

"Our baby, Mama," said Robert. "Saiorse's expecting my child".

"Expecting what?" asked Cora, evidently mystified.

"Saiorse," repeated Robert in a monotone.

"Your child?" exclaimed his mother.

"Yes".

With her head pounding, Mary looked utterly aghast. It was only now that she too saw the ring which Saiorse wore openly on her left hand, a magnificent sapphire, which had belonged to Mary's grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Grantham and which had been left to her in Granny's will. Mary had given it to Robert the previous year, telling him that when he found a girl he wanted to marry, if she approved of it, then it would do very well as an engagement ring.

"Yes, Aunt Mary. I'm expecting Robert's baby".

Mary ignored her niece completely.

"Robert, is this true?"
"Yes, Mama".

"Then there's nothing more to be said. Now, if you will all excuse me, I think I need to lie down".

"Mama! Please!" Slowly Mary rose to her feet then shook her head. "Robert ... how could you ..." "she began but got no further with whatever it was she had been about to say as now Tom groaned audibly, clutched his chest, and slid from the sofa onto the floor.

"Tom, darling! What is it" Sybil was kneeling by him in an instant.

"My ..." he began, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Sybil shot a beseeching look at Danny who seemed rooted to the spot as indeed did everyone else, all appalled by what had now happened.

"Don't just stand there! It's his heart! For God's sake, call the doctor!"

Danny didn't need to be told twice and bolted for the door.

RMS Lancastria, 3.30pm, 17th June 1940.

Here, out in the Grand Charpentier Roads, some five miles from the shore, they had been on board the Lancastria for well over a couple of hours. However, while the loading of soldiers and refugees had long ceased as yet there was still no sign of the liner beginning to get underway even though the military situation was clearly worsening with every passing minute. As if to reinforce this, although neither of them said anything at all to Edith, both Friedrich and Max, who were standing by the ship's rail, saw the bodies of several soldiers floating nearby in the water, while from the distant shore there came the continued thud of shells and the sound of several further large explosions.

For her part, Edith was talking to Kurt and two small children, a brother and sister, apparently Belgian refugees, each of whom carried a dog in their arms. A moment later and an English woman, who evidently had some connection with the two children, now appeared and, thanking Edith for looking after them, promising that they would all meet up again in the evening, now shepherded the two Belgian children and their dogs down the nearby stairwell. Holding Kurt by the hand, Edith turned and looked out across the bay, over towards St. Nazaire, and saw that despite, or perhaps because of what was now happening, the sea was still filled with all manner of ships and small boats continuing to ferry out yet more troops to some of the other large vessels and which like the Lancastria were also still riding at anchor off shore in the bay.

Dispirited, Edith turned away from the ship's rail and looked about her. In every direction all she saw was a huddled mass of humanity - men, women and children. Most of those on board were soldiers, sweating in their khaki uniforms, the decks cluttered with their kit bags and tin helmets. It was now that an awful thought dawned on Edith; if the ship came under attack and the worst happened then, surely, there weren't enough lifeboats to accommodate all these thousands of people? At that, Edith felt herself grow very cold; found herself thinking of Patrick Crawley who, along with his father, had drowned in the sinking of the Titanic, a lifetime and another world ago. At the recollection, Edith shivered and seeing her do so, Friedrich hugged her to him.

"Mein liebling, don't worry. One of the crewmen told me that we will be under way very shortly. To England. Everything will be fine. Trust me. You'll see". Friedrich smiled at her then took his overcoat from off his arm and placed it around her shoulders. Not that Edith's fears were entirely misplaced. After all, they had already suffered a series of alarms.

About an hour or so earlier, not long after they had boarded the liner, having come up on deck from their cabin - somewhat cramped for the four of them but in the circumstances with so many on board it really didn't matter - crewmen suddenly began to blow whistles and the bells and claxons on the Lancastria started sounding. Thereafter, the escort vessels of the Royal Navy opened up with all their guns at an aeroplane coming in low out of the sun, so low that those on deck could see the pilot and the rest of its crew. The cry went up to take cover; that it was German bomber, the proof of this coming but a few moments later as a cluster of bombs fell from the belly of the plane and landed on the bridge of the SS Oronsay which belonged to the Orient Line, and which like the Lancastria, was riding at anchor in the bay.

There was a huge explosion and a cloud of debris towered into the air. As the smoke gradually cleared it became obvious to everyone that, despite what had happened, the Oronsay was now moving and putting out to sea; everyone here on board hoping that shortly the Lancastria would be following suit, the more so as a further clutch of bombs had then hit the Franconia. There were several further near misses from bombs dropped by other German aircraft which sent up fountains of spray which spattered the decks and soaked those nearby to the very skin. Thankfully, eventually, the bombers wheeled away eastwards and an eerie calm now descended but still the Lancastria did not move.

"Mama, I need a wee", wheedled Kurt seemingly unperturbed by what had been happening. He looked up at his mother pleadingly with his pair of blue eyes.

"Dummkopf! Why on earth didn't you go before, when we were ashore?" asked Max. He fondled Kurt's fair hair and grinned. He loved his little brother very much indeed.

"Dummkopf yourself! There wasn't a toilet. That's why, Schlaumeier!"

"Kurt! Language!"

"Sorry, Mama but he asked for it!"

"You could have gone behind that wall, near where we left the car," suggested Max.

"People might have seen my Pimmel," explained Kurt and promptly stuck out his tongue.

"What at your age? Nothing to see!" laughed Max.

Friedrich and Edith exchanged amused glances.

"Mama ... please?" begged Kurt hopping from one leg to the other.

"Oh, all right but just remember, when this war is over and I take you on one of my digs you'll have to get used to going out in the open!"
"See, dummkopf!"
"Don't start all that again! I'll take Kurt down to our cabin and then we'll come back up on deck. Now do take care the two of you and wait for us here".

Friedrich nodded and smiled.

"Of course. We'll both be here when you come back. Promise. Don't worry".

Edith smiled and taking Kurt by the hand they disappeared down the stairwell.

RMS Lancastria, 3.50pm, 17th June 1940.

After Edith and Kurt had gone, Friedrich and Max did as they had promised and remained standing by the ship's rail, continuing to watch with interest what was happening out in the bay. About twenty minutes later and Max, who had retained his childhood interest in aircraft fostered by the fact that Friedrich had been a military pilot in the Austro-Hungarian air force during the Great War, grabbed his father hastily by the shoulder and pointed frantically up into the afternoon sky.

"Junckers! Junckers 88!" he yelled.

Those in the immediate hearing of the two men now raised their heads, then began to point too and just as anxiously at the incoming German aircraft. With realisation fast dawning as to what was about to happen, everyone on the top deck now did what, in similar circumstances, anyone else would have tried to do; they scattered, ran and took cover. Or rather they would have done, had any of those options been open to them. Only they weren't. For every single one of the seven decks of the Lancastria, all her cabins, her magnificent staterooms and enormous cargo holds were jammed with thousands of people, civilian refugees, men, women and children and all manner of military personnel, both able-bodied and wounded.

The pulsating throb of the incoming aircraft, now clearly audible, grew ever louder, while the Bren guns positioned at either end of the ship opened up with a veritable barrage of fire. One of the two bombers made for the Oronsay but the other flew straight over the entire 580 feet length of the Lancastria, dropping four bombs from stern to bow, one of which appeared to go straight down the massive single funnel. There followed several enormous explosions which rocked the Lancastria from end to end, blowing the hatches off two of the four huge holds, while from within the depths of the great ship there came a terrific, muffled roar. Here out on deck, as the Lancastria shook with the impact of the explosions, Friedrich and Max were witness to scenes of total panic, carnage, chaos, and confusion as bullets splintered the wooden decking, tore into flesh and bone, smashed glass, hit telegraphs, ricocheted off metal, while British soldiers continued firing away with the two Bren guns.

But it was too late.

The Lancastria had suffered a mortal wound and now began to list heavily to starboard.

When the bombs struck, with some difficulty owing to the press of people, Edith and Kurt had been making their way back along a series of internal gangways towards the top deck, Kurt chattering happily about how he was looking forward to seeing Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary and to going riding on his pony. Not that Starlight was strictly his but he had ridden the pony the last time they had all been together at Downton in the summer of 1938. The ensuing explosions knocked both mother and son off their feet. Dazed, picking herself up, realising something terrible must have happened, Edith helped Kurt to his feet and then pulling him behind her ran like the wind for the stairwell. At the head of the stairs, when the thick cloud of inky black smoke parted, a terrible sight met their eyes. The deck, where they had left Friedrich and Max standing but a short while ago, was now a mess of blood, of oil and splintered woodwork.

As if from nowhere, a man, a British sailor, bloodied, streaked with soot and oil, suddenly loomed in front of them. Without warning, he grabbed hold of Kurt and thrust him bodily into the nearest lifeboat, already filled almost to capacity with women and children. "You too!" ordered the sailor abruptly.

For a moment, uncharacteristically unsure as to what she should do, Edith stood her ground.

"Mama!" wailed Kurt.

"My husband, my eldest boy. I left them here ... I must find ..."

"There's no time!" yelled the sailor. Grabbing hold of Edith hard by her shoulders, he pushed her forward none too gently to the lifeboat. "Christ all bloody mighty! For fuck's sake, woman! Look about you! Can't you see what's happening? Now do as I tell you, and get in the bleedin' lifeboat. The Lancastria ... she's going down!"

As if to confirm the veracity of what the sailor had just said the liner gave a great lurch to port and then began to roll over while at the same time through a megaphone there now came the booming voice of an officer:

"Clear away the boats! Your attention please! Clear away the boats!"

Author's Note:

Gone With The Wind was published in 1936; the film did not go on general release until the spring of 1942.

The age for marriage without parental consent in England at this time was still 21.

Dummkopf and Schlaumeier - words two brothers might well use in their general banter. Pimmel, well in the context it's pretty obvious what it refers to!

Part of this chapter concerns the sinking of RMS Lancastria (or more correctly by this date HMT Lancastria) - a real event and a terrible tragedy - which happened very much as described. No-one will ever know how many died when the former Cunard liner was sunk by German bombs off St. Nazaire in June 1940. However, the death toll of men, women and children well exceeded the combined totals of those who lost their lives on the Titanic and the Lusitania.