The Sutlers Supreme
From Mobilisation to Evacuation
NAAFI and the Early War, 1939–1940
PART FOUR
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This article forms Part Four of a series.
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Part Three: The Collapse of the Phoney War, 1939–1940
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The Lancastria — Collapse and Continuity
16 June 1940 — Along the Loire Towards St Nazaire
By mid-June 1940 the Expeditionary Force Institutes were being drawn into the final phase of the British retreat in France. In Part Three, the story divided between two routes of evacuation: the withdrawal to Dunkirk, and the longer, more uncertain movement across France towards the Atlantic ports. This concluding instalment follows the latter, focusing on the events of 16 and 17 June as personnel converged on St Nazaire in the closing hours before evacuation. Here, in the shadow of what would become the greatest single-ship loss of life in British maritime history, the demands upon the EFI intensified, yet their commitment to service and accountability endured even as the campaign collapsed around them.
By 16 June 1940 the retreat of British forces towards the lower Loire had reached its final and most chaotic phase. At Montoire, west of Tours, officers and men of the Expeditionary Force Institutes found themselves drawn into the same vast movement that was driving soldiers, airmen and refugees towards the ports of western France. Yet even amid this collapse the EFI was not simply dissolving into the general disorder. Stocks still had to be accounted for, money safeguarded, and what remained of the organisation brought to the coast in whatever workable form remained.
Among those trying to impose order on the situation were Major N. F. Hart and Lieutenant C. V. “Peter” Petit. Between them lay responsibility not only for the men of the EFI contingent but also for a remarkable quantity of material. Some lorries were packed with wines and spirits; another carried account books together with several million francs in cash. In quieter times such cargoes would have represented the ordinary business of the Institutes. In the circumstances of June 1940 they had become a liability, a burden and, in some cases, a temptation to the desperate crowds moving along the same roads.
Decisions therefore had to be taken quickly. After discussion, Hart and Petit resolved that surplus stocks of spirits could not be carried further, that lighter wines should be put to immediate use among nearby units, and that only the most essential items — the books, the cash, and selected higher‑value goods — should be preserved. It was a characteristically EFI response to a collapsing military situation: practical, unsentimental, and rooted in the habits of supply, accountability and service. The road to St Nazaire still lay ahead, but for the men of the EFI the work had not yet ended.
Night of 16 June — Decisions Under Pressure
As evening fell on 16 June, the situation around Montoire grew steadily more precarious. Following orders, the EFI contingent under Hart and Petit had reached the town earlier in the day — one of several assembly areas designated for the evacuation through St Nazaire. Now refugees and retreating troops crowded the roads, and reports from the west made it clear that time was running short. For the officers of the Expeditionary Force Institutes there could be no question of abandoning their responsibilities in haste. Decisions taken earlier in the day were now put into effect with a sense of urgency that reflected the narrowing margin for action.
The destruction of surplus stocks was carried out without ceremony. Whisky, gin and brandy were poured away where they stood, a deliberate act intended to prevent both looting and disorder. Lighter wines, by contrast, were distributed among nearby units still awaiting movement orders — an effort to provide some immediate comfort to men whose prospects were increasingly uncertain. What remained — the account books, large sums of cash, and selected higher‑value goods — was carefully loaded into a small convoy of lorries, each item chosen not for convenience but for necessity.
With darkness providing a degree of cover, Major Hart, Lieutenant Petit and a small party set out for St Nazaire, escorting the vehicles that carried what was left of the EFI’s movable assets. The journey itself was hazardous — the roads congested and frequently under threat from air attack — but it was at the port that the full extent of the chaos became apparent. Amid the blackout and the confusion of embarkation, the group succeeded in making contact with the master of a French collier newly arrived from Cardiff. In a hurried negotiation, a deal was struck: for the sum of 25,000 francs the ship would take men and lorries across the Channel, entirely at their own risk.
The loading of the vehicles was carried out in darkness and under constant pressure, a hurried and uncertain operation in which any delay might prove costly. At last the work was completed, and the collier slipped away into the night, bound for Falmouth with its unusual cargo. Watching her departure, Petit is said to have remarked on the dangers of the crossing, sensing that those aboard might yet face considerable peril. In the event, their passage would prove uneventful. Those who remained behind, however, were moving steadily towards a far more uncertain fate.
A Last Chance to Leave
During these same hours, as evacuation from St Nazaire gathered pace, an opportunity arose which, in retrospect, would assume considerable significance. Lying in the harbour was the hospital ship Somersetshire, clearly marked and operating under the protections afforded to such vessels. Her captain, it was later recalled, indicated a willingness to take additional men aboard — but only on the condition that they abandoned their arms. The requirement was not arbitrary: as a hospital ship maintaining neutrality, she could not carry troops in possession of weapons without compromising her protected status.
Faced with this offer, Major N. F. Hart declined. The decision was taken in the knowledge that the men under his command were still organised as a formed body, and that to leave their arms behind would be to relinquish not only their equipment but a fundamental aspect of their status as soldiers. It was a choice made in the midst of uncertainty, at a moment when the wider situation remained unclear and the movement of men and matériel through the port was still ongoing. With no clear indication that the opportunity might not come again, Hart elected to remain with his men and continue the process of withdrawal by the means then available.
Not all opportunities for evacuation, however, were taken.
Liverpool Echo, 8 April 1960. Accessed via Findmypast (British Library Newspapers).
In the days that followed, the consequences of that decision would become tragically apparent. At the time, however, it was one choice among many made in rapid succession, shaped by duty, circumstance and the incomplete information available to those on the ground. Hart himself was no inexperienced officer: a veteran of the First World War with service in the Royal Fusiliers and later the Indian Army, he had long experience of leading men in difficult circumstances. After the war he had worked overseas as a civil servant before joining NAAFI, where by 1939 he was serving as a district manager. His judgement on that night reflected the instincts of a seasoned officer faced with an immediate, ambiguous choice — one that many in his position would likely have made. The evacuation from St Nazaire was still in progress, and for the officers and men of the Expeditionary Force Institutes there was yet more to be done.
17 June — The March to St Nazaire
During the early hours of 17 June, orders were received for all remaining personnel to make their way at once to St Nazaire. There was little time for preparation. The men, many of whom had already endured days of continual movement and strain, snatched what rest they could before setting off in darkness. Although instructions had been issued prohibiting the use of vehicles, it was decided to retain a single lorry carrying emergency rations, intended to pick up any who might fall behind on the road. It was a small but practical concession to the realities of the situation.
The march itself was a severe test. The route to the port, some nine miles in length, had to be covered on foot under circumstances that were both physically and mentally exhausting. Darkness was broken only by the intermittent flash of distant explosions, while the sound of artillery and aircraft served as a constant reminder of the proximity of the advancing enemy. Many of the EFI personnel were older men, long past the age of front‑line service, and the cumulative effects of the retreat were beginning to tell. Progress was steady but increasingly strained.
Among the first to succumb to exhaustion was Staff Quartermaster Sergeant Percy Fairfax. Nearly sixty years of age, a veteran of the Boer War and of an earlier generation of soldiering, he collapsed by the roadside, utterly spent. A bucket of water, hastily obtained from a nearby cottage, helped to revive him, after which he was carefully lifted into the waiting lorry to continue the journey. It was an incident that illustrated both the limits of endurance and the quiet determination of the men involved. Others would follow, finding in the lorry a necessary refuge from a march that had become, for many, almost beyond their strength.
As the column approached St Nazaire, further danger was encountered when a squadron of British light tanks, moving at speed in the opposite direction, narrowly avoided colliding with the marchers. It was a brief but alarming moment, one that underscored the confusion of the wider withdrawal. By the time the outskirts of the port were reached at first light, the lorry carried a number of men who would otherwise have been left behind. The remainder, though exhausted, pressed on.
Dawn revealed a scene of mounting disorder. Thousands of troops crowded the approaches to the harbour, many sitting by the roadside with little sense of what was to happen next. For the men of the Expeditionary Force Institutes, however, the task remained clear. Even after the ordeal of the march, there could be no pause. Supplies were brought forward, makeshift tea‑points established, and some measure of organisation imposed upon the confusion. The port had been reached, but the work was far from over.
Liverpool Echo, 7 April 1960. Accessed via Findmypast (British Library Newspapers).
At the Quayside — Waiting to Escape
The approach to St Nazaire brought the EFI personnel into a scene of growing congestion and uncertainty. Roads leading into the port were lined with troops who had arrived ahead of them, many sitting where they had halted, waiting for instructions that seemed slow in coming. Units had become intermixed during the retreat, and whatever structure had existed further inland was now increasingly difficult to discern. The movement towards embarkation was under way, but it lacked the clarity and order that the situation demanded.
Within the port itself, the sense of pressure was even more pronounced. Men gathered in large numbers along the quays and adjacent streets, watching as ships lay offshore or alongside, some already crowded, others still in the process of loading. The scale of the evacuation effort was evident, but so too was the difficulty of coordinating it under the circumstances then prevailing. There was no single point of control visible to those on the ground, only a gradual and often uncertain progression towards the water’s edge.
For the officers and men of the Expeditionary Force Institutes, inactivity was not an option. Drawing upon what remained of their stores, they set about establishing makeshift tea‑points in the streets and open spaces near the harbour. Timber was gathered from nearby buildings to provide fuel, and ration tins pressed into service as improvised boilers. Supplies carried through the march were quickly opened and distributed, for many of the troops arriving at the port were without food or refreshment after days of continuous movement.
These efforts brought a measure of order to an otherwise unsettled scene. Small groups formed around the tea‑points, and for a brief moment the routines of the EFI reasserted themselves amid the wider confusion. Yet the larger situation remained unresolved. Ships continued to take men aboard, but the process was slow, and the numbers waiting far exceeded those already embarked. As the day wore on, the sense grew that time was pressing, and that not all who had reached St Nazaire would necessarily find passage away from it.
Embarkation
As the day progressed, movement towards the ships gathered pace. Orders, when they came, were brief and often relayed through a chain of intermediaries, but they carried a clear implication: those who could embark should do so without delay. From the quayside and nearby beaches, men were directed towards tenders and small craft which ferried them out to the larger vessels lying offshore. Among these was the Lancastria, already taking aboard large numbers of troops as the evacuation continued.
The process of embarkation was neither orderly nor uniform. Groups were moved forward as opportunity allowed, often with little regard for unit cohesion. The pressure of numbers was evident at every stage, from the waiting areas on shore to the crowded decks of the vessels themselves. Equipment was carried where possible, though much had already been abandoned during the retreat, and the overriding concern was simply to secure a place on board. For many, it was the first moment at which the prospect of leaving France appeared within reach.
Life aboard the Lancastria reflected the urgency of the situation. Space was at a premium, and men were directed wherever room could be found — on open decks, in passageways, and in any available compartment. Among those embarking were personnel of the Expeditionary Force Institutes, some still carrying the responsibilities that had occupied them throughout the retreat. The ship, designed to carry far fewer passengers in peacetime, was now filled far beyond its intended capacity, a fact apparent to many even as they came aboard.
Despite the overcrowding, there was, for a brief period, a sense of transition. The long movement south and west had reached its apparent conclusion, and the prospect of return to Britain seemed, at last, attainable. From the decks, men could look back towards the shore and the crowded quays they had just left behind, uncertain of what would follow but aware that the next stage of their journey was about to begin.
By mid‑afternoon the Lancastria had completed embarkation and was authorised to sail at 2.15 p.m. Captain Sharp, however, chose to remain at anchor, preferring to await an escort before attempting the passage out of the estuary. It was a decision taken in a climate of uncertainty, with enemy aircraft active in the area and no clear indication of when protection might arrive. The ship was still lying off St Nazaire when the attack began at 3.50 p.m.
17 June 1940 — Disaster off St Nazaire
Shortly after embarkation had been completed, the Lancastria came under attack. Enemy aircraft, operating over the estuary, approached at low altitude and released their bombs against the densely crowded shipping lying off the port. For those on board, the transition from the relative safety of embarkation to the reality of attack was immediate and without warning. Explosions shook the vessel, and within moments it was clear that the ship had been struck.
The effects were rapid and severe. Fires broke out, smoke spread across the decks, and the Lancastria began to take on a list that increased with alarming speed. The extreme overcrowding, so evident during embarkation, now became a critical factor. Movement was restricted, access to lifeboats and escape routes impeded, and many found themselves caught in a situation that deteriorated almost from one moment to the next. Attempts were made to launch boats and rafts, but the pace of events allowed little time for organised evacuation.
Within a short space of time the situation became irretrievable. As the list increased, men were forced towards the side of the ship or into the water below, while others jumped in an effort to escape the spreading fire and smoke. The sea itself offered no immediate refuge, its surface already marked by fuel escaping from the vessel. In a matter of minutes, the Lancastria rolled and sank, leaving those who had been on board struggling in the water amid wreckage and debris.
In the Water
For those who survived the sinking, the struggle did not end with the loss of the ship. Cast into the water amid wreckage and debris, they found themselves confronted by an environment that was both hostile and disorientating. Fuel oil, released from the stricken vessel, spread rapidly across the surface, clinging to clothing and skin, while isolated patches of fire burned where it had ignited. Men clung to whatever they could find — lifebelts, fragments of wood, overturned boats — each attempting in his own way to remain afloat in an environment that offered little comfort and less certainty.
Liverpool Echo, April 1960. Accessed via Findmypast (British Library Newspapers).
For many, the experience described by Petit was not an isolated moment, but one shared across the crowded waters surrounding the ship.
Among them were personnel of the Expeditionary Force Institutes, including George Youngs, Geoff Singleton and “Bunny” Burrows, whose accounts provide insight into the experience of those hours. Separated from one another by the circumstances of the sinking, they nonetheless shared the same immediate realities: the shock of immersion, the difficulty of movement in oil‑covered water, and the constant effort required simply to stay afloat. Time became uncertain, measured less by the clock than by endurance, as minutes stretched into what felt like far longer.
The physical strain was accompanied by a growing awareness of the wider scene. Around them, men called out to one another, some seeking assistance, others attempting to maintain morale in the only ways available. The presence of burning oil, drifting wreckage and scattered survivors created a setting that was both chaotic and strangely static, as those in the water waited for rescue that could not yet be seen. For many, survival depended not on decisive action, but on the ability to endure.
Rescue
Rescue did not come at once. For those in the water, the interval between the sinking and the arrival of assistance seemed prolonged, marked by uncertainty and physical exhaustion. Eventually, however, vessels began to appear among the scattered groups of survivors. Naval ships, trawlers and other small craft moved through the debris‑strewn waters, taking aboard those they could reach and pulling men from lifebelts and wreckage wherever they were found.
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Imperial War Museums (IWM HU3325).
The work of recovery was difficult and often improvised. Survivors, weakened by exposure and coated in oil, had to be hauled aboard with care, while crews worked continuously to bring as many as possible to safety. Some were able to climb or assist themselves, but many required help, their strength nearly exhausted after prolonged immersion. On deck, attention turned immediately to the most urgent needs — warmth, rest, and the first attempts to deal with injuries sustained in the sinking.
Among those rescued were men who would later recount their experiences of the water and the means by which they had survived until help arrived. For others, the transition from sea to ship marked only the beginning of a longer process of recovery. The survivors were soon dispersed among the vessels that had taken part in the rescue, each ship carrying its own complement of men away from the scene. The waters off St Nazaire, so recently crowded with troops awaiting embarkation, were left to settle again, the immediate work of rescue giving way to the quieter aftermath of what had occurred.
Aftermath on Land
For those who survived the rescue, the journey did not end with their removal from the water. The survivors of the Lancastria were carried to a variety of destinations, depending on the vessels that had taken them aboard. Some were landed in Britain within a short time, while others found themselves returned to French ports or coastal hospitals, their immediate circumstances shaped as much by chance as by design. The cohesion that had once existed among units was now largely dissolved, replaced by a scattered pattern of survival and recovery.
Accounts from survivors describe the immediate aftermath on land in stark and human terms.
“Sergeant Youngs of the R.A.S.C. was driven by ambulance to a ward that was spotlessly white except for black marks on the walls from the soldiers’ hands. He was put in a children’s area where a boy was coming round from an appendix operation.
One of the staff removed his filthy clothes, and he was taken to a bathroom where he was ‘acutely aware’ that it was a nun who scrubbed his body, after which a doctor gave him a sleeping injection.”
— Jonathan Fenby, The Sinking of the Lancastria, p.188
Among those taken ashore in France was RASC/EFI Sergeant George Youngs, who, after his rescue, was admitted to hospital for treatment. There he encountered another member of the Expeditionary Force Institutes, Cyril Woolston, who had also survived the events off St Nazaire. Such meetings were often accidental, the result of individuals converging upon the same points of care or evacuation, yet they provided a measure of continuity in an otherwise fragmented experience. In the days that followed, Youngs would face a further ordeal, falling into German hands before eventually making his escape and returning to Britain.
Other survivors followed different paths. Some were repatriated directly, their experiences of the sinking becoming part of a wider and largely unrecorded narrative of evacuation and return. Others continued their service elsewhere, moving on to new postings as the war progressed. In each case, the events of 17 June formed a shared point of reference, though the circumstances that followed varied widely from one individual to another. The loss of the Lancastria had been a single event; its aftermath was dispersed across many lives.
The Survivors
In the years that followed, those who had survived the loss of the Lancastria did not remain entirely isolated from one another. Though scattered by the circumstances of rescue and subsequent service, a number of them would, in time, re‑establish contact, bound together by a shared experience that few outside their number could fully understand. Among them was Lieutenant Charles V. “Peter” Petit, whose later recollections helped to preserve aspects of the story, and Sergeant George Youngs, who became honorary secretary of a survivors’ association formed to maintain those connections.
Gatherings of former shipmates, recorded in the years after the war, brought together men whose paths had diverged widely since June 1940. At such meetings could be found figures like Staff Quartermaster Sergeant Percy Fairfax, by then recognised as one of the oldest among them — a veteran whose service stretched back to an earlier conflict, yet who had endured the same ordeal in the waters off St Nazaire. Others had continued their wartime service in different theatres, while some returned to civilian life, carrying with them memories that were not always easily set aside.
What united them was not only survival, but the circumstances of that survival. The suddenness of the attack, the circumstances in the water, and the dispersal that followed ensured that the experience of the Lancastria remained distinct, even within the wider context of evacuation and retreat. For the men of the Expeditionary Force Institutes, it also stood as a moment in which their role, though often overlooked, had been carried out under the most demanding circumstances — from the roads of the retreat to the crowded quays of St Nazaire, and into the waters beyond.
Imperial War Museums (IWM HU3324).
The story of the Lancastria is often told in terms of loss, and rightly so. Yet it is also a story of endurance: of men who, despite exhaustion, uncertainty and danger, continued to perform their duties; of others who survived against considerable odds; and of a shared experience that did not end with rescue, but continued in memory and association for many years thereafter. The EFI’s losses in France totalled 109 killed — the majority of them in the Lancastria — and a further 57 became prisoners of war. In tracing their journey, we recover not only a record of loss, but a testament to a form of service too often overlooked. It endured — in service, in survival, and in the recollections of those who had been there.
Sources and References
Images
Sinking of the "Lancastria", 17 June 1940 by Corporal Robert W. May, RASC. National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London.
The sinking of the Cunard liner SS Lancastria off St Nazaire (Imperial War Museums, IWM HU3325).
The sinking of the Cunard liner SS Lancastria off St Nazaire (Imperial War Museums, IWM HU3324).
Literature
Crabb, Brian James. The Forgotten Tragedy.
Cole, Lt-Colonel Howard N. NAAFI in Uniform.
Fenby, Jonathan. The Sinking of the Lancastria.
Lowe, Sue A. (comp.). NAAFI by Land & Sea.
Press Sources
Bond, Geoffrey. "Lancastria" series. Liverpool Echo and Evening Express, April 1960. Accessed via Findmypast (British Library Newspapers).
