The Admiralty boardroom in Whitehall was filled with the stench of dread.
The walls seemed to sweat with the drizzle clinging to London that morning; the windows were grey with mist and shame alike.
Around the long table, Britain's senior admirals sat like men who had just stepped out of a funeral, each avoiding the other's eyes, each knowing whatever illusions they had held about the war at sea had already been stripped bare in the Channel.
The First Sea Lord cleared his throat.
The rasp of it sounded older than his years.
"Gentlemen… we have lost the Channel Fleet."
No one spoke. The words hung like smoke, heavy and choking.
The reports lay on desks, casualty lists trickled in from Portsmouth and Plymouth, cables described shattered escorts and scattered survivors, but hearing it aloud was a knife across an old scar.
An older admiral, his face lined with salt and age, finally spoke. His voice cracked with something between anger and despair.
