“To a beautiful life comes a sudden end. Ever in our thoughts. Mam, Dad, and Sisters.”
— Gravestone inscription, Pornic War Cemetery
In the early summer of 1940, as the world reeled from the onslaught of a second global war, a 20-year-old man from Mansfield Woodhouse disappeared into the chaos of history. His name was Joseph Raymond Jordan — known simply as Joe — and his story is both heartbreakingly ordinary and profoundly human.
Joe was born into a working-class family, the only son of Samuel and Emily Marion Jordan (known as Marian). The Jordans had moved from Welbeck Colliery Village to 12 Charles Street in Mansfield Woodhouse, likely drawn by work opportunities, like so many others during that time of rapid population growth. Samuel, originally from outside the area, had already seen the ravages of war — he had served in the Welsh Guards during the First World War. Later, both father and son would work at Welbeck Colliery: Sam underground, Joe on the surface.
Joe also had three sisters: Megan (later Butcher), Gwen (later Harris), and Iris. The family was close-knit, and Joe’s disappearance would cast a long shadow over their lives.
Before the outbreak of the Second World War, Joe had already shown his sense of duty by serving in the Territorial Army for two years with the Sherwood Yeomanry. Shortly after turning 20, he was conscripted into the regular army and transferred to the Royal Armoured Corps. He was soon sent to France as part of the British Expeditionary Force.
By May 1940, as the German forces launched a rapid and overwhelming invasion of France, Joe’s unit found itself among those stationed south of the River Somme — dangerously cut off from the main British escape routes to Dunkirk. In the scramble to reach safety, many units, including Joe’s, headed west, hoping to evacuate from smaller, lesser-known ports.
Joe’s last known contact with his family came in a letter dated 5 June 1940. In it, he described the heart-wrenching plight of Belgian and French refugees, forced from their homes with little more than what they could carry, under constant threat from German aircraft. He wrote with compassion and clarity, painting a vivid picture of the human toll of war.
At that time, Joe was still with a friend. But in the final weeks of the retreat, the two became separated — lost in the chaos of a collapsing front. With no official word of Joe’s whereabouts, his parents grew increasingly desperate. They turned to the local press, pleading for any information. A friend of Joe’s, on seeing the notice, contacted the family to say that he had been with Joe recently — that he was well, though they had since lost touch.
Meanwhile, the situation in France continued to deteriorate. Although some 11,000 British and 26,000 Allied troops were evacuated from Le Havre between 10 and 13 June, the tides of war were moving too swiftly. Winston Churchill ordered the formation of a Second Expeditionary Force, but this proved impossible. Many troops, including Joe, were left to fend for themselves — navigating through enemy territory, buying maps from French shops, dodging air raids, and seeking refuge in port towns now flooded with both soldiers and civilians.
One such port was St. Nazaire. There, a new evacuation — Operation Aerial — was under way. The Royal Navy worked frantically to evacuate as many people as possible from the western coast of France. The air was thick with the noise of engines and the looming presence of the Luftwaffe.
Into this chaos sailed the Lancastria, a former cruise liner hastily repurposed for war. Anchored five to ten miles off the coast, she began taking on passengers at dawn on 17 June. Conditions were cramped but hopeful; soldiers bathed and ate hot meals — small luxuries amid the turmoil.
As more men and civilians boarded, estimates of those on board ranged from 5,000 to 9,000 — far beyond her designed capacity of 1,300. By mid-afternoon, she was dangerously overloaded. Yet the decision was made to delay departure until a naval escort could be arranged. It was a decision that would prove catastrophic.
At around 4pm, the Lancastria was attacked by German aircraft. Four bombs struck the ship. One — possibly down the funnel — exploded deep inside. The damage was devastating. Hundreds were killed instantly. Fuel oil spilled into the sea, creating a slick black tide. Survivors clung to the sinking vessel, sang patriotic songs, and prayed.
Within twenty minutes, the Lancastria was gone. Those who escaped the ship found themselves in an oil-slicked sea, strafed by machine gun fire from above, weighed down by heavy uniforms. Many stripped to stay afloat. Rescue boats raced to reach them. Some French vessels joined the effort, pulling oil-drenched survivors from the water. But many didn’t make it.
In the following days and weeks, the sea gave up its dead. Joe Jordan was one of them.
His body was discovered on 28 June at Baie Bourgreuf near Bouin in the Vendée region — suggesting that he may have been aboard the Lancastria, though this was never officially confirmed. Joe was initially buried in Bouin Communal Cemetery, and in 1947, his remains were moved to the Pornic War Cemetery nearby, where he rests today.
His grave bears a poignant message from the family he left behind:
“To a beautiful life comes a sudden end. Ever in our thoughts. Mam, Dad, and Sisters.”
In Mansfield Woodhouse, Joe’s absence was deeply felt. Newspaper reports documented the family’s anguished search for news, the confirmation of his death, and the community’s sympathy. Though some reports incorrectly stated that he was still serving in the Sherwood Yeomanry, official records — including his place on the Roll of Honour at the Tank Museum in Bovington — confirm his service in the Royal Armoured Corps.
Joe was remembered as a popular young man, well-liked in his neighbourhood. Years later, his mother Marian made a personal pilgrimage to France to visit his grave and pay tribute to the son she lost.
Sources:
The National Archives
The Commonwealth War Graves Commission
The Mansfield Chronicle
Testimony from Alan Clarke (Joe’s cousin)
Compiled and written with care to honour the memory of Trooper Joseph Raymond Jordan
