Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  The next day, I met two officers, one of whom was from Saint-Florent, Corsica. Burly and tough, yet extremely nice, he was a typical Corsican. We got on very well. The other officer left us to ourselves since we were so engrossed in conversation with each other.

  “You know, I went to the island of Corsica when I was five or six years old,” I told him. “I went underwater diving with a few other children using the aqualungs developed for us by Monsieur Cousteau, Jacques’ father. We were able to stay underwater over five minutes!” (This device was the precursor to the aqualungs later used in submarines to provide a means of escape for the men inside should they be hit by the enemy.)

  “The trip was organized by my tutor, I’m sure, without my father’s knowledge,” I explained, “because my father would have been opposed to my having a good time. It’s an experience I’ll treasure forever. My tutor didn’t have an aqualung, but he put a mask on and caught langoustes with his hands,” I described with boyish glee. “Mr. Cousteau and my tutor both showed us a lot of love and caring,” I added, my eyes unexpectedly filling with tears.

  “Mr. Cousteau’s house was in Cap d’Ail. One of my friends, Nadine Dabron, lived a few doors away from him with her family,” I told him. I was a bit surprised at myself since I rarely shared personal information this way with anyone. I had an unusually good feeling about this man.

  The Corsican was finally able to get a word in. “You know my homeland,” he said with pride.

  “Yes, I do, and I absolutely love it,” I responded.

  “In a few days, I’ll have some time off. Would you like to accompany me to Corsica?” he asked, excitedly. It pleased him, I’m sure, that I loved his island so much. “If you want to, I am sure that I can arrange it with the commander,” he said eagerly.

  “My father is a friend of General Weygand. They are both pro-Pétain. So many think Pétain is pro-German, but I know for a fact it isn’t true!” he added, vehemently. “But that’s beside the point. What I’m saying is that my father could arrange for our leaves of absence if you’d like to join me. Anyway, think about it. Right now, let me show you the transportation unit and the rest of the camp. We’ve been waiting for your arrival for a couple of days now, Carbonell.”

  As I walked with him, he explained, “There are more than a thousand boys here. Our commander wants you to take charge of two very special horses. They are on loan to the camp from a gentleman who comes to visit them every day. They are Shires, about five years old, and so enormous”—he gestured, reaching his hand as high as he could—“that I can barely touch their withers.” He added excitedly, “You’ll see how full of life they are!”

  We arrived at a stone building where the horses were kept. There were twenty-two pairs of carriage horses. At the end of the aisle were two immense brown horses with feathery white hair on their lower legs. They were in a separate set of stalls built especially for them because of their size.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” he exclaimed in awe, though he knew them quite well.

  “Yes, they’re extraordinary!”

  “I’ll show you how to harness them,” he said as he led me toward their stalls. He haltered one as I watched, then told me to put a halter on the other one and follow him. We tied them to big iron rings attached to the wall. Then we went to the tack room to get the headstalls with blinders and their harnesses, which we brought back to where the horses were tied.

  “I’ll be right back,” he told me as he scurried off. A few minutes later, he returned with a double-sided two-meter ladder. As he climbed up, he explained, “First, I’ll put the headstall on the horse that will be on the left. Don’t worry about a thing. Though they’re enormous, they are very well trained. Today, just to be on the safe side, I’ll tack up both of them. The one that goes on the right is the more docile of the two. Now, watch how I put the harness on.”

  All my attention was focused on what he did. When he finished, he said, “See that big wagon over there, the one about five meters long with the meter-and-a-half wheels in back?” I nodded. “Take your horse to the right side, and I’ll take mine to the left. Walk a ways in front of the wagon and stop, and I’ll do the same. Then I’ll back my horse in first. Then you do the same thing.”

  I did as he said. The horses were totally docile. “Now we’ll finish the bridling process. We must first lay the reins gently on their backs. If we pick up the reins, they will start to prance animatedly because they love to go. Keep in mind the importance of keeping the brakes on while you’re hooking them up.”

  “I checked already. The brakes are on.”

  “Now slowly take the reins in your hand without pulling and get up into the wagon.”

  I was very careful, but as soon as I took the reins in hand, the horses started prancing. Their feet were enormous. I was a little nervous, but I didn’t let it show. The Corsican got up on the left side of the wagon. At the same time I climbed up on the right.

  “Take it easy, Carbonell. You’ll get used to it. Now, gradually release the brake and go straight ahead.”

  Very, very slowly, I released the brake so as not to disturb these giants any more than I already had. As I did, the horses calmed down and began walking forward as they felt the wheels begin to turn. They increased their pace slightly as we left the stone stable.

  “What an extraordinary feeling,” I said.

  “Let the reins lie on their backs and raise them gently from time to time. Now, they’re at a nice walk. If you keep doing the same thing, they’ll walk all the way to Toulon. To trot, take the slack out of the reins and pull a little.”

  “I’ve never felt anything like this before. I can feel an enormous amount of controlled energy inside them.”

  “Pass me the reins and I’ll show you how to turn left and right.”

  I passed him the reins very gently. We were still at the walk. He pulled on the left reins, and we started going left. The horse on the left was the leader. As he pulled more and more on the left reins, the wagon pivoted in place. “Let me show you what to do to turn right.” With all the reins together in his two hands, he made a sort of twisting motion with his right hand, which caused his left hand to make a kind of pull on the bit of the horse on the left. Reacting to the movement of the bit, the horse on the left pushed the horse on the right toward the right, creating a pivot to the right.

  “They are amazing,” I said as he handed me all the reins.

  “Now do what I did.” I was able to do the same thing. This was such a thrill for me, as I had never driven more than one horse at a time. After I had straightened the horses up, he asked, “Do you see the field in front of us? These are two rugby fields. Brace yourself by putting your feet on the footrest in front of you. Don’t be afraid now,” he cautioned. “I’m going to give the horses a voice command. Hold the reins firmly, but give and take as they extend the trot.” He called each by name. Their ears turned back to listen. Then he shouted, “Eu, ah! Eu, ah!” and the horses moved out with extraordinary speed.

  “Straight ahead, Carbonell. Pull and release, pull and release,” he instructed. “That’s it. That’s it.” I had the impression I was a gladiator behind these grand horses in a chariot race at the coliseum in Rome. “Do you think they’re going fast?” the Corsican queried. As I nodded, he took the reins from my hands. He let them fall once and then again on the horses’ backs, and they took off with astonishing speed. I had never felt anything like this. After a short while, he slowed them down to a walk and turned them toward the stable.

  When we arrived, he looked at me and said, “Now you’re an expert. I’ll leave you to your horses. When you put them away, start with the left. Give each of them a bucket of barley and a half bucket of carob when they’re cooled off.” That said, he left. I untacked the horses, brushed them, let them dry, and gave them their reward. After the barley and carob, I gave them each a generous portion of hay.

  Before daybreak the next morning, there was a knock on my door. I got up and opened
it. A man was standing at attention.

  “At ease,” I said.

  “I have orders to relate to you from the commander to get your horses ready to go to Toulon. You are to pick up four barrels of wine, each containing four hundred and fifty liters, and bring them back to camp. When you return, you are to deliver them to the steward in charge of the storeroom. He said to stop at the barracks and get four men to help you harness the horses to the same wagon you drove yesterday.”

  “Thank you. You’re dismissed.” I then readied myself for the day ahead. I was excited to drive the two Shires again.

  When the horses and wagon were ready to go, one of the officers gave me the written orders, which included the route to take. I read, “Turn left when leaving the camp and take the coast road in the direction of Carqueranne to avoid the center of town. Turn toward the village of La Seyne and pass it. Take the direction, Six-Fours-les-Plages. Go to the wine merchant in town. When the barrels are loaded, return directly to camp.”

  I got my horses ready. I was in heaven as I brushed, tacked, and hooked them up. We arrived without incident. I gave my order to the merchant, and he sent some men out to load and secure the massive barrels on the wagon. While they were loading, I unhitched the horses and brought them to the fountain to drink. I removed the hay I had brought in the wagon and fed them near the fountain. The loading took about two hours.

  Two gendarmes and a mailman came out from the wine merchant’s, each holding a glass of wine. The mailman looked at the horses, then looked at me and said, “It’s a pleasure to see these two big guys.” He turned to the gendarmes. “These are the two horses that Monsieur Deleau bought before the war. I saw them when they were little—only two meters tall! I never saw them work. Look at this load! Probably more than a thousand liters of wine, plus the barrels, plus the wagon!” he exclaimed.

  I proudly responded, as if they were my own, “Messieurs, now that the wagon is loaded, I am going to hook them up. It’s the first day that I’m working with them. They’re extraordinary. It is a privilege to drive them.”

  They watched as I attached the horses. “Look, the wagon is on a downslope. Watch as I release the brake—they will hold the entire load with the strength of their hind ends. And they are so calm, docile, and willing.” The three of them marveled at this display of strength and talent. “Messieurs, I must hurry now because I must get back to camp. I wish you a good day and hope to see you again.”

  I arrived at camp after a smooth, syncopated trot all the way back. I went directly to the storeroom where I unhooked my horses, leaving the wagon in front of the steward’s office. I then brushed, fed, and put the boys away for the night. For about a week, I worked with this pair transporting hay and straw. Then I went to see the priest who was my contact and told him that I thought my work at this camp was finished. I asked him to request my transfer to Die.

  Several days later, the commander asked me to his quarters. He told me that he had received orders for my transfer to the camp at Die. I left that same afternoon. I immediately missed my two giants. Even now, after all these years, I still miss them.

  SEVEN

  Courage on Parade

  I really liked the city of Die. I knew it from my childhood. It was nestled in a wide, green valley in the department of Drôme at the foot of Glandasse, an impressive mountain of granite towering nearly one thousand five hundred meters above the city.

  I arrived by train and asked directions to the youth camp from one of the railroad men. “Turn left at the street in front of the train station. Go straight. It’s not far. You will see the French flag flying above the barracks,” he told me. I followed his directions and soon found myself in front of a tall iron gate guarded by a sentry.

  I said to him, “I’m the new officer in charge of transportation, Michel Carbonell. Will you announce my arrival to your commander?”

  He immediately went to the phone inside the guardhouse, then returned and opened the gate. “Go straight ahead,” he said, pointing the way, “and you will see the commander’s office.”

  I entered the camp. It was about six in the evening. In the distance, about four hundred and fifty meters from the entrance, I saw an officer walking toward me. To my surprise, as he approached, I recognized the stripes on his uniform. This was the commander. I thought it strange that the commander himself would come out to meet me.

  “Are you Michel Carbonell?” he asked.

  “Oui, mon commandant,” I replied, as I came to attention. A car drove up next to us.

  “I’m late. Get in the car with me,” he ordered.

  The driver got out and opened the door for the commander. I walked to the other side. A moment later, he was there to open my door. The car was a Citroën, front-wheel drive and camouflaged in green and brown paint with the flag of the camp flying from the middle of the front bumper.

  “Drive us to my home and hurry,” he told the driver. Then he turned to me and said, “My wife is waiting for us. She’s an excellent cook, originally from Montélimar,” he boasted. “I’m sure you know that the region is renowned for its cuisine.”

  I thought to myself, Why is he taking me to his home? This is peculiar.

  The commander continued, “I assure you, you will eat well this evening. She may have prepared a boeuf en daube or, perhaps, a boeuf mironton. That’s my favorite. I am certain about dessert, however, because she made it yesterday. I had to turn the crank on the ice-cream maker. A rich vanilla. And, of course, she being from Montélimar, the home of nougat, there will be pieces of nougat sprinkled on the top.”

  We had to stop in the old part of the city because six oxen were crossing the very narrow road in front of the car, and there was no way to go around them. While we were waiting, the commander turned to me and said, “Let me give you the facts about the camp here in Die. But before talking about that, I must tell you that my friend, the commander of the camp at Hyères told me about you. He said that you were assigned to his camp by a general whose name he did not want to divulge. By the way, he congratulates you on your dexterity in handling the two Shires. Now, about our camp. We produce wood coal. We have more than twenty-eight hundred young men. My boys are extremely well disciplined. We have parade-ground review every morning followed by intense exercise. Then the men return to their barracks, shower, dress in uniform, and present the flag. After that, they go to breakfast. That is how we start our day.”

  At the commander’s home, his charming wife greeted us and told us immediately that she had indeed prepared what promised to be an incredible boeuf en daube. The commander beamed with pride. We had a long, enjoyable dinner ending with rich vanilla ice cream covered with decadent nougat. Madame loved to cook, which was evident from the fine meal she had created. After dinner, we adjourned to the salon for espresso and cognac. The commander and I savored a good smoke, taking pleasure in puffing on our pipes filled with fine prewar tobacco. The three of us enjoyed a lovely visit.

  “Years ago, I was an officer in the foreign legion,” the commander said, “and I’m now enjoying being a leader to these boys. Carbonell, you’ll be in charge of the stables, which are located in the center of the old city. We bought and converted warehouses into stables to accommodate the large number of horses we need. The two-story granite building takes up a square block. We use the second floor for hay and straw storage. We have eighteen teams of horses and forty oxen that work at the camp. Our work is to cut trees that are often in areas difficult to access. We deliver them to a sawmill where they are cut to size for the manufacture of coal made from wood. Only hardwood trees, such as oak, walnut, and chestnut, are cut down for this purpose.”

  We talked of the German occupation and the sad state of affairs in the world. Late that evening, the driver took me back to the camp.

  The next day, the commander called me into his office. “Next Sunday, I want you to organize and participate in a camp parade that will go straight through the center of town,” he announced.

  N
o time to waste. I began to organize the event so that everyone could participate, one way or another. To head up the parade, I would place a group of five hundred boys who would march and sing following their choirmaster. The others would march in military formation behind them. I delegated four wagons to be filled with hay and pulled by teams of horses. Six pairs of oxen with their handlers would follow. I chose to mount a Poitevin, a very hefty, well-muscled horse that would be pulling an enormous tree trunk behind him. Since this would make a lot of dust, I placed the two of us at the end of the parade. I would ride him bareback. I fell for him immediately because he loved to do his job. He would make a big fuss if others were chosen instead of him to work on any particular day.

  The following Sunday after lunch, we paraded through the town. The marching song the boys sang astounded me. These are the words, roughly translated: “Three Germans in a wheelbarrow, alee, alee, oh. A lee, alee, oh, oh, eh. Three Germans in a wheelbarrow, alee, alee, oh. Alee, alee, oh, eh. They fell into the manure, alee, alee, oh, oh, eh.” As they marched through the town, the boys repeated the entire song over and over again. They sang loudly with great enthusiasm, and they enunciated clearly. It was quite daring, given the occupation of France.

  The pièce de résistance was that the parade happened to block a national route. At the intersection sat two cars filled with Nazis. Certainly, no one had planned that. The cars had to wait for the end of the parade before continuing. The Germans even saluted the boys as the French and camp flags passed them. Fortunately, they didn’t understand the words of the song.