by Max Ciampoli
“Since you’re going to order the quenelles, I’ll order the frog legs. I didn’t dare ask you to taste one, you were devouring them with such gusto.” She motioned to the waiter, placed the order, and asked him to bring us two more absinthes.
“Ask la mère Brossard to come to the table when you place the order,” she said to the waiter. He returned a few moments later.
“Madame Brossard had to leave for a few minutes,” he said. I’ll send her to your table as soon as she returns. It won’t be too long, I’m sure.” He poured an absinthe for each of us, then turned and left the room.
Josephine got up, took her chair and placed it next to mine on the other side of the table, and sat down again. “Now, let’s drink to victory, your good health, and your safe return. And,” she said, “I want you to promise to invite me to your wedding whenever and wherever that might be!” She took me by the hand as we toasted, each taking a sip from our glasses. This was an extraordinarily touching moment for me. She really knew how to move me emotionally, though one wouldn’t have known from my countenance.
Memories of my childhood suddenly filled my head: my mother who was forbidden to have any contact with me, who was brutally beaten by the father I despised, and this woman who had offered me kindness then as she did now. I took a long sip of absinthe to squelch my feelings.
When Madame Brossard returned, she came directly to our table and began making conversation, asking me where I was from and what I did for a living. I was more than well trained for this type of exchange. Amicably, I answered her questions, telling her that I dealt in farm animals, especially cows, and specialized in improving breeds so that they would give more milk. I told her that I was a regional representative for my company, covering the entire south of France.
“Stop, stop,” she said, laughing. “I know much more than you think.”
By this time, the dining room was completely empty. Only the three of us remained at our little table. “No more secrets, mademoiselle and monsieur.” She called out to one of the waiters, saying, “Lock all the doors. We are going to celebrate. The restaurant is closed to the public. Call everyone from the kitchen. Let’s join together in saluting Free France!”
Fifteen employees came into the dining room and surrounded our table. Josephine sat there, wide-eyed, holding my hand in hers, not daring to utter a word. Madame Brossard said to the same waiter, “Now, go open the back door. Ask my bodyguards to join us.”
When everyone was gathered together, she turned toward us with her whole staff behind her and said, “Let me introduce ourselves. We are a part of the group Combat , and I am in charge. There are many members here in Lyon. The group from Brive-la-Gaillarde met you when you arrived from England,” she said addressing me. “We were put on alert because we did not know if you would be going to Brive-la-Gaillarde or coming to us. When mademoiselle asked me if I knew who those three men were in the bar, I followed my instincts and went with my men to take care of the three before they had the chance to take care of us. We took them to the docks, killed them, and pushed them into the river.
“Now that everything is out in the open, may I bring dessert for mademoiselle and monsieur?” she asked, gaily. Perhaps, crèpes Suzette aux poires for you both?”
“Certainement! And I want two portions. You’ve made me very hungry, madame. And champagne for everyone, especially Madame Brossard!” Josephine shouted.
Immediately, Madame responded, “No, no! The champagne is on me! And the dinner as well! If you wish to pay for a meal, come back tomorrow night, and I’ll prepare for you a grand dîner gastronomique. And, mademoiselle, take my private number. Call me when monsieur has left. We can be at your disposal to provide protection should the need arise.”
Josephine gladly took her number. In those times, one never knew when a certain need might arise. The room was charged with a wonderful electrifying energy. We toasted and drank to la victoire.
“I want to reassure you, mademoiselle, that your special relationship with monsieur will be entirely safe with us. We don’t want your life to be put in jeopardy. The code of Combat keeps the incidence of traitors very low. As you certainly know monsieur, our code is to kill any member of the group suspected of treason along with their entire family. So you know your secret is safe with us.”
After the joyous celebration, we excused ourselves and drove to the hotel. It was late. Josephine decided not to go to the movies after all. She was full of questions about the spy business.
“Is it true what Madame Brossard said regarding the code of Combat?”
“Yes, it is. Unfortunately, probably fifty percent of the time the member is not guilty, but the chance can’t be taken that a traitor lives and endangers the lives of others as well as the cause.”
The next day I walked to the American Consulate and sent Josephine’s message, instructing the officer in charge that the message was to be directed to the appropriate U.S. agency, and as soon as the response was received, it was to be coded and forwarded to the British prime minister.
When Josephine woke up late that afternoon, I told her that I had to leave in the morning for Gibraltar. She insisted on coming with me, suggesting that at the Spanish border I could pose as her driver, making our border crossing that much easier. This proved to be true. A few days later we passed customs with no problem due to her celebrity throughout Europe. We reached Gibraltar two days later. Since Josephine slept much of the trip, I drove straight through taking very few breaks.
Josephine was immediately recognized when we entered the sumptuous Hotel Excelsior in Gibraltar. The concierge rushed over to welcome her and before we knew it, we were checked in and settled in our rooms. Both tired from the long trip, we went to sleep early.
First thing in the morning, I went to the military base. “May I see the officer in charge?” I asked the guard. Neither the guard nor the officer spoke French or Italian. I tried to make the officer comprehend that I needed a message coded and sent to England right away. Not understanding, he called the commander, who came out to see who this visitor was. I explained to him, “This message is extraordinarily urgent and needs to be coded and forwarded immediately to Winston Churchill.”
The commander had a perplexed look on his face, but he heard “Winston Churchill” and got on the phone while indicating that I should take a seat. Soon, another officer came in who could communicate with me in French. I gave him the message to send to Mr. Churchill’s secretary, which was, “Call me at the commander’s office at the base in Gibraltar. If I don’t hear from you within an hour, I will return to my hotel and call you from the lobby at noon.”
No call came for me, so I went back to the hotel. I had the operator place the call for me while I waited next to the phone in the lobby.
The phone rang. “Great news! The U.S. has accepted,” the secretary shouted. “In four days, our pilots will pick up the bombers and fly them to Halifax. We’ll arrange a flight for you back to England. Mr. Churchill will fill you in on your next mission as soon as you arrive.”
I went to Josephine’s room to tell her of my imminent departure. Sadness filled the afternoon as we talked away the precious hours. Around five o’clock, there was a knock on her door. It was the concierge. “Monsieur, there is a military driver waiting in front of the hotel for you.”
“Thank you. Please tell him I’ll be down within half an hour.” After a tear-filled good-bye, I pulled myself away to go to my room to pack.
I put all the clothes that I had borrowed in the suitcase and placed it at Josephine’s door. The few things that were mine fit into my duffel bag. I left the hotel, jumped into the idling jeep, and was driven to the air base. The pilot was waiting for me in a fighter plane.
THIRTEEN
Escape by Submarine
“And how was our beautiful Josephine?” Mr. Churchill asked, but didn’t wait for the answer. “It was a real coup to get those planes, Marc. Great work. Now we’re back on good footing. I have a little time, s
o tell me the details of the mission.”
I began my account with the shock of finding Josephine as my contact for the assignment. He smiled faintly as he puffed on his cigar and continued to listen intently. Suddenly he broke in, “Now I have a challenge for you in La Turbie, mon petit. Since you know the area well, we want you to come up with a plan to liberate the Royal Air Force pilots being held there in prison.”
He was right. I was totally familiar with the area. For four years, from the age of three, I had ridden horses almost every day in the hills around La Turbie with my tutor. The stables were located in nearby Mont Agel, less than an hour from Monte Carlo. After our ride, my tutor and I would often have breakfast at the restaurant, the only one in the village, located on the Grande Place. I remembered the restaurant owner. I also knew the village carpenter, the firemen, and the priest.
“I fear if we wait too much longer, these pilots will be sent to the German forced labor camps set up by Todt Company. There are thirty-six British pilots who have been chosen for immediate return out of the one hundred fifty English military men imprisoned there. That is all we can accommodate at this time. Here is the list. We will have a submarine at your disposition for the trip back to England.”
Two nights later I was parachuted into the Paillon Valley not far from my father’s property called le domaine des Croves in Drap. From there, shortly after daybreak, having buried my parachute, I made my way toward La Turbie on foot using several shortcuts, passing through Laghet, a tiny village of ten homes, only a few kilometers away. Dressed in a business suit and posing as a textile representative from Lille, I had all my false papers in order. When I arrived in La Turbie, I went directly to the restaurant whose owner I remembered so well. I spotted him as soon as I entered, but, of course, he did not recognize a six-foot-tall “little Marc” with a full beard. There were quite a few customers having lunch at the time.
As soon as he was free, I approached him. I gave him a few hints, and he realized who I was. After talking about the old days for a while, I broached other topics.
“Do you know the chief engineer for bridges and roadways?” I asked. “I heard that his son fled to Algeria recently.”
“Yes, of course, I do. He eats lunch here every day. They’re Jewish, you know. That’s why his son left the country. It’s certainly not good to be Jewish right now in France. I’ll introduce you. He’s out on the terrace right now having coffee.”
The owner accompanied me out to the terrace to make the introduction and immediately returned inside to attend to his other customers. I’d been informed that this restaurant owner and others he knew in the village could be trusted. That is why I was able to be so open in my conversation. The man at the table stood up to shake my hand and asked me to join him. I sat down and quickly came to the point.
“I know you can be trusted,” I said. “I know that your son left the country a couple of months ago to go to Algeria. If you and your wife would like to join him, I can provide the means. I am in La Turbie to liberate thirty-six RAF pilots being held in the fortress. I am sure that the plans for the fortress’s interior are accessible to you. I would like your help.”
“Of course, I’ll help you. And we would like nothing more than to join our son, but I would have helped anyway. I can make you a general sketch here on the ground. I’ll draw you an exact map of the interior later.” He took a twig and began. “The tunnel is here. There are two iron grill separations that block the sewers here and here. Let me think. You will need an acetylene torch to remove the doors to open the way for escape. I know six young men who work together in the boiler room who could be of help. They are all sixteen or seventeen years old.”
I said to him, “You realize they’ll all eventually be sent to forced labor camps for the Todt Company where they’ll be building fortifications for the Germans on the coast of France. To avoid that, I’ll provide passage for them out of France in exchange for their assistance. Will you ask the boys if they’ll agree to help us?”
“Of course, I will.”
I continued, “The priest in Laghet can send a message to London that the plan is in the process of being formulated and that we will contact them in a few days when we’re ready for the proposed escape. I’ll be in touch with you, monsieur.” I got up, shook hands, and left.
All six young men jumped at the chance to help with the escape and were thrilled at the opportunity to get out of France. They would also go to Algeria. They knew all too well what their future held as long as France was occupied.
The man brought me the diagrams, and I formulated the plan. The boys agreed to start the next night. They cut through the ground-level iron grate closure. That would allow access to the sewer. While four of them stood guard outside, the other two went in to cut the second iron closure. They rotated their shifts, always two inside doing the work with the acetylene torch while four stayed out to provide cover. Once they finished, they propped the grates up in place so no one would notice that they were cut.
As soon as the job was completed, I went to talk to the priest. “Contact London and tell them we are ready to implement our plan.” Within a couple of days, I received the message to execute the escape the following Sunday night.
Early Sunday evening, I dressed like a priest and went to the restaurant. I sat down at a table on the terrace located on the square directly across from the prison where I could keep an eye on the entrance. While waiting and watching, I sipped on my beer, one I especially liked that was produced in Monaco. If I saw anything out of the ordinary, I would blow my nose several times in succession to warn the partisan lookouts.
At about eight in the evening, three Germans sat down at the adjacent table and ordered red wine. Then they started talking to me. I was affable but pulled out the handkerchief from my pocket, just in case. The whole plan might have to be canceled if they did anything at all to provoke suspicion. I was hoping they would just go away and not put the escape plan into jeopardy. They left after about an hour, and I was relieved.
I looked at my watch. Nine o’clock. If all went according to schedule, I’d leave at nine thirty, and the plan would go into action. At nine thirty exactly, I got up and left. I took my bicycle that I had parked in front of the restaurant and nonchalantly pushed it toward the church. Nothing had happened that had indicated any sort of problem. As I walked along, two local farmers passed me on their bicycles.
I went over the plan in my head. These farmers were the two partisans who would be guides for the escaping aviators. They would lead the aviators to the submarine waiting for them at Cap Martin. The six boys who helped with the grills and the chief engineer of bridges and roadways and his wife would be leaving, too, but by other means. We only had room for the thirty-six aviators on the submarine.
I followed the partisans, staying a reasonable distance behind, and then put my bicycle in the bushes near the fortress. About twenty more partisans were hiding there. My part in the mission complete, I left the guides and partisans behind. I walked toward the old, out-of-service funicular that connected La Turbie and Beausoleil and began walking along the tracks toward Beausoleil, which was not far away.
On my way, I heard the sirens go off. I could see in my mind what was going on. Everyone was scattering in all directions, creating as much confusion as possible, and the aviators were being swept away to Cap Martin where the submarine was waiting.
Once in Beausoleil, I headed toward my friend Pierre’s home. Since his garage was on the way, I stopped there first, even though it was late Sunday evening. I went to the back door, knocked, and walked in. There was Pierre, working in the office. This man worked seven days a week. He had had no idea that I was coming. Still dressed as a priest, I quickly identified myself.
“Pierre, c’est moi, Marc.”
“I have eyes. What do you need, my friend?”
“Start up a car. I need to leave right away.”
Because he already knew the work I was doing, he moved quickly and d
idn’t ask any questions. He started up a 1935 green Packard limousine, and within minutes we were on the road toward Paris. This would be about an eleven-hour trip. Pierre had all the necessary exit visas because he provided chauffeured limousines for the Germans. I expected no problems. It was invaluable to have a friend like Pierre in my life, especially in my line of work.
Once we arrived in Paris, I asked, “Would you take me to Maxim’s? I’m to meet a contact at the restaurant to arrange another mission.” When we arrived, I said, “Thank you, dear friend, and have a safe journey home.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said with a smile.
Intimate knowledge of the area of operation around La Turbie had been indispensable once again. Later, I learned that fourteen of the pilots were shot while fleeing, and other prisoners were killed or recaptured during the escape attempt. Not many got away. The engineer, his wife, and the six boys were waiting at Cap Martin for further instructions. Because of the heavy losses, the submarine offered passage to them all. The six boys gratefully accepted this rare opportunity, as did the engineer and his wife, and they all departed for England.
I met with my contact at Maxim’s. “The plans have been changed,” he said. “You need to return to England for some special training for your next mission in Martinique.”
“What is going on in Martinique?”
“I don’t know, but they want you back in England as soon as possible.”
“I just let my transportation go. Can you help get me to Portugal?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Come with me to a safe house where you can stay the night.”
