Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  As per instructions, we stopped in Brignoles. A man approached the ambulance and asked that Michel Carbonell step out. I got out to talk to him.

  “Carbonell, I am Victor Bonelli,” he said. “You have a spy in your group, the doctor. You need to get rid of him before you cross the Spanish border.”

  I nodded and replied, “Bonelli, you know this region better than I. Where would be a good place?”

  He thought for a moment. “When you cross the bridge over the Rhône River near Istres, it should be around midnight. That will be a good time and location for you to take care of the matter. I’ll have two men on motorcycles following you just in case any problems arise. Do you have any arms on you?” he asked.

  “No, my instructions were to carry no weapons.”

  “I’ll get something for you. Wait here.” Victor returned minutes later with a hunting knife. “You can use this,” he said as he handed me the knife. “Afterward, you can use it for a razor,” he added, alluding to the razor-sharp blade. I walked over to the lead vehicle and told the driver to stop when we reached the bridge. Then I climbed back into the ambulance.

  It was past midnight when we approached the bridge. The bus stopped, as did the ambulance, the Citroën behind, and the two gendarmes on motorcycles. I got out and went to the bus. The two “militia” got out, as did the doctor.

  I asked the two partisans, “Would you mind leaving me alone with the doctor for a few minutes? I need to talk to him in private.” Without a word, they left us. After distancing ourselves from the vehicles, I asked the doctor, “Do you know how to swim?”

  “No, I don’t. But why are you asking me such a question?”

  “If you don’t know how to swim, I am going to help you learn.” I took his cap off and tossed it into the Rhône, grabbed a fistful of hair, turned him toward the river, and stepped behind him. The doctor started screaming. I leaned him over the railing, and said, “This is your first and last swimming lesson.” I slit his throat easily with the well-sharpened blade, waited over a minute to be sure he was dead, and then pushed him into the river.

  That was the second man I killed, and I did it with no hesitation. My training had been effective. The two gendarmes were waiting nearby to make sure everything went well.

  “We don’t know what information the doctor passed on,” one of them said, “so the plans have to be changed again. You are to go to Narbonne and then on to Perpignan. We will leave you now, but you’ll be provided an escort who will accompany you from Perpignan to the foot of the Pyrénées at the border of Andorra. The three of us returned to the caravan. I got into the ambulance, and we continued on toward Narbonne, followed by the gendarmes, who left soon thereafter to return to Brignoles.

  A few kilometers down the road, the ambulance pulled over, and the caravan stopped. Andre, who had been seated next to the ambulance driver, opened the back door and asked me to come out.

  “One of my men has to leave us now to take a bus back to the Camargues,” he said. I nodded in agreement, and he walked over to the Citroën. The Gypsy got out and waved us farewell. Andre and I got back into the ambulance, and the caravan started up again.

  We avoided Perpignan because it was too big. The larger the population of an area, the more likely we were to encounter French Militia. We took the road toward Prades. I noticed that two new gendarmes were behind us. I knocked hard on the partition between the back of the ambulance and the cab. The driver stopped. Andre came back to find out what I wanted. “Tell the driver to stop at the main square in Prades.”

  When we arrived, I got out and went up to the gendarmes to ask if they knew the hotels nearby. We could always trust the gendarmes.

  “Of course,” one replied. “There are several.”

  “Well, let’s start with the closest one,” I said. “There is a man waiting in the lobby of one of them close to the square whose name is Claude Marron. He will have let the manager know that he is waiting for someone. Once you find him, ask him where he was born. If he says ‘Casablanca,’ put handcuffs on him. That means he’s in danger and cannot talk there. If he says ‘Marrakesh,’ that means all is well. I need you to bring him to the bus.” They nodded and left. The gendarmes had told me to contact this man.

  Soon after, I saw them returning with a man, headed toward the bus. The man with them wore no handcuffs. That was good. I was waiting and watching beside the ambulance. When I saw them approaching, I quickly hid behind the ambulance so that Marron would not know what I looked like.

  “Andre, tell the two maquisards to get out and tell them privately to ask Marron what his profession is and where he lives. If he answers that he is from Nîmes and owns the Hôtel Cheval Blanc, all is well. If not, let me know and I’ll decide what to do.”

  All was in good order, so we could safely move on. These precautions were necessary because the German Fifth Column, the Gestapo, had infiltrated everywhere. Marron would let Churchill know where we were on our route and estimate the amount of time necessary to arrive at our final destination. There were other “Claude Marrons” stationed in different towns.

  We left and headed for Ax, which we passed a couple of hours later. We then continued on until we reached a farm at the foot of the Pyrénées. Partisans directed us to the barn where we were all to stay. We shared the barn with at least fifty cows. While everyone took turns going to the outhouse, the partisans went to the farmhouse and returned with cheese, Bayonne ham, fresh-baked bread, wine, milk, and water. Everyone was hungry and tired. Daylight was breaking when we went to sleep. A large group of partisans guarded the barn while we slept.

  The Pyrénées were only about eleven hundred meters high at the point where we were to begin the climb on foot. But already there was a lot of snow. It was the beginning of November, and not only was it very cold, but the wind was whipping, howling, and gusting as well. We would have to pass under the noses not only of the French patrols but also past Spanish and possibly German patrols. The partisans knew the approximate circuits and routines of the patrols and wanted to leave at 11 P.M., but the family was completely exhausted. I knew how grueling the trip was going to be, so I worked it out to leave at 4 A.M. That would give the family more time to rest. The small paths we were going to take were those used by smugglers going to and from Andorra. The journey would be very difficult for those who didn’t know how to climb, but there was simply no other choice.

  “Everyone, wake up,” I called out. It was after 3 A.M. “Dress warmly. The wind hasn’t let up.” I waited for them at the foot of the mountain. “We’ll walk single file. Monsieur, follow this man, and lead your family. I’ll walk behind them,” I told the scientist. We successfully got past the French patrol units and had the good fortune to come upon an abandoned farm where we ate and rested till night.

  About 11 P.M., we headed out again. The paths were covered with ice and snow. The weather worsened, and the mountains got steeper. I attached everyone with a long rope so that no one would get lost. When someone stopped, we all stopped. What made it even more difficult was the number of ascents and descents. They seemed never ending. To those with experience, this posed no problem. My fitness saved me, but the physical drawbacks and the inexperience of the family members made it more dangerous for us all. We climbed this type of terrain for two days or more. At its end, we found a huge boulder and a cluster of trees under which we could hide and sleep.

  Night arrived. “Everybody up, it’s nine thirty and time to leave,” I announced. The family had been fairly good about not grumbling and had followed directions the entire trip. If they did complain, it was in Bulgarian and remained only among themselves. The boy had caused several minor problems, but I just ignored him as best I could.

  We commenced the trek again. After a short while, we heard the sound of dogs in the distance. This was not good. I figured it was probably a German patrol that had picked up our scent because it was unlikely that the French patrols would have dogs.

  “We need to move mor
e quickly,” I encouraged, and they all made an effort. At that inopportune moment, the pregnant girl’s water broke. The partisans, being well prepared, began spreading cayenne pepper all around because this would numb the dogs’ sense of smell. “We cannot stop, continue on,” I insisted.

  After another hour or so, the mother-to-be began to moan and shake uncontrollably. There was no choice.

  “Everyone, stop. I’ll deliver the baby, and then we must move on quickly. Spread some jackets out over here on the snow,” I told some partisans. “Lie down on the jackets,” I told the girl. Her parents helped her lie down. I could see the baby’s head already. “Hold her down,” I told the partisans while I brought the baby into this world under these strange circumstances.

  The child slipped out quickly, not knowing what he was getting himself into. The mother and I worked well together. She was thrilled that he was a boy. I cut a piece of my shoelace to tie off the umbilical cord. I took my shirt off, wrapped the baby in it, and put him on my chest. I put my jacket on again and closed him inside.

  “I need a big piece of your slip,” I told the new grandmother. She came next to me, and I took what I needed. I stuffed the cloth in the mother’s vagina. “Get up now,” I told the new mother. “We must leave right away.”

  She didn’t complain at all as I helped her to her feet. The partisans spread more cayenne pepper all over the area of the birth, picked up their wet jackets and we left immediately. We could still hear the dogs barking.

  I was covered with blood and there was no way I could clean up the baby or myself. What a mess! The air was frigid, and the wind, icy. I was afraid the baby would catch cold. He was crying. Of course, he wanted to nurse. I could feel him shivering. My body heat did not seem to keep him warm enough.

  Everyone was thirsty. “I know it’s tempting, but do not eat the snow to quench your thirst,” I told them. “It will only irritate your tongues and make them swell.” We needed water. But to have water, we needed to make a fire. To make a fire, we needed dry wood. In any case, we could not make a fire right under the nose of the enemy. “Bear with the thirst and stay strong,” I told them. “People don’t die of thirst during the winter,” I invented.

  The baby was screaming for nourishment. We had to stop. I handed him over to his mother. She put the child to her breast, but he kept screaming. I said to her, “Hand me your baby.” She did as I said. I then passed the boy to the grandmother. I took the girl’s right breast in my hand and pulled on the nipple with my thumb and two fingers. It was as I thought. I felt a waxy substance that was blocking the flow of milk. I had seen the same thing happen to dogs, cows, and horses. I put the large nipple in my mouth. I sucked hard and spit out the wax. I could see that she was stunned. Her mother looked horrified, but no one uttered a word. I then took the other breast and sucked the wax coating off. I took the baby from the grandmother and handed him to his mother. The baby tasted his mother’s milk for the first time. Everyone was grateful for the quiet.

  All was silent—too silent. There was no more screaming, true, but it was eerily quiet owing to the absence of the dogs barking. Apparently, the Germans had lost our trail. That was excellent news, if true.

  Fifteen minutes later, we began a long, difficult descent with the snow at waist level. Then it began to rain. Being so cold, the rain turned to sleet. We walked the rest of the night, but by morning the snow was becoming very wet and slippery.

  “It’s too dangerous to continue. Let’s stop here under these protruding rocks and trees and rest for a while,” I instructed.

  The baby wanted milk, it seemed, every half hour. Everyone felt the cold more since we weren’t moving. Of course, the soles of everyone’s climbing boots were paper thin. My right sole was attached only at the heel and the shoe had only part of a shoelace. I had wrapped the front of the shoe with wire to keep it closed. I was really fortunate that I didn’t get frostbite.

  After about twenty minutes, the weather cleared. “Now the sleet has stopped, let’s move on,” I said. We didn’t stop for the next four hours.

  “Soon we’ll arrive at a clearing where there is a cabin,” a partisan told me. About a kilometer later, we spotted what appeared to be a cabin in the distance that was engulfed by snow. Everyone’s pace picked up. When we arrived at the place, our hopes were answered. It was the cabin! The partisans dug a pathway to the door, opened it with some difficulty, and we all piled in.

  We were packed like sardines, but that was all right. We were inside. The cabin was not well stocked. There was a pail made of zinc, a Spanish-style stove made of clay, a good number of potatoes and kernels of corn. The potatoes and corn were for the animals that were probably there during the summer. Happily, there was a good stock of wood behind the stove. The leader of the partisan group said that they had brought the dry wood to the cabin earlier in preparation for our eventual arrival. “Too bad you didn’t stock it with food as well,” I reflected in silence.

  Now, we could heat the snow and have some water to drink. There were a few mess tins that the partisans passed around while I started the fire and began to melt the snow. I used the potatoes and corn and prepared an awful slop. Though it was not appetizing, it warmed everyone’s insides.

  The partisan in charge said, “Don’t worry about any Germans coming here. They don’t patrol this area. And don’t be concerned about the Spaniards either. They are too sensitive to the cold to venture out this far.”

  The stove warmed the little room, and that was a welcome change for us all. There were about fifteen people in the group at this time. The new mother fed her baby again. We all filled our mess tins and ate. After the mother drank and ate, I said to her, “Take your baby behind the stove where the temperature is the warmest. I put a straw mattress there for you to lie down on.” The two of them fell asleep immediately. The rest of the group lay down on the floor, and soon all were asleep with the exception of one maquisard who took the first watch.

  In the middle of the night, something woke me up. A flash of light! I went to the door. The guard was asleep. Perhaps it was someone from the Spanish Guard. I woke our guard, then everyone else, and quickly explained what I had seen.

  One of the partisans spoke Spanish and said, “Let me orchestrate this. I’ll put some men behind the door. Carbonell, invite them in to protect themselves from the weather. If they don’t understand French, I’ll invite them to enter in Spanish.” He told three of the men to take their submachine guns behind the door. I opened the door and shouted, “Venez, venez,” gesturing with my hand to come in.

  There were indeed men approaching. They had skis that they leaned against the cabin as they arrived. One of them had a submachine gun and responded in French, “Send one unarmed person out of the cabin. If you don’t, we’ll begin shooting!” So I went out with my hands in the air. Since the man spoke with an accent, I decided to answer in Italian. “We have two women and one newborn child with us. We don’t want any trouble. Come in and warm yourselves.”

  I understood they were French Basques after speaking with them for a short time. I convinced them to come in, but I entered first. To immediately ease everyone’s mind and to avoid anyone pulling a trigger, I enthusiastically said, “We have a pleasant surprise. These three men are part of the Communist partisan group in the area of Perpignan. They’re on their way back home.” The truth was that they were smugglers, but no one needed to know. What was important was that they were no threat.

  I took out my pipe and pouch of tobacco and lit up. A little wind was coming out of the north. It found its way into the cabin and blew the smoke throughout the room. Delicious odor! It was this benevolent wind that had blown the snow around and erased our tracks. What a wonderful moment this was! Relaxing, I puffed on my pipe, thoroughly content for this reprieve. The Germans were no longer on our trail. The mother and child were sleeping comfortably. Everyone was protected from the weather. Suddenly my feelings of relief were interrupted as the mother of the child began to cough.
I quickly snuffed out my pipe.

  The Basques left early, but we rested the entire day. The head of the partisans discussed the next leg of the journey with me. “A few hours from here,” he said, “is a large sheep farm owned by a Basque woman who is strongly anti-Fascist. We need to climb another mountain and then descend into the adjacent valley where the farm is located. I am sure that she will let us stay a day or two. Her husband disappeared about nine months ago while on a trip to market to sell his sheep. The woman is sure that her husband was taken by the Spanish Fascists on his way to sell the animals.”

  I was certain, conversely, that the Franco police, the Fascists that the woman referred to, would not venture into this valley because they knew that most Basques were Communists. If they dared to travel through, especially during the harsh winter, they would most likely disappear for good. Her husband’s disappearance was a puzzle.

  Since there was no more danger from the Germans or from the French Militia in these mountains, and no threat from the Spanish, from this point on we could start traveling during the day. This was a relief to me and to the other partisans because it was so easy to lose someone at night. That is why we had used the cord so often during our long trek.

  We rested all day, and our journey began again at sunrise. The day’s climb was nothing for this group of hardy souls. I was very proud of them. Two and a half hours later, we arrived at the farm. This short day of travel was welcome to all. Our boots couldn’t take much more wear.

  “Welcome, welcome to all!” the Basque woman called out, greeting us warmly. Other partisans were waiting for us at the farm. “Go kill a sheep, and we’ll prepare it together,” she said to one of the maquisards. The sheep cooked slowly for the next six hours on a spit over an open flame, one partisan or another next to it the entire time, continually basting and turning it slightly. Everyone was willing to help with the task. When we sat down to eat, the Basque woman held the baby. The Bulgarian family spoke Spanish and had nice, long conversations with her during the meal and for the next three days.