Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  He shook his head in disgust, then continued, “The good news is that General Giraud has escaped from prison at Königstein. During his imprisonment, he organized a plan for the underground to create an insurrection in occupied France. Giraud will meet General de Lattre de Tassigny and General Frère first in Toulouse, then in Aix-en-Provence, followed by meetings in Grenoble, Vienne, and finally in Lyon to organize the partisans. In Lyon, these meetings will include the heads of large industry and many other civilians in positions of power as well as several important army officers, including General Chambe.”

  “Will you let the English know that General Giraud is in his hiding place in La Verpillière in the Isère department? The gendarmerie will be notified if he has any difficulties. Should he be in danger, they will be responsible for creating a diversion to keep him safe from the hands of General de Gaulle. De Gaulle is well aware that Churchill would prefer that Giraud were in charge of the French liberation army.” Churchill disliked de Gaulle, and this was no secret.

  “Giraud’s next move is to meet the vice-consul, Con-stance Harvey, of the United States at a château in the vicinity of Lyon.” Everyone knew that there was a certain friction between England and the United States. Any time there were English and American military in the same bar, a fight would break out. This was as true in Paris and Casablanca as it was in Singapore and Hong Kong. The only exceptions to this were the American and British air forces. They always seemed to be on the same wavelength.

  After leaving the mayor’s home, I followed the children on their father’s postal route. We finished by noon and returned to the hotel. I changed back into my original disguise and returned everything else to the owners of the restaurant.

  One of the men who had met me on the train was waiting at the hotel. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

  “Yes, there is,” I answered. “Contact the group Combat and tell them to send a message to London that ‘the Russian Sock’ wants to come home immediately.”

  “I will,” he said. He returned an hour later with a message. “You will be picked up tonight. I will show you the location. You will stay with me until the plane arrives.” I waited at his home until the specified time of arrival. We went to the field, but no plane arrived that evening. We received word of the plane’s rescheduled arrival place and time the following night.

  At sundown next day, we left his house. He drove a small Berliet truck, fueled by a wood-burning furnace. We drove to a valley several kilometers from the village.

  “There are about two hundred partisans hidden in the hills watching the roads for any intruders,” he told me. There was a sliver of a moon. Otherwise, the night was black, and the skies were filled with dark clouds.

  When we arrived, three piles of wood were prepared. They would be lit as soon as the sound of the airplane engine was heard. The plane was to arrive from Gibraltar.

  A cable upon which a simple rope harness was attached was stretched between two trees in front of the leading woodpile, the triangle of the three forming the shape of an arrow. The pilot knew how low he had to come in, that he had to come in against the wind and reduce speed so that he could catch the steel cable onto which the harness was attached.

  We heard the sound of the plane. I got into the harness, the fires were set and the airplane made its pass to grab me. Too high—the hook missed. The pilot circled and made another pass. With a painful jolt, I was airborne. The crew cranked me up to the door as the plane made its way back to safety. Once in Gibraltar, I was told that an English submarine was on its way to pick me up.

  “No, that’s not acceptable. I have an urgent message for Mr. Churchill, and I must get back immediately,” I told them. So the plan was changed. A plane would pick me up later that day. Relieved, I thought how glad I was to have this significant information from the mayor to pass on to the English. Besides its importance to the cause, it had saved me from that awful confined trip on yet another submarine. This way I’d be at Mr. Churchill’s and on a horse’s back before I knew it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Stealing a Submarine

  I answered the knock on my door. “Bonjour, monsieur,” Hughes said. “Mr. Churchill wants to see you in his office right away.”

  “Thank you, Hughes,” I said as I left with him to go upstairs.

  “Marc, in a few days you’ll be flying to Malta. There, you’ll get on a submarine that will take you to Cap Martin. An Italian submarine has been discovered, caught in a fishing net near the Italian-French border. I’ll give you the phone number of the retired British agent who came upon this interesting information. Call him when you get there. He has lived in Cap Martin for several years now. He notified the British Consulate yesterday about the entrapped submarine, and they contacted me right away.”

  I couldn’t seem to avoid these submarines. I’d deal with it somehow.

  I arrived in Malta without incident and was driven to the harbor where the submarine was waiting. We left at night at surface level and plunged before daybreak. I truly did hate these English subs. They smelled of diesel and battery acid. Of course, it didn’t help matters that I was more than slightly claustrophobic. I encouraged myself silently to just keep my purpose in mind, and I’d get through this challenge, too.

  “Monsieur, we’ve resurfaced,” one of the men came to tell me. “The commander wants you to meet him on the bridge.” After two days of being submerged, it was wonderful to smell the fresh air again.

  “We’ve arrived in the gulf of the Ligurian Sea,” the commander said. “Take my binoculars. Directly in front of you are the lights of San Remo. To the left is Ventimiglia and to the left of Ventimiglia are Menton and Cap Martin. You will be transported by rubber boat to the coast. You’ll signal me from there with a light when you are ready for us to pick you up. We will be watching for your signal.”

  I climbed the rocks where the boat dropped me off, and walked a few blocks to the Hôtel du Cap Martin from where I called the British agent. It was about four in the morning. He had been expecting me around one, but the trip had taken longer than expected. He gave me directions to his home, which was not far from the hotel.

  “I am so pleased to meet you,” he said animatedly. “Come in. Come in.” I think he was very excited that his information was significant enough for England to act on it. The retired agent had a lovely little villa facing Menton-Garavan, well situated on a hill overlooking the harbor, with a view of the French-Italian border.

  He began as I entered, “My friend is a fisherman from Alassio, a little city in Italy not very far from the French border. While checking his fishing nets a couple of days ago, his crewmen were unable to pull one of them up. It was stuck on something. When they dove down to try to get it loose, they discovered that the prop of a small submarine was tangled in their net. Apparently, the Italians had abandoned it because they could not get it free.”

  He went on and on in great detail, not even suggesting that I sit down. I finally just sat, at which time he realized that he had not even offered me a seat.

  “Excuse me, monsieur, I didn’t even offer you a seat or something to drink or eat. Would you like some coffee or tea or perhaps something stronger?” He hardly paused for a breath. “Let’s see. I have ham, salami, goat cheese. That’s all I have in the house. I eat all my meals out, you see. I live alone and find it easier that way. Why don’t I open a bottle of champagne? I want to celebrate.” Giving me no chance to answer, he took out a bottle of Veuve-Cliquot and popped the cork as he continued talking. He poured two glasses and toasted: “To our great success!” He must have forgotten about the food because nothing appeared.

  He started posing some questions. He must have been surprised that I gave no answers, or perhaps he didn’t notice. I brought the subject back to his friend, the fisherman.

  “He’s out fishing now. Then he’ll go to the fish market in Monaco to sell his catch. He has his regular customers there and gets a good return on his efforts. A
fter that, he’ll come to meet us. He should be here by two o’clock this afternoon. In the meantime, if you like, we can go to the hotel to have breakfast after sunrise. I find it very convenient to live so close to the hotel. Would you like to take a little nap? I can put you in the room at the back of the house. That way, the sun won’t wake you.”

  He continued, obviously beside himself with excitement, “Would you like another glass of champagne?”

  “Non, merci,” I responded, and he poured another for himself and downed it quickly.

  “I’m going to take a nap. Ta-ta,” he said, and walked toward his room. “Make yourself at home.”

  I went to the guest room and lay down in bed. I didn’t really sleep, but I dozed a little while listening to Radio Monte Carlo. I remember the Coco Cabaña Boys were singing on the radio. I got up and tried to organize the rest of the day in my head. I thought to myself, The way to transport the small sub would be to attach it with chains to the side of the English sub. If we tow it behind, we risk losing control of it should the weather turn nasty.

  It was about eight thirty when the former agent came out of his room. I was sitting in the living room. “Let’s go have breakfast,” he said, obviously in good humor. We took the short walk to the hotel and went to the dining room. There were about a dozen people having breakfast when we entered. We found a table near the window, overlooking the Mediterranean. It was a glorious day, accompanied by the sweetest of sea breezes. The pines nearby were a rich green. The deep blue sky contrasting with the deeper blue of the sea was an extraordinary sight for my eyes.

  The waiter came to the table to take our order. He faced the Englishman. “What may I get for you this morning, monsieur?”

  “I’ll have two eggs, sunny side up, with two pieces of toast and an order of sautéed chicken liver. I’ll have a cup of tea, right away, as always.”

  “Of course, monsieur. And for you, monsieur?” he asked, as he turned toward me.

  “I’ll have three eggs scrambled with tomatoes, two pistolets, fresh orange juice, and a café au lait. Do you have orange marmalade from Seville?”

  “Of course, monsieur. Will that be all?” I nodded, and the waiter left to place our order. He returned with the tea and café au lait. Fifteen minutes later, he brought our breakfast to the table. The only criticisms I had were the terrible coffee and the absence of butter. The so-called coffee was made of burnt grain, the new “specialty” of France. During the war, coffee was a difficult commodity to come by.

  When I finished breakfast, I was still hungry. “Waiter, will you bring me two more pistolets?” I asked. I excused myself to get away from the talkative man. “While you finish your breakfast, I’ll take a walk,” I said without giving him a chance to respond. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  When I returned, he was waiting for me on the terrace. “I enjoyed my little walk. It is so beautiful here among the pines,” I remarked.

  “I signed for the breakfast,” he said. “I have an account with them.”

  “Thank you, monsieur, I appreciate it.”

  “Let’s go back home. I have some calls I need to make.”

  It was about ten thirty when we got to his house. I made myself comfortable on his terrace overlooking the harbor. After completing his telephone calls, he came out to the terrace.

  “I’m going to go pick up my laundry. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He took off at a good rate of speed on his bicycle. At the time, I thought he was very old, probably around seventy. He came back with two flutes (bread loaves about half the diameter of baguettes) and a small bag of real coffee.

  “He must have noticed my reaction to the café au lait at breakfast,” I mused to myself. “That was very kind of him.”

  “I’ll make some sandwiches for lunch with a cup of real coffee,” he said proudly. The phone rang.

  “My friend will be here before three o’clock.”

  It started getting chilly on the terrace, so I went inside. Soon afterward, the fisherman arrived. He was a good-natured man, quite jovial, in fact. He had a package with him that he promptly opened on the kitchen table.

  “Come take a look at these!” he said proudly, as he released the two fish from the package. I had never seen more beautiful mullet in my life.

  “I’ll prepare them if you like,” I said. “I saw some capers in the cupboard, and I’ll just need flour, parsley, and butter, if you can find any.”

  “That’s sounds wonderful. I know where we can get what you need. We’ll be back as soon as we can,” the fisherman said.

  “While you’re away, I’ll gut and scale the fish,” I told them. I intended serving them with their tails in their mouths, a beautiful presentation I had learned as a boy with the Jesuits.

  The two returned with everything I had requested plus an apricot tart for dessert. We had a lovely meal, and the fisherman recounted his tale of discovering the sub.

  It was around eight thirty when we finished dinner. “We’ll go to my fishing boat,” he said, and explained to me the approximate location. I went out on the rocks of Cap Martin and signaled the commander. A sailor came for me in a rubber boat, and I returned to the submarine. We spotted the prow of the fishing boat, pale green in color, and we followed the fisherman to a spot where he dropped anchor. The commander hid the profile of the sub by putting it parallel to the coast to partially blend in.

  “Three sailors and an engineer will dive with you,” the commander told me. We put on wet suits, scuba gear, and oxygen tanks. I was anxious to take a look at the situation to see what we needed to do to steal the submarine. Two of the men carried battery-powered lamps. Just before diving in, the former English agent boarded the sub, eager to talk with the commander. The scene was comical. I saw the captain’s reaction to this talkative, though sincere man. He left the agent alone on the bridge, saying, “Excuse me, sir. I must take care of something down below.”

  We used the fisherman’s boat as a cover, just in case the coast guard came by. His men placed their wooden frame afloat on the sea. Should they see anyone approach, they would turn on the lanterns at each corner of the wood plank to pretend that they were fishing.

  The submarine was larger than I had imagined, although it was only for two men. It was entangled in a fishing net that was supported by a stainless steel cable.

  I found that the cable was wrapped around the prop several times. Now I understood why the Italians couldn’t get it out. The water was very deep at this spot. When we released the sub from the cable and net, it would need to be attached to something. If not, it would sink below the level of possible recovery. At present it was between twenty-five and thirty meters below the surface.

  Gesturing, I indicated for us to return to the surface. I told the men, “The sub must be attached and secured before we free it. We will need to cut the cable with an acetylene torch. If we just try to tow it, we’ll certainly have problems keeping it under control. Instead of attaching it to the side of the boat, as I pictured earlier today, I think we can secure it to the deck of your submarine with stainless steel chains. Afterward, we can work on untangling it from the net.”

  The four of them nodded in agreement, climbed back aboard the sub to retrieve what we needed, then dove down again. I was already on the minisub underwater, where I had checked the electric panel and found that the electricity was not working. When the engineer came back, I motioned that he should come over. He checked the panel and found only a little bit of life left in the battery. We needed to recharge the cells by connecting the generator of the English sub to the battery of the Italian sub. I showed him the plug, reminding him that the European plugs were different from the English. He was able to do the job by connecting bare wire to the back of the panel. We needed to get the battery working so that we could release some of the water from the ballast to allow the trapped submarine to rise up. Then we could maneuver the English sub underneath and attach the Italian sub to the aft of the deck. All went well as we worked away, taking bre
aks to resurface and take on new oxygen tanks. Six hours later the small Italian sub was secured to the deck of the English submarine.

  Churchill was anxious to get the sub delivered to England as soon as possible so that the design could be duplicated. This was a suicide submarine, a torpedo submarine with all the guidance instrumentation on the top. England could use these two-man submarines for exploration or as suicide subs.

  “I congratulate you on the ability of your men,” I told the commander. We left immediately for Malta with the “small package” attached to the deck. From Malta, a military plane took me to Gibraltar and then on to Great Britain, where I returned to Mr. Churchill’s estate, relieved that my submerged journey had been so short.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Bank Robbery

  “We have a very delicate mission on our hands in Amsterdam,” Mr. Churchill told me. “I don’t have total confidence in the partisans involved owing, essentially, to the enormity and value of the fortune we will be recapturing. It is a temptation for most, I’m afraid. We will be repossessing containers of pillaged treasures. Our sources have determined that the boxes are filled with diamonds and other precious stones, thousands of kilos of gold and silver, and all forms of valuable jewelry and art that has been confiscated by the Nazis throughout Europe. The plunder is estimated to be worth millions of pounds sterling. It is too much to expect that no one will succumb to the temptation to make just a few cases disappear. Marc, we must be certain that each chest is counted and numbered. This will be your responsibility. The agent going with you is our invaluable link to the city of Amsterdam. It is due to his connections in high places that we have the possibility of carrying out this mission. But don’t mind him too much. He’s a bit full of himself.”