by Max Ciampoli
He continued, “We have reliable information that the Nazi officers involved will soon transfer the wealth to their individual accounts and vaults at banks somewhere in South America. We urgently need to take possession of these treasures and get them to England before the transfer.
“Of course, the substantial presence of Nazis in Amsterdam is a great threat to our mission. You must make sure that the local partisan military leader organizes several diversions that will totally preoccupy the German troops. We want to keep them away from the city’s center. The military segment will be part of the same group of Dutch partisans that picks you up when you parachute in. You can have confidence in them.”
He paused, his eyes fixed with a stern and troubled look. “Marc, I sincerely pray that one day the treasures can be returned to those from whom they have been stolen, but I know this is doubtful. Your mission is to supervise and make sure that all goes according to plan. I know you’ll guard the treasures well. See my secretary tomorrow for the rest of the details, and return to us safely, mon petit. May God be with you.” He pulled me into his arms.
Early the next morning, I went to see the secretary. “You’ll leave for Amsterdam this evening,” she announced. “You’ll be traveling with another agent who has close connections with the Department of Street Maintenance in Amsterdam. Here is the flight plan for the pilot that indicates the coordinates where you both must jump. You’ll land outside the city where partisans will be waiting for you.
“I’m sure Mr. Churchill told you about the cases filled with the valuables stolen from those arrested throughout Europe. As we speak, the partisans are digging a tunnel to the bank’s sublevel vault where the containers are being stored. The point of the tunnel’s inception is in a large building across the street. The plan is precisely organized, as you will see when you get there. Good luck, and return to us safe and sound.”
Early that evening, I was picked up and taken to the airfield where I met the other agent. Though we didn’t converse much, I figured he was Belgian by his accent. He was rather aloof, which greatly limited our conversation, as I was not one to initiate and pursue communication.
It was a foggy, wet night. I knew we were to land near Amsterdam, which caused me to experience some anxiety. I knew that anything could happen so close to a large German-occupied city.
“You’ll be landing on a vast uncultivated plain quite a distance from Amsterdam,” the pilot told us. When we were given the signal, we jumped. As I’ve said, the parachutes of the day were uncontrollable. Once your chute was open, all you could do was to pray to land safely. I barely missed landing in the water because my parachute caught an air current and drifted toward water’s edge, but I was fortunate and managed to land safely, as did my colleague. As planned, the partisans were waiting for us.
They took us by car to Amsterdam. It was a Friday. When we arrived at the site in the center of the city, we were escorted into a building and taken straight down to the basement. About thirty partisans were in the process of digging the tunnel.
This process was far more complicated than I had imagined. They had been working for five or six weeks already. Simultaneous work aboveground masked any noise from underground. I could see that the work was slow moving and physically tiring. Besides the digging, an extensive steel framework and beams had to be erected to support the street above. Lights had been installed as well as a system of ventilation. The dirt and debris that was removed was dumped in the lowest level of the building across from the bank, bucket by bucket. The men rotated shifts every eight hours. The smell of sweat filled the dank tunnel and the busy base quarters of the building.
The tunnel, which would end at the wall of the bank, was almost complete when we arrived. The agent who parachuted with me had been chosen because of his connections with the Department of Street Maintenance in Amsterdam. Besides French, he spoke Flemish and Dutch.
“Will you ask the person in charge of the project to report to us,” he asked one of the partisans in Dutch.
From the street level, a middle-aged, tall, slender man entered the basement of the building where we were waiting.
“Welcome to Amsterdam,” he greeted us in French. “I’ll just get to the point. We are nearing completion of the tunnel. We’ll arrive at the wall of the bank within a few hours. We’ll blast it with plastics to gain entry.”
He continued, “The plan is to set off explosions on the street synchronized with the group’s blasting of the bank wall underground. The supposed reason for the detonation aboveground is a necessary repair of the sewer system. The entire project zone is barricaded. It is off-limits to all and will remain so until early Monday morning. Police guards are posted to ensure that no one enters the area. They are not aware of what is going on underground.
“We are planning three blasts unless we need more. We will give the signal to our men aboveground to blow dynamite at the precise moment we blow the plastics in the tunnel.”
“Do you have plans in place to keep the German troops occupied while we are loading the trucks to transfer the goods?” I asked him.
“Yes, monsieur, we do. You can be assured that our diversions will keep their attention focused on our activities in the suburbs of Amsterdam while our partisans work on this project in the center of town.”
“For our part,” I shared with the partisan organizer, “we will be responsible for making sure that each chest is numbered and accounted for, one by one, as they are removed from the vault, brought to the building, and then loaded onto the trucks. After that, we’ll make sure that the trucks stay together in a group, that one doesn’t disappear from the others on the way to the harbor. The two of us will stay in the last truck to observe as we drive to the docks.”
The Belgian agent added, “We’ll need Street Maintenance uniforms to travel in the trucks.”
“Absolutely, you’ll have them and rain slickers as well.”
The basement of the building was teeming with activity. There was a cantina open twenty-four hours a day where the volunteers could get something to eat or drink or wash up and use the bathroom facilities.
The amazing tunnel was completed on schedule that night. As the two of us walked through, I couldn’t help but comment, “What an admirable job these men have done. I’d like to meet the engineer who created the plans. The framing is so well built.” I had always admired architecture and the construction that supported it. I had gained this appreciation in my youth from my godfather, the master architect I so greatly admired.
Early Saturday morning, the plastics blasts blew through the walls of the bank perfectly synchronized with the blasts on the street. We gained access to the vault. There were several rooms underground stacked to the ceiling with padlocked wooden munitions boxes containing the loot. These rooms were packed so tightly that there was hardly enough room to pass through them. I numbered each box before it was carried to the building on the other side of the street. Once I established my position, I didn’t move from there. I didn’t eat, drink, or go to the bathroom unless the other agent was there to relieve me.
With the exception of Friday night, we hadn’t slept. Sunday morning, in the wee hours, several German transport trucks covered with canvas and driven by partisans disguised as German soldiers lined up on the street waiting to be loaded. It was raining hard—a torrential rainstorm. We were all wearing rain gear. The partisans loaded the treasure one truck at a time while my colleague recorded the number on every box placed in each truck. He was also responsible for tying the straps attached to the canvas securely together with a rope and knotting them before beginning to load the next truck. I was supervising the boxes as they were being removed from the building.
When all the trucks were loaded and secured, the project manager came out to say good-bye. We climbed into the cab of the final truck.
“Open the barricade,” he ordered as he gave the signal for the first truck to depart. We traveled closely, one behind the other, as we left for the harb
or.
Another group of partisans was at the dock when we arrived next to the Swedish cargo ship that was waiting to take the treasure to England. They unloaded all the chests from the trucks and placed them into nets on the dock. These were lifted by crane and lowered into the hold of the ship.
“That’s it,” the agent said. “Let’s board the ship.”
Absolutely nothing went wrong. We were entirely certain that every last confiscated jewel and valuable would be delivered to England. Once the boxes were safe in the hold, I felt I could relax and breathe easier.
We had completed another successful mission for Mr. Churchill. He would be well pleased. We left Amsterdam on the freighter, captured treasure intact.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Port of Saint-Nazaire
I was amazed as I watched highly trained volunteers in Falmouth, England, assault a very large model-to-scale replica of the port of Saint-Nazaire in Brittany, France. This key Atlantic port was essential to the German war effort. The model had been constructed so every movement and detail of the upcoming assault could be precisely choreographed.
One of the commanders addressed me, “You’ll organize the partisans to attack and cause confusion among the German troops if anything goes wrong with our plan. Your contact will be the head priest of Saint-Nazaire.”
“Why blow up Saint-Nazaire?” I asked him.
His answer made sense. “If a German warship, such as the Tirpitz, is in need of repair, a dry dock large enough to accommodate her must be readily available. The only port in France big enough and deep enough to service ships of this size is in Saint-Nazaire. Even the ports of Toulon in the south and Dieppe in the north, though they are deep enough, they are simply not large enough to accommodate ships of this size. The destruction of Saint-Nazaire will dissuade the Germans from bringing their battleships to France.”
It was the early spring of 1942. Preparations for this mission were highly secret and took place in the southwest part of England. Knowledge of the mission was very limited in view of the widespread infiltration of the German Fifth column. Each man involved, sworn to secrecy, practiced his task until it was done to perfection. Besides the leaders in this room, there were to be over a hundred commando volunteers with backup support of hundreds of men on barges, torpedo boats, motor launches, and two destroyers. They all knew going in that this was a high-risk mission.
I took a plane from England and was parachuted close to Saint-Nazaire four or five days before the English commandos arrived. A priest and a farmer came in a horse-drawn wagon to pick me up in the field. This was unusual. Normally, a larger group was waiting to whisk me away from the landing site.
The two brought me to the farmer’s home. “I have a priest’s robe for you to change into,” the priest said. “Disguised like this, you can circulate without fear of being stopped by the Germans. They don’t bother the clergy too much around here.
“From what I understand,” he continued, “we need to organize about six hundred partisans as possible reinforcements. We’ll meet with members of Combat this afternoon. First, let’s have something to eat. Then you can rest for a while, and I’ll wake you when it’s time to leave.”
“I’ll welcome breakfast,” I said to the priest, “but I’m really not tired.” Then I asked the farmer, “Would you mind if I took a look around your property after we eat? I just love animals.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he said. “For breakfast, we’ll have bread and jam, and I can make our war rendition of coffee made from roasted barley, or would you prefer milk?” he asked.
“Milk will be fine. Where can I change into my new identity?”
“Just go into my bedroom,” he said, pointing to indicate the way.
The partisan force to be assembled consisted of six companies of one hundred men each. Arms had been parachuted in for them in the area of Nantes. This drop shipment included 1,200 grenades, 36 bazookas, 600 Stein machine guns, 180 mortars, and corresponding ammunition.
In the afternoon, the priest took me to meet with the partisan leaders at an estate outside Saint-Nazaire. We looked over the plans together and split the duties and responsibilities among them.
“I have radios for you,” the priest said as he handed me and the others our walkie-talkies.
“I’ve been instructed to get in radio contact with you if the commandos need our help,” I told them. “I’ll be in the bell tower of the church where I am to watch and wait.”
During the nights that followed, we searched out the areas along the Loire River where we should place the men for attack to be ready at a moment’s notice if needed to intervene and support the mission.
I stayed with the priest at his house in Saint-Nazaire, close to the church, and I ate at different locals’ homes each day. Oftentimes, I had to drive us both home in the horse-drawn buggy after a meal because he really enjoyed his wine.
On March 27, the night before the mission, I went to the bell tower of the church in the city’s center. From there I observed and waited for a radio signal from the commandos requesting our help. I mulled over what might occur. The ship was due to arrive by one thirty in the morning, if all went according to plan. I was to do nothing if not radioed. If I was alerted, I was to radio the partisans, and our supporting attack would begin.
The ship, Campbeltown, altered to look like a German vessel, had left the English coast with the plan of arriving early in the morning on March 28, during high tide at the mouth of the Loire River. While at sea, the volunteers placed explosives in the hull of the ship.
When they arrived at the estuary, many of the volunteers got off the boat to prepare themselves to do battle with the Germans as the captain set his sights toward the inside of the lock that he planned to ram at 1:30 A.M.
Suddenly I could hear a lot of gunfire, and I saw big flashes of light from the vantage point of the bell tower where I was stationed so as to have the best radio reception and clearest view possible. The fighting is steadily intensifying, yet no one is calling, I thought, eager to do something to help. As the fighting escalated, I told myself again and yet again that I must wait. Doing nothing had never been more difficult. Feelings of helplessness assailed me. I wanted to do something to be of assistance .
The commandos were under attack by the Germans from land. The RAF sent air support. As scheduled, the Campbeltown rammed into the side of the lock at 1:34 A.M., doing considerable damage. The explosives on the ship were timed to go off between 5 and 9 A.M. The Germans never expected an explosion on top of the ramming of the lock. When the ship blew, the blast caused irreparable damage to the lock and shipyard.
The mission was ultimately accomplished, though, sadly, very few commandos escaped death or capture. The doors of the locks and shipyard remained unusable for the rest of the war.
As there was no signal for support from my group, I did nothing. I found out later that those in command really expected no one to survive, and all the commandos had been apprised of that before leaving Falmouth. Not one of them backed out of the mission even though they knew it meant probable death. The few who survived returned to England, but many others, most of them badly wounded, were taken prisoner. The rest died while accomplishing this great mission. A few days later, in early June, I was extracted by a tuna fishing boat. It took quite a long detour to drop me in England, but that was all right with me because the mission had left me heavyhearted and feeling useless. I needed the time to contemplate and renew my focus.
Several months later, the Canadians pulled off the same type of attack in Dieppe, unfortunately suffering heavy losses. The ingenuity of the Saint-Nazaire plan and the courage of these men would be responsible for saving thousands of lives as the war continued. No large battleship was able to dock in France till well after the war ended.
I didn’t know what a great loss of men we suffered during the mission until I returned to England. The raid was considered a remarkable success despite the cost in human life. I didn’t understand
why our partisan forces were not called in as reinforcement, but I surmised it was for the best. At least the locals did not suffer reprisals as they might have had we been called in to assist. We also might have revealed too much of the underground network in the effort, which could have compromised the partisans’ future usefulness. Combat might have been too negatively affected to survive the losses of personnel and secrecy.
While on the boat to England, a lot of questions and thoughts went through my head that would go unasked and unanswered. Disappointed, I thought that maybe I’d be more useful on my next mission. I certainly hoped so. Being a spectator at the slaughter of your comrades in arms and not being allowed to do something was hard, very hard.
TWENTY-SIX
Jailbreak
It was a morning that I happened to sleep late. As I was finishing breakfast, the valet came to tell me to go see Mr. Churchill’s secretary in her office.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Marc,” she said as I entered. “The prime minister can’t be here and wants me to fill you in on the details of your impending mission. It is urgent you leave as soon as possible.
“We have an agent we call Pap who was taken prisoner in Italy. He is an extremely important and effective agent for us. We’ve gathered information that they are planning to use excessive torture on him. Whether or not he talks, he will be killed.
“Mr. Churchill knows you are very familiar with this region on the Italian Riviera. Pap is in prison at a fortress in San Remo. You need to find a way to free him. He is Jewish, born in Sóller, Majorca, in the Balearic Islands archipelago. He was a doctor before he became an agent for us. His wife and children were taken from him by the Nazis. The wife was sent to a work camp, and the children were sent on to an extermination camp in Poland. We don’t know if they are still alive. It was the French Militia who discovered that they were Jewish and gave them up to the Italian Fascists. Pap was out of town at the time. After that, he offered his services to us and has eluded capture until now.
