by Max Ciampoli
“Because of his connections, Pap had the privilege and opportunity to be well ensconced in diplomatic circles. Unfortunately, he took too great a risk and put himself in danger. Special secret services in the intelligence departments of France and Italy had suspicions about him and had him arrested.”
I was parachuted into a field outside Lyon. I knew a double agent who was a political agitator living to the east in Aix-les-Bains. The partisans met me and drove me there. When I knocked at his door, he answered.
After introducing myself, I laid out the problem. “I’ve been told you’ve worked for both the French and Italians. Do you know someone who can help me with breaking out an English agent imprisoned in San Remo?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I can arrange a meeting for you. She is the most influential of all Italian partisans, Madame Wally Toscanini Castelbarco. She lives in Campione on Lake Lugano. You probably have heard of her.”
“Of course I’ve heard of her. She is well known for her integrity, courage, and cunning. She has helped the English many times already by infiltrating influential groups of military and civilian personalities. She’s gifted in the art of counterespionage and has the loyalty of many capable Italian Communist partisans.” I was thrilled that he could put me in contact with her.
He told me more about her. Most of what he said I already knew, but out of politeness I let him finish. “She is legendary in our circles, isn’t she? She works with all the different factions of partisans in northern Italy. She even works with the Mafia to accomplish her goals. She has crossed the German and Italian borders many times and has never been caught. She has used her position to great advantage, as she is the daughter of Maestro Arturo Toscanini. She is in contact with General Badoglio’s Royalist forces and the Count Ciano himself, the son-in-law of Mussolini. Did you know, the count contacted Great Britain for political asylum for himself and his family but ended up doing many good works while still in Italy? He’s responsible for establishing partisan meetings in a small, remote village in Switzerland called Les Diablerets.”
“I’m sure she will be perfect for this mission. Where and when can I meet with Madame Castelbarco?”
“I have a small studio apartment at Thonon-les-Bains on Lake Geneva. You can stay there while I arrange the meeting.”
Madame Castelbarco came to meet me at Thonon-les-Bains as arranged. My contact had already told her that we needed a plan to free the British agent. She came right to the point.
“I’ll organize a convoy of Italians to pose as Fascists. They will enter the prison at San Remo with orders that I will have forged. The orders will specify that Pap be transferred to another prison where he is to be condemned to death. I’ll send a small van and a military truck loaded with partisans dressed in Fascist military uniforms to the prison with orders to take possession of the prisoner. I can have them ready to go in two days’ time.”
As Pap later related the story to Mr. Churchill’s secretary, he heard these men talking near his cell but didn’t know what was going on because he didn’t speak Italian very well. What he didn’t realize was that most of them were from Piemonte and spoke a dialect that he wouldn’t have understood even if he had spoken Italian fluently.
“What’s going on?” he asked one of his guards who spoke some English.
“The German government has condemned you to death. You are being transferred to a prison in Nice run by the SS called Lynwood, which was originally a fine villa but is now used for extreme and inventive ways to torture its prisoners. The reputation of the place is that you either tell the SS what they want to know or they will remove your body parts, limb by limb, as they continue to torture you. I suggest you tell them what they want to know quickly, signore.”
Pap had continued to tell the story to Mr. Churchill’s secretary, as she subsequently related to me. “I was taken from my cell and put in a van. Inside were more Italian Fascists. At least, that’s what I assumed. They talked animatedly with each other. They seemed to be in good spirits and didn’t treat me badly.
“We crossed the Italian-French border at Menton-Garavan. That same night, the van arrived in Cap Ferrat. Still handcuffed, I was taken down a narrow, winding road that led to the sea. Two men were waiting in a rubber boat. One of the supposed Fascists handed the key to my handcuffs to one of the men in the boat. He indicated that I should step in. Then, to my astonishment, the man with the key reached over and opened my cuffs.”
“We’re taking you to a submarine that will take you to Gibraltar,” he explained to me in English.
“This was the first indication that I was being saved and not condemned. What an unbelievable relief! Inconceivable—a real miracle,” he expressed to her, still emotional about being alive.
The escape had gone so smoothly that it surprised everyone. The Italian partisans followed the plan to the letter. There was no need for improvisation. They quietly removed Pap from the prison at San Remo with no opposition and transported him to the south of France. The submarine took him to Gibraltar, and from there a military plane took him to Great Britain.
Later, Mr. Churchill’s secretary shared with me Pap’s description of the prison and his escape from it. “In Pap’s words,” she said, “the fortress seemed not to have been cleaned for over a century. The massive walls were at least a meter thick and full of humidity that ran from ceiling to floor. The dungeon walls were encrusted with filth, human waste and vomit. The guards would put buckets in the cells once a week for human needs. When the buckets were emptied, they were not rinsed. And sometimes, it took a couple of days to get the buckets back to the cells. During that time, the floor had to suffice.
“He said there were two or three floors underground. He described the place as ‘the innards of hell on earth.’ The passageways were narrow and lit with dim lamps. Of course, there were no windows. Each cell had an iron door, heavily rusted by the humidity. The door was attached by hinges to the granite rock. The cell itself was the shape of a vertical bottle and had barely enough room for one person. He could not completely stand up in it. It was so narrow at the top that he could hardly move at all. When he did stand up, his head would be bent over and he could barely turn his face. His shoulders and knees were against the rock itself. Only once during the hellish days he spent there did he remember getting a hunk of bread and a tin of water. It was like being starved in a coffin of damp stone.
“As he was being walked down the pathway to the Mediterranean Sea, he remembered thinking that this place of torture they were taking him to must be on an island. Why else would they be putting him in a boat? He knew this would be the last time he saw the outside world, so he really treasured the beauty. As he steeled himself against the torture that was to come, he made a firm decision to never reveal the truth. He is a wonderful man. I hope you have the chance to meet him one day, Monsieur Marc.
“I just want you to know that the prime minister is thrilled that you were able to generate a plan to free this man. He appreciates your ingenuity and speaks of you often when you’re away. He has another mission in the works for you that he’ll explain when he comes to the estate this weekend. At least, that is the plan,” she said with a wry smile. “One can never be sure.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Atomic Bomb
“Someone is with the prime minister right now, Monsieur Marc,” the secretary said with kind eyes. You might have to wait awhile. Why don’t you sit down?” I took a seat.
By chance, Mr. Churchill came into the secretary’s office, saw me, and said, “Oh, you’re here. Come with me into my office. I have someone I want you to meet.” When we entered, I saw an older man sitting at Mr. Churchill’s desk, striking because of his mass of gray tousled hair.
“Marc, this is Monsieur Albert Einstein. You’ll excuse us as we finish our conversation, and then I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
Since they continued in English, I was not privy to what was being said, but they both spoke with passion. Afterward, the
prime minister explained to me, “Mr. Einstein suggests that all physicists working on splitting the atom be organized to work together in the laboratories located in London, Oxford, Cambridge, and Liverpool. He emphasizes how important it is that the research be kept out of Nazi hands. If the Germans somehow get it, they will make a huge leap forward in their own research toward developing the atom bomb. We’re ahead of them now, and we want to keep it that way,” Mr. Churchill said adamantly.
He looked at me with those piercing eyes. “I need to send you immediately to Norway with special instructions and explosives to destroy a certain production plant that is supervised and directed by the Nazis. The employees are Norwegian, forced labor working under Nazi control. They are producing ‘heavy water’ needed to make the atom bomb. Their project will be crippled no matter how close they get once we succeed in destroying the factory.
“I am sending a scientist/engineer with you who knows where to effectively place the explosives near the machines to disable the plant even if they manage to reconstruct it. He knows how to ski and speaks Italian and Norwegian. Since you are such a good skier, you’ll join him and a group of six Norwegians on the mission.
“I want you to know, my boy, that our last attempt to blow up the plant failed. It is vital to totally stop this production.”
He continued, “King Haakon will keep us updated because he stays in contact with all developments in Norway through the Norwegian Resistance. Good luck and a safe return, mon petit.” I left the two of them in his office as they continued their conversation.
When I arrived at the airfield, the scientist/engineer with whom I was to travel was already there. After introducing ourselves, he explained in Italian, “Here I have all the explosives and detonators necessary for our mission. I have our white ski suits that are reversible and are camouflaged on the inside. We also have white ski boots and white skis. All is in this cart, ready to go.”
It was early evening. We would fly over Norway and jump with all the equipment. The plane’s engine turned over, and one of its crew came out to help us load.
The pilot had his flight plan already. We left right away. Hours later, over Norway, he spotted the landing fires. He circled and turned on the red ready light in the cabin. The plane’s other crew member opened the door. When the light turned green, he threw the equipment out, hooked to a parachute. Then the light turned red again, and the pilot circled. When it turned green, the scientist said, “Let’s go,” and jumped, and I followed suit.
We landed in a snow-covered valley where about thirty partisans were waiting for us. They buried our chutes as we changed into our white protective clothing. We put on our boots and skis as they explained, “We’ll guide you from here to the mill where you’ll meet with the rest of your group. If you hear an airplane, throw yourselves flat on the ground and don’t move. Let nothing be seen that is not white. Let us help you carry the equipment.” The scientist translated for me and further explained, “We are meeting in the forest at a deserted sawmill that is closed for the winter. It’ll take us about two hours to get there.”
The scientist was not physically prepared for the trek, and we had to slow down for him to keep up. When we arrived, six tall, strong, well-built Norwegian military men working for the Resistance greeted us. An entire bivouac had been set up at the mill. Someone heated up food while we discussed the mission ahead. There were kapok mattresses ready for us where we could lie down after breakfast if need be.
The scientist told them, “We have to get into the factory and place the explosives in the precise places where they will totally destroy the machines that are producing the heavy water. For precaution, the explosives and detonators are packed separately.”
One of the officers opened up a military map and spread it on the floor. “We have to be careful and take our time,” he cautioned. “German planes patrol the skies. It will take about two days on skis to reach our destination,” the scientist translated for me. “We’ll travel mostly at night, when we’ll reverse our tunics so as to blend in and disappear into our surroundings. When we’re traveling in the forest by day, we’ll reverse our tunics again.”
It was a long, difficult trek, especially for the scientist. During the day we hid, rested, and ate. When we finally approached the factory, we took the long way around, climbing the mountain behind so that we could approach the immense structure from the rear. We followed the water supply that led us a long way behind the building. This is where we hid until the next day.
When night fell, I was directed to stand guard on a hill above, where I could see everything. I had a radio in case of trouble. The scientist said, “You’ll alert us should anything irregular occur.”
It took them about an hour and a half to place the explosives. The German barracks were next to the factory, on the one side. At that hour, everyone was asleep. There were no undesirable interruptions. No one had spotted us.
When they returned, the scientist told me, “The bombs will explode in two hours’ time because they’re on time-delayed detonators. Now, we’ll all get out of here. You and I will separate from the others except for one Norwegian who will guide us to the harbor where a British submarine is waiting to take us back to England. This area is more populated, so we’ll travel only at night and sleep during the day. It’ll take two or three days to get there. The skiing will be easy though, as it’s all downhill.”
We left right away. Three days later, when we arrived at our destination, we signaled the submarine. A rubber boat came to pick us up.
When we arrived at the camp at Folkestone, England, the colonel in charge received us warmly. With a sly smile he announced, “Your operation was a great success. The factory was totally destroyed.” This was a time for celebration. The scientist was especially pleased. He had placed the explosives perfectly. The next day he and I said our good-byes, and he left for Liverpool. I never saw him again. Later I learned that they were somehow able to repair the plant, much to the dismay of all.
The following year, in early 1944, a message was intercepted saying the Germans were planning to transfer by train what remained of their heavy water because it was needed to complete construction of the atom bomb in Germany.
This was grave news indeed. Mr. Churchill assigned me to go again to Norway, this time by submarine, to meet with a Norwegian group at a port.
He told me, “What is necessary to accomplish is to find a way to get aboard the ferry that is to transport the heavy water to Germany. The Norwegian partisans are developing a plan. You will be there to observe and report back to me. The ferry is guarded by a troop of SS. The containers will arrive by train and will be labeled ‘no commercial value’ in German. Come home safe, sound, and successful!”
Again I had to travel by submarine. Once near the port, one of the seamen took me to shore in an inflatable dinghy where a German-speaking Norwegian partisan was waiting for me. Our language in common was German, so we were able to communicate when no one was in ear-shot. He took me to a pub where I met the others. These men were Norwegian electricians working for the Resistance. Not one of them spoke French or Italian, and I wouldn’t speak German in public. They were all dressed like workmen. My guide whispered, “Under the guise of checking the electricity, these men will be allowed to board the ferry. A couple of them know some of the crew and the captain personally.”
He explained, “They will place the explosives in the hull of the boat as soon as they receive the message indicating the transfer of heavy water is imminent. They’ll set them to go off a few hours later when the boat is well out to sea.”
I watched from a distance as the heavy water containers arrived on the dock and were pushed onto the ferry. Whoever was on board, innocent of crimes or not, had to be sacrificed because it was too dangerous to risk warning anyone.
The explosion occurred at sea as planned. Nothing was left of the ferry. This was confirmed before I left Norway. The German-speaking Norwegian accompanied me to a point on the coa
st from where he signaled the sub. From there, I was transported back to England.
Unfortunately, in this top-secret sabotage operation, innocents were sacrificed for the Allied cause. These courageous Norwegian patriots saved the world. Without the heavy water, the Germans were unable to build the atomic bomb. I could hardly wait to get home to tell Mr. Churchill.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Patton in North Africa
Softly, the secretary knocked on his door. “Come in!” roared Mr. Churchill. Glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he was perusing the papers on his desk. When he eventually glanced toward the door and saw me, he jumped up and rushed over to take me in his arms. And he was strong. He grabbed me with great force and held me for a long time. After he sighed a couple of times, he let me go. I could feel his happiness and relief to see me. It felt good that he cared so much. When he sat down, I also took a seat.
A car had picked me up at the camp where I was staying at Folkestone and had brought me to Mr. Churchill’s estate. Smiling, the secretary had given me a cheerful welcome. “It feels wonderful to be back,” I had responded.
After discussing the details of the mission in Norway, Churchill announced, “On your next mission, you’ll wear your French military uniform. You will be the liaison and communication officer between the American and French troops in North Africa. Because of the French animosity toward the English, we will hold our troops back for a while and have the Americans go in first.
