Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  Two other soldiers were passing and saluted as they did. Patton snapped, “You two, there. Come over here. Attention!” The two came to attention.

  “Your shirts are unbuttoned. Do you think you’re at a county fair? From now on, any soldier caught dressed improperly will pay a fine of one week’s wages. The second time he has an infraction, the fine will be doubled. The sum will be deducted from your salaries. This gross neglect must stop. You’re showing a total lack of respect for yourselves and your country. You’ll give your names to my orderly. From this moment on, your uniforms will be immaculate in public. Report back to camp immediately and report your fine and the reason for it to your immediate superior.” With that, we left and went back to headquarters.

  A couple of days later, we returned to town. All the soldiers we encountered were impeccably dressed and groomed and comported themselves well. Patton had made his point and had obtained the results he desired.

  While in Morocco, I spent much of my time appeasing the French officers, explaining to them what the Americans were planning. They didn’t like the Americans. They found the soldiers offensive, especially when they got drunk. I explained that they were new troops, very young, far away from home, and not educated in the traditions of other countries. I tried to keep peace among them all.

  I needed to take control of the Communication Bureau. It needed to be controlled with an iron fist, especially in Algeria. Morocco was easier because the soldiers were better educated, and the troops that were there were not fighting as much among themselves.

  In Algeria, it was a mess. There were some soldiers for de Gaulle, others for Giraud, and the old school that was pro-Nazi. These three factions were in constant battle among themselves. To keep order, I went to small villages outside Algiers with a group of Touaregs, the local tribe that served as the Sahara desert police force. One American sergeant accompanied me. This elite police force was very disciplined and did an admirable job of protecting the nomads of the desert.

  We traveled on camelback, dressed in the black uniforms of the Touaregs. My camel was white and was good looking as far as camels go. I whispered to the sergeant, “I’ve never encountered a nasty animal until now.” He agreed with me. All of the camels were bad-tempered and ill-mannered. We had to keep them muzzled to prevent them from biting us and each other.

  I had a lot of difficulty in maintaining the peace among the Algerians. I had to remain neutral, and that was truly difficult. I saw crosses of Lorraine painted on some walls, the sign of pro-Free French. There were groups that were armed and totally against the government of Vichy, and there were others adamantly pro-Nazi. Still others among them did not want to submit to the English or the Americans or to the command of General de Gaulle. We called the various groups “les Giraudists (for Giraud)” or “les Pétainists (for Pétain)” or “les Gaullists (for de Gaulle)” or “les Brits (pro-British)” or “les Amerlots (pro-American).” Each group detested all the others.

  In the midst of all this chaos, I would often muse that if Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin were able to find a way to agree, why couldn’t these Algerians?

  We had to patrol the desert south of Fez and Rabat, the capital, to the foot of the Moyen Atlas Mountains to the high plateaus of the Sahara. It was a huge territory to cover, especially on the back of a camel.

  I often felt while riding my camel like I was going to vomit because the movement of these animals gave me the sensation of seasickness. But I kept this discomfort to myself. I needed to show no sign of weakness.

  In Morocco, I established communication posts with French officers in charge. Then I preceded the troops into Algeria to establish landing bases and posts of communication before the rest of the military arrived.

  I continued to work on my own objective. I sent French officers to establish more posts along the coast of Algeria to direct the Allied forces from these points of control. At these military posts, we would establish telephone and radio communication stations to transmit the orders of General Giraud and, of course, to thank the Allies for the support they were giving France so that she would be able to free herself from German occupation.

  We did our best to keep peace among the warring factions. Then, out of nowhere, after about seven weeks on the back of a camel, I was thankfully recalled to England by Mr. Churchill, right after the holidays, in early January 1943.

  The last time I had contact with General Patton, he had extended an invitation. “I have a fine stable of horses at my ranch in California. You must come spend some time there. I think you’ll enjoy riding them more than the camels,” he remarked facetiously. Though I never thought of it again until recently, isn’t it strange that I wound up living in Southern California?

  So my work with General Patton was finished. After my departure, Patton attacked the coast behind the enemy and continued into Tunisia. Then Bradley took over the command of these troops, and Patton returned to the headquarters of the Sicilian Invasion Deployment Division to plan the invasion of Sicily.

  As for me, I was grateful to get aboard a British plane that picked me up at an airfield in Algeria. I dreamed of riding Mr. Churchill’s horses again across the green landscape in that welcome wet weather. It would exorcise the agonizing memories of swaying and jouncing across the sweltering beige dunes on the back of an ornery camel.

  PART FOUR

  RETURN FROM HELL

  In Victory: Magnanimity.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  TWENTY-NINE

  Captured

  Threatening black clouds covered the skies. There was almost no visibility. As we approached the target area, rain was coming down in sheets. “I can’t see the torches in the landing field,” the pilot shouted. “I’m taking the plane up higher. Then I’ll descend for another approach. Jump when I give you the signal.”

  We were supposed to be just south of Nancy, above the valley near Neufchâteau, north of Châtenois. I thought to myself that if he couldn’t see the landing field, and neither could I with all this foul weather, would we be close to the right landing spot? After takeoff, I had given him the letter from Mr. Churchill indicating the destination and the route to take. For safety’s sake, we were allowed no radio communication even under these circumstances.

  I was ready, braced in front of the door. The pilot gave the signal, and I jumped. A blast of cold air and sideways rain hit me. I was wearing only a three-piece brown business suit with a shirt and tie, shoes and socks. Every piece of clothing had a label showing that it was made in France. I was carrying letters of recommendation in my pocket and, of course, my identification card stating I was Michel Carbonell.

  The ground raced toward me. “I’m heading for the trees. There’s nothing I can do!” The thoughts sped through my head just before I crashed into the branches. And there I stayed, stuck high up in the trees, suspended from my parachute, which was tangled and twisted. It was about four thirty in the morning. The night was black. What little I could see was due to the phosphorus pills I had been taking for several days.

  Wet and hopelessly tangled in the branches, I couldn’t reach the trunk of the tree. I needed to grab it to release myself. Struggling as best I could, I pushed myself back and forth again and again, trying to jostle myself free. That didn’t work, so I decided to contort my body enough to reach the hunting knife strapped to my calf. By stretching, I was able to pull it out of its leather sheath and cut the right strap of my chute. Now, I thought, all I need to do is get closer to that trunk, wherever it is.

  Suddenly, I heard a voice from below say, “Do you need any help, monsieur?” He spoke in French with a pronounced foreign accent. I couldn’t see him. “Can we do something for you, monsieur?” he asked.

  I quickly responded, “Yes. You can get me out of this tree and then give me directions to Neufchâteau.”

  The voice coming from below asked, “But what are you doing here?”

  “I am a tourist. My travel guide, who is a pilot, dropped me here becau
se he couldn’t see where a clearing was located.”

  The voice replied, “Stay there. Don’t move. I’m going to help you.”

  I just couldn’t resist retorting, “Don’t hurry. I’ll wait.”

  After a short while, I heard the same voice ordering in German, “Bring the tank over here so that we can help this wayward traveler.”

  At that moment, I stiffened. I understood where I had landed—right in the middle of a German encampment, probably a Panzer tank division. I heard several voices speaking German in the distance. One of them said, “The lieutenant has captured a spy, an English one, I think.” I wasn’t surprised. Of course, it was obvious the “tourist” line was a joke, but what else could I say? Admit the truth? I decided I would do the only thing I could—play for time.

  One of the young soldiers climbed a neighboring tree and yelled down in German, “Tell him to swing himself toward me.” I waited for the translation. I didn’t want to let on that I spoke German.

  After the lieutenant translated into French, I made several attempts to swing myself over to the soldier, but my chute was too tangled up. One of the soldiers cut two of the culprit branches. I still couldn’t free myself. Maybe I can reach the other parachute strap and cut it now, I thought. Then gravity will solve the problem.

  “Wait a moment, wait a moment,” the lieutenant shouted as the sound of an approaching tank reached my ears. “Everyone stop. The tank is in position.”

  The formidable machine pushed against the tree and as it groaned, it gradually began to fall. I freed myself and descended from my perch onto solid ground. The lieutenant appeared to be a likable fellow and seemed to find the entire situation hilarious. He dismissed his soldiers.

  Now the two of us were alone. He opened the conversation. “I couldn’t sleep tonight, so I decided to take a walk and smoke my pipe. I was enjoying the silence of the night. Everything smelled so fresh in the rain. Then I saw your parachute coming toward the trees.”

  I interrupted him. “Would you mind, Lieutenant, if I reach into my pocket to take out my pipe and tobacco so I can join you?”

  “Certainly, go ahead,” the man responded kindly. He reached into his own pocket, removed his tobacco pouch, and offered me some of his.

  “I thank you, but I really enjoy my own blend,” I said, and then added, “Would you care to try some of mine?”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”

  We both stood in the darkness and silently stuffed tobacco in our pipes. I had a great hurricane lighter that didn’t go out in the wind. He tried repeatedly to light his pipe with matches and just couldn’t do it.

  “Try my lighter. You’ll be surprised,” I said.

  I handed it to him, and he lit his pipe in one attempt. “What a great lighter!” he marveled. “Where did you get it?”

  “In Nice,” I answered.

  “How is it that you’re obviously coming from somewhere else, and yet you have a French lighter? he asked.

  “I am in France because I live here. Would you care to see my identification card?”

  “Yes, of course. Let me see it.”

  I handed the man my card. “As you see, my name is Michel Carbonell. I’m a tourist in Nancy and the surrounding area. My travel guide told me to jump at the wrong time. He had no visibility whatsoever!”

  “You do realize, monsieur, that I must put you in the hands of the Gestapo. I have no choice in the matter, amiable fellow though you are. I must transfer you to Paris, to the Gestapo headquarters on avenue Foch. That’s the street you French call avenue ‘Boche,’ your disparaging term for Germans. We have a name for you French, too. I guess that’s the way of war. I really regret having to send you to headquarters, monsieur. You seem like a nice man.”

  I made no reply but told myself, “I must avoid that at any cost.” On a recent mission to the vicinity of Lyon I had seen Wanted posters depicting a likeness of me, a sketch of a young bearded man who precisely fit my physical description. I had barely managed, with the assistance of prewar friends, to flee to the Côte d’Azur and the safety of Monte Carlo. There, I hid in the apartment of friends from childhood whose mother was a countess and whose father had been captured and taken prisoner when France was defeated in the spring of 1940.

  The officer was going on about his life before the war as I was searching for a way out of this situation. I certainly had to avoid Paris at all costs; but of greater urgency was finding a way to escape before this officer turned me over to the Gestapo. If descriptions of me had circulated in my wake in Lyon, then it was probable the same thing had happened all over France. I knew the solution to this predicament would come to me. It always did. I just needed to be patient.

  My captor, the good-natured lieutenant, was enjoying my company. I knew how to appear to be listening, and apparently I had done that quite well, for he had not stopped talking. Finally, he said, “Excuse me for going on like this, but I love to speak the French language. My wife is French, from Alsace. Our son is going to school in Strasbourg right now until we return to Germany. What will be, will be. Maybe we have another year here in France, at most.”

  Silently I asked myself, “Where is he going with this?”

  “Just between us,” he said, “and for some reason I trust you to say nothing of our conversation, very soon we Germans will lose the war. You were very lucky to fall into my hands. Let’s go into my tent and have a cup of coffee. I am sure you will not have real coffee again for a very long time.”

  We entered his tent and sat down. While he was making the coffee, he continued in a philosophical vein. “Who knows? Perhaps one day you will have the opportunity to do some kindness for me. I am not the SS. I am an officer of the German cavalry. Since we were forced to use our horses to feed our men during the war effort against Russia, I was transferred to this tank unit.” He paused, then took a long draw on his pipe. We sat for a while in silence, peacefully puffing on our pipes.

  He handed me a cup of coffee. Then, in a soft voice, he continued. “May I show you photos of my family?” I nodded. He showed me a photo, obviously handled a lot, of his dear ones. “On the right are my mother and father. Here, on this side is my wife next to her sister, and this is our precious child in my wife’s arms. He was sixteen months old when that photo was taken. Now he looks exactly like my father. When the war broke out, I was in Paris studying to be a veterinarian. Of course, I had to return to Germany to serve my country.”

  He became quiet and thoughtful again. “As I was saying, it was truly necessary to sacrifice the horses. We needed to feed the millions of men who had been mobilized. Yet I feel it was such a disgraceful thing to do. I know that I must continue to do my duty, but if we were totally alone and my troops hadn’t seen you, I would tell you to stab me and tie my hands behind my back and get out of here. Circumstances force me to do otherwise.” Then he stopped for a moment and stared at me. “I have an idea. I’m going to call a sentry to guard you. He’s an older man, in his fifties. I don’t think he would do you any harm, and I ask you not to harm him either. He has five children and adores his wife. He’s about your size. Take his uniform. You will see motorcycles about a hundred meters from my tent. The keys are in the ignitions. I wish you good luck, monsieur.”

  That was a shocking bit of good news! The lieutenant called the sentry, who moments later entered the tent rather casually. His pipe was resting between his lips. He, too, had been enjoying a smoke. As he came in, the German officer turned to leave and ordered, “Guard the prisoner.”

  I was sitting in a chair, and the guard stood near the table. I seized the moment immediately. “Would you mind handing me the matches next to you? My pipe has gone out.” He looked at me quizzically. I realized he didn’t understand French. I gestured to make him understand that I needed the matches on the table.

  The guard turned ever so slightly to look and spotted the matches. As he reached for them, I quickly jumped up and put a hammerlock around his neck and my hand on his mou
th so that he couldn’t yell out. I removed his bayonet. “If you want to see your wife and children again, do not make a sound. I will kill you if you do.” Again, I realized he didn’t understand a word. So I just gagged him and removed his clothes with one hand as I held him with the other. I left his underwear and shoes on. I gestured for him to sit down. I tied him to the main pole of the tent. I put his clothes on over my own and left soundlessly.

  Everything was quiet in the camp. I left the tent and moved toward the motorcycles. Without slowing my pace at all, I greeted several people as I passed (in German, of course), including the soldier who was guarding all the vehicles. Then I adopted a very nonchalant demeanor as I went from one to another motorcycle removing all the keys. I got on the last one. It was a Zundapp with a sidecar. I turned on the ignition and engaged the starter with my foot. It turned over immediately. I moved out extremely slowly on the bike so as to draw no special attention to myself.

  I didn’t take the road. Why ask for trouble? I went through the fields and forest. Because of the river, I knew which way to go. I just followed it downstream. I saw no one for about an hour along this route. Then I began seeing French farmers and their families up and about. I stopped when I saw two children playing marbles near a bridge. “Hello, children. My compliments on your beautiful marbles. They’re agates, aren’t they?”

  The children politely responded, “Yes, sir.”

  “What is the name of this river?”

  The older of the two answered, “It’s the Moselle. If you continue a little farther along the river, you’ll find a lot of your buddies at Épinal.”

  “Thank you, kids.” I took the first path I came to. It veered to the left away from the river. I didn’t want to find any German buddies. “I need to get to the woods where I can take off this uniform. They’ll be looking for a man dressed like a German soldier on a motorcycle. It’s time to get rid of all this.”