Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  Emma turned pale. There was a long silence. The first words spoken were hers. “Where are you going?” she angrily demanded.

  “As I said before, the less you know the safer it will be for you and your son.” Then she raised her voice. “We really don’t need you, anyway, you know. You can leave now for all I care!”

  After a few moments, in a softer tone, she added, “If you decide to stay, you can make a life with us. We can move to the big house. We can create a new business together, an equestrian center and lodge. It will be wonderful.”

  Grasping the meaning of the look on my face, she stopped talking. I said nothing. There was nothing to say. The child was chattering away. We finished our breakfast in silence. She cleaned up the kitchen, dressed her boy, and the two of them left for the village on her bicycle.

  I spent a peaceful day walking around the property, taking in its beauty. Now I was satisfied that my mission had been fulfilled. I felt good about my achievement. I had successfully started to spread the rumor that Mr. Churchill wanted to circulate, to fool the Germans into expecting an Allied invasion in the south of France rather than in the north at the Pas-de-Calais or in Normandy.

  When Emma and her son returned late in the afternoon with the groceries, I asked her, “Did you have a nice trip to the village?”

  No response. I approached the bicycle. “I’ll take the groceries in for you.” I lifted the little boy off the back of the bike and put him on the ground, then took the two sacks and walked toward the house. The two of them followed. The boy was quiet, tired after the long journey. I put the bags on the counter.

  All of a sudden, she spoke, “Don’t touch a thing. Leave everything as it is. I want to talk to you. I’ll put my son down for a nap, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I went to the living room and sat down on the sofa. She joined me about ten minutes later.

  “He fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Now we’re alone. I have something for you. I stopped at the bank while I was in the village. I took out ten thousand francs for you just in case you need some money. Since you won’t tell me where you’re going, I figured you might need some funds for expenses along the way.” I didn’t say a thing. Of course, I would not accept the money but said nothing about it. I just listened and let her talk. She spoke of how our life together would be after the war. I didn’t respond. Somehow, she had it in her head that I would return. I had never meant to give her that impression.

  We shared a few drinks and went to bed around eight o’clock. I put my travel clothes on and gathered my few things together. Emma fell asleep right away. I dozed off and woke up just before nine. No one had arrived. Again, I nodded off.

  I slept fitfully through the night, expecting the partisans to come at any moment. I got up before daybreak and went out to milk a goat. I came back inside, poured some warm milk into a bowl, and made some toast. No one had showed up the night before to pick me up. What did this mean?

  As I was eating, the boy wandered into the kitchen. “Shhh,” I said, putting my finger next to my lips. “Your mother needs to sleep this morning. Shall I give you some warm milk and toast?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. The two of us ate in silence. Then I went upstairs to help him get dressed. It was cold and windy outside. We went out for a walk. We looked in on all the animals and talked to the man who took care of the property while he was feeding. I told the boy some stories as we walked along. He was very bright and talked a lot.

  When we returned to the house, it was about nine thirty. There was a truck parked in front. It was filled with bales of straw. There were two young men inside the cab. The man in the passenger’s seat shouted, “Come over and get in!” There was no explanation as to why they had not arrived at the designated time the night before.

  Emma was standing at the door in her bathrobe. Bad weather had led to this strange saga: a wayward jump into the trees, a kind German officer who let me go free, and then this affectionate and very needy young woman who took me in. She called to her son with arms outstretched, “Come here.” Immediately, he took off at a run toward his mother. She picked him up in her arms.

  She called out, “Michel, I have your bag.”

  I went to the door. “Thank you for your hospitality, Emma. I know you and the boy will be fine. I must go now.” I went to the truck, climbed in, and shut the door.

  The little boy shouted, “Michel, Michel! We’ll see you after we win the war!”

  I shouted back to him, “Take good care of your mother!” The truck drove off. I was on my way to safety in England.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Interrogation

  Abruptly, the driver stopped the truck. There was no one around. Why then was he stopping? We had just left Emma’s house only five minutes before. Had he spotted German soldiers?

  “Climb up on the hood, then onto the roof of the cabin, and pull up the canvas that is covering the straw. The truck bed is empty in the center. You’ll find two men armed with Hotchkiss antiaircraft machine guns inside. Climb in, and I’ll tie down the canvas behind you.”

  I got into the back of the huge truck, an eight-wheel, double-axle Berliet. There was a lot of available space inside the truck bed. “The driver will avoid main arteries and national routes because they are blockaded by the Germans who are still searching for you,” one of the two heavily armed partisans told me. “They are stopping every vehicle to search and requiring each person to get out and show his identity card. That’s why we’re taking secondary roads. We’re heading toward Vittel. It’s longer this way, but we intend to get you out of the country alive.”

  After a few hours, the truck came to a gradual halt. The man riding shotgun pulled back the canvas. “Get out now. We’ve arrived at the farm. We’ll leave the truck in the barn and continue on foot through the mountains. We have about a six-hour trek in front of us, so let’s get going.”

  Hours later, we reached the top of a hill that overlooked a beautiful valley about four or five kilometers long. This was a perfect flat landing area for the airplane that would be picking me up. The mailman was there waiting.

  “Bonjour, my friend,” he greeted me, and nodded at his colleagues. “You must be hungry after your little hike. Come sit down. I have plenty of bread and cheese for all and some wine to wash it down.”

  The last of the sunset was glorious beyond the mountains. “Do you see all those silhouettes in the valley?” I looked down into the valley and saw shadows of more than a hundred men surrounding the proposed landing site. “They are all here to protect you in case the Germans discover what is going on.”

  We ate and talked and waited. At exactly eight o’clock, we heard two cries of an owl. Three bonfires were lit to form an arrow to indicate the landing field. As soon as they were lit, a red flare was sent up. “That’s the signal not to land,” the mailman whispered. “Lie down. Don’t move. We’ll take care of everything.”

  At the end of the proposed landing strip, there were four German trucks with searchlights, illumined well by the light of the fires. They were creeping slowly forward. I could see an entire company of German soldiers, well over a hundred men. In front of them, in their black helmets, were about fifty French Militia. I could hear the droning of the airplane circling. Then I heard a voice shout out in French, “It sounds like we have company.” Right after, there was a shot. A scream—someone was hit. Then a barrage of gunfire rang out. The Germans fell like flies. They were totally surrounded by the partisans who were well armed with lightweight machine guns. Mortars were being shot at the trucks. The Germans and French Militia began to retreat but were confused about which way to go because the mortars were coming from behind. They retreated toward the mortars—they had to choose one direction. A small group of partisans ran past us. “Stay flat on the ground behind those rocks and bushes,” one of them whispered as he hurried past.

  The shooting intensified. The machine-gun fire was coming dangerously close to our small group. All
of a sudden, we heard an engine that sounded like a German plane. The trucks were firing their machine guns in the direction of the mortars. It had become a really intense battle. About twenty partisans appeared behind us. They hadn’t known we were there. They took position in front of our group to protect us. Suddenly, we were surrounded by the French Militia. The gunfire was continuous. Our men started dropping. Almost all the partisans protecting us were shot, but before they died they must have killed about thirty of the French Militia. The mailman and I and a few others had no choice but to surrender. It was a very dark moment.

  The Germans and French partisans were still fighting down in the valley. The French Militia took prisoner other partisans besides those in our small group. They forced us down the hill, loaded us into trucks, and took us to their camp near Vittel, where they had a prison. We were unloaded, about forty prisoners in all, and were each thrown in a separate cell.

  Quite a while later, the colonel in charge of the French Militia gathered us all in the courtyard. “If it were my decision,” he announced, “you would all be shot here and now. I would have the pleasure of killing the leader of your group myself but not with my revolver—with my knife, to be sure that he would have a slow and painful death. And for every ten of my men that were killed in this battle, I would cut off one of his fingers or toes. And for him to avoid this suffering, he would have to give up the man who was supposed to leave on that plane.” My mind was working fast and furiously, but as yet no plan had come to me.

  He continued, “As I am sure you know, last month we caught one of your spies, a Capuchin priest, who was waiting for his plane to England. I don’t know why this piece of dirt would interest the British. I want you to know that he was tortured till he died. You are all being taken to the Gestapo in Paris. I wish you all a slow and painful death.”

  This was disturbing news. Escaping from the Gestapo would not be an easy task. As we were being reloaded into trucks, I was searching for any possibility of escape before being handed over to the Gestapo. No solution so far. We had been given nothing to eat or drink since our capture and were not allowed to talk to each other. Seven or eight hours later, we arrived in Paris. It was nighttime.

  The trucks pulled up in front of an impressive, beautifully built fourteenth-century building made of granite. We got down from the trucks and were ordered to go up the stairs to the second floor. The steep stairs were beautifully carved of the same granite as the façade. One of the militia led the way. In all, we numbered about a hundred prisoners. He turned left and strode down the hallway to its end. We followed.

  “Face the wall and kneel down. Listen to me!” he instructed. “You will now be interrogated. There is one man among you who was going to take that plane. The first one to denounce him will be given his freedom. We give you our word,” he said in a sincere tone. “Now, the first man in line, get up and enter the interrogation room—the door to my right.”

  The man obeyed without question. There was an overwhelming silence that filled the hallway. A couple of minutes later, we heard a shot. Two of the Gestapo came out carrying the body of the first prisoner. “He didn’t want to answer our questions,” one of them said as they dropped the dead man on the floor. They had killed the first man for effect. After this, they would probably torture the remaining men, one by one, until they had the information they were looking for.

  “Next in line,” one of the Gestapo said. The next man got up and entered. Again the silence lasted about two minutes, broken by the sound of a revolver going off. One of the Gestapo opened the door. Another body was dropped on the floor. “Next,” he ordered.

  “I was wrong about their method,” I realized. “They must be under a lot of pressure from their superiors to quickly find out who I am.”

  The third man went in, and the door was closed behind him. A couple of minutes passed, and again a shot was fired. A different man from the Gestapo came out. He looked like the one in charge. “This is ridiculous!” he said. “You all want to die for nothing! We will change our methods to make you talk.” A large group of SS arrived. It was about six thirty in the morning. The sun was up already and making its way through the shutters. They began separating the prisoners into groups of four. I was in a group with the mailman and two men I didn’t know.

  “All right, get moving,” someone ordered. We were shoved forward with rifle butts, and many of us received blows to the kidneys to try to make us move through the hallway and down the stairs more quickly.

  Thoughts were racing through my mind. Primarily, I was hoping to find an opportunity to escape. At that moment, there was no possibility. Once outside, my group was told to get into a commando car. There were two SS in front of us and two SS behind us in the car. I strategized to myself silently, “What should I do? Denounce myself and tell the SS that I have a cyanide pill that I can use at any time, so it makes no sense to torture me? No, giving them that information would do me no good. Denounce myself and ‘confess’ the rumor we want to spread about the Allied invasion coming in the south? That sounds pretty good. The false confession would only further serve our cause. That’s the purpose of my mission, after all, so maybe this is the perfect opportunity. Since I’m in this predicament anyway, I might as well use it to our advantage. When the interrogation starts, I’ll pretend to be very strong, to have no fear, say nothing, and slowly I’ll show weakening. I’ll begin responding to their questions and finally, I’ll confess, and they’ll totally believe my story. It sounds good in theory. We’ll see how it works.”

  As soon as everyone was loaded into cars, we were taken to another Gestapo center. Our car stopped, and we were ordered to get out. The instant my two feet hit the ground, two huge men came toward me. Each grabbed me under an armpit, lifted me up, and took me toward the compound, my feet dangling. This must be a tactic to make me feel small and powerless, I thought, keeping my thinking removed from the situation and my mind clear. They shoved the others together into a group with the butts of their rifles.

  The building looked like a prison from the outside with bars on all the windows. We took the stairs down. The two men holding me changed their grip. One lifted me by the belt and the other by the collar as we went to the basement level. My feet were still not touching the ground. After going down a few steps, they tossed me to the bottom. Trying to humiliate me, one of them said in a mocking tone, “Oh, isn’t it a shame that a guy like this wants to play war. Look, he can’t even stand on his own two feet!”

  This is another way to impress me with their force, I thought, ignoring the pain.

  They walked down the remaining steps and picked me up under the arms again, opened a door, and carried me inside a small room containing only a wooden bench that was attached to the floor. There was a steel-mesh window in the center of the wall in front of the bench. “Sit down!” one of them ordered.

  On the other side of the window, this huge, bulky woman with a shaved head appeared. She must have been at least six feet tall. What a horrid-looking woman, I thought to myself. How do the buttons on her uniform hold those enormous breasts inside? She looks like an oversized stuffed sausage.

  In German, she dismissed the two men in a very stern, deep voice. They shut the door behind them. She remained standing and addressed me in French. “Do you know which Gestapo center you are coming from?” she asked.

  “My name is Michel Carbonell.”

  She interrupted, “Yes, I see your name here on my list. You’re coming from the sorting center, the centre de triage. It’s about time they sent me a nice young man! Usually they’re too young or too old. Why don’t you help me and give me the information that we want to know,” she said in a sickly sweet tone. “If you do, I’ll have you taken from your cell tonight and brought to my room. You’ll be able to order whatever you’d like to eat and drink. I have a pencil and paper here. Just tell me what we want to know.”

  Inside my head, I was saying, “How am I going to get out of this one?” The response that ca
me out of my mouth was, “I must tell you that I have had diarrhea the last four days and also have difficulty holding my urine; however, I am very flattered by your offer but feel morally obligated to tell you that I have crabs.”

  With an air of disappointment, she responded, “Well, I am going to help you, anyway. Instead of your being sent from one office to another, I will send you directly to the person who will handle your case.”

  Hmm, I thought, she’s really being quite nice. I didn’t think she’d take rejection that well.

  “The only recommendation I have is that you must collaborate or you will certainly suffer the consequences. Good luck,” she added. Two soldiers entered and escorted me out.

  Next I found myself in an office, unlike the others. A very bright interrogation light was facing my direction that made it impossible to see much. I couldn’t make out anything on the walls. In the middle of the room, I could make out the legs of a table. That’s all.

  Suddenly, I heard a lot of noise coming toward me. Two men wheeled a steel chair on a platform in front of me. “Sit down!” The two soldiers grabbed me and shoved me into the seat. They tied me to the chair with leather straps at the waist, each shoulder, each forearm, each wrist, and then put a steel collar around my neck to restrain my head to the back. They placed a basin of water on the floor in front of me and removed my shoes and socks. “Aha,” I surmised. “The friendly and amorous Amazon wasn’t that nice after all. I know what the water means.” They put my feet in the basin. Now the circus would begin. I mentally prepared myself for it. I knew I was to be the star performer. In silence, I readied myself for the torture to come.