by Damien Lewis
There, Paterson was introduced to ‘Francesco’, a professional smuggler. This man, according to Orlando, was ‘the greatest rascal unhung’.
With Francesco in the lead, Paterson made his way up the steep hill behind the farmstead, and they were soon in open moorland. A path snaked across the high ground, while below Lake Como glistened and glinted beguilingly, small boats sailing hither and thither. It looked so picture-postcard perfect, but here the enemy’s eyes were everywhere.
After an hour on that winding path, they came to a slight ridge and a small patch of bushes. Francesco dropped into a crouch, Paterson following suit. Down below was a well-worn path, which Francesco explained was the route taken by the border guards. The next patrol was due in about ten minutes. Once that had passed, Paterson would have around half an hour to make it down the slope, across the path and under the high wire fence on the far side.
They waited for the patrol. Once it had snaked by, Paterson thanked his roguish guide, before hurrying down the bank in a half-crouch. He dashed across the path before dropping to his belly and half-sliding and half-crawling under the wire fence. Once he had wormed his way through, he jumped to his feet and ran towards a clump of beckoning trees. There, he stopped for a brief moment to catch his breath, and to reflect with disbelief that after three and a half years as a prisoner of war, a fugitive, and an escape-network organiser, it seemed he was finally free.
His spirits soaring, he took to a path leading down from the high border fence. But shortly, he rounded an outcrop of rock, only to blunder into a squad of soldiers dressed in the green-grey uniform so redolent of enemy troops. For a long moment Paterson was rooted to the spot. Had he somehow erred, and re-entered Italy? Had he been betrayed by Francesco? But shortly, he realised the truth: these were not German soldiers, but Swiss.
After a polite welcome from the Swiss patrol, they advised Paterson to continue on his way, heading for Bellinzona, a town set a dozen kilometres or so from the border. There, Paterson would be formally processed by the Swiss authorities. Shortly, he reached a mountainside cottage. The woman of the house brought him milk, fresh bread, cheese and cold meat. It was delicious and he ate and drank gratefully, feeling refreshed for his onwards journey.
Upon reaching Bellinzona, there followed the formalities of an interview with a Swiss captain, after which Paterson was obliged to spend a few weeks in a nearby quarantine centre. There, to his immense joy, he was reunited with Corporal Jack Watson, his second-in-command on Operation Colossus. Watson had made his own epic escape, after discipline had collapsed in the POW camp where he was held, following Mussolini’s fall.
Paterson and Watson were transferred to Montreux, on Lake Geneva, where a large number of British and Allied escaped POWs were being held. The Allies had set up offices to handle the influx of escapees, and to provide them with money to buy clothes and other essentials. On his first night, Paterson, desperate to celebrate his freedom, hit the town. Come morning, he’d spent all his money and had a stonking great headache as proof of the partying!
Deciding the Lake Geneva beaches offered a cheaper and healthier form of relaxation, he headed there for a swim. This became a daily routine. One morning, he noticed a couple talking near by. One was an utterly striking figure: she was tall, slim and blonde, with piercing blue eyes. Oddly, Paterson figured he recognised the young lady’s companion, but he couldn’t decide from where. And then it hit him: it was one of the many escapees that Paterson had helped usher across the border.
Remembering the man’s name, he called out: ‘Charles! Charles Gray.’
Gray in turn recognised Paterson and the two shook hands vigorously. It was an emotional reunion. Gray introduced his companion to Paterson. Her name was Karen, and as their eyes met Paterson felt an instant attraction. Having bid his reluctant goodbye to Gabi, Signora Riccini’s raven-haired daughter, in Milan, now, on the shores of Lake Geneva, he felt the first stirrings of an equally powerful attraction. Over the days that followed, Paterson and Karen’s friendship blossomed and Gray, tactfully, retired from the scene. Speaking English but with a strong trace of a French accent, the enchanting Karen, who had a Swiss father and an English mother, had been brought up in and around Geneva. But otherwise her life remained something of a mystery, and Paterson didn’t pry too deeply.
He was captivated, finding they had much in common, enjoying the same kind of hobbies – swimming, dancing and hiking. Their time together almost erased the dark memories of the war, but of course in the autumn of 1944 it was still far from being won. Not long after meeting Karen, Paterson received a mystery summons. He was asked to meet with a certain Mr McTavish, in the British military’s Press Office, which had been established in Montreux. Puzzled, Paterson took a taxi there one morning.
McTavish, a tall, grey-haired Scot, invited Paterson into his office, before enquiring how he was enjoying Montreux. After a little more such small talk he got straight to the point. The Press Office was actually a front. In truth, McTavish worked for the Special Operations Executive (SOE), Churchill’s so-called Ministry for Ungentlemanly Warfare. SOE had been established to break all the rules of war, taking the fight to the enemy no-holds-barred. In that spirit, McTavish’s job was to despatch SOE agents into Italy, seeking information that London desperately needed, or charged with acts of assassination or sabotage, or raising resistance armies.
McTavish was forever receiving requests for arms and explosives from the Italian partisans, and while some were genuine, others were not. One of his agents had been about to go in but had gone down with meningitis. Accordingly, McTavish urgently needed a replacement. Paterson had a good record. He spoke Italian and had been living with the partisans. McTavish figured that he would make an ideal SOE agent.
McTavish produced a map and explained more about the assignment he had in mind. In the mountains of northern Italy, the partisan bands were beginning to work together, and they had already cleared the enemy from a few miles of the border. Their plan was to build up their numbers and strength, before becoming strong enough to take Domodossola, a city that sits at the foot of the Italian Alps. Working from that base, if the whole of northern Italy could come together in armed rebellion, it would cut the German Army’s supply lines and force them into defeat or surrender.
‘I’m in contact with one of their leaders, a Colonel Monetta,’ McTavish explained. ‘He’s a good man, and a former Italian Army officer. They have enough weapons for now, but if they get more recruits, we’ll need to air-drop arms, ammunition and supplies. It’s one of the reasons why I need someone like you in place.’
McTavish eyed Paterson searchingly, for the big Canadian was giving little away. Having spent so many long months on the run and being hunted through Italy, he wondered whether he really wished to return. And now there was the Karen factor to consider . . .
‘There’s another reason, too,’ McTavish persisted. ‘A whole generation of Italians have grown up under Mussolini. If they start fighting between themselves and break up into factions, it could result in civil war. London and Washington want reliable reports on any political developments, which is why we think you’re the man for the job. Part soldier; part political observer.’
With that, McTavish told Paterson to let him know his decision in three or four days’ time.
Paterson sought out Karen. They spent a delightful few hours wandering in the flower meadows on the hills that fringe Lake Geneva. Taking a rest, she remarked on her companion’s strange mood. He seemed quiet and introspective. In truth, Paterson was inwardly in turmoil. He was torn between his affection for her and his sense of duty. He felt incapable of choosing between the company of this delightful woman and what he knew, deep down, was the right thing to do.
‘Karen, I may have to go away,’ he said at last. Because SOE was such a secret organ of the British war effort, he could reveal few details. But he had thought up a good cover story. ‘I’m possi
bly going to be working for the British Consul in Locarno. They need someone who speaks reasonable Italian. Perhaps you could come down there, if I can’t get away?’
Paterson had chosen Locarno, for it was the nearest Swiss town to the area of Italy he would be operating in. He figured he could maybe flit across the border now and again, if a liaison with Karen was on the cards. Her obvious keenness to visit made it even harder for Paterson to accept McTavish’s offer, especially knowing that he could well be dead within a month, or taken prisoner – again.
Nevertheless, duty called.
Paterson returned to McTavish’s office to accept his offer. He had one condition, he explained – that he be allowed to take along his trusty corporal, and wireless operator, Jack Watson. McTavish readily agreed.
That sorted, the Scot got straight to work, briefing Paterson about the names and backgrounds of the various partisan commanders and the cover identity they’d thought up for him. The Gestapo’s suspicions that Paterson had been a spy worried McTavish. Accordingly, Paterson would take on a new identity. He would become Major George Robertson, of the Royal Engineers, who had been captured in North Africa and held at a prisoner-of-war camp in north-eastern Italy. Paterson’s cover story was that he had escaped amid the chaos of the Italian surrender and had joined the partisans.
McTavish explained that he’d get Paterson properly kitted out with mountain clothing and equipment. He also advised him to make contact with John Birback, the British Vice-Consul, in Locarno, to whom he would be reporting, once he went over the border. At least having such an influential contact might boost his chances of seeing Karen, Paterson reasoned.
After the meeting with McTavish was done, Paterson tracked down Watson and explained the coming mission. ‘It won’t be any picnic. In fact, it may well be pure chaos. But if you’re up for it, I’d like you to join me.’
Watson’s reply was instant. ‘I’m with you, sir.’
Over the next few days, Paterson and Watson were properly kitted out in Alpine gear. They studied maps, memorised codes and rehearsed their cover stories. Just the one weekend remained before their departure, and Paterson was determined to enjoy it in Karen’s company. After dinner they went to a lakeside cabaret, before spending the rest of the evening in each other’s arms. Before the weekend was out, Paterson told Karen that he loved her and that he wanted to marry her, but . . .
Anticipating his next sentence, she remarked: ‘You’re going back into Italy, aren’t you?’
Paterson nodded. The rest didn’t need saying. Once he had crossed back into that war-torn country, he didn’t know whether he would ever see her again. The following morning they said their farewells, arranging to meet in Locarno. They promised each other they would get married, but neither really knew if that promise could ever be kept.
The moment of departure arrived, and Paterson and Watson were joined by Birback, the Locarno Vice-Consul. Together, they began the drive to the border. The Swiss mountains were quiet and peaceful, contrasting so markedly with what they were heading into – a war zone stalked by hatred, hunger, fear, savagery and death. Birback dropped Paterson and Watson on the approach to a bridge. He could venture no further. Wishing them good luck, he left the two men to carry on without him.
On the far side of the bridge, Paterson and Watson were received by Colonel Monetta, McTavish’s main contact among the partisans. The colonel took them to a large house, to meet the commanders of the various factions. There was Superbi, a plump and jolly fellow who was leader of the socialists. There were Arca and Didio, both young, former Italian Army officers, who commanded the Green Flames – the Catholic and democratic partisans – and the Royalists, respectively. Courageous and spirited, both were fine leaders of men.
The only commander missing was Moscatelli, the leader of the Communists, who apparently was too busy to be there. ‘Probably trying to convert the peasants into Reds,’ one of the others remarked, dismissively. After a toast to victory, Paterson reassured them of the Allies’ support and congratulated them on their recent successes.
‘Tomorrow, we will attack the German pigs and you’ll see that we mean business,’ piped up Arca, the Green Flames commander.
Just before dawn, everyone was in position above a German military outpost. Arca explained that the ‘Tedeschi’ – the Italian term they used for Germans – were quartered in the large house below. Superbi’s men were in position on the far side, so the Tedeschi would be caught in a pincer movement.
One of Arca’s fighters commenced the attack, opening fire, after which there was a fusillade of shots from Superbi’s men as well. Shortly, the Tedeschi woke up to the assault and began to return fire. For a quarter of an hour the battle raged, with one partisan taking a bullet to the shoulder and another being fatally wounded in the head. Finally, a white shirt tied to a broomstick appeared at the window of the outpost. Moments later the German soldiers filed out, their hands raised in the air.
Over the next few days, the partisans continued their drive to rid the mountains of these isolated German outposts. Few put up more than sporadic resistance. Despite their successes, it became clear to Paterson that the partisans were prone to disorganisation and indiscipline. Ironically, the only leader with any kind of grip on his fighters proved to be the Communist, Moscatelli – the man who had snubbed Paterson at the very first meeting.
A well-built man of about thirty-five, Moscatelli had trained with the Russian Red Army in guerrilla tactics and political activism. He had been relatively successful in persuading the local peasants to join his Communist brigade. With two thousand under his command, his unit dwarfed the others, who could barely muster five hundred each. But Moscatelli lacked properly trained officers, and his fighters could prove as volatile as the rest.
Regardless, on 10 September 1944 – so just a few weeks after Paterson and Watson had joined their number – the combined forces struck against the city of Domodossola. The battle raged, but not for anything like as long as Paterson had feared. When the German garrison surrendered, Paterson was puzzled. Why, he wondered, had they accepted defeat so easily? But when he laid eyes upon the troops stationed in the city, he understood: they were made up of elderly reservists and demoralised conscripts.
Overjoyed at taking the city, the partisans seemed inclined to sit back and enjoy the fruits of their success. But Paterson was worried. Surely, the German high command could not allow such blatant insurrection within territory which they in theory still controlled. He felt sure there would be a counter-attack and the partisans would need to be ready. With ammunition in short supply, as well as ready cash to buy provisions, Paterson decided to head for Locarno. There, he would petition SOE for weaponry and cash. At least that way they might hold Domodossola.
Paterson’s foray back to Locarno was all too brief: there was no time at all to rendezvous with Karen. But at least he returned to Domodossola as the hero of the hour. He brought with him 20,000 lire in a rucksack, and the promises of air-drops of weaponry to follow.
Three days later, the first air-drop was due. Together with Arca, the Green Flames commander, and a dozen of his men, Paterson headed to the drop zone, which was set on a hill to the north of the city. An hour after the allocated drop-time, there was still no sign of the plane. As each further hour passed, Paterson grew more and more concerned. They were badly in need of the weaponry and ammo, especially as there had been reports of German military activity to the south of the city.
Just prior to dawn, they decided to return to Domodossola. They would try again in a few days’ time. Paterson slept for several hours but was awoken late that afternoon with troubling news. All along the defensive perimeter to their south there were reports of probing attacks by the enemy. Paterson sensed it was a sign of worse to come.
In the early hours of the morning, Colonel Monetta – the overall partisan commander – woke Paterson, with the news that he’d been dreadin
g. An entire German battalion, supported by Fascist Italian infantry, was advancing towards the city. The partisans had managed to blow the bridge through the main pass but were being forced to fall back into the mountains.
‘Didio [Royalist brigade commander] is there, gathering his brigade . . .’ Colonel Monetta explained. ‘He’ll try and move forward and stop them, but if he fails and they get in behind us along the frontier . . .’ Monetta drew his finger across his throat, in an obvious gesture: if that happened, they would be finished.
All hopes were now pinned on Didio and his fighters. Paterson woke Watson, and together with Colonel Monetta they drove towards the frontline, arriving just after dawn. The defences appeared to be in a perilous state, and Paterson was acutely aware of how the failure of that air-drop might turn the tide of the battle. With things as desperate as they were, he suggested that Watson remain with the partisans, while he would head for the Royalist brigade commander Locarno to urge the air-drops to resume.
That agreed, Paterson began the drive back north, together with Colonel Monetta. En route, they paused to speak with Didio, who was rushing his fighters to shore up the frontline. The dramatic terrain all around appeared to be eerily quiet and deserted. But in truth, German troops had infiltrated the area, unseen by Didio’s partisans, and it was now that their ambush was sprung.
All of a sudden, a barrage of fire rang out from the high ground, followed by the rattle of heavy machine guns. Stunned for a moment by the suddenness of the assault, Paterson, Colonel Monetta and Didio froze, as the air was cut with bullets all around them. Moments later, they began to crawl back towards the car, as the entire valley echoed with the noise of intense battle.
