Hacqueville was a small village with fewer than 400 residents. The central focus of the village was its school, an attractive brick building that also served as the residence of the headmaster, Mr. Max Raulin, and his wife Yvonne. Max was a French patriot who had been a decorated lieutenant in WWI and promoted to captain in early 1940. After the fall of France, he continued to be well respected locally, serving as both the headmaster of the school and the mayor of the town. Knowing his dislike of the Germans, Dr. Daviaud had approached Max in 1941 about establishing a resistance operation in Normandy, and the two had begun recruiting among their contacts.
Captain Raulin was of average height (somewhere around 5’7”) and stocky, but he had a commanding presence as befit a central figure in the community. His wife, Yvonne, was a lovely and gracious woman, devoted to Max and to her young son Lionel, who was five years old at the time. In his clandestine role as the head of the resistance in that portion of Normandy, Max was responsible for directing and coordinating the activities of the FFI within a 20-mile radius of Hacqueville. He was also in charge of the collection and concealment of downed airmen.34 In the course of the war, Max, with Yvonne’s help, arranged safe haven for 14 American airmen and 18 RAF airmen. Fifteen of those airmen were kept for varying periods within their home. The regional headquarters for the Eure district was in Chartres, where Max reported to Mr. Louis Picourt.
When Fred arrived in Hacqueville, the Raulins were already hosting Staff Sergeant Paul J. Wilson, a gunner on a B-26 from the 574th Squadron of the 391st BG. His plane had been shot down on a 27 May 1944 mission to bomb a railroad bridge northeast of Paris. As luck would have it, his parachute delivered him to Hacqueville, where he was quickly picked up and stashed away.
Fred and Paul spent the next six weeks with the Raulins, eating all their midday meals as an extended family. Late each day, they were shuffled to the nearby church and placed in the care of Mme. Simone Carpentier, another member of the FFI. Simone, known in town as “Tati”, was 42 years old, unmarried, and the caretaker of the church and the adjacent home of the pastor, who had recently died. Paul and Fred had dinner there, but slept inside the church because it had a special hiding place within the ceiling that could be used if German patrols came to town. There was also a more devious hiding place at the top of the church bell tower — a crawlspace above the small platform from which the bell was suspended. The hideaway was virtually invisible from below.
Fred spent his first few days in the Raulin’s kitchen getting a crash course in French while identity documents were prepared. He loved children, and spent hours playing with Lionel, something that endeared him to the family and especially to little Lionel. It also did wonders for Fred’s growing command of French. Once he was sufficiently proficient in the basics, he became involved in passing messages among FFI families in the town, traveling by bicycle. His identity papers identified him as the local parish priest. This was not a particularly difficult role for him, as he had been raised Roman Catholic and attended Catholic primary and high schools. He therefore knew various Latin phrases that could add to his cover story. Simone provided the proper garb from the wardrobe of the recently deceased cleric. Moving along the narrow, unpaved roads through the village, he sometimes rode one-handed, keeping the other free to issue a Deus tecum or Deus vobiscum as he rode along. His trips often took him to the home of the local butcher, Louis Lesoeur, or to Jacqueline Robert, a local shopkeeper.
Although the FFI had initially planned a general uprising for 14 July, the plan was changed due to the continued failure of the Allies to shatter the German lines and break free into Normandy. (The new plan, ultimately successful, was to cache the weapons until that breakout occurred and then harass the retreating German units from all sides.) Each evening, the group listened to the BBC radio, waiting for a code phrase such as “grandmother loves chocolate” that would indicate that an arms drop would be made that night. If the drop was made near Lyon-le-Forets, roughly 25 miles away, FFI members from that area would pick up the materials, cache some of them, and move the rest through the network for dispersal. Sometimes an air drop included caged carrier pigeons that would be transported to Hacqueville. Max would then prepare a message reporting significant regional events or specific requests. When released, the birds would (with luck) carry the missive to London.35
On 8 July 1944, Fred and Paul met Flight Engineer Alexander MacPherson of the 207th Squadron of the RAF. His Lancaster bomber had been shot down, and he landed undetected on the outskirts of Hacqueville. He was the only surviving member of his crew, which led Fred to worry about the fate of his friends on Crashwagon III. Max had no information — he knew where other airmen were being sheltered, and who sheltered them, but not their identities. That information was kept secret.
The airmen had worries of their own, however. In many ways, the last months of the German occupation of France were particularly dangerous and stressful for both the French populace in general and the FFI in particular. Hitler had established the Nacht und Nebel (Night and Fog) policy in December 1941. His decree mandated the death penalty for anyone in the occupied territories who either injured military personnel, destroyed equipment or supplies, or otherwise interfered with German military operations, or reduced military capabilities. In 1942, he advocated the shooting of 100-150 French civilians for every German killed by resistance activities. In early 1944, he added orders to burn the associated houses or entire communities. These instructions were usually carried out by units of the SS.
Fred had heard of the SS, but knew little about the organization or its various divisions now operating in occupied France. As the days turned into weeks, Max filled him in. The SS was a paramilitary group of fanatical volunteers who had become infamous for atrocities against French civilians. Roughly half of the SS divisions in the field were manned by Germans, and the rest by French, Polish, Hungarian, Dutch, Belgian, and Russian volunteers. Max didn’t have exact numbers, but he said that the SS troops seemed to be far outnumbered by the Army troops.36 Both groups, however, aggressively pursued the FFI and searched villages for downed Allied airmen.
The French Resistance also had to contend with intelligence services, spies, and traitors working for or with the Gestapo, the SD, and the Abwehr. What infuriated Max the most was the Milice (the security police of the Vichy French government), as it consisted entirely of traitors working to imprison or kill fellow Frenchmen.
When Fred first arrived in Hacqueville, Army patrols were sweeping the area at irregular intervals. The troops could be recognized by their gray-green wool uniforms, dark-green collars and shoulder straps, and a swastika on the right breast. Over the period Fred was in town, SS units began to sweep through the community looking for real or perceived threats against the German occupying forces.37 Although the uniforms of SS troops were similar, their lapels were decorated with twin silver “SS” lightning bolts, and the swastika was placed on the left sleeve. Often more distinctive at a distance, their hats bore silver “skull and crossbones” badges. By early July, everyone had heard rumors of SS barbarity and the razing of entire towns. The SS patrols became even more aggressive and frequent after the failed attempt to assassinate Hitler on 20 July 1944.38 Convinced that the Army leadership was potentially disloyal and the Luftwaffe ineffective, Hitler became increasingly reliant on Himmler, whose power and influence grew rapidly.39 Unaware of the intricacies of German politics, all Fred, Paul, and Alex knew was that they found themselves spending more and more time hiding in the ceiling, the church bell tower, or the crawlspace above the bell while the village was searched by roving patrols.
Through it all, Max remained convinced that the best strategy was for the airmen to stay in Hacqueville and await the arrival of the Allies, which he felt was imminent. Fred was OK with this approach, but Paul and Alex grew increasingly restive. The resulting dissension in part reflected the fact that the three men had very different backgrounds, perspectives, and temperaments. Fred was raised in Brooklyn and
relatively street-wise. In Brooklyn, he and Eddie Virgilio had learned when to fight and when to run, and how to read the odds. Paul came from a small rural community approximately ten miles west of Manchester, New Hampshire. He was a good guy, but the unforgiving world he found himself in was totally unfamiliar. Fred liked Paul, and felt as if he needed to counsel him at times. Privately, the Raulins and Tati referred to Paul with great fondness as a “dear boy” or a “sweet child,” and remarked about how anxious he was to return to his wife at home. Alex was more of a firebrand and sometimes hard for Fred to take. He was almost a caricature of a British aristocrat — a bit overbearing, condescending to Yanks, and dismissive of the Germans. He also had a rather low opinion of the French, when none were in the room. That really annoyed Fred. One day, Alex’s temper caused a serious problem when an SS patrol was heading for the church. Part way up the stairs to the steeple, Alex had his fill of hiding and quite loudly started talking about shooting it out with the stupid, bloody Germans and getting it over with. Fred, with Paul’s help, had been able to muzzle and physically restrain him. They were never totally forgiven, and the discord among the airmen, as well as Alex’s general attitude, did not especially endear Alex to the Raulins.
The dynamic at the Raulin’s began to shift as the men became more familiar with Jean Jacques, a trusted member of the FFI network. Jean was based in Paris, but he was a regular visitor to Hacqueville. Jean was 5’7”, very slender (bordering on scrawny), and had short light-brown hair, and pale-gray eyes. He also had a distinctive gold filling in a front tooth that flashed when he smiled. He dressed well, spoke excellent English, and his relaxed attitude tended to put people at ease. Jean’s visits were welcomed by the airmen, as they provided a break in the daily routine and an opportunity to converse freely in English. He arrived in his own car, which was in itself cause for comment. Although Dr. Daviaud had a car and a driving pass, few other local FFI members were so fortunate.
Jean sometimes showed up alone, but at other times he brought his girlfriend, Collette Orsini. Collette was in her twenties and a very attractive redhead, and the young airmen were a bit envious of Jean. Collete had met Jean through the FFI network. Her parents were involved in the Comet Line, an underground network that shifted evaders from Paris across the southern mountains and into neutral Spain. Collete’s family had facilitated the escape of two Allied airmen before she was been introduced to Jean. Although the fact wasn’t shared with the airmen, Collette was married, but not happily, and her husband was not living in Paris.
After almost two months in hiding, Fred was feeling frustrated at the confinement. The Allied front line still hadn’t broken through the stubborn German defenses, and nobody could predict how long that stalemate would last. Between the German atrocities and the increased frequency of SS patrols, he worried not only about his own safety, but that his presence threatened the whole community. Max steadfastly maintained that they should take no chances, stay put, and await the arrival of Allied ground forces — there were reports that the Allied forces were starting to advance. But Jean felt differently. He assured the airmen that the contacts he had in Paris would make it very easy for them to return to Allied control either by plane from a private aerodrome or overland through Spain. He said that he had escorted more than a dozen airmen to safety in the last month alone, and that they were probably already flying missions against the Nazis. That information made the airmen wonder if it wasn’t their patriotic duty to make the attempt. When asked about this, Max confirmed the fact that Jean had in the past used his vehicle to transport FFI members and/or Allied airmen to various destinations, including Paris. All three airmen had been advised in evasion training classes that if they were shot down but avoided capture, Paris would offer their best chance of repatriation. Everything seemed to be pointing them in that direction.
5-15 AUGUST 1944: PARIS
By early August, the airmen had decided to leave Hacqueville over Max’s strenuous objections. Fred, although less enthusiastic than Paul and Alex, felt that they should stick together and go as a group. So, early on the morning of 5 August, the three airmen, dressed as French peasants, climbed into the backseat of Jean’s car and headed for Paris. The 50-mile ride was uneventful. The men spoke quietly as the countryside rolled past under cloudy skies.
They arrived in Paris in the late morning and were taken to the lobby of the Piccadilly Hotel on Rue Jean-Baptiste Pigalle, where they were introduced to Louis Gianoni. Louis was the proprietor of the adjacent lounge, Le Prélude. He was much older than the airmen — 35 at least — and built like a bull. He had a round head that was balding on top, and the frames of thick tortoise-shell glasses extended into a fringe of dark hair. He looked as Italian as his name suggested, and Fred could easily imagine him working for the Mafia in Brooklyn. The airmen were instructed to have a seat and a drink in Le Prélude while Jean made further arrangements.
After nearly an hour had passed, Jean returned and told them that another car, driven by “Henri,” whose identity would be verified by Louis, would pick them up and take them either to an aerodrome or to a spot where they could easily cross to Allied lines. Jean then left the three airmen seated in a corner with a bottle of wine and varying degrees of impatience and excitement. It was almost overwhelming to think that their long period of clandestine existence would soon be over.
After 30 minutes or so, Louis came to their table to report that Henri was waiting in a car parked outside of the hotel. On emerging, the men found a four-door sedan idling at the curb and a tall, well dressed gentleman climbing out of the front passenger seat. After introducing himself as Henri in heavily accented English, he opened the rear door and told them to slide inside and to get down as low as possible so that they would not be seen. Once everyone was onboard and suitably pretzeled out of sight, the car pulled away from the curb. The driver, a large, heavyset man with a dour expression, gave them a glance but said nothing to the airmen.
For a few minutes, the men rode in silence as the car worked its way across the city. The airmen huddled near the floor, bouncing against one another as the car stopped and started, took corners, and rumbled over cobblestone streets. Then the car suddenly swerved, turning into an alley and jerking to a halt. As Fred raised his head, he saw they had entered an open courtyard. At this point, Henri turned toward the backseat with a large pistol in his hand and said to Fred, this time in perfect English, “We are members of the Security Police, and you are now under arrest.” They had been delivered to the Gestapo headquarters at 84 Avenue Foch.
As the stunned airmen sat up and looked outside, they saw uniformed SS guards armed with machine guns surrounding the vehicle. It was obvious that they had no options but to surrender. One by one, the guards dragged the men out of the car, clubbing them to the ground before dragging them up the stairs and into the building. Fred was roughly searched and his personal items removed — including his dog tags — before being dumped into a small windowless room, hardly larger than a closet, on the fifth floor. After an interminable period, the guards returned and escorted him to a small office to undergo his first interrogation.
The interview room held an imposing desk that faced a single chair. A tall, slender man in a dark suit sat behind the desk, and he stared hard at Fred as he was led in and slammed down into the seat. The two guards remained in the room, one standing on each side of the chair. Fred immediately stood at attention, saying “Frederic C. Martini, staff sergeant, US Army number 32163997,” but his interrogator was dismissive. “You are a spy, a saboteur, traveling out of uniform, and you will be shot.” When Fred responded that his dog tags proved his identity, he was told that spies often removed the dog tags from dead soldiers to embellish their cover stories.
The interrogator demanded the names of those who had helped him evade capture, but Fred just repeated his name, rank, and serial number. As the exchange took place, the interrogator picked up a manilla envelope that contained Fred’s confiscated possessions and dumped them
on the desktop. He started sorting through the items but froze when he reached Fred’s dog tags. Grabbing the tags, he stormed around the desk and shook them in Fred’s face, pointing not to the tags themselves but to the gunner’s wings Fred had attached to the chain for safekeeping. He seemed enraged and almost speechless. He spit in Fred’s face and started slapping him, saying “United States Motor Corps” over and over.
Fred, unable to restrain himself, said “No, sir, United States Army Air Force - Air Corps, not Motor Corps” whereupon the German hit him so hard that his feet left the floor and Fred went down hard. From the floor, Fred managed to croak out “Air Corps” one more time before he got a boot in the face. “You are worse than a spy, you are a terrorflieger, a butcher, a killer of women and children! You should have been hung, not brought to be shot.” The interrogator was now kicking him repeatedly in the side and in the head. By the time he tired of the exercise, Fred was unconscious and badly bruised, within an area marked by streams of blood and the broken remnants of two teeth. The guards then dragged him away to recover in his tiny room.
When he regained consciousness, Fred was stunned and in pain. His jaw was aching and he knew that he had lost a couple of teeth. His ribs were almost as painful, and the first time he tried to stand, a shaft of pain from the right side of his abdomen froze him in position until he worked up the nerve to continue. Thirty minutes or so later, he was breathing a bit easier when the guards came and escorted him to another room where a uniformed SS officer told him to fill out a fake “Red Cross form” that was designed to extract useful intelligence about air operations. Fred took the form and wrote down his name, rank, and serial number, crossing out the rest. When he handed it back, the SS officer glanced at it in disgust before crumpling it up and tossing it in the trash. He told Fred it didn’t really matter, as they would be burying him in a week or two anyway.
Betrayed: Secrecy, Lies, and Consequences Page 9
