Betrayed: Secrecy, Lies, and Consequences

by Frederic Martini

  Fred next went to the supply section, where a Lt. Wilson of the Quartermasters Corps gave him clean clothing and $300 of his accumulated back pay. He left the counter heavily laden, with a belt and cap, a set of underwear, two handkerchiefs, a woolen coat, dog tags, boots, uniform shirt and pants, hand and bath towels, a wool blanket, a can of meat, a canteen with cup and lid, a set of cutlery, and a duffel bag to carry them in. Fred was assigned a barracks tent and a bunk, and he spent the next hour finding it and settling in. The tent was relatively close to the HQ, so it would be easy to check the bulletins boards where the departure lists were posted.

  With his gear in his tent, Fred sat on the bunk for a few minutes working up the energy to move again. He then grabbed a towel and a change of clothes and went to find the showers. There was quite a line, but the sergeants in charge kept the men moving. After showering and changing into his new clothes, he retraced his path through the maze of tents until he got “home.” He was completely exhausted, so he lay down on the bunk to take a rest and elevate his aching feet. It certainly felt strange to be at loose ends, safe, clean, and with a wad of cash in his pocket.

  He tried to rest, but couldn’t sleep. Fred knew he wasn’t in the best of shape — he was still tired and hungry, and walking was painful. He was jumpy as hell. Any sudden movement made him flinch, and at a loud noise he automatically dove for cover. He wasn’t alone — every time a plane flew low over the camp, men dove under bunks or tables — but that didn’t help any. He also didn’t enjoy sleeping, because his dreams were often terrible, leaving him bathed in sweat with his heart pounding. And whenever he wasn’t busy doing something else that occupied his mind, he started worrying about what might have happened to the Raulins. Had the Gestapo arrested them? Was Lionel OK? Without warning, the worry became rage directed toward the traitor responsible. It got him back on his feet, pacing back and forth. He was supposed to go home, but how could he do that without knowing if the Raulins had survived? He would feel like a lazy and selfish coward. But what could he do?

  The consensus among the airmen at Buchenwald had been that Jean Jacques was the prime candidate, but Fred knew for certain that at least two of the people he’d met — Louis, who’d arranged things at the Hotel Piccadilly, and Henri who’d delivered him to the Gestapo — were definitely part of the plan, and he knew where Louis worked in Paris. OK, that meant the trail would start in Paris. Of course, that meant leaving Camp Lucky Strike, but was that even possible?

  Mealtimes took forever because the lines were long and the portions small. Fred had been told to eat five small meals per day rather than a few huge servings. So when the chow line was operating, Fred grabbed his plate, waited in line, got served, and then hobbled to the end of the line to eat while waiting for a refill. Nobody minded, and he repeated the process as long as the kitchen was serving.

  After the evening food service was over, while seated at the long table surrounded by other RAMPs, Fred listened to the chatter and asked some questions. He learned that many of the RAMPS were taking their back pay and heading to Paris to spend it. It was possible to get a liberty pass, but it could take days to jump through the hoops involved. So, many of the enlisted men were simply taking advantage of the generally chaotic situation at Camp Lucky Strike and slipping away.132 The RAMPs who left without proper papers would technically be AWOL (absent without leave), but the chances of being caught were slim, and the chances of serious punishment were even slimmer. Of course, if your name came up on a passenger list while you were out partying, you’d get your ears pinned back when you returned to the base, and you would have to wait for another space to open up. But the allure of Paris, where the liberation party atmosphere persisted, was too great to resist.

  Fred found this information quite enlightening, and the next day, he discussed the situation with Ed, Sam and some other friends who had arrived on the transport with him. He was circumspect about it, even though he trusted them. If he decided to take off, he didn’t want to leave anyone else holding the bag. To his amazement, they seemed to have put the past behind them. They were focusing on getting home and doing their best to forget everything that had happened. “Let the French sort it out” was their motto. But after all that had happened to him, Fred just couldn’t do that.

  Once Fred decided to leave, things happened quickly. He needed to get a few things for the trip, so he went in search of the canteen, where he got some additional toiletries and purchased a small B&W camera. That evening, he arranged his kit bag, his personal gear and a change of clothes under his berth in readiness for departure, before lying down and setting his mental alarm clock. In the predawn hours of 10 May, Fred snapped awake and stuffed his gear into his pillowcase, which would serve as a tote bag. Leaving the tent, he strolled out into the cool night air, taking care to move quietly. The fewer people who were aware of his departure the better.

  Fred had a stroke of luck on his way out of the camp. An MP had fallen asleep with his holstered .45 slung on its belt over the back of a chair. Very quietly, hardly daring to breathe, Fred moved in far enough that he could slide the .45 out of its holster before backing out of the guard shack. Once clear, he gave a sigh of relief and popped the pistol into his pillowcase where it wouldn’t be noticed. He left Camp Lucky Strike, departing through a wooded area and curving around to intersect the road a mile or so away. His feet were killing him, so he sat down and rested while dawn passed and the sun climbed in the sky. As traffic started to increase on the roadway, he stood and hitched a ride. He was now on his way to Paris, 140 miles to the southeast. Although the roads weren’t in great repair, and military vehicles clogged some segments and intersections, Fred made it to Paris that evening.

  His first stop was the Hotel Piccadilly, where he booked a room for the night. When he asked if Louis was around, he got a curt “no” and a very strange look, but no additional information. Well, he hadn’t thought it would be that simple. He was exhausted, as the adrenaline rush associated with going AWOL had long since faded away, so he took his room key and went up to his room for the night.

  The next morning, after having breakfast in the lobby, he grabbed his camera and headed into the street. The bar affiliated with the hotel, Le Prélude, was closed until the afternoon, so he decided to take the morning to sightsee and take his mind off the situation. He walked north up Rue Pigalle to the Boulevard de Clichy, where he caught a taxi that took him eastbound for a mile or so to the Arc de Triomphe. The cab did two circuits of the Arc while Fred took snapshots with his camera. Then on a whim, he had the cab go past 84 Avenue Foch, where he had been delivered to the Gestapo and interrogated. It was now flying the French flag rather than Nazi colors, but he was uncomfortable just seeing the building, so he decided not to take photos of the place.

  In the early afternoon, Fred had the taxi let him out near a restaurant the driver recommended. He had a leisurely lunch and enjoyed several glasses of wine. The weather was mild, and it was pleasant to be watching everyone around him without worrying about being noticed. The Parisians in general seemed busy and happy and relieved that the war was over and life could start getting back to normal. There was still a ways to go, however. There were few cars other than taxis or military vehicles, as petrol was still in short supply, and the selections in stores were limited. But hey, the war was over and France was free, so things could have been worse.

  An hour or two later, Fred flagged another taxi and headed back to the hotel. He went next door to Le Prélude and had a drink at the bar, chatting with the bartender. There were few customers, so they talked amiably and at some length about nothing in particular. Fred then brought up the subject of Louis, but after an awkward pause, the bartender said he’d been working there since last September and he had never met him.

  Fred hung out in the bar for several hours. As it got busier, a number of military men showed up, either on leave or AWOL like Fred, often with women on their arms. It was clear to Fred that the hotel was in a red-light distri
ct where activities were limited only by imagination and finances. Fred sat at the tables and swapped stories, but his mind was elsewhere, and after buying a last round of drinks, he excused himself and went up to his hotel room for the night. It was his first night in a bona fide homestyle bed since leaving Hacqueville ten months earlier, and between the comfortable mattress and the alcohol he had consumed, he slept soundly and without nightmares.

  It was late morning before Fred went down for breakfast, and he was still on his first cup of strong coffee when a well-dressed man entered the hotel and strolled to the front desk. After a brief conversation with the receptionist, he headed for Fred and, without waiting for an invitation, took a seat at his table.

  Introducing himself as a detective in the French police, he asked Fred who he was and why he was in Paris. Fred gave a plausible answer — a former POW on liberty, in search of nightlife — but the detective brushed that aside. As he carefully examined Fred’s identification papers, he asked why Fred was so interested in the whereabouts of Mr. Louis Gianoni.

  Fred thought it best to tell an edited version of the truth: that he had been betrayed to the Gestapo by Louis and an associate called Henri, and that Fred wanted to discuss it with them. He didn’t mention the .45 in his pocket or his plans for those men once he found them. As Fred related his experiences at Gestapo HQ and Fresnes Prison, and the boxcars on 15 August, the mood changed palpably. The detective became quite congenial, and expressed his sympathies for what Fred had been through. He told Fred that he was sorry to report that his trip to Paris had been in vain. Louis Gianoni had indeed been a collaborator with the SD. The day after Fred left Paris by train, Louis was involved in an operation to round up a group of FFI personnel. Things didn’t work out as smoothly as planned, and in the resulting firefight, Louis was killed. Few tears were shed.

  As to Henri, his real name was Maurice Grapin. He had attempted to switch sides and celebrate the liberation of Paris, but he had been arrested and jailed. When Fred asked about Jean Jacques, he was told that, as he had expected, Jean Jacques was another SD agent. He had been one of the German’s top undercover agents in Paris, and his real name was Jacques Desoubrie. Jacques had fled Paris ahead of the Allies and was rumored to be somewhere in Germany. The French, British, and Americans were looking for him, but so far he hadn’t turned up.133 Several other SD agents were being hunted, and a few spoke excellent English — good enough to impersonate American or Canadian soldiers on leave. That was the main reason the police had an interest in anyone trying to contact Louis.

  The conversation ended with a warning to Fred that he should leave such matters to the police rather than try to have “discussions” with men like Grapin or Desoubrie. His tone indicated that he was well aware of what kind of a discussion Fred had in mind. After the detective left, Fred sat at the table eating a slow breakfast and pondering his next move. This was obviously a dead end, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the police weren’t planning to keep an eye on him in case he planned any “discussions” with anyone else in Paris. So, in the afternoon of 16 May, Fred checked out of the hotel and started thumbing his way out of town. Hacqueville was roughly 70 miles away in the general direction of Camp Lucky Strike. Fred had planned on going there once he concluded his business, whatever it was, in Paris.

  Fred had little trouble getting close — the main road he’d taken from the Camp passed reasonably close to Hacqueville — but the last four miles or so were on an unpaved side road that left the main road to Rouen near Villers-en-Vexin. He hadn’t walked far before his feet made it impossible to continue, so he stood in the shade by the side of the road hoping for a lift. Late in the day he managed to get a ride in the cab of a rickety farm truck. The farmer recognized him as a member of the Allied military forces, and he was only too happy to drive Fred wherever he wanted to go. His gratitude was almost embarrassing, as if Fred had singlehandedly driven the Nazis from Normandy.

  Fred left the truck with a wave in the center of the town, near the school and within sight of the church. He was suddenly unsure as to what he should do next — if the Raulins and their friends had been executed, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he had come all this way, and there he stood, so he walked up and knocked on the door to the schoolhouse, where the Raulins had been living. There was no answer, which he thought was an ominous sign.

  Fred went to the church grounds next, and tried the pastor’s residence. To his relief, Simone answered the door and was struck speechless at the sight of him. She hugged him tightly, then brought him inside and sat him down at the kitchen table while she got them glasses of wine. When Fred asked about the Raulins, Simone told him that Max had been appointed the head of the aerodrome in Chartres, and the family had relocated. She assured him that they were all doing fine, and that she would send them his best wishes when they next corresponded.

  Simone started to ask Fred about what happened after he left Hacqueville, but then decided that everyone should get the news. So she left Fred with the bottle of wine and scooted out of the house, returning 20 minutes later with Mr. Lesouer, the Brochonds, and Jacquelin Robert. Over the next few hours and several bottles of wine, bread, and cold meats, Fred gave an overview of what he’d experienced, glossing over his time in Buchenwald both to spare their feelings and to avoid making the nightmares worse.

  The group listened with rapt attention, asking occasional questions but otherwise simply absorbing the information. Fred finished with his departure from Camp Lucky Strike and his failed attempt to find the traitors who had betrayed him to the Gestapo. He said that he had come back to Hacqueville to see if everyone had survived, or if they too had been rounded up and imprisoned or worse. Fred then asked them if there was any chance that Desoubrie was hiding somewhere within reach. If he was hiding in France, Belgium, or Holland, Fred was prepared to track him down. But if Desoubrie was in Germany, he was out of reach — Fred would never return to Germany, under any circumstances.

  The consensus among the group was that if Desoubrie was in France or Belgium, he would soon be captured, and if he was in Germany, his fate was still sealed, but it might take a bit longer. At the risk of causing offense, they pointed out that Fred was obviously in no condition to go traipsing around Europe hunting for traitors who were likely to be in good shape, heavily armed, and alert to any suspicious activities. The detective in Paris was right, such men should be left to the authorities or to the members of the FFI whose networks they had betrayed. All of the escape networks knew about Jacques Desoubrie and his various aliases, and if he were found by a member of the FFI rather than the authorities, it was unlikely that he would live to stand trial. Their advice was for Fred to leave Desoubrie to them, and to go home, live a good life, and always remember his friends in Hacqueville.

  It was time for the visitors to leave and for Fred to get some sleep. Before going, Mr. Lesouer told Fred that he was the first sheltered airman to return to check if they were OK, and his arrival (and survival) should be celebrated. They would spread the word, and the next afternoon they would invite the town to attend a reception in the schoolhouse.

  Fred bedded down for the night in the guest room. He awakened around 0300, bathed in sweat, with Simone standing at his bedside looking scared. He’d been screaming and calling out, and she had rushed in to see what was wrong. As he got his breathing under control, Fred assured her that it was just a nightmare and that she could go back to bed. Before she left, Simone suggested that perhaps he hadn’t told them everything that had happened to him.

  The reception the next day was a festive event, with a pot-luck style dinner enhanced by bottles of champagne used to toast Fred, Hacqueville, Charles de Gaulle, General Eisenhower, the Allies, and France. There were also pledges of eternal friendship and undying gratitude. All this took considerable time and even larger volumes of champagne. So much warmth and good humor was apparent that Fred was overwhelmed, and he wound up spending two days in Hacqueville. They were busy days, as he went to
visit each of his friends and their families to hear their stories about the months after his departure.

  With the traitors out of reach and his French family doing fine, Fred felt free to return to Camp Lucky Strike. Simone passed the word, and soon Fred was waving goodbye from the passenger seat in another farm truck that took him all the way to Camp Lucky Strike, with his belongings on the floor in front of him. He was a bit nervous about his reception after being AWOL.

  When they got to the entry, Fred climbed down from the cab and simply walked into the Camp past the guardpost by the main entry. Back by the tent, Fred saw the officer in charge, Lt. Sherwood, who told him to check the bulletin boards. To his delight, Fred found his name on a list for departure on 25 May on a ship bound for Boston via Southampton.134

  Fred was also on a list ordering him to report for departure processing. On finding the office, the first thing he did was to complete a report on his experiences between the time he landed in France by parachute and his betrayal to the Gestapo. The form provided, titled Helpers and Betrayers, asked him to list everyone who had helped him evade the Germans, and to provide information on those people involved in his betrayal. After he completed that form, he was told to read and sign a secrecy agreement issued by the War Department. This three-page document prohibited any communication or publicity regarding his experiences. The last page required his signature and the signatures of authorized witnesses, certifying that he had read and understood the regulations. There followed a review of his paperwork, next of kin, his plans for the period of leave after arriving in the US, and whether or not he intended to stay in the Army (Fred was quite clear that his answer was NO).

  Before leaving, Fred was handed a pamphlet “You’re Staging for the States,” which summarized the steps he must take and the forms he must complete before boarding a ship from Le Havre to the US. Afterward, Fred returned to the base HQ to send a telegram to Lucille. It was short and sweet: “Dear Lu, Well and on the way home see you soon love to all S/Sgt Frederic Martini”