Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  With that statement, our meeting ended. Fully briefed, I was immediately dispatched.

  I was parachuted to the north of Brignoles in the Var region of France. Two members of Combat drove me to the Hotel Cavalière, located between Le Lavandou and Saint-Tropez. All was arranged in advance. The owner of the hotel was also an agent working for the English.

  “There is a message for you that a submarine is coming from Gibraltar that will wait near the Îles d’Hyères, off the southeast coast,” he told me. “At the appropriate time, we’ll take you to a sailboat that will take you out to sea to meet the sub.”

  I checked into a room that had a lovely view of the sea. I took all my meals at the hotel so that I would be there when it was time to leave. After several days, around midnight, there was a knock on my door. It was the hotel owner. “En route, monsieur! The sailboat will pick you up in an hour or two and will take you to the submarine,” he announced.

  On our way to the dock, he explained, “I have your Swiss documents, including letters of introduction and correspondence between the magazine and restaurants in Bulgaria, Greece, Italy, and other countries. These documents and letters verify your contract as a freelance writer for the Swiss magazine and its relationship with the countries you are to visit. Your focus will be on the gastronomic preferences of each country. You’ll need to cover a lot of ground during the eight weeks allotted for your research on this article. Here are several letters of credit that you will need to cash in the banks of each country to cover your expenses,” he said as he handed me the letters. “Here is the list of our agents assigned to you in every country who will serve as your interpreters/ photographers. Each one is fluent in the language of the country and in French. In the report, you will note the date and location of the restaurant reviewed and accompany it with photos taken by the local agent. Of course, you know about the photos and reports that England is really interested in.”

  This writing assignment created an excellent cover that was crucial to the secrecy of our mission because the local authorities of each country were dominated by the Gestapo. There were also Russian spies that had infiltrated the different countries years earlier who were interested in any unusual activity or outside person visiting the countries I was to visit. We could trust no one. Suspicious eyes were everywhere. The interviews had been set up in spite of these dangers.

  “Inside this leather bag, I have all the official papers for the motorcycle, including the matriculation number, your Geneva license plate, and gas coupons for each country through which you’ll be traveling. Bonne chance.”

  The sailboat brought me out to the submarine. After I boarded, the vessel submerged and headed toward Turkey. We followed the west coast of Turkey north until we reached the Dardanelles straits. A rubber boat brought me to land where I was picked up by a car from the British Embassy that took me to the carpet merchant’s house on the outskirts of Istanbul, the same man whose sailboat we had used on the mission to Djibouti.

  “Welcome back,” he said, greeting me with a smile as one of his servants brought me to where he was seated in his living room. Cordially, he offered me coffee or tea, as is the custom. As we talked, he kidded me, “One time a sailboat, now a motorcycle. What type of locomotion will it be next time?” He had a wonderful, lighthearted way about him. After our coffee, we descended to the entry where his chauffeur was waiting in the car to take us into the city where the motorcycle was being kept in a garage for me. There, he had it filled up with gas and filled four extra gas cans for me to take in the sidecar.

  It was a superb French motorcycle, a Gnome & Rhône painted brilliant red with a white chassis. There was a pinstripe on each side, red where it was painted white and white where it was painted red. There were Swiss flags painted on the fender and on the back of the sidecar that had a windshield and wipers. Its interior was upholstered in red leather while the motorcycle’s three seats were covered with white leather. The sidecar had a convertible top of a heavy white, waterproof fabric. The Gnome & Rhône was known for its very powerful four-cylinder engine, 1400cc, which was horizontally mounted and totally enclosed. Only two cylinders were exposed on each side. The starter was a pedal. It took one’s entire strength to start it because of the extraordinary compression. I weighed about 225 pounds at the time and I needed every ounce of that to jump on the pedal to get the engine to turn over. It had four speeds plus reverse. The sidecar could be motorized in low gear in case of snow or mud. In the nose of the sidecar was a hublot, a window behind which the camera had been installed.

  “May I take a ride with you?” the carpet dealer asked excitedly.

  “Of course. Climb on behind me.” He got on, and I gave him the time of his life. He had a memorable ride despite his fear, never having been on a motorcycle before.

  “Regrettably, you’re leaving again very soon, I understand,” he said as he got off. “Perhaps when you come again, you’ll have some time to stay awhile and get to know my daughters. Then you could marry one or two.”

  “And why not three?” I retorted jokingly. I didn’t know if he was serious, and I did not dare ask.

  I stayed with him two or three days, waiting for further instructions from the British Embassy in Istanbul. I got glimpses of two of his lovely daughters several times as they passed through the grand salon to the area where his wives passed their time. I never met his wives, nor was I introduced to his daughters. When he was at work, I took the motorcycle out for rides in and around the city.

  Late one afternoon, a messenger came with a letter for me that explained the route I was to take and the safe houses along the way. It also listed the agents who would serve as both translator and photographer in each city where an interview was to take place and how to contact each of them. My first destination was Burgas, Bulgaria, a port on the Black Sea.

  That night at dinner, I told my host, “I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry to see you leave, Michel.” My nom de guerre was Michel Carbonell. “I’ve enjoyed your company. What time do you want to have breakfast?”

  “About seven o’clock. I’d like to get started early.”

  Once I got into Bulgaria, I began seeing troops, though not a lot of them. I started taking photos right away, making mental notes of their locations and direction they were traveling. When I arrived in Burgas, I went directly to the safe house where I was expected. They contacted my translator/photographer, who came to the house and then arranged an interview and a tasting menu with the scheduled restaurant owners the following day. All went smoothly. It was really quite simple. I gave the agent my list of questions to ask. He translated the answers, and I took notes. Afterward he took photos of the restaurant owners and me and the food they had presented.

  Next I traveled east to Plovdiv. On the roads I saw light activity that I photographed and noted. After the same sort of interview in Plovdiv, I left for Sofia. I took a lot of pictures because there was a large military presence along the way. I was really enjoying the motorcycle, but the roads were really terrible. Whenever possible, I would ride in the middle of the road to avoid the grooves previously made by heavy truck travel. Even on these heavily rutted roads, the Gnome & Rhône handled like a dream.

  In the evenings, in my room at the safe houses, I gathered my exposed film together and made written notes. In the larger cities, curfew was in effect and I could not travel across the city after certain hours. This had an effect on the times of my interviews and my travel plans.

  From Sofia, I continued on to Skopje and then to Thessaloniki, a large port in Macedonia. The roads were not quite as rough as they had been in Bulgaria. The safe house owners always contacted the translators who met me and set up interviews and tastings at the restaurants. Interviews, photos, and meals or tastings became quite routine for me. The people were usually quite cordial and anxious to please. My agent contacts would take me to banks when I needed money and to gas stations when I needed to fill up my tank and my g
as cans. All went surprisingly smoothly.

  My next stop was Volos, in Greece, a beautiful seaside city. Immediately after the restaurant interview, I got on the road headed toward Lamia. My contacts in Greece proved to be just as thorough as those before them had been. I really enjoyed the Greek tastings, but on the way to Athens I began to feel sick. I didn’t know whether it was the sun or the food, but I needed to recuperate. I stayed in a safe house in Khalkis for a couple of days before continuing on to Athens.

  After wrapping up my assignments in Athens, I headed to Ioannina in northern Greece. I got along very well with the charming restaurant owner who invited me to stay on the premises in a room above the restaurant for an additional night. Since the trip was tiring, traveling so many kilometers each day in the heat, I decided a day off was well deserved before leaving for Albania.

  After my day’s rest, I left early in the morning, heading northwest to the Albanian port of Vlorë, where I had another interview scheduled. On the way, I encountered a large concentration of troops. I took extensive photos with my sidecar camera and jotted down notes that evening. The restaurant interview was more interesting this time because the owner spoke some French, and I was able to ask the questions myself. I appreciated her cooking and conversation and enjoyed the process so much more being able to interact with her myself. I left the next day and headed northeast toward Dubrovnik, Croatia, where I stayed overnight in a safe house. No interviews were scheduled.

  I had a leisurely breakfast the next morning before taking the road toward Belgrade, Serbia, where I had my next appointment. Along the way, I photographed troop concentrations in Croatia and Serbia. These troops were primarily Italian. My final meeting in Croatia took place in Zagreb. Though the restaurant owner was especially eager to please, I left as soon as I could, anxious to get to Italy where the roads would be better and where I’d be able to communicate.

  Once I crossed the border, the roads were terrific. Now I could really enjoy this fine machine. I passed through Trieste and continued to Trento for my final interview. That was fun because I enjoyed speaking Italian and loved Italian cooking. Again, the process was more interesting because, since I spoke the language, I was able to conduct the interview myself while my photographer took the photos. I remember that the restaurant owner served saltimbocca, a stuffed veal that was delicious. She was an older woman and confided in my photographer that she was afraid of me. She thought I was a German spy working out of Switzerland, and she didn’t want me to stay in her safe house.

  “But I don’t have another place for him to stay, signora,” my photographer said, trying to reason with her.

  “Don’t worry, signore. He can stay the night with me and my boy,” the cook offered.

  “Thank you, signora,” I responded. “I gratefully accept.”

  Though I had fallen in love with riding my motorcycle, I was very pleased that the next day would be the last leg of my journey. I had gathered the data that Mr. Churchill needed and was ready to go home. All in all, the trip was quite an ordeal physically and psychologically. There was the ever-present tension of possibly being stopped by the Gestapo. My anxiety on this score increased when I started seeing Italian troops because I knew the Italians were sharp. But good fortune smiled on me. I was never stopped and never questioned.

  After arriving in Berne, a long day’s ride from Trento, I wrote my report and gave it to the vice-consul of the American Embassy to forward to England. My photos and notes furnished the information needed so desperately by Mr. Churchill regarding the concentration, locations, and travel directions of the troops.

  Then I took the short ride to Lausanne to stay at the hotel school, a safe house where I often would stay throughout the war. I called my contact in Geneva and asked him to take the train to come see me, not explaining why I didn’t want him to take his car.

  I met him on the station platform the next day when he arrived. “Hello, Monsieur Toby. I have something to show you.” He followed me to where I had parked the Gnome & Rhône.

  “Where did you get this beauty?” he asked as he looked her over. He was really impressed.

  “The British asked me to do a little road trip for them. I’m finished with it now. It’s yours to use until you turn it back to the British.”

  “You’re kidding!” he replied in astonishment, thrilled. I invited him to join me for a drink before he headed back to Geneva.

  We walked across the street to a café. As soon as we sat down, I began enthusiastically, “I know you’re going to love this motorcycle.” I told him how it had handled across eastern Europe, and then we talked motorcycles for quite a while. Then I asked him, “So, how do I get back to England, Toby?”

  “I’ll arrange a seat on a Turkish flight for you to Morocco and from there, a flight to England. You’ll be back in the cool weather before you know it.”

  SIX

  Youth Camps in France

  “I want you to gain access to the youth camps to find out if they are pro-Nazi,” Mr. Churchill began. “Your mission is to infiltrate the youth camps at Hyères in the Massif des Maures and Die in the department of Drôme. You need to be extremely wary of the French Militia and the German Gestapo in this part of France. You’ll be posing as a wholesale textile representative when you land, and you’ll change identities after that. Good luck, mon petit, and come back safe and sound with the information we need.”

  This mission sounded more involved to me. I believed I was gaining Mr. Churchill’s confidence. After the occupation, the Germans required that male children in unoccupied France go to youth camps, build blockhouses to defend the coasts of France, or go to work for the Germans in their occupied territories.

  It was only a few days later when I parachuted near a pine forest in the Maures region of France. I quickly hid my parachute under some rocks. I had been flown out of England and had changed planes in Gibraltar.

  I was well dressed in a brown double-breasted suit, felt hat, tie, trench coat, and the most beautiful pair of crocodile shoes I have ever owned. The clothing all had French labels, but the shoes were Bally, made in Switzerland. As a well-to-do textile representative, I had for my main customers hotels and hospitals. While on the plane, I had looked through my briefcase to familiarize myself with the paperwork and the textile samples inside. They were very convincing, as was the fine, well-used briefcase I had been given. Everything indicated that I was successful and that I’d been in the profession for quite a while. This last detail would not have worked had I not looked much older than I actually was. After all, at the time I was barely eighteen years old.

  I went to the road and started walking toward Cannes. A while after sunrise, I caught a bus to Nice and then transferred to another bus to Monaco. In Monaco, I was supposed to get new identification papers. I was going to be a horse breeder by the name of Michel Carbonell. The question came to me, why didn’t I start off as a horse breeder instead of having to change professions? I would never know because I certainly would not ask. That wouldn’t have been acceptable.

  Once in Monaco, I decided to go see Monsieur Dalembert, the Monte Carlo chief of detectives who lived on the rue Grimaldi near the place Sainte-Dévote. I had known him since I was a child.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” I said when he opened the door. Of course, he didn’t recognize me. “Do you remember me? I am Monsieur Franck’s son.” He was shocked to see me and invited me in. We sat down in the salon and started to talk. He said casually, “I haven’t seen your parents for a long time. They moved to their apartment in Nice, from what I understand.”

  Since I knew directly from Mr. Churchill that Monsieur Dalembert was working for the English, I explained to him that I was on a mission. “Monsieur, I need to go to the youth camp in Hyères. Do you think it safer to take the train or take a limousine with my friend Pierre?”

  He considered my question for a moment and then responded, “Let me think about this. Would you care for a glass of lemonade or an aperitif?”
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  “No, monsieur, but I thank you all the same.”

  He got himself a drink, and we resumed our conversation. “I have an idea,” he said after a while. “I have some friends in Bandol. I would like to surprise my wife by visiting them. If we take you in our car, she will not suspect my intentions. The man we will visit is a dear friend from childhood who has retired from his post as the chief of French customs.”

  I had had a feeling that he would want to be helpful, because of my relationship with him over the years and from the fine reputation he had always maintained. “You are very kind, monsieur. Thank you so much. I need to wait to receive new identification. That will take two or three days. Will that be convenient for you and your wife?”

  “Of course, and you’re welcome to stay with us, if you like.”

  The day after I received my new identity, we left Monte Carlo about four in the morning in his 1937 black Delage. Mr. Dalembert drove, his wife sat next to him, and I sat in the backseat.

  The mistral wind was relentless that day. We took our time on the road because of its gale force. In the early afternoon, we stopped in San Rafael to wait for the wind to die down. When it finally did, we took to the road again in the direction of Saint-Tropez, where we stopped for a bite to eat. After a late lunch, we took the National Route 98 to Hyères, where they dropped me off at the youth camp. We said our adieus, and the Dalemberts headed toward Bandol, the surprise visit still a secret from Madame.

  I entered the camp and went directly to the office to introduce myself as Michel Carbonell to the commander in charge.

  “I’ve been expecting you, monsieur,” he said. “You’ll have the rank of chef de chantiers, and you’ll be in charge of transportation, horses, and supplies. Everything comes to the camp from Toulon. You’ll take the horse-drawn supply wagons to and from the city, picking up everything we need.” One of his assistants took me to the supply office to get my uniforms, which consisted of a short-sleeved shirt, shorts, a beret, and short, lace-up boots. Then, the assistant escorted me to the barracks.