by Max Ciampoli
FOURTEEN
Martinique
“I have an extremely important assignment for you, mon petit,” Mr. Churchill explained to me solemnly. “You and fifteen other men will go by submarine to Martinique. North of the capital, Fort-de-France, at Saint-Pierre, the Gestapo has files stored on all persons suspected of being spies or double agents. These are originals and, we hope, are the only copies. They are being stored on the second floor of the fortress. You’ll depart from a base in the north of Scotland. The voyage will take several weeks. You will travel submerged during daylight hours, surfacing only at night. You’ll coordinate with the locals who will help by drugging the guards at the fortress. You’ll destroy the documents by blowing up the building, and then you’ll return by submarine to England.”
Churchill had assembled a commando group that included three Canadians and about a dozen Poles and Slavs, all of whom spoke French since Martinique was a French-speaking island. The next day, after an early morning flight to Glasgow, we were driven to northern Scotland, arriving after nightfall. A rubber boat was sent from the vessel to pick us up. Our task force was lodged in the torpedo room at the nose of the submarine.
I’m going to vomit, I thought, as I entered the space we would be living in while at sea. The smell, I’ll never forget—it was like putrefying rats. We were “housed” next to the batteries. The twin stenches of acid and gas combined diabolically. The entire English submarine was worn out and very dirty. This sub should be refurbished or retired, I thought, reviled by the smell and the filth. And how will I tolerate being cooped up like this? I asked myself, not sharing my initial anxiety with anyone.
I had an extremely negative physical reaction to the environment, bordering on phobia. Not only did the enclosed quarters bother me, but the odors made me feel continuously sick. I urged myself to focus on something else but found the circumstances unbearable. I directed myself silently to somehow put up with it. Looking around, I noticed that most of the men just seemed to accept this dreadful situation. Of course, I was comparing their external appearance to my inner reactions. Still, I told myself, “If they can take it, Marc, so can you.”
I had a continual internal dialogue, hour by hour, day by day. Today, seven decades later, as I reflect, I really don’t know how I did it. My reaction was so intense that it seems impossible to have put up with it. I certainly could not do it today, but I was young and resilient back then, and I drew encouragement from the others. I felt so much admiration for those who just accepted the confinement.
The voyage began on the surface of the North Sea. The commander was Australian. He was abrupt, inconsiderate, and pretentious. After he put us in the torpedo room, he commanded, “You’ll stay here unless otherwise ordered.” Occasionally, during the change of shift, he allowed us to go on the bridge, four at a time. Otherwise, we were not allowed to leave the torpedo room until we arrived in Martinique.
In the room were eight torpedoes, two of them loaded and ready to go. The space was very limited. I slept in a scrunched fetal position because there wasn’t enough legroom to stretch out. I considered myself fortunate, though, because some of the men could not even lie down. My spot was across from the sink, next to the locked, watertight door that connected the torpedo room to the rest of the ship.
As you can imagine, the voyage was long and agonizing. The room was dimly lit. The minutes crawled by. Dealing with the claustrophobia was challenging. “We’ll be there soon,” the Canadians kept assuring me. I guess I didn’t hide my malady very well. They kindly tried to distract me by talking about their lives back home.
I vaguely remember what we ate. We always had hard crackers available. Mealtime, we were brought a choice of hot porridge or diced, boiled potatoes mixed with salted herring. I had never tasted anything like this mixture before, and it was hard to get accustomed to. But I ate what I could when I didn’t feel too nauseous. There was something else they served, but for the life of me, I can’t tell you what it was. It was a grayish liquid with lumps of something in it and had no seasoning. I thought to myself that it must be leftover dishwater with floating garbage added in chunks. That, I couldn’t eat. We were given mess tins and forks and spoons to eat with. They were gathered and cleaned after each meal.
There were a few buckets for elimination purposes placed next to the sink where we could wash our hands and faces. No one washed anything else, so you can imagine how the stench intensified day by day in those closed quarters. Each morning, one of the sailors came to pick up the buckets and replace them with empty ones. That was our life day after endless day.
After many long weeks, traveling only at night, we slipped into the bay of Fort-de-France and took two rubber boats to the island. Under the cover of darkness, we rowed ashore. Once on land, I became terribly seasick. “I’ve lost my sense of balance,” I told my French Canadian companions in between bouts of vomiting. “I feel like the ground is moving under me like on a boat,” I explained. These feelings lasted several hours before I was able to feel in control of my body again.
Martinique, a department of France, was officially under control of the collaborationist Vichy government from 1940 to 1943. We were met by the Martiniquais partisans who were anti-Vichy. They lodged us in their huts, dressed us in their colorful clothing, and gave us leather sandals to wear. They let us use their showers (probably in self-defense) and fed us well. We were treated like kings. What a contrast from life on the submarine!
The people of Martinique are a physically beautiful people, elegant and graceful. They reminded me of the people of Cameroon, with lighter complexions. They were sincere and loving—simply precious human beings. It took a while to get my appetite back again on the island, but it returned. “This is for you from the British,” I said as I handed the leader a fabric sack filled with money that Churchill had given me. “This will cover any expenses and then some,” I assured him. “Our sole purpose is to destroy all the documents being stored here. Your suggestions are welcome as we develop a strategy.”
The partisan replied, “I’ll take you tonight to have a look at the fortress where all the dossiers are being kept.” That evening, he showed us the target area from a safe distance. “As you can see, the German contingent guarding the building is minimal,” the leader pointed out. “They really expect nothing to happen here.”
We went back to the village and began talking. “I’ve formulated a plan,” he said. “Tell me what you think. Since the island’s occupation, life has been joyless and grim. We are generally a happy people. Everyone would welcome a celebration just for the sake of having a good time and forgetting about the war. We’ll have the locals put on a festival and invite everyone on the island, including the French Militia and the Gestapo. The party will last for three days around the clock. As the days pass, the enemy will let down their guard. The first day, we’ll focus on food, music, and dance. The next, we’ll offer alcohol in abundance. We’ll have our women entertain the Gestapo and Militia and help them drink to their heart’s delight. The final day, we’ll place sleeping potion in the drinks and bottles of wine. Only our partisans will know, and they will avoid or feign drinking. Once everyone is asleep, you’ll easily be able to do what you need to inside the fortress.”
My commando comrades and I discussed the strategy. One of the Canadians summed it up. “The soldiers are stuck on this island with little to do except guard the building. The party will be a welcome distraction for everyone. The three days will give them time to strengthen their trust in the locals. When they determine nothing negative is happening, they’ll begin to drop their defenses. It sounds like a great plan to me.”
We all agreed and made our plans for entering the building through the air vents on the roof. That would provide easy access. When we located the files, we would liberally place the bombs, more than enough to blow them all sky high.
The party started well and went on as scheduled, growing in intensity each day. The Martiniquais knew how to have a good tim
e and bring joy to all. By the third night, all the guards and those not involved in the mission were sound asleep.
Our group went into the fortress and planted the bombs, all on timed detonators. When the explosives went off, the entire fortress went up in flames. No one was hurt because none of the guards were close to the building. We didn’t want them to blame the civilians, so we left a note accompanied by a small English flag saying, “The British have blown up all your documents and records for the good of the world. The day will come when you will understand why we needed to do this.”
By the time the bombs went off, we had already rowed back to the submarine, but we saw the blaze in the distance. I climbed aboard with the others. Once on the bridge, you could say I became totally irrational. “I can’t go in,” I insisted, “I just can’t. There has to be another way.”
My Canadian comrades helped change my mind. I was strong, and I fought hard. Finally, they took me by the seat of my pants and pushed me down the stairs headfirst where the others were ready to pull me in. Returning to the sub was a mental and physical ordeal for me. So, too, was the cramped, smelly, and unsanitary trip back across the Atlantic, most of it spent submerged except for brief respites on the surface each night. That’s when we usually got to gulp a little clean night air and stretch our bodies out. When we reached the submarine base in northern Scotland, I almost fell to the ground and kissed it, so relieved was I to be out of that hellhole.
Back at Churchill’s estate, I entered his office. He wore his glasses halfway down his nose. He reminded me of a witch, so I had an internal laugh at his expense. I felt sure that he had been debriefed thoroughly on the Martinique mission and might well taunt me about my aversion to underwater travel.
“Ah, there you are,” he said as I came in. “I want to share with you the results of your mission. As far as we know, those were original files you destroyed, and according to our intelligence, there are no duplicates. Congratulations on a mission well done, Marc. I would have joined you on your little vacation,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “but I wouldn’t have had my cigars and cognac to enjoy, cooped up on the sub as you were. I decided it was a better choice for me to stay here in England.”
He chuckled. “Rest up for a few days, and then I’ll tell you about your next mission in France. You’ll be parachuting outside Lyon. In the meantime, enjoy the cuisine, the horses, and the abundance of air. You deserve some time off, mon petit.”
I was right. He had heard about my difficulty aboard the submarine. It was his jocularity that gave him away. This mission is forever emblazoned in my memory. I have never overcome my aversion for submarines—especially old, smelly English ones.
FIFTEEN
Riding the Rails
I am totally clear and focused on one thing: Jump. My preparations are complete. All is in perfect order. Now, assume a comfortable but braced position next to the door. I see the pilot’s hand signal. I jump into the blackness. I’m freefalling. I start counting: one, two, three . . . until I reach twelve. It seems like forever. I pull the cord. The sudden jolt shudders through my body. The parachute has opened, and I’m floating. I know I have no control, so I let myself be guided by the air currents. I can do nothing else.
Suddenly I hit the ground, hard. I focus on my right shoulder as I let my body go absolutely limp. I roll and roll, finally coming to a stop. I’m surrounded by men, the partisans of Combat. I’ve arrived safely, outside Lyon.
As the partisans helped me out of my parachute, the leader said, “All plans have changed. Churchill says it’s vital you get to Vienna as soon as you can.”
As we walked toward a vehicle, still a little taken aback by the last-minute change, I told the partisan, “I don’t have any identity papers. I can’t travel to Vienna without papers. Can you get me forgeries?”
“We don’t have the resources right now, monsieur. I don’t know how we can help you.” He seemed troubled that he couldn’t get me out of this predicament. They took me to a safe house where they fed me and put me up for the night. As I lay in bed, I concentrated on finding a solution. Eventually, I came up with a plan, perhaps a little far-fetched, but it was all I could come up with. I would go to Vienna by train.
While in France and Switzerland, it might be possible to ride in the brake room in the last car. Once in Nazi-occupied Austria, however, I would travel on the underside frame between the wheels. To accomplish this, I would have to squeeze my almost six-foot-tall, muscled body between the bottom of the boxcar and the top of the axle and crossbars. There would be barely enough space, but I really thought I could do it. My back would go along the top of the axle, and my arms and legs would fit along the crossbars. I would have to be careful to always wear gloves so that my hands would not freeze to the iron. I understood that I would be totally exposed to the cold weather conditions, but I really believed it would work. In France, I would have a lot of support because railroad employees were usually anti-Nazi. I knew they would help me along the way.
The next day, my contact in Lyon put me in touch with the stationmaster who came to meet me at the safe house. I told him my plan and added I would need the schedules of freight trains going toward Vienna.
His face clouded over, and then, after a pause, he warned, “I agree, it is possible, but beyond France and Switzerland, you’ll have no more railroad contacts to help you. And from the Swiss border you’ll have about seven hundred kilometers to reach Vienna. That will be extremely difficult as, I’m sure you realize, you’ll have to jump off the train before every bridge and before every station. You’ll be climbing up and down mountains, crossing streams or rivers, and finding your way around towns infested with Germans. Then, you’ll have to find a place where the train is going slow enough to get on again. It’s very risky. I’m sure you’ll have enormous challenges, but you certainly look fit enough to get the job done. I’ll bring you the schedules, and I wish you good luck.”
One stop before the main station in Lyon, I got on a freight train and climbed up to the brake room tower at the rear. It was in the open air, and I got filthy, but at least I did not have to squeeze myself underneath the train yet. The brakeman only came to the caboose when the terrain was descending. While he was there, I stayed out of his way so he could do his work. Since we were traveling in the Free Zone, I didn’t have to get off at all in France.
Just before crossing into Switzerland, I jumped off. Across the rugged terrain, I found my way to Chancy where I had an excellent contact at the hotel/brasserie. The Swiss helped us a lot; they also helped the Germans a lot. This particular couple, the owners of a small hotel, could be trusted. Mr. Churchill paid them well.
It was after dark when I arrived at the brasserie. I entered through the storage room where deliveries were received. Madame was in the kitchen. She greeted me and went to get her husband. They knew me well because I had passed this way many times before on the way to Lausanne, where I often hid in an excellent hotel school. I could sleep there any time, have my meals, and even take hotel courses if I wanted. I took many fine courses there, which greatly helped my career opportunities after the war.
The owners brought me up to a guest room. The wife stayed to help clean me up with cleanser. The grime was black and extremely thick, especially on my face, neck, ears, and scalp. After her scrubbing, my forehead felt like it was on fire, but at least I was white again. Mercifully, I was able to shower after she finished. They laid out clothes for me on the bed while I was washing up. It felt wonderful to be totally clean and to put on fresh clothes. The husband brought me dinner in my room.
“Monsieur, I need to stay one night only,” I told him. “In the morning, I need you to take me to Geneva and introduce me to the train stationmaster, if that’s possible.”
“Of course, I can do that,” he said. “Until tomorrow morning. Good night.”
That night, I slept like a baby. I felt safe at their hotel. I got up early to wash and dress. The wife brought me a baguette, butter, an
d café au lait to the room. Then, her husband came to get me, and we left right away.
At the train station, we met with the chef de gare. I told him my plan. “I’ll arrange for you to pose as a government employee working in the Swiss postal car that is attached to the train bleu,” he proposed. “I’ll have a complete postal uniform brought to my office right away. What are your sizes?” I gave him larger sizes so that I could put the uniform on over my own clothes. When it arrived, I slipped into it at the back of his office. Then, he handed me a small bag of food for the short trip across Switzerland.
“Thank you, monsieur. That is very kind of you,” I said as I took the package.
It proved to be a delightful, problem-free trip. I got off the Swiss train just before the Austrian border and hid the uniform under some rocks. I successfully avoided the border guards by climbing the mountainous terrain far away from the official border crossing. Then I had to find the rail tracks again and a station. In Austria, the real challenges of the journey would begin.
That night I waited close to the tracks just beyond the station. “Here’s the train approaching. It’s moving slowly enough to get on now,” I said to myself. “I’ll lie down on my stomach next to the track and let a few cars pass before making my move. I don’t want to place myself too close to the front nor too close to the back because that’s where the cars are more likely to be checked by the Nazis. The timing has to be right so I can roll over on my back onto the tracks after the wheels go by.” I got ready to make my move. Before leaving France, I had bought high-quality gloves so that my hands wouldn’t freeze to the rods.
At the propitious moment, I rolled onto the track. “Now, Marc, count the cars as they run over you. Study their understructures as they pass: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—now!” I told myself. I grabbed onto the rods with my hands, arms, legs, and feet and pulled myself up and then, while the train was still moving slowly, I wedged myself in between the bottom of the boxcar and the rods of the frame. It was harder than I imagined it would be. “Thank you, dear Jesuits, for the great shape I’m in,” I said as I squeezed myself between frame and car. Because of my intense physical training with them for seven years, my muscled upper arms were the size of most men’s thighs, and my thighs were enormous. I was exceptionally strong.