Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  “You know, Yalena? I’m not feeling cold anymore, though the weather is still chilly. I think it’s a good sign. Normally, I’m not cold at all. In fact, I even wear shorts in the snow.”

  “That is good news,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “Now you need to eat more.” During my recuperation, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Yalena gave me an easily digestible diet of soups, mashed potatoes mixed with minced chicken, Ovaltine, herb tea, and lemonade. She fed me with a spoon, and I used a glass straw for the liquids. She read me the newspaper every day. She was dedicated to giving me exceptional care. As I became stronger, different men from the group would lift me out of the crawl space and walk me around the house. I was impressed with their strength. I was dead weight.

  About three weeks after my arrival, the doctor came in one afternoon and told me, “I am going to wrap your head, eyes, and hands in bandages so no one can identify you as you travel. Then I’ll have a photo taken. Two men from the Swiss Embassy will come very late tonight to take you with them.”

  That evening, Yalena was exceptionally tender. She fed me my dinner and stayed to talk a long time. I was asleep when I heard the trap door open. “Bonsoir, monsieur. We are going to put a cape around you first and then help you out of the crawl space.” The two Swiss guys must have been built well to get me out of there. Usually the task required three men. When we were out of the crawl space and starting for the car, they said, “We’ll cross our arms and make a ‘chair’ for you to sit on. Now sit down. That’s it.” They brought me out to the car and helped me onto the front seat. “Au revoir, Michel,” Yalena said as she kissed me affectionately on the cheek.

  “I don’t have the words to thank you, Yalena,” I said, feeling so moved by all that this dear woman had done for me.

  As we drove off, the driver began talking. “We’re in a diplomatic car, and we have all the appropriate papers. We don’t want you to worry about anything; however, should something unexpected happen, don’t say a word. We’re taking you to the Swiss Embassy in Paris.”

  The entrance to the embassy was on the ground floor, so I was able to walk inside on my own. That felt good. Two staff members took me to get cleaned up. They removed my bandages, gave me a shower, and put a hospital-type gown on me. They brought me to a bed on which I sat down. The same doctor who had visited me at Yalena’s came to see me at the embassy. “Do you want to eat something before I give you your injections?” he asked.

  “Only a glass of milk, thank you,” I said. Someone brought it to me and held it as I drank. The doctor gave me medication for pain and for sleep. My eyes still burned terribly. The medication relieved the burning a little, and I fell asleep.

  The next morning, the doctor was there when I awoke. He washed my eyes and put drops in them. “I can vaguely see shadows passing over there,” I told him.

  “That’s a wonderful sign,” he said. “You’re pointing toward the window.”

  Someone came into the room and announced that the tailor had arrived to fit me for my railroad employee uniform. I got up from the bed and leaned against a piece of furniture, lifting first one leg, then the other. The tailor marked the pants for altering. He was going to put the shirt on next but I stopped him. “Let’s skip the shirt for now.” Surely recognizing the amount of pain I was in, he said, “As for the shirt and jacket, I can see that the sleeves are too short and that I will have to make the sleeves and cuffs wider to accommodate the inflammation of your hands and arms. I’ll take your measurements now, and we’ll have an initial fitting after I make some adjustments. You don’t need to try anything else on right now.”

  A man helped me go to the bathroom. I needed to have someone lift up my hospital gown so I could sit. Then he would have to come back to wipe me off. Someone brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and of course trimmed my beard. Others fed me. The tailor returned in the afternoon, having adjusted the sleeves. They were wide enough now, and he stitched them by hand as he sat across from me chatting. He was very gentle when he tried the shirt on me.

  “Thank you for your kindness, monsieur,” I said.

  With satisfaction, he responded, “I’m quite pleased with the fit.”

  An officer from the Swiss Embassy came to my room to tell me of a change in plans. “There are an increased number of trains descending toward the south of France due to the belief that the Allies are going to land at any time.”

  I was thrilled. I loved knowing that the lie I confessed was spreading quickly about the false landing. This would relieve the Russian front of some of the German troops and also draw military tanks and artillery away from the Pas de Calais and Normandy.

  The embassy officer continued, “The trains, especially at night, are filled with German military troops. During the day, they are mostly occupied by civilian travelers and merchandise shipments. For this reason, you’ll travel by day.”

  He went on, “They must have taken a photo of you during the time you were prisoner. You’re worth a fortune, monsieur. You look like a pirate on the posters. We’re going to alter that look completely. We decided that it was too suspicious to bandage your head. Instead, we’ll remove your mustache, your beard, your eyebrows, and your eyelashes, and we’ll leave your hair about a half centimeter long. To change your physiognomy, we’ll stuff your cheeks on the inside with a gummy substance that will give you puffy cheeks.

  “We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning, and we’ll only bandage your hands,” he added. “In fact, we want them to see your face because it will be obvious that you are not Michel Carbonell. We will adjust your identity card tonight with a new photo that will be ready before we leave in the morning.” That evening, the barber and others came to my room to create the new look of the railroad man.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Monastery

  Early the following morning, I was fed breakfast, washed, and dressed in my new uniform. My eyes were tearing badly and had to be wiped often. The doctor came to wrap my hands and provided me with a wheelchair. I was lifted into the ambulance, wheelchair and all. Four men accompanied me as well as a driver. It was a short trip to the train station. I was lifted out of the ambulance, still in the wheelchair, and placed on the ground. A voice said, “We are from the Red Cross. We’ll take over from here. There is a compartment reserved for him.”

  By the noise level, I could tell the Gare de Lyon was crammed with people. Another voice commented, “We always take good care of our railroad employees. We have a comfortable traveling space for him in the car reserved for the Swiss Post. He won’t even have to get out of his wheelchair.” Then my wheelchair began moving. I was lifted into the Swiss postal car. By the number of voices speaking, I could tell there were several people in the car. Then I heard the door shut.

  From behind me, a familiar voice spoke. “I am here with you because of Combat’s participation. Do you recognize my voice?” I said nothing. “Two days ago the partisans derailed a German military train on the way to the south of France. There is a rumor that there were a million German parachute jumpers prepared to invade Switzerland. Now, owing to the widespread knowledge of the imminent Allied invasion in the south of France, these men have been diverted away from Switzerland to concentrate on protecting German-occupied France.”

  It was David with the news. Evidently, the plans had been altered again. Focused on my suffering, I responded, “I recognize your voice, David. Will you give me something for my eyes and hands?”

  “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I have everything you need. It looks like an entire pharmacy is here. If we give you shots, you can yell as loudly as you want because we’re in the last railcar.” He joked around, trying to lift my morale, I suppose. He didn’t realize that my morale was just fine. It was the incessant pain that was driving me mad. David put compresses on my eyes, gave me pills, and then gave me injections in both hands.

  The wheelchair was moving around a lot. David said, “I’m going to move you to the side of the car and tie the c
hair to it so that you won’t be jostled around quite so much.” It was difficult to have a conversation with him because the panels of the car were not insulated and they made a racket. Soon the injections took effect, and I fell asleep.

  The train stopped abruptly, and I awoke airborne. I flew from my chair and smashed into a dog cage. Oh, the pain! The dog started barking. Several men came right away to help me up. The top of my head was torn open by the corner of the cage. Now they would need to bandage my head. I was helped back into the wheelchair, and then someone cleaned the fresh wound. This time they tied me into the chair.

  “I’m going to see what’s going on,” David said as he jumped out of the car. He came back right away. “Everything is all right. Looks like our partisans have been overzealous.” He chuckled. “They’ve tampered with the tracks. They will be repaired shortly, and then we’ll be on our way again.”

  It took over an hour to fix the rails. As soon as the workmen finished, the train slowly began to move, and I fell asleep. I awoke to David making an announcement: “We are approaching the silk capital of France, the city of Lyon.” He was speaking as if he were a tour guide. He was a jovial guy with a lot of heart.

  The train began to slow down and finally ground to a stop. There were passengers who got off and passengers who began their journey here in Lyon, headed for Grenoble or for Switzerland. “German troops are surrounding the train,” David warned. A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention! Attention! Everyone have your papers out and ready to present,” the voice blared in French with a heavy German accent.

  “Hmm. I don’t like that,” David muttered. The door of the car opened.

  “Let me see your papers,” a young German officer demanded brusquely.

  Another voice responded, “I represent the Swiss Postal Service, and I’m in charge of this car. Here are the documents.” After inspecting the papers, the officer said, “Now I will enter the car.”

  “This car is the national property of Switzerland. You do not have permission to enter,” the Swiss government employee responded.

  The German curtly replied, “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot do. We are in charge in France, not you.”

  The Swiss official was not daunted. “I demand to speak with the officer in charge.” The young man acquiesced and shouted instructions to go get the German commander. He waited outside at the door of the railcar without saying another word.

  David whispered to the Swiss employee, “Don’t leave the car for any reason without me. I’m going to make a phone call.”

  About thirty minutes later, David returned with the German officer in charge of the Lyon Railroad Station. He was in mid conversation with him explaining the situation as they approached the Swiss postal car. The German SS officer acknowledged his arrival with a “Heil, Hitler” and then began to explain. “Sir, I have requested entry to verify the interior of the railcar because I heard other voices inside.”

  The commander responded, “What is inside this car is the property and the concern of the Swiss government. Even if a Russian spy or, for that matter, Stalin himself were inside, there is nothing you could do about it.”

  David got into the car. “I’ve talked with the officer in charge of the station, and he has refused entry to the SS officer. This man is an honorable German career military man.” Outside, we could hear the young Nazi blowing off steam.

  “You’ll see who really is in charge here. In a few days, we’ll occupy Switzerland and all of Europe. We will reign supreme!” he shouted.

  We heard the career officer’s response to the youngster. “Perhaps, you’ll reign supreme in your dreams. That is why I, a Prussian, am in charge here and you, you have only six men who report to you. Now enough of this ridiculous behavior. We will allow the train to depart immediately. It is already an hour behind schedule, thanks to you.”

  The insolent young man shouted, “I’m going to make a report about this and send it to my superiors.” David told me that he angrily turned on his heel and strutted off. Then the train flagman waved the red flag, signaling for the train to depart.

  When we were well en route, David explained to us what he had learned from his phone call. “Resistance sabotage is becoming more and more effective. The Germans are very nervous. They rarely dare to travel on the highways now. On the call, I learned that the area from Lyon to Grenoble is now all pro-Gaullist. Civilians, farmers, and city folk alike are defying the law and are openly carrying rifles and other weapons. All Germans and known French Militia who dare go outside the cities are openly fired upon when they are spotted.”

  David had to practically scream to be heard, the train made so much clatter. “I want to explain something else to you all. As soon as we begin our approach to Grenoble, I gave the order to the conductor to have the locomotive slow down at a certain place where these tracks cross some others. At this point, the tracks that the train crosses descend to the right. When we reach this intersection, I’ll get out of our railcar and release our car from the rest of the train. We will follow the descent of the rails. It will take a few hours. Then we’ll enter a tunnel that is blocked on the far side. It is the entrance to a former lime mine. Michel, I’m so happy the plans have been changed. We’re not taking you to Switzerland after all. Crossing the border is too great a risk at this time.”

  There was much discussion after the announcement, but I could hardly discern a word. Hours passed. The train began slowing down. Just before the train came to a complete stop, David jumped out. He disconnected the car and jumped back inside. The car began rolling downward on its own with the force of gravity determining its speed. He reassured everyone.

  “Everything in this area is under the control of Combat , so we expect to encounter no problems whatsoever. The whole region is on the alert. More arms and munitions are expected to arrive by parachute this evening.”

  It took a long time for the car to coast to its destination. Then, without warning, David jumped out to put the brake on. Everyone started talking at once. The car came to a complete halt inside the tunnel.

  “No one leave the car until someone comes to talk to us,” he said. “On the other side of this tunnel is the lime mine. The partisans will be coming up from that side to meet us.”

  About twenty minutes later, three cars arrived escorted by two trucks filled with members of Combat. David went out to talk to them. He came back to the railcar and said to me, “Monks from the monastery will come pick you up in two or three hours. You will be staying with them. We are well protected here while we wait.” They untied the wheelchair and lifted me down to the ground. David told me that it was already dark outside.

  Suddenly, I was famished. I mentioned it to David, and he said he would take care of it. A half hour later, a car arrived with food, including milk, cheese, bread, and wine. David fed me as soon as the food arrived. My appetite was surprisingly robust. David was talking to another Combat member while he was feeding me. The other man said, “We blew up the electricity supply to the south of France. Practically all of southern France is in the dark right now.”

  A while after I finished dinner, I heard a vehicle arriving. David described the large yellow van that was approaching, a Berliet with LA GRANDE CHARTREUSE written on the side. Three monks got out. One of them was carrying packages in his arms. One of the Combat officers pointed them toward David and me. They introduced themselves, and one of the monks began talking to David.

  “We’ll have to put the cassock over his clothing. That will be the easiest for him,” the monk determined. David helped me stand up. The burning in the testicles made it hard to move after being squished into that chair for so long. Someone put the robe on me and helped me to sit again. Then someone took off my shoes and socks and put leather sandals on my feet. “He already has the haircut we need. We only have to shave a circle on his crown,” one of the monks said.

  Someone wet my head and shaved the appropriate circle. “You are now Father Francis. You do
n’t need an identity card or any other papers. We’ll give you more details during our trip back to the monastery, so say your farewells now.” I called out for David. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Thank you for all your care and help and for being my eyes,” I said, “and good luck on your trip to the south.”

  His voice was filled with warmth as he replied, “And good luck to you, Father Francis.” David and someone else helped me into the back of the car. Another adventure was about to begin.

  The winding road was filled with potholes. It was an uncomfortable journey. I felt every bump and hole. The night was frigid, but the heater was on in the car.

  “The trip will take us about five hours or so,” one of the monks told me. “They gave us your medication, and we are well supplied at the monastery. It’s our responsibility to get you back to good health again. When we get home, your rehabilitation will begin. You’ll be safe with us. We have never had any problems with the Germans or the French Militia. We’ll take good care of you,” he assured me.

  When we arrived, they helped me out of the car. It smelled moldy on the way to the building and inside as well. The monastery was probably built of stone, and the humidity caused the mold. I was shown to my cell. Someone helped me change into a nightgown. Before I went to bed, someone gave me a shot for the pain.

  “There isn’t much in the room, so it shouldn’t be complicated for you,” he said. “It is a monk’s cell, after all. There’s a small window to the left as you lie in the bed.” I felt the narrow bed and kapok mattress. “A cross is on the wall above the head of the bed, and there’s a nightstand on the right with a bedpan underneath,” he described. “Good night, brother,” he said to me, and I heard the door close. The trip and the pain had worn me out. I went to sleep as soon as he left.