Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  In readied position at the door as we approached the target area, an unexpected fear came over me.

  “I just can’t jump,” I said. “I just can’t do it this time.” The fear totally enveloped me. I didn’t know where it came from, but I felt paralyzed faced with what I had to do. The green light was staring at me. “You must jump, Marc,” I urged myself silently. “You must.” What came out of my mouth was, “I just can’t.”

  “You have to jump—and right now!” the navigator said as he approached me. I was standing at the door, holding on to the side of the plane, frozen, looking into the blackness. Then I felt the push, and I was freefalling. The fear vanished, and instinct took over. I pulled the cord at the right moment and landed as planned near Le Vernet in the Basses-Alpes, not far from the Col d’Allos.

  The sky was totally black that summer evening in 1944. The gendarmes and members of Combat came to pick me up in the field where I landed.

  I knew the area well. Two years in a row, when I was five and six years old, my colonel and I stayed in the small village of Allos during the summer so that we could go hiking in the mountains. We stayed at the Auberge d’Allos, but we’d leave for a few days at a time to go camping. I knew this time I wouldn’t be going camping.

  “Our commander was arrested last night by the French Militia,” one of the members of Combat told me as he helped me hide my parachute.

  “That’s not good news,” I replied.

  “Yes, but it’s all right. We have a replacement, and we’ll take you to him.”

  I was to contact Combat, the organization that included all partisan groups with the exception of the Communist PPF. When the Communist partisans first joined together, the PPF had no equipment, no direction, and little consideration for the welfare of their fellow French citizens. As time passed, however, the group began to achieve significant victories for the Free French. Unfortunately, the French people often suffered repercussions from its ill-thought-out offensives.

  I met with the members in an outbuilding behind a house. Though the new leader was a dedicated man, I felt that he was too old to accomplish what was necessary.

  I pulled aside the officer who had met me at the field. “We need a seasoned organization with an established leadership for the task ahead, monsieur. Can you direct me to another group of partisans?”

  “I’ll put you in contact with the leader of Combat in Tulle, department of Corrèze. You’ll like him.”

  I met the man in Tulle two days later. Indeed, he seemed organized and capable. It was evident that he commanded a lot of respect from the other members.

  “I need you to call a general meeting,” I told him. “Gather together as many area leaders as you can.”

  Several days later members of Combat gathered together at Tulle from Puy-de-Dôme, Haute-Vienne, Lot, Béziers, and Montpellier along with the mayor of Sisteron, Haute-Provence. On the way to the meeting, I stopped at the city’s small grocery store. The owners, whose daughter was an active partisan, gave me a couple of big, beautiful round loaves of country bread to bring to the meeting.

  I addressed the group, “We must plan for the arrival of arms, munitions, food, radios, and other supplies by parachute to prepare for the landing in the south of France. We need to sabotage all the hydroelectric equipment supplying all the main cities, such as Brive-la-Gaillarde, Tulle, and the hydroelectric plants in the region of Dordogne. When you’re contacted, you’ll need to gather everyone you can at Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne to pick up the supplies.”

  To distinguish themselves from the noninvolved French citizen, the members of Combat wore armbands imprinted with the cross of Lorraine and sometimes uniforms in accordance with the Hague Conventions. In case of imprisonment, the Germans would be able to identify and respect the prisoners as military fighters according to the rules of the Geneva Conventions. In theory, this identification protected the noninvolved French citizen from retribution.

  The next day, I left for La Turbie, over eight hundred kilometers from Tulle, escorted by the gendarmes. The trip took a day and a half. Mr. Churchill had given me a large sum of money to give to Commander Guillaume, the officer in charge of all the Basses-Alpes, for distribution among all the partisans of Combat in his area.

  A couple of days after our initial meeting, two young German soldiers, in a blockhouse below La Turbie on the Grande Corniche, began talking to a couple of partisans walking by. The two soldiers were from Alsace, in France, and had been forced to join the German army. They were anti-Nazi and were complaining about their dilemma.

  The partisans suggested that they desert and join them in the fight against the Nazis. The two soldiers agreed and accompanied the partisans to the terrace of the café where I was having a drink with Commander Guillaume and a partisan named Captain Charley.

  “What is going on here?” Commander Guillaume whispered as the men approached. I immediately got up and stood a distance away.

  “May we sit down?” one of the partisans asked as they arrived.

  “Yes, of course, pull up some chairs,” Guillaume replied. “And what can I do for you?”

  I could see that Charley was unsure of the situation, understandable with two armed soldiers in German uniforms coming to join them at their table.

  “These soldiers are really French from Alsace. They were forced to join the German army and would like nothing better than to desert and join the war effort against the Nazis,” one of the partisans explained.

  “Hmm, that could be possible,” Guillaume said, “but let’s talk for a while.” The four sat down at the table. The two soldiers had the butt ends of their rifles on the floor while the barrels rested against their thighs. I could see that Charley held a 9-millimeter Beretta in his lap, and his finger was on the trigger.

  All of a sudden, the younger of the two soldiers, still seated, lunged forward to catch his rifle because it had slipped off his thigh. Charley, being on edge, thought the man was trying to shoot the commander and tensed up. The revolver in his lap went off and Guillaume, seated directly in front of him, was shot. Charley, shocked, threw himself on his knees in front of Guillaume.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Commander! The gun just went off. I didn’t mean to ...”

  Guillaume stopped him, saying, “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. I’m sure it’s only a flesh wound.”

  I hurried to the cashier inside the café and asked if there was a doctor in the area.

  “The closest one is in Beausoleil,” she answered. “What happened?”

  I ran back to the table without answering. Guillaume was slumped in his chair. I saw a tiny whole in his shirt and tore it open. The bullet had gone into his stomach.

  Charley told the partisans, “Carry the commander to his home. It’s only about three hundred meters from here.”

  They lifted him up, and the bleeding increased. One of them said, “The wound doesn’t look too serious. We’ll get the bullet out and bandage him up at his house.”

  I left, thinking all would be fine. After the liberation, I learned that Guillaume had died from that wound.

  Soon after this incident, I was traveling in the south and central parts of France, still spreading the rumor among the partisans about the Allied invasion in the south. The more people who believed this was true, the better.

  The partisans were blowing up bridges and railroad tracks, and generally doing anything they could to harass the Germans. One small group would fire on the Nazis and then disappear. Then another group a few kilometers away would launch a sneak attack and run. Their goal was to create confusion, and they were quite successful.

  I went to Aspremont to talk with the members of Combat. “Come rejoice with us, monsieur, and stay the night,” one of the partisans said as I entered the city. “The south of France is free after almost two years of German occupation,” he proclaimed with joy. “Paris and the north have been dominated by those despicable Boches for four years now. Let’s toast to the freedom we have regained
in the south and for the freedom we will soon regain in the rest of France!” Everyone was celebrating, opening up their houses to everyone else. All the Germans had been chased out or taken prisoner.

  “I happily accept your generous invitation,” I replied to the man as he handed me a glass of wine. We talked for hours of continued victory and of reclaiming France for the French. Most of us who shared that wonderful meal in that breathtaking moment had never seen each other before.

  One of the partisans at the table shared one of his encounters: “We attacked the German troops from all sides. The Germans were forced to retreat toward the Italian border. We deprived them of their shipments of food, clothing, gasoline, and arms. Some of the German officers and their troops fled by way of Mont Saint-Bernard and the Petit-Saint-Bernard, the passes leading to Italy. Some stopped on the way to protect themselves in old fortifications in the Haute-Savoie, where, I suspect, many are still hiding.”

  With all of the south free, I decided to go visit the farrier near Drap, next to the the Paillon Bridge. I had visited him when I was clandestinely inspecting the youth camps early in the war. The following afternoon when I arrived, he was shoeing a horse. It was wonderful to see he was still there and that some things had not changed. All of France would soon be la belle France again.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” I said, and he looked up from his work. At first, he didn’t recognize me. “Remember me? You shod my oxen a few years ago.”

  He put the horse’s leg down and screamed with joy. “Come, come to the restaurant. This is a blessed occasion. You’ve survived the war. Let me offer you a drink. Have dinner with me.”

  He took me to the same bar/restaurant next door, and we talked and drank till the wee hours. I stayed overnight at his house, and we had breakfast together in the morning. Then we both took the tramway to Nice to see how the beautiful city was faring. And who do we see on the tramway? The animal trader who had bought my pair of oxen! Elation was in the air. Everyone was feeling that the liberation of all of France was near.

  When we arrived in Nice, we each went our own way. I went to meet with the regional commander of Combat. He was a real estate agent and had his offices just off the place Masséna. I stayed at his home a couple of nights. I asked him how things were going.

  “It’s a triumph in itself to have the Germans on the run, but we have a serious problem. Many of them are escaping into Italy by crossing a bridge over the Var River. The Americans have tried to blow up the bridge several times, without success, because for some reason they have been instructed to fly their planes at such a high altitude, it is impossible for them to hit their targets. Will you ask the English to help us? The destruction of the bridge is crucial.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about it tomorrow, Commander,” I replied.

  The next morning, I went to see one of my contacts, a British agent who lived at the Hotel Ruhl. I told him about the bridge. “We’ll take care of it,” he said. “By tomorrow, there will be no bridge.” He was true to his word.

  Without the bridge as a means of escape, the Germans were stranded in the Var region. Some tried to swim or walk across the river in areas that were not too deep. They were taken prisoner if they gave themselves up. If they tried to escape, they were shot. There were those who did escape by going up through the mountain passes; however, all the trucks, tanks, armaments, and supplies they could not carry on their backs had to be abandoned.

  With the Germans on the run, Nice was liberated. “Combat is organizing a parade to celebrate the liberation of Nice,” the commander told me. “Would you do the honor of carrying the French flag leading the parade flanked by two of my sergeants?”

  “Why, of course, I will. Thank you for the privilege,” I responded, astonished that he asked me. Why me? I wasn’t even a member of Combat. I suspected the invitation was the result of my part in getting the bridge blown up.

  The following day, the partisans gave me clothes to put on like the rest of the members of Combat. The parade began at the train station, where I was given a white belt to wear to support the flag. I had a sergeant on each side of me, and we were followed by all the Combat troops and the Communist partisans. There must have been between six hundred and eight hundred participants in the parade, which came to its end at the promenade des Anglais. The place Masséna and the whole route of the parade had been crowded with joyous citizens, thrilled to have their homeland back. All members of Combat wore their blue, white, and red armbands. Trumpets and drums added their raucous contribution to the exciting festivities. People’s smiling faces filled the crowd. The whole day was the embodiment of joy and the appreciation of freedom. It was a day I’ll never forget. Our determination to never give up until France was French again was finally being rewarded.

  “Marc, Marc Crovetto!” I heard my name being shouted after the parade had ended. It was Alain Le Favre.

  “What a wonderful surprise, Alain! How are you and Suzanne?” His younger sister was still as timid as she had always been.

  “We’re on the reception committee. We have a local house where you can stay, eat, rest, and get cleaned up.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll just pick up my gear. Wait here for me.”

  Getting through the crowd was difficult, but I picked up my duffel bag and found them again.

  “We’ll take you to the house of some wonderful people we’ve met.” The couple couldn’t do enough for me. I was lodged, included in all family meals, and made to feel like a real member of the family. It was a special moment in history when everyone felt a close kinship, one to another.

  In Nice, I found a few other members of my original Alpine troop, the Third Division. After days of celebrating, I contacted army headquarters in Nice. They directed me to Saint-Martin-Vesubie, where I would join with others in setting up local headquarters for the Alpine Ski Troop Division and would begin to re-form my own company. It proved difficult, as always, to find men with the ability to be good soldiers who were already good skiers. And, of course, so many of my compatriots had died.

  After a month’s searching, I had found only sixteen men and one sergeant capable of filling the positions. There was no lack of enthusiasm and willingness to do what was needed, but most men lacked the skills and experience. We sent most of them on to the infantry.

  “We’ll have to try another area to recruit because there aren’t enough men here who know how to ski,” I told my sergeant. “We’ll move to Grenoble to form our company. We’ll take several trucks with us and recruit along the way. We need an additional one hundred sixty skiers. I’m sure we’ll have better luck in the areas of Grenoble, Megève, and Chamonix. Once we find at least two hundred, we’ll begin the process of elimination and training.”

  At Grenoble, we picked up the equipment for my company: uniforms, boots, skis, sealskin—everything I thought that we would need. Though it had taken some time, we were able to find the men we needed. I chose Chamonix to be our first center of training because of the excellent snow. It was very deep with an icy crust on the top. We would make camp near each particular skiing area so our new recruits could train on different kinds of snow. We eventually arrived at the foot of the mountains of Chamonix.

  “Sergeant, give the order to attach the sealskin to their skis. Explain that they’ll ascend the steepest slope, four at a time, and that the skins will provide the traction necessary for the climb. Then tell them you’ll demonstrate what I’ll be judging as they ski down the slope. First, do a pattern of six half circles of thirty meters each, alternating right and left, followed by a slowdown of one hundred meters, then coming to a complete stop. I’ll keep sending others up, four at a time. Tell them that everyone should imitate what you do. After they execute it well, I’ll give you another exercise.”

  I had them repeat the same exercises from morning till nightfall day after day. Then we moved on to Megève. There we utilized the cable that pulled us up between the other mountains to the highest summit. We all assembled at the top
for the long descent.

  “I’ll take the lead and you’ll all follow, single file, until we reach the bottom,” I explained. “The descent will take between thirty and forty-five minutes. The slope is steep, and we’ll be going for speed. As soon as you reach the bottom, take the cable up again.”

  We stayed at Megève several weeks until I felt they were ready to move on to the greatest challenge: Peira-Cava. Peira-Cava was icy and rocky, the ultimate test and judge of excellence. Here, the skier had to be vigilant, agile, and flexible because there wasn’t a lot of snow. Each man followed the man in front of him, maintaining a distance of thirty meters. We climbed to the highest point. I knew these mountains intimately from childhood. The drop was steep, and the slope was very rocky toward the bottom. One had to be an excellent skier to avoid the rocks. Suddenly, at the bottom, there would be no more snow, so each man had to remove his skis and climb to another mountain to find some snow. Then he would have to put on his skis again and begin another descent on a new slope. This would continue until we all finally reached the bottom. Then immediately, we would begin our climb again to the top. Small injuries were plentiful because of the rocky terrain, but it was an excellent learning ground. We continued our training there for many weeks. Those who survived it well were able to continue with the rest of the course.

  After I found enough competent candidates, we continued the course for the new group of Chasseurs Alpins at Saint-Martin-Vesubie. From the 175 men I needed to fill the ranks, I would select the top 35, the best of the best, for my elite group of shock troopers.