Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  After they became proficient in skiing, we taught the new troops maneuvers, the climbing and military tactics that would be necessary for our success. The course was intensive. When my men were fully trained, I would plan the offensive on the fortifications occupied by the Germans and Italians on the French-Italian border. Of these the most formidable was the nearly unassailable mountain fortress at l’Authion. Trying to devise a strategy by which we could attack it was causing my superiors many a sleepless night. The fortress seemed impregnable. The attack on l’Authion would play a large role in my destiny, but I had no way of knowing it just then.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Attack on l’Authion

  My commander called me to his office. “Lieutenant, as you know, the fortress at l’Authion has all its artillery pointed toward France, although the actual front of the underground stronghold faces Italy because it was built long ago by the French to protect themselves from Italian invasion. When the Germans took possession, they dug trenches at the foot of the fortress on the back side where they set up their defenses facing France. Their soldiers are heavily armed with mortars and machine guns.

  “This is one of the last bastions of German resistance along with other fortresses at the French-Italian border. We have not yet been able to work out an effective plan to get them out. Up till now, l’Authion has been virtually impenetrable,” he told me. “Lieutenant, I want you to formulate a plan of attack that will successfully oust the Germans and Italians holed up inside. Officers from the First Division will present their ideas on the subject as well.”

  It was early 1945. The Germans had been entrenched in the fort since 1943. Normally, the strategy for attack on German-occupied fortifications was to approach on foot at night as close as possible to the blockhouse and to shoot flames inside with flamethrowers. In this situation, there was no way to approach without being seen and gunned down.

  I met several times with the high command of the Chasseurs Alpins. Everyone studied the terrain on the map and threw out their opinions and ideas. The plan of a massive offensive was put on the table, but the Germans were so well protected because of the way the fortress was situated that it would have been suicidal to approach in this way.

  A plan had come to me. At one of our meetings I explained to the other officers, “The attack I’ve devised will be an effective offensive owing to the element of surprise. It requires getting my ski troop to the top of the formidable mountain above the fortification. The Germans will never expect an attack from there because the ascent is deemed impossible. I’ve been training my company in rock and mountain climbing for months now on a similar terrain, though not as treacherous, and I know they can do it.”

  I paused to let the audacity of my plan sink in, then continued, “Using ‘wings’ made of white silk, my shock troopers will fly on skis from the mountaintop over the German trenches to the foot of the fortress. Once we land, we will attack the dug-in German soldiers from behind their trenches while the rest of my company, one hundred forty men, will engage them in a frontal assault after they ski the few minutes it will take to reach the bottom of the slope; however, before we take off, the legionnaires on my right will show themselves and draw the German fire. They’ll advance as they are able. Then, opposite them, to my left, the Senegalese sharpshooters and machine gunners will begin shooting from their position, effectively trapping the enemy in cross fire. The remainder of the Senegalese company will advance, rifles in hand, toward the trenches. With my troops in front and behind them, the Germans will be surrounded.

  “If all goes as planned, we will kill or take prisoner all soldiers in the trenches. We will then wait for nightfall, at which time we’ll use our flamethrowers and grenades to attack the blockhouse. We have the building plans of the fortress in our possession, so we’ll be able to place tear gas inside the ventilation systems and force the enemy inside to surrender.”

  After a lengthy discussion, my plan was adopted.

  One day I pulled my sergeant aside to let him know I’d be gone for a few days. “Sergeant, our company is making good progress in their climbing and skiing skills. Continue the same exercises while I’m gone. I know our offensive will be successful. I am leaving you in charge while I find someone to make thirty-five silk ‘bat wings’ for my fliers. The wings need to be sturdy but lightweight because we’ll have to carry them on the climb as well as our machine guns and ammunition. You and the other men will be armed with paratrooper machine guns. You’ll ski down the mountain at the same time we jump.”

  I had picked up the wing idea from a ski school in Grenoble in 1940 just after joining the Alpine Ski Troop. The instructors connected the silk with a cable from the tips of the skis to the tips of the wings at the end of each man’s outstretched arms. Bamboo stays strengthened the wings that were attached to the arms with three straps. This contraption allowed the skier to fly up to a hundred meters farther than he could without them. I would have my men practice with the equipment in the mountains above Chamonix, where they could ski down the slope to a ridge from which they would jump over a small valley.

  When I returned, I orchestrated the attack and I coordinated the timeline with the foreign legion and the Senegalese. Thirty-five of the finest marksmen from Senegal, along with the rest of their company, camped next to us. Most of them were tall, over six feet in height. Their ebony-colored skin was smooth and sleek. They watched us practice and called us les chauves souris, the bats, because of the wings that we used to gain distance when we made our jumps on skis.

  “Ask the Senegalese corporal to come see me, Sergeant.”

  The corporal and two of his soldiers reported to me. “Guard our camp and let no one pass while we’re away,” I ordered. Late in the afternoon, when we approached the camp, my sergeant fell into a fit of laughter. “What’s going on?” I asked. Hardly able to contain himself, he pointed to the entrance of the camp. There, at the gate, was a colonel detained by the guardsmen who refused him entry. The Senegalese followed orders to the letter.

  Being on skis again brought back memories of childhood. My tutor happened to be friends with the commander of the Italian Alpine Ski Troop in Limone. Each winter from 1926 to 1929, we often skied together from the Maddalena Pass in Italy, often crossing the border into France, where we would spend the night at Saint-Martin-Vesubie. My favorite place to camp was Lake Terrasole above Limone. It was a cirque, a perfect ring made of granite. The water was warm in the midst of the snow and ice, and steam rose from it. On the border of the lake on the opposite side from our camp, edelweiss grew wild. In the spring, the Italians would swim over to pick them and put them in their hats. This flower was the emblem of the Italian Alpine Ski Troop. The experience was enchanting and is one I’ll never forget. After camping for a night, the following day we would continue toward the Col de Tende, passing by Roquebillière and Sospel before arriving in Limone. It’s hard to express my feelings about these mountains. When I was there, I was truly at home. These mountains belonged to me.

  It was a clear but chilly day in April 1945, the day we began our climb, two days before the planned attack. Early in the morning, I met with the leaders of the foreign legion and the Senegalese at the camp at Saint-Martin-Vesubie. I spread the map of the area out on the table.

  “It will take us two days to get to the top of the mountain overlooking the fort. The day after tomorrow at sunrise, we will be ready to descend toward l’Authion.”

  I directed my words to the legionnaire commander. “Just to review, you’ll climb up here. It’s about a half kilometer to our right and then down into the valley. I received the report that you totally demined the area last week using German prisoners to precede you, so we won’t have any surprises. Upon my signal, before my company descends, you’ll make yourselves visible and draw the Germans’ fire.”

  Then I addressed the Senegalese captain. “You’ll climb this ridge to our left, where you’ll remain with your sharpshooters and machine gunners. The rest of your men wi
ll descend when I radio you. Are you sure your men cannot use the boots, Captain? It’s so rocky and icy, I don’t see how . . .”

  “Lieutenant, the boots hurt their feet. They just can’t get used to them. I assure you, they will be fine.”

  “All right, but I don’t understand how you’ll keep your feet from freezing.” The Senegalese were tough soldiers and never complained. They had incredible endurance and a high tolerance for pain. They were humble, respectful, trustworthy, and had a healthy pride in themselves.

  “Let’s get going.” The mountain was very rocky and extremely difficult to climb. Even goats would have had a difficult time, the terrain was so rugged and icy. There were no paths and no trees. The higher we got, the greater the accumulation of snow. It was an intense ascent, especially since we had to carry all our ammunition, machine guns, mortars, grenades, water, and food. My special flying skiers had to carry their bat wings as well.

  We climbed up and down the mountains until dusk. That first night, many of the men were able to sleep among the rocks, but I couldn’t fall asleep because of the excitement. I was eager to carry out the mission and achieve our objective. The next morning at daybreak, we resumed our climb. In the late afternoon, we reached the summit. The mountain facing the fortress was blanketed in white. There was a great accumulation of very icy snow created by the snowdrifts from the direction of Italy. The scene was breathtaking, the moment intense.

  “Sergeant, tell the men to spread out among the rocks and sleep. Tomorrow is the day we’ve been preparing for all these months. Tell them we’ll wake them in plenty of time to get ready.”

  I couldn’t even think of sleeping. My mind went over everything again, every last detail of the attack, every crucial aspect of its tight coordination. Throughout this rugged climb, the morale of my men had been great. Their training had been intense, and I was proud of them. Victory was just ahead—I could feel it. Soon we would triumph. We would finish this war in glory. But I also felt such agony about killing the human beings that I would have to shoot—good German soldiers I didn’t even know. These considerations led me to thinking about the people I had killed.

  I had never felt comfortable killing another human being. When I killed that member of the militia who was selling out his son and the Jews in La Turbie, that act had saved human lives, and I felt good about it. When I killed the traitorous doctor on the escape through the south of France with the Bulgarian scientist, I saved many lives again, including my own. So I did what I was trained to do, not considering their humanity.

  “And proudly, I will do the same thing again in a few hours for the righteous cause of freedom from tyranny,” I said out loud to the Universe.

  Then, totally focused on our plan, I felt calm and completely confident that we would be successful. I knew the Senegalese sharpshooters never missed. Even if the Germans spotted us, our descent would be rapid and they’d be caught in cross fire. At my signal, the foreign legion would make themselves visible, attracting the attention of the Germans. The enemy would become anxious, surprised by the legionnaires’ advance. The Germans would be blinded by the rising sun and diverted by the legionnaires as we flew over them. While we were in flight, the Senegalese marksmen would open fire, holding their position while the rest of their company would descend toward the trenches.

  “I think the plan is good. The fortress at l’Authion will be recaptured by the French today! Yet I have an ache deep inside when I think of all the men who will no longer be alive this afternoon. It’s heartbreaking, such a waste. I look forward to this day being a distant memory. France will be liberated, the world will be free of this Nazi menace, and World War II will finally be “the war to end all wars.”

  My solitary contemplation came to an end as the moment of battle approached. Now I got up and walked toward my sergeant.

  It was still dark. “Sergeant, wake the men.”

  Finally, the moment was here. We were ready. I waited for the call from one of my men, a Basque whose code-name was Le Coq. He was crouched on a peak a distance away from our group. As soon as the sun was about to appear, he would radio me.

  Finally, I got the call. In moments, the sun would rise in the east, blinding the Germans’ view of our fliers. “Call the legionnaires. Tell them to show themselves and attack,” I ordered my radio man.

  “Alert the Senegalese to start shooting as soon as we’re airborne.”

  Instantly I shouted, “Allons-y! Let’s go, men! Follow me!”

  We took to the slope, picked up great speed, then jumped. I felt like a bird. I soared through the air like a mountain hawk on a thermal. It was exhilarating.

  Then suddenly—searing pain! It tore through my whole body, causing a spasm. I lost control of my wings. I had been spotted in flight and shot through the knee.

  I fell quite a distance short of the trenches. Several of my men skiing down the slope stopped and shielded me while my shock troopers continued in flight. They landed safely on the other side of the front line, beyond the German trenches, as planned.

  The pain was overwhelming. I couldn’t move. My orderly had seen me go down and had stopped the forward motion of his flight by raising his head and lowering his wings. Soon he was at my side. He had a radio and called the medic. I was bleeding profusely from the right knee where the bullet had entered and from the thigh where it had exited.

  Because of their huge number of injured and dead, the Germans in the forward trenches put up the white flag of truce in order to get help for those shot. This briefly allowed me protected passage as well. Eight or nine legionnaires took charge of getting me to the first-aid station. Additionally, around twenty Senegalese had the burden of taking turns carrying me on a stretcher, taking shifts four to six at a time, up and down the rocky and treacherous terrain.

  The white flag stayed raised until we reached the top of the first mountain. From that point, the bumpy journey took around seven hours. The medic gave me blood transfusions and morphine along the way.

  “Stop the pain. It’s burning me up inside!” I shouted. Apparently, I began screaming uncontrollably, so they gave me more morphine, too much in fact, and I became delirious. I have no memory of this at all.

  Later, I found out that these German soldiers occupying the fortress, many of them Bavarian, had used copper bullets rubbed with garlic. So that if the bullet didn’t kill you, the gangrene caused by the corrosion would poison your body. The Bavarians always prepared their bullets well in advance so that verdigris had already formed on them.

  I was bounced around owing to the rough terrain on that long trip to the first-aid station above Saint-Martin-Vesubie. I was incoherent when we arrived. I didn’t know where I was.

  “I have to get up, I have to get up,” I kept repeating over and over, I was told. They had to tie me to the stretcher. The doctors cut off my pants, rebandaged the wound, and gave me more injections. From there, I was taken by ambulance to the Hôtel Majestic in Cannes, which was serving as a military triage hospital. I was in a room with three other men. The doctors came over to see me.

  “No sense in wasting time trying to save this leg,” one doctor said to the other. “The condyle is cracked open. It can’t be repaired. I recommend the leg be amputated,” another suggested, never addressing me.

  Two or three days later, I was transferred, leg still intact, to the Hôtel Eden-Roc overlooking the Mediterranean in Cap d’Antibes, which was serving as a hospital for officers. I was put in the two-bedroom suite of Colonel Passy, who had been in a jeep accident and had broken his hip and leg.

  “Why would a lieutenant be placed in the suite of a colonel?” I asked myself. I believe that this was somehow especially arranged for me. If not, it was incredible luck. Passy’s orderly, a very tall man from Cameroon, picked me up and placed me on the bed as if I weighed nothing at all.

  Several doctors came to see me. “Let’s try to save the leg,” one of them said. “Let’s bandage the condyle as tightly as possible and put a cast o
n to immobilize the leg.” They took me to the operating room to do the procedure.

  After that, someone came to my room every day to give me injections. A few days later, they saw that pus was seeping through the cast. When they opened it, the smell was putrid. They analyzed the secretion and found that I had developed gangrene.

  “It looks like we’ve done all we can to save the leg. This gangrene makes it impossible. We’ll have to schedule an amputation right away,” one of the doctors concluded.

  “Wait, doctors,” Colonel Passy interrupted. “I know there’s an English hospital ship, the Pearce, in Toulon. Let’s have the English take a look before you cut off the lieutenant’s leg. They have medicinal products that we don’t. I’ll make a phone call.”

  As the result of the colonel’s intervention, the hospital ship came to the Bay of Cannes. Men from the Pearce came to the suite, put me on a stretcher, and loaded me on an ambulance in front of the hotel. From the pier, I was transferred to a motorboat that had come from the ship. I stayed on the Pearce for eleven days. They placed a board from my right heel up to the middle of my back. Of course, this meant that I could not sit up. The bandages were changed every three or four hours. The wound was covered with an antibiotic powder and then the leg was rewrapped with gauze because they could not use plaster again owing to the infection. The flesh smelled awful, but little by little the gangrene began to disappear. They were able to save my leg, but the condyle of the knee was cracked. There was nothing they could do about that. I was sent back to the Eden-Roc to recover. The board was removed a couple of months later, but I stayed at the hospital in recovery for well over a year.

  EPILOGUE