Monopoly X
Author: Philip E. Orbanes
Date: 2025-04-29 00:00:00+00:00
Description: An amazing true story of World War II that reveals how British and American military intelligence successfully smuggled escape aids into German P.O.W. camps hidden inside Monopoly game boards, and also the game's surprising role in espionage. Monopoly X is the fascinating true story of what is arguably the most unusual and best-kept secret operation of World War II. The masterminds at England's top-secret MI-9, and later America's MIS-X, created a special version of the popular game, hiding tools, maps, and money within game boards—delivered by fictitious charities—to captured Allied serviceme
Publisher: HarperCollins

Dedication

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE FIVE MEN WHO PROVIDED ITS FOUNDATION:

Victor Watson II, Waldemar von Zedtwitz, Harold Klem, Imre Pintér, and Ralph Baer

Epigraph

READ THE MIND OF AN OPPRESSOR AND YOU WILL KNOW THE WAY TO OUTWIT HIM.

—Waldemar von Zedtwitz, game master

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Preface

Chapter 1. Escape from Colditz

Chapter 2. The Monopoly Man

Chapter 3. The Deeds of Conspirators

Chapter 4. The Americans Join the Game

Chapter 5. The Spaatz Effect and the Birth of Monopoly X

Chapter 6. The Top Hat: “Get Out of Jail Free”

Chapter 7. “That’s Too Wonderful to Be True”

Chapter 8. Benoîte, la Mademoiselle de la Monopoly

Chapter 9. Nori

Chapter 10. Baltic

Chapter 11. Monopoly and the Brothers Parker

Chapter 12. The Top Hat: “For Services Rendered”

Chapter 13. The Racecar and the Racecar

Chapter 14. Love and Treason

Chapter 15. The Cole Mission and the Operation

Chapter 16. The Baltic Radioman

Chapter 17. Fingernails, Finns, and the Fatherland

Chapter 18. Spaatz and the Buna-Werke

Chapter 19. The Last Days of Stalag Luft I

Chapter 20. Finale in France

Epilogue: The Final Accounting

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

Index

Photo Section

About the Author

Also by Philip E. Orbanes

Copyright

About the Publisher

Preface

Briefly, during a dark moment in Europe’s conflicted history, an American game was employed to hide secrets. The game was Monopoly. The conflict was the Second World War. The use of this game in subterfuge and espionage proved so successful that knowledge of it was restricted for decades and revealed only sparingly.

Something stirs the heart when contemplating how an “innocent” means of home entertainment affected a global struggle, doubly so because the enemy never discovered the game’s role in their undoing.

The use of Monopoly in spycraft (cover names, secret codes, and passwords) is fascinating; its role in helping prisoners of war escape, profound. Two ultrasecret agencies ran the “escape” operations: Military Intelligence Section 9 in England (MI-9) and Military Intelligence Service–Department X (MIS-X) in the United States. Their aim was to smuggle into German prison camps (Stalags) the means for prisoners of war to escape. Every prisoner who “crossed the wire” and went on the run was referred to as an “escaper.” Those few who succeeded and made it home were referred to as “escapees.” The thousands of fleeing airmen shot down during missions over France and Germany and trying to evade capture were referred to as “evaders.” Escape lines determined to help the evaders and escapers get “home” sprang up in western Europe, and MI-9 and MIS-X provided vital aid to the brave men and (mainly young) women who manned these lines, placing their own lives in jeopardy.

This story is not fictional. The protagonists and antagonists you will meet lacked the benefit of hindsight, were pledged to maintain secrecy, and approached the war uncertain of its outcome.

The heroics and flaws of many dissimilar people were linked by Monopoly’s secrets. A few were well known, like air force general Carl Spaatz, spymaster Allen Dulles, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt confidant Harry Hopkins. Some were ordinary people caught up in extraordinary times, like businessman Norman Watson, whose firm secretly loaded escape aids into Monopoly boards; Hal Klem, a college student turned radioman turned escape coordinator; and Imre Pintér, a Hungarian teenager whose chemist father hid Jews and succored American spies in Budapest. Some are long lost to history, including Benoîte Jean, the beautiful Monopoly spy and escape-line helper, and British captain Thomas Carr, the escapee she rescued and fell in love with. There were also heroines like “Dédée” and Thérèse Bonney—and one devastatingly effective traitor, Harold Cole, known as “the Top Hat.” You’ll meet these and many others, their dialogue reconstructed from my interviews conducted over many years.

One man experienced Monopoly’s impact from start to finish: Airey Neave. His escape was the first aided by Monopoly, and his trajectory would cross the paths of all significant “players” save one. An Oxford graduate and soldier in the British Expeditionary Force, Neave was a POW “Bad Boy” in 1941. Our story unquestionably begins with him as our calendar turns back.

Chapter 1

Escape from Colditz

On this day in December 1941, snow fell steadily upon a team of prisoners loading packages onto a handcart at Leipziger Station. The eyes of armed guards followed their every movement until their squad leader ordered, “Gehen wir!” The guards quickly motioned with their rifles, eager to get back to the warmth of their messroom. The POWs pushed and pulled the load a quarter of a mile to Colditz Castle (Schloss Colditz), officially known as Oflag IV. Once there, the boxes were arranged in stacks on a long table in the Vorlager (main entrance compound) and their inspection began.

One package, secured by string and green wrapping paper, darkened to near black by the melting snow, contained three Monopoly games. A German censor peered at them and remarked to Lieutenant Jeremy Lash, “Shops in Germany must not sell this capitalist game.”

Most POWs at Colditz, including Lash, were British army officers who had tried to escape from other POW camps. The Nazis had transferred them to this Renaissance castle, perched atop a rocky outcrop above the Mulde River, believing Oflag IV to be inescapable. The Germans had a name for these incorrigibles: “Bad Boys.”

Lash promptly responded, “Well, Bad Boys like us are big-time capitalists.”

These Monopoly games had apparently been sent by the Sussex Ladies Benevolent Society, a charity concerned with the welfare of British prisoners of war, and were addressed to a specific POW: Captain Patrick Reid. Without waiting for permission, Lieutenant Lash lifted the games off the inspection table and walked toward the door leading to the barracks. He fully expected the censor to order him to return. But no such command was barked. The inspector, apparently, had no interest in peering inside the game boxes. Many other larger, more curious packages awaited inspection. And, after all, weren’t games innocent amusements whose play distracted prisoners from planning escapes?

Lash delivered the Monopoly games to the room occupied by Captain Reid, having no idea this officer was the leader of the camp’s escape committee, nor that those in the know referred to him, cryptically, as “Big X.” Even the senior British officer, Colonel Guy Johnson German, was (intentionally) kept in the dark about the escape committee’s plans.

Reid directed two of the Monopoly games, which were genuine, to the makeshift library where books and games were available to all POWs. He knew in advance that the third game would be “loaded.” A subtle red dot added to the Free Parking space of its board provided verification. Captain Colin Devon, “Big S”—the officer whose team provided security for the tightly knit escape committee—ordered four of his men to venture outside the barracks and provide warning if any German guards were lurking about. Satisfied that none were, Devon signaled all clear. Only then did Big X slice open the Monopoly game board.

A month passed. After a play acclaimed as “awful” was staged one evening in the camp’s makeshift theater, four POWs snuck back into the darkened room and slid beneath the stage. Under the glow of a cigarette lighter, they pried up loose floorboards. A bedsheet rope was lowered down a shaft. After dropping down two bags, three of the men descended the rope: Reid, Dutch lieutenant Toni Luteyn, and Lieutenant Airey Neave of the Royal Engineers.

A musty passage at the bottom led to the attic atop the adjoining tower. Reid, a civil engineer, had discovered it while exploring the castle’s hidden recesses. Using a flimsy piece of wire, Reid had picked the lock of the attic door and dared to tiptoe down a few of the tower’s steps until the sound of voices rising from the guards’ messroom compelled him to retreat.

Reid helped Luteyn and Neave shed their battle dress and put on the sturdy boots, fake German officer hats, and greatcoats that had been packed inside the bags. Several POWs here were tailors by trade. The garments had been sewn from Dutch overcoats, ordinary blankets, bits of cloth, English officers’ hats, and cardboard. Jewelers fabricated, from molten lead dabbed with silver and gold paint, the epaulettes, insignias, buttons, and symbols of rank, all of which appeared flawless unless examined closely. Most of the materials had been scrounged in camp, but the implements to make good an escape, including a pick crucial to unlocking the door to the attic, had arrived the past month inside the Monopoly set. That was a good thing, because Reid’s makeshift wire pick had broken.

Reid now attempted to jimmy the lock, but the new pick seemed uncooperative. While Luteyn and Neave nervously waited, the sounds of shuffling boots and muffled voices wafted up from below. After ten fruitless minutes, Reid was about to give up, but then with a click, the door opened.

As Luteyn and Neave crept into the attic, Reid whispered, “Good luck, lads,” and locked the door behind them. After stuffing their discarded uniforms into the bags, he catwalked to the rope and signaled the fourth accomplice to help him ascend to the theater. They replaced the floorboard, slipped back into their rooms, and dispersed the contents of the bags. For these two men, the mission was complete, the danger now past.

For Luteyn and Neave the danger was still real and present. They stepped onto the spiral stone stairwell, which echoed with organ music from a radio set on the bottom floor. At the middle level, as they passed the partially open door to the officer’s mess, the guards dining inside took notice. Luteyn and Neave nodded and continued to ground level where, in an “off duty” room, other guards were playing a card game, likely Skat, a German passion.

Luteyn and Neave looked much like the sentries. They were both strongly built, Luteyn gray-eyed, longer-haired, and with a generally more humorous expression than Neave, who was blue-eyed, fair-haired, and whose face bore a resolute look. After gathering their resolve, they strode through the exterior door and stood beneath the glare of an arc light shining across a fresh blanket of snow. Wintry air nipped at their ears and nostrils.

Sheer cliffs on three sides of this Renaissance fortress made escape feasible only by walking across the courtyard, going around the clock tower, exiting through the main gate, and either crossing a drawbridge or descending into a dry moat.

As they strode toward the entrance, a lone sentry took notice and saluted the two “German officers” walking his way. A second sentry’s attention lay elsewhere. Luteyn and Neave reached the clock tower unchallenged, then walked through the arched entryway. Not willing to risk being seen on the drawbridge, they began an awkward descent into the moat. At that instant, a third guard appeared and demanded to know what they were doing. Luteyn, whose Deutsch was flawless, replied forcefully in a deep voice, “Why do you not salute?” The startled soldier gasped and saluted smartly. Neave shook his head disapprovingly; his German was good, but revealed an English accent. It had been agreed that Luteyn would parry for both men in any verbal fencing.

The guard hurried off.

Minutes later, with the cardboard elements of their disguises beginning to wilt, they scrambled out of the moat beyond the glare of searchlights and scaled a high wall. After plowing through deep snow, they took shelter in a copse.

Illuminated by the cold light of a waning gibbous moon, their small compass pinpointed the direction to Leising, a town six miles away. Despite their warmth, the military greatcoats were jettisoned along with their makeshift officers’ caps. Neave buried these beneath a snow-covered pile of leaves. Under these outer disguises, each was dressed in a rather convincing jacket, shabby shirt, and blue trousers as worn by Dutch electrical workers. Germany had commandeered countless foreign workers to take the place of the millions of Germans serving in the military. Luteyn and Neave hoped to blend into this sea of foreigners. After donning ski caps made from trouser legs, they pushed off.

For Neave, his steps were leading him toward unexpected fame during the remainder of the war—and for years thereafter—and also toward an improbable destiny. But at this moment, he was trying to comprehend the strange sensation of freedom.

While walking they extracted, from concealed containers, Reichsmarks, a map, other papers, and a special saw blade. Like the pick and compass, all had arrived inside the loaded Monopoly set. Knowledge of this had not been shared with them. After the loaded game arrived, Reid knifed open the “cookie cutter” compartments etched into the liner of the set’s game board and extracted its treasures, then hid these behind a false wall panel until the night of the escape. As ordered, he incinerated the remainder of the game in the room’s charcoal stove. The game must die so its secret could live.

Two hours into their escape, Neave and Luteyn paused under a belt of trees and waited for three brutally cold hours before pushing off through banks of snow to the little town of Leising, arriving at its quaint train station a few minutes before five a.m. They purchased tickets amid a collection of men and women bearing baskets and bags of tools. Within minutes, the orange light of an undersize steam engine appeared in the distance. It arrived gasping, as if short of breath.

They took seats in a wooden compartment, its windows dripping with moisture. Dawn timidly appeared, accompanied by the snores of tired workingmen. Within an hour, the escapers had given up their tickets and were walking through the major rail hub of the bustling city of Leipzig. Neave fought to control his bewilderment. It had been twenty months since he last enjoyed liberty.

Luteyn got in line to purchase two tickets for Ulm, 285 miles to the southwest, much nearer the Swiss border. To the escapees’ disappointment, there was no service to Ulm until 10:30 that evening, which meant they would have to hide in plain sight for thirteen long hours. They lacked papers to purchase food. It seemed that during the war, most of German life had become regulated; possession of the correct state-issued form was essential for many purchases. Only coffee could be bought without identification. Fortunately, both men had stowed chocolate bars in their pockets; these had arrived in International Red Cross food packages. Neave now made a mistake. While sitting on a bench in the waiting room, he began to eat one in the presence of two middle-aged women. The women, not having seen or tasted chocolate in over a year, looked at him like hungry wolves. One began shooting daggers at Neave and seemed ready to challenge him verbally.

Luteyn, noticing, led Neave out to the street, where he scolded him, “Don’t do that again.” Neave, already chastising himself, vowed never to make another naïve error like this one.

They began to wander. It was nine in the morning. Military traffic was everywhere, vehicles filled with soldiers in steel helmets, heading east. The sidewalks were lined by men dressed in field gray and mauve-blue, some clutched by blond girls in short skirts staring into shop windows filled with goods beyond their means.

Neave and Luteyn loitered inside a large emporium before entering a public garden occupied by some elderly people. At noon, they spotted a movie theater, a perfect hiding place. Once inside they saw that off-duty soldiers occupied many of its seats. A newsreel began, praising popular general Erwin Rommel and his Afrika Korps in Libya, followed by surprisingly stark footage of Wehrmacht corpses frozen in the snow during the past month’s brutal retreat from Moscow.

The newsreel’s emphasis was placed on the ten Russian soldiers killed for every brave German. The show paused; everyone stood and sang martial songs. The featured movie, set in the nineteenth century, prefigured the guiding wisdom of the Nazi party. As it played, a latecomer—a Wehrmacht corporal—took a seat next to Neave, who felt his pulse quicken but did not allow his eyes to wander from the screen. At the end of the performance all in attendance stood and sang the “Horst Wessel Lied,” the anthem of the Nazi Party. Luteyn and Neave reluctantly joined in to avoid suspicion.

Back on the street, they shuffled about the cold eastern German metropolis, hearing the city hall clock clang the hour time and again, all the while ignoring the stares of police and military officers. They happened upon a second theater and took refuge. In a newsreel the commander of Germany’s air force, bombastic and overweight Hermann Goering, appealed for higher output of matériel for the war. Neave felt a tinge of anger. In May 1940, following the surrender of his unit at Calais, Neave had lain wounded on the ground while the arrogant Goering strode past, nearly stepping on him. They were destined to meet again.

By the time they exited, the lights of Leipzig were blacked out and the air was extremely cold. Snow quickly decorated their jackets. Luteyn and Neave trudged back to Leipzig Station and entered the waiting room, where the poor and infirm had been pushed aside by soldiers and security personnel who took their seats. At ten thirty, after scaling the platform stairs, they waited until all other passengers had entered before boarding the train to Ulm. They felt it better to stand in an aisle, where suspicious eyes were less likely to be cast upon them. They envisioned a sleepless night.

They had just maneuvered into position when bad luck harshly intervened, or so it seemed. Inside the nearest compartment sat a solitary Nazi SS officer. A big man of apelike proportions, the brute put down his newspaper and opened the compartment door. He beckoned Luteyn and Neave to step inside. “Who are you?” he asked. Luteyn replied smoothly, “We are Dutch electrical workers.” Luteyn had a genuine Dutch passport and was ready to produce it; Neave steeled his nerves. Both men possessed reasonably good forgeries of workers’ transfer documents, in part because the correct type of paper had arrived in the Monopoly game.

On the crowded scorecard of Nazi secret police and intelligence services, the SS appeared at the top. It was tasked with detecting and disposing of potential enemies of the Nazi state. The Schutzstaffel provided security, surveillance, and intelligence throughout German-occupied Europe by inspiring unspeakable terror. Despite their aplomb, Luteyn and Neave were confronted by a potential executioner.

The officer aimed a massive hand toward the bench opposite. “Come, sit down. This compartment was reserved, but my friends are not coming.” Neave felt a cold hand press on his heart as he dutifully complied. Luteyn followed suit. The officer asked about their work and where they were going.

“Ulm,” Luteyn replied indifferently, like the weary foreign worker he was pretending to be. “We’ve been reassigned.”

The intimidating officer turned to Neave. “Are you also Dutch?” Neave mustered a look of respect and replied that he was, indeed, Dutch. He found himself thinking the man had “stupid” eyes. The officer explained he had business in Munich and Vienna, then, noticing more passengers standing outside the door, invited three to take the remaining seats. Then he closed his eyes and proceeded to snore in time with the clickity-clack of the rails. The two escapers opposite took turns trying, without much success, to sleep as well.

At one point, two military policemen tapped on the glass. They were checking the papers of all military personnel on board, including the apelike SS officer. After scrutinizing his documents, they stared at the two curiously garbed men sitting opposite. But this being Germany—where everyone, it seemed, was trained to do his job precisely and never deviate—they asked no questions of these “nonmilitary” foreigners.

At four in the morning it was necessary for Neave and Luteyn to change trains at Regensburg. The security officer wished his travel companions well. “Goodbye, Dutchmen.” They nodded goodbye. Once on the platform, Neave exhaled deeply and whispered to Luteyn, “How many more of these blokes will we have to face?”

After a lengthy wait in the Regensburg station, unnerved by the stares of a railway police officer, they embarked for Ulm. The new dawn reminded them of their fatigue. The trackside fields in Bavaria were as covered by powdery snow as those in Upper Saxony. Convoys of military vehicles snaked along the nearby autobahn. The Eastern Front was calling.

At Ulm, Luteyn attempted to purchase tickets to Singen—their destination on the Swiss border. The ticket seller’s red lips turned downward. “Singen?” she questioned. “Singen is in the border zone. You must show me papers.” They produced their worker documents, which only confused her. “I see. Please wait over there. I must fetch the railway police.” Neave felt compelled to flee, but where? What could he or Luteyn do except to continue their charade with forced calm? Any act of panic or defiance would trigger an alarm and sudden arrest.

A fat, ruddy-faced policeman arrived. He listened to Luteyn and accepted his story of how they were to start work in Ulm the next day and merely wanted to relax in Singen until then. “Maybe find some Swiss chocolate to buy,” Luteyn added with a twinkle.

The policeman nodded his OK. Luteyn and Neave began to walk away. Suddenly, he experienced a change of heart. “Come back, gentlemen. Follow me.” The portly officer led them to an office in the goods yard where a skeptical lieutenant examined their false papers. He held the papers to the light and seemed satisfied. Neave pondered how the correct material had been smuggled into his camp, quite unaware of its hiding place inside the Monopoly game. While mollified by Luteyn’s Dutch passport, the lieutenant ordered the original policeman to escort “these two workers” to the nearby State Labor Office so they could apply for amendments to their documents. The policeman complied, but quickly handed them off to an armed cohort, who took them across a square. Luteyn and Neave chatted amiably with him, praising the beauty of the town of Ulm. He, in turn, asked about Holland and expressed a desire to visit after the war concluded. This policeman didn’t bother to lead his charges into the Labor office “You speak good German. Go on in yourselves. First floor,” meaning the floor above the ground floor. “I’ll wait out here.”

They entered the building, but feared that the bureaucrats in the labor office would find them out. Spotting a rear stairwell, they flew down it and disappeared into a maze of back alleys.

They were once more free, but a train ride from Ulm to Singen was now out of the question. They dropped out of sight to consult the silk map they carried (from the game, of course). Their fingers grew numb in the bitter cold as they pinpointed an alternate route via the nearby village of Laupheim. After their boots completed an eleven-mile march, they boarded a train bound for Stockach, a village as close to the Swiss border as they dared go.

It was now nine in the evening when they hurried away from Stockach, ate more chocolate, gathered themselves, and embarked on a grueling all-night trek to Singen on the Swiss frontier. As they trudged through the eternal cold, their feet froze and their ears began to blister. They desperately needed shelter and rest when, at five in the morning, the figures of four woodcutters appeared before them. Luteyn and Neave tried to convince the rough-looking men that they were Polish workers going home.

The woodcutters didn’t buy their story. One set off to fetch the police. Neave was on the verge of surrendering—he was that cold and exhausted. But he noticed the remaining woodcutters appeared cautious and had taken a step backward. He motioned to Luteyn and both dashed into the frosty woods where, collapsing, they took cover under the snow.

Several minutes later, they raised their weakened bodies. The woodcutters had not pursued. Not daring the road, they trudged deeper into the forest. Soon they came upon a clearing where a delirious Airey Neave imagined he saw a large, wooden beekeeper’s hut. But Luteyn saw it too. Aided by the first light of dawn, they pried open a window with their saw blade (smuggled courtesy of Monopoly). They staggered around inside until they found a bed and fell upon it, huddled under an old blanket, and slept the remainder of the day. At five that afternoon, after picking up spades and grabbing white smocks hanging behind a door, they embarked again. Their map indicated they were perhaps three miles from freedom at Schaffhausen, Switzerland.

A mile into their journey, bicycle lamps illuminated them. “Halt!” Two uniformed Hitler Youth approached, armed with truncheons. Neave had once entertained a fear that of all of Germany’s security forces, it would be the brainwashed teens of this paramilitary organization that would sabotage his escape. There were, in fact, ten million of them on call throughout Nazi Germany. “Who are you and where are you going?” the gangly boys wanted to know.

Neave’s grip tightened on his shovel as Luteyn replied, “We are Westphalians going back to our lodgings in Singen. Why do you ask?”

“We are looking for two British prisoners who have escaped and are thought to be trying to cross the frontier.”

“Well,” exclaimed Luteyn, “no such prisoners will get far in this cold, will they?” The boys, laughing, rode off toward Singen.

Upon entering town, Luteyn and Neave spotted the Hitler Youth yet again. Both escapers had agreed that, if need be, they would strike these fanatics with the beekeeper’s spades, aiming at their heads. This proved unnecessary. The youths waved and continued on their way, looking for those two escaped “British prisoners.”

At two in the morning, Neave and Luteyn stumbled across the railway tracks leading to Schaffhausen. Neave’s throat was so dry he could barely speak. Luteyn was now borderline delirious. They followed the tracks through the woods and found a bluff overlooking the frontier post. There they now donned their white smocks for concealment and hunkered down to observe the sentry’s movements. Fortified by the last of their chocolate, swallowing snow to quench their parched throats, they waited for an hour until the sentry raised his lantern, turned his back, and tended to a car as it neared the gate.

At four in the morning, the moon revealed an intervening field covered by snow. They rose and ran across the field like two ghosts that blended in with the white blanketing the ground and adorning the evergreens on the Swiss frontier, whose cover they sought. Tears of joy filled their eyes once they disappeared into the forest, safe in neutral Switzerland.

Neave and Luteyn turned themselves in to the police at Schaffhausen and were placed under “hotel arrest,” as per the rules of neutrality. The Swiss here, hating the Nazis, arranged for each escapee to reach his nation’s legation in Bern.

Their flight across Germany became a fever dream. For Anthony Luteyn, there was no home awaiting him in Holland, his country being occupied by the Germans. For Airey Neave, home strongly beckoned, but England was far away and getting there would require help. Lots of it. While cooling his heels, Neave bought postcards and composed one to the Kommandant of Colditz to brazenly announce his safe arrival for “holiday” in Switzerland. Wisely, he did not mail it for several weeks.

At the legation, Neave was asked to dispose of his clothing and all possessions. In return, he was given a mishmash of clothes intended to make him appear to be a local. As Neave emptied his pockets, he discovered the wrappers of the chocolates he’d eaten (he and Luteyn dared not leave a trail by disposing of them along the way). He also produced his silk map, button-size compass, fake work papers, saw blade, and the Reichsmarks hoarded in the event the border guard might require a bribe. Neave, wanting to keep a memento of his hazardous flight, asked could he keep the silk map of Germany. The young accountant in charge of securing his possessions replied, “No,” adding that only someone with ulterior motive would be carrying such a map across southern France.

However, he did allow Neave to keep his tiny compass, noting that since Neave’s capture, all airmen carried one or more on their person during missions over the Continent. “Who is supplying these?” Neave asked. The accountant did not know and advised Neave not to speculate.

Unknowingly, Neave had brushed up against the Monopoly conspiracy and its sponsor, the unheralded, top-secret organization known as MI-9, Military Intelligence Section 9. Once informed of Neave’s arrival at the legation, MI-9 sent an urgent communication to Bern: it wanted him safely delivered to Gibraltar, and as soon as possible.

While it had taken but forty-eight hours to flee from Colditz to Switzerland, Neave would live in suspense for three long months before arrangements were completed to bring him out of Switzerland, surrounded as it was by enemy territory. The main challenge was to get him across southern France, whose government at Vichy supported the Nazis. At the Spanish border, a guided trek across the peaks of the formidable Pyrenees had to be followed by prearranged escort into Fascist Spain and thence to the British consulate at Barcelona. From there, somehow, to Gibraltar. Finally, in order to return to Great Britain, a watery voyage had to be arranged for Neave, through U-boat-infested waters.

In April, Neave was summoned to Geneva. The heavy snows of winter had subsided, and daffodils were in bloom. He was given a small suitcase with suitable clothing for the trip ahead. During a rendezvous along Lake Geneva, an agent informed Neave that his escape across France was imminent. He did not explain how it had been planned and told Neave to ask no questions, just to obey any and all orders. Neave was given the identity card of a Czech refugee, his photo having been taken back in Bern.

When the dash across France began, Neave found himself in the hands of the brave men and women of the “Pat O’Leary” escape line. O’Leary was the nom de guerre of Albert-Marie Edmond Guérisse. Formerly a medical officer in the Belgian army, Guérisse hid his subterfuge behind the countenance of a studious gentleman. To those unaware, he might be a symphony conductor or a librarian. He was in fact savvy and fearless.

Guérisse had taken command of this line in October 1941 following the arrest of the line’s originator, an intrepid Scottish officer named Ian Garrow who bore a resemblance to the American actor Ronald Reagan.

Garrow was likely betrayed by “Captain Paul” Cole, a deserter from the British Royal Engineers. Following the Dunkirk debacle, partisans in Lille, France, sheltered Cole. Soon he began escorting stranded soldiers from Belgium to Marseille. Dozens owed their regained freedom to this conflicted man. Cole’s cover name was “the Top Hat,” after his favorite token in the Monopoly game, of which he was a zealous player. Garrow appointed the Top Hat to be his leader of the line’s northern branch.

Garrow did not know Cole’s actual rank was that of a sergeant, not a captain. Nor did he know that Cole had deserted during the blitzkrieg in France. He was also unaware that Cole’s given name was actually Harold, not Paul.

Cole’s flawed character inevitably betrayed him. His smooth talking and womanizing put off Garrow, despite the man’s continued success in navigating the Gestapo-infested realm between Brussels and Vichy. Cole, ever alert, picked up on Garrow’s suspicion. Two months before Neave’s escape from Colditz, Vichy police arrested Garrow.

At the Swiss border, Neave was entrusted to the O’Leary line and taken to Marseille. While there, he met, briefly, a lovely, diminutive, twenty-five-year-old woman from Brussels named Andrée Eugénie Adrienne de Jongh, who went by the nickname “Dédée.” She had come to Marseille to learn how the Pat line performed its miracles. It seemed Dédée was intent on establishing her own line in Belgium, with help from her patriotic father. In Marseille, her short stature and inexperience prompted much skepticism. Nevertheless, her “Comet line” would become the best of the best. Neave did not yet know it, but these escape lines, heroines like Dédée, and traitors like Harold “Paul” Cole would become the focus of his every waking hour for the next three years.

With consummate skill, the Pat line transported Neave across France to the Spanish border. Basque guides led him across the daunting Pyrenees and handed him off to others who took him, unnoticed, to Barcelona. The British consul there arranged for his transport through Fascist Spain to British Gibraltar—the “Rock.” Spain, though a neutral country, was sympathetic to Germany because of its aid during the recent Spanish Civil War. While it pledged to arrest escapers of both sides, handcuffs snapped closed only on Brits. Prior to every checkpoint, Neave had to be hidden in the trunk of the consul’s car.

Neave was subsequently ticketed on a cargo ship bound for Glasgow, which arrived safely in Scotland on May 12, 1942. The following day, Neave caught an early-morning train to London. Word of his successful escape had electrified MI-9. MI-9’s mission was to help downed airmen evade capture and, for those who were captured, to smuggle aids into their camps. Under the guise of the fictitious ladies’ society, it had sent the loaded Monopoly game to Colditz.

Neave was ordered to appear at the Great Central Hotel near Marylebone, an old haunt, as it turned out. He found the hotel much changed. Its beautiful lobby was dull and utilitarian. Where once a dazzling blond receptionist had greeted visitors, there now appeared a gruff sergeant. He directed Neave to the second floor for debriefing. It was MI-9’s duty to interrogate every escapee to learn how he succeeded, to learn what of military significance he might have seen along the way, and to administer an oath to assure that the escapee maintained absolute secrecy. In large part, the gag order was deemed essential to protect the identities of escape-line members who provided assistance.

Following Neave’s interrogation, his thoughts turned to home and his parents. Just then, an old friend appeared—Captain James Langley—who, like Neave, had become a captive of the Germans following the evacuation at Dunkirk. Langley had lost an arm. The armless sleeve of his uniform was smartly pinned to his shirt. A handsome mustache hugged the upper lip of his inviting face. “Welcome home, old friend.”

As they embraced, Neave asked, “Jimmy! My God! How did you get out of France?”

Despite his handicap, Langley had managed to slip out of the same prison hospital in Lille where Neave recovered before disappearing into the German POW system. Langley downplayed the risk he had taken to get away, while praising the escape-line helpers who shepherded him from Paris into Vichy France. The Nazi-influenced government in Vichy eventually declared him “unfit for military service” and put him on a train for Spain. As Neave would now learn, MI-9 also desired his services. Those Vichy authorities would be aghast if they knew Langley was deemed sufficiently fit to become a key operative at MI-9.

Langley invited Neave to lunch at Rule’s Restaurant on Maiden Lane. There he introduced a youngish major named Norman Crockatt, dressed in full Scottish uniform including kilt. Crockatt, a model of precision, was the operational leader of MI-9. His hair was dark and immaculately combed, his brush mustache neatly trimmed. Neave had imagined that a secret agency’s chief would be like Somerset Maugham’s character Ashenden—critical, manipulative, aloof. Crockatt impressed Neave with his kindness, warm eyes, and intelligence.

Crockatt also proved decisive. After listening to Neave’s insights about life in POW camps, he broached a proposition. Crockatt reminded Neave that he was the first to make it back to England thanks to the aid of MI-9. Further, Neave had experienced the workings of an escape line. Based on these invaluable experiences, Crockatt regarded Lieutenant Airey Neave as eminently qualified to head up a new MI-9 group, consisting of Jimmy Langley and himself, whose mission would be to help the lines become better organized, apply for financing, stay in more direct communication, and learn how to defend themselves against the threat posed by traitors (soon to include the likes of Harold Cole). After discussing the details, Neave accepted the honor. Crockatt told Neave and Langley they would not be located with the rest of MI-9’s staff in suburban Beaconsfield. Rather, they would be housed in Room 900 of the War Office on Whitehall in London. After a week of rest at home, Neave would begin his new assignment.

It was time for Crockatt to reveal how a simple Monopoly game had provided the tools, map, and money used during Neave’s escape. “We have a man on staff who conceived of this brilliant idea, and also the design of evasion kits carried by all airmen who overfly the Continent. You will meet him. You’ll also meet the boys who train code users—airmen, should they become incarcerated, who know how to conceal a message in plain sight within a letter home. Home, of course, actually being our group. You’ll also learn how we at MI-9 send back incisive replies from dear old Mum and Dad.”

Neave was at a loss for words.

“It is true, Captain Neave. We are in touch with prisoners in every Stalag in Germany.” Crockatt then added, “Oh, by the way, Lieutenant, you are now a captain. Congratulations.”

Sometime later, Neave was introduced to the businessman whose firm had secretly doctored the Monopoly set that was sent to Colditz—and hundreds more like it. His name was Norman Watson. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship. Neave came to refer to Watson as “the Monopoly Man.” Norman rather liked that.

Watson frequently referred to Neave as “the Monopoly Escape Artist.” While hundreds, or more, would escape with the aid of Monopoly, Watson regarded Neave as special, for he was the first.

Norman Watson proved to be a man of many talents. He was especially adept at keeping secrets.

Chapter 2

The Monopoly Man

The sky was bleeding pink when Norman Watson kissed the foreheads of his sleeping wife and young sons before leaving his stately home one morning in May 1942. The cook had not been summoned to prepare breakfast. The butler had not fetched his umbrella. The Rolls-Royce was not idling at the curb.

However, the quiet purr of a different engine, powered by gas from his company’s allotment, awaited him. Slivers of light emerged from the Morris 8’s blackout headlights, illuminating mist drifting through the crisp air. Once Watson settled into the passenger seat, Harry Moran released the brake, worked the clutch, and they were off.

Watson lit up two Kensingtons and offered one to Moran, whose face lay hidden beneath a porkpie hat until the glowing tobacco provided glimpses of its quiescence. “First train to London, sir?” Moran asked his boss.

“Early call with the nursemaids,” Watson replied, tight-lipped about the other reasons for his trip. “Drive past the plant, if you will, Harry,” Watson said, referring to the factory of the John Waddington company.

Moran swung onto the highway, commenting on the imminent retirement of Watson’s father (“the Grand Old Man”) as the firm’s general manager, adding, “We all love him so.”

“A tough act for me to follow.”

Moran reassured Norman, commenting on the value of experience gained at his father’s side

Back in 1913, Norman’s father, Victor, had rescued a failing printing firm named John Waddington Limited, its primary business being playbills and posters for the theater trade—which tended not to pay its bills. Watson, a master printer who knew how to make ends meet, raised money, diversified, and restored Waddingtons, as it was typically called, to profitability. During the ensuing twenty-nine years, the firm grew steadily, expanding into commercial printing, cardboard milk and juice containers (using a wax process known as “Satona”), box making, the manufacture of card decks, and—of great portent—the board game business.

In December 1935, following the US’s Parker Brothers submitting Monopoly to Waddingtons, thirty-two-year-old Norman Watson became the first person to play the game in Great Britain. He was struck by its ingenuity. Its game board featured a perimeter track of forty spaces, twenty-eight of which could be purchased by the players, their acquisitions confirmed by brightly colored “deeds.” There were shiny metal playing pieces, decks of cards to enliven play, lots of play money, and forty wooden buildings: little green houses and larger red hotels.

After twenty-four hours of almost continuous play, Norman convinced his father to acquire the rights to make Monopoly within the United Kingdom and license it throughout Europe. He quickly became the game’s greatest advocate beyond the shores of America, worthy indeed of the accolade “the Monopoly Man.”

Norman, gangly in youth, had grown into a commanding presence. His long happy face could turn to steel in a blink of his piercing eyes. He dressed in bespoke three-piece suits but was not above rolling up his sleeves. He knew his firm’s machines top to bottom, and many of his workers by name. He was quick to praise a job well done and equally quick to dress down incompetence. He inspired others to perform their duties while he planned for all eventualities.

Against the rising fire of dawn, the silhouette of the Waddingtons factory came into view. Morris swung the car onto Wakefield Road and remarked, “The Big Lady has yet to stir, sir.”

In addition to the massive factory, a huge warehouse and the production art building pierced the horizon, along with the “new building” on the opposite side of Wakefield Road where playing cards were made. Prime Minister Winston Churchill believed his citizens needed diversions and assured Watson that paperboard rationing would not affect his firm’s ability to produce decks by the score.

A thousand souls, mainly women, would soon arrive and toil inside these structures. Hundreds of machines would come to life, their mechanized howls and clatter bespeaking the factory’s other nickname: the Beast.

Of late, the usual production of the Beast was not forthcoming. Instead, the Beast had been enlisted in the nationwide enterprise to support the war effort. Hidden behind a wall in the least traveled corner of the main floor, workers made cartridges for Imperial Chemical’s explosives and flares. In the opposite corner, silk sheets were fed into presses that imprinted them with maps of every western European country, for issue to British airmen. In the basement, a third operation intricately produced notes for the Bank of England and European governments in exile. And in the subbasement (the “room we never speak of”) a small team of mechanics secretly doctored copies of the Monopoly game, hiding escape aids, as provided by MI-9, inside them.

Norman Watson served these different branches of His Majesty’s government without one knowing about the others’ subterfuge. To further complicate matters, he had to answer to MI-5 regarding matters of factory protection. The task of Military Intelligence Section 5 was to provide internal security for the United Kingdom by rooting out subversives and enemy spies, much like the FBI did in the United States. Its bureaucrats routinely applied pressure on Watson to accept guards to patrol his plant’s perimeter and run spot security checks on the personnel inside. Watson had blunted each such request by arguing that with veteran male workers being sucked away by the vacuum of conscription, the growing number of women working in his facilities would become unnerved by the presence of such guards. The sight of armed guards could also, he argued, alert subversives that something rather special was going on inside the Beast. Watson insisted he provide his own security. In return, Watson was obliged to periodically appear at MI-5 headquarters in London and file a verbal report. In this war, secrets were not committed to writing, unless in code.

Watson asked his personal spy, Moran, if there was anything of note he might be obliged to tell MI-5. A knot tightened in his empty stomach as he awaited the answer.

Moran, a competent foreman, was widely liked, a member of most employee clubs and sports teams, intelligent and, most important, fanatically discreet. In turn, Moran enlisted a select group to aid him in his task.

Moran cleared his throat and began with a lament. “You and I can tell the lot of our workers not to speculate, but the ears of some go deaf.”

“And?”

“One man in the collating department was openly advising to hold on to one’s silver because of the likely removal of coinage from circulation, what with metal becoming scarce and all those sub-pound notes being printed and stockpiled in our basement. Another bloke overheard two ladies yammering on about those stone-faced mechanics who disappear into the subbasement. ‘What do they do down there? Why don’t they smile?’ I’ve put the fear of God in ’em all, sir. But aside from these nincompoops, I have no other concerns to report. The army did us a favor last month by drafting that fellow from maintenance who was caught snooping at some blueprints. And most fortunately, sir, we’ve seen no suspicious characters lurking about outside.”

Watson extinguished his cigarette and expressed appreciation. He hoped this would be enough fodder to satisfy the agents at MI-5. During a recent inquisition, Watson had been accused of being too “casual.” He promptly lost his legendary reserve and reacted like a fire-breathing dragon. “Casual? Are you mad? Don’t you realize I lose sleep every night worrying some Nazi sympathizer will learn my company is hard at work making war materials? In my nightmares I see Junkers and Heinkel bombers blowing up my buildings. Crimson flames shooting into the sky. No, sir. I take nothing casually.”

Moran eased off on the gas as his motorcar approached the Leeds station. Watson asked thoughtfully, “How’s your boy? Still quartered at Dover?”

Moran’s son Martin, a Royal Engineer, had been stationed at Liège, Belgium, when the blitzkrieg overran the West twelve months earlier. Outflanked by the German Wehrmacht, young Moran and his mates somehow slipped through and raced to the beach at Dunkirk where over three hundred thousand British soldiers, and many more of les militaires, awaited evacuation. Martin and two other engineers improvised a pontoon bridge to enable 250 men to board a trawler. Martin was the last to jump aboard.

Harry replied, “My son and his mates are no longer in Dover, sir.” The threat of invasion had passed following England’s victory in the aerial Battle of Britain. Moran added, “But Martin can’t say where he is headed. Maybe Egypt. Perhaps India. I expect it will be a while before I hear from my lad.”

“Of course,” Watson replied, then asked if, prior to departing, Martin had passed along anything more about a certain deserter. “What’s his name, Cole somebody? The one who calls himself the Top Hat?” Watson was particularly intrigued that a turncoat would commandeer the identity of one of the metal tokens from his Monopoly game.

Harry Moran had mentioned Cole after the Dunkirk miracle. He’d said, “Well, sir, I have a Monopoly tale for you. Straight from the lips of my son Martin, who thinks of his dear old dad the moment after his boots hit the ground in England.”

The story began in September 1939, on the day after war was declared. In Colchester, Private Martin Moran had drawn the assignment to handle enlistments for the 18th Field Park Company, Royal Engineers. One of those waiting in line to sign up was a tall, lanky vagrant with a thin mustache, reddish-blond hair, and an officer’s bearing. He gave his name as Harold Cole. Cole’s Cockney accent betrayed London East End origins. Nonetheless, with the Royal Army desperate to rebuild, no background check was requested. And so Cole’s rich history of petty thefts, spells in jail, and womanizing was not discovered.

Eight months later, the 18th shipped across the Channel to Lille, France, where, during the months of the Phony War, the smooth-talking Cole attained the rank of sergeant. Private Moran now reported to him; no love was lost.

“He really stole the sergeants’ mess fund?” Watson interrupted.

“Indeed he did. Not more than a month had transpired in Lille before Martin saw someone squeezing through the transom at headquarters, carrying a strongbox. It was him all right.” The perpetrator remained at large until Martin remembered where he had played Monopoly with Cole. “Seems Cole really loved our game, sir. Had one of the nicer sets as made in our factory. Always took the top-hat token because if you wear a top hat, he says, you get respect.”

“Cole had a flat?”

“Yes, Cole took that flat in Lille and stashed two lovelies in his nest. He couldn’t help but flash a bit whenever his pockets were lined with shillings. Martin says money always found him, or vice versa. Martin finally convinced the commander to select a security team. Off they go,” Harry said as he parked his car near the platform. “And as sure as that tank engine over there is blowing its whistle, they blow Cole’s cover when they look inside his Monopoly game and find most of the stolen mess fund!”

“So he’s locked up?”

“In and out of military prisons until the panzers race past Brussels, then he gets a Get Out of Jail Free card, so to speak. His shackles come off when his guards flee, and there he goes.”

“Where?”

“For revenge on my Martin, who was back at base camp in Lille. Some French lady had given Martin her mutt. And the dog, well, he likes my son. So when Cole shows up, the canine attacks him, and Cole retreats with a trouser leg in tatters. Everybody else was packing up and heading to Dunkirk with hope for salvation. But not Cole. He runs the other way. Deserts. Abandons ship. Absent without leave.”

“What became of him?”

“Likely the Huns grabbed him.” Moran noticed activity on the platform. “Well, I believe it is time for you to board, sir.”

Once on the train, Watson settled down to breakfast (oatmeal and Spam, unrationed) and lit another Kensington. To occupy the time, he began to assemble a mental jigsaw puzzle to connect Moran’s tale with another he’d heard from Leo Frankenthal, a business associate in London and a partner in the French game maker Miro. Frankenthal’s partner, Fred Mirowitch, ran the firm out of an office in Paris.

Waddingtons had granted Miro the license for Monopoly in France. Miro paid its royalties on time—until the fall of France, that is, after which payments were interrupted. Watson had gone to see Frankenthal in London to determine if there was hope of straightening this out, or if he must tap his fingers until the end of the war. Frankenthal was devastated. Mirowitch had advised his partner that the Gestapo was dictating what Miro could print, and games had been excluded in favor of military forms.

After mourning their mutual loss, Frankenthal related a story to demonstrate the surreal effect that war and occupation were having on life in Paris. It seemed that an Englishman with a Cockney accent came to Miro and berated Mirowitch for not including metal tokens in the French version of Monopoly. He despised the lifeless colored chits substituted instead. Mirowitch explained he had no sources for “such metal tokens as you have in England,” then asked, “And why is an Englishman, who hasn’t introduced himself, here in Paris with the Germans goose-stepping down our streets?”

The tall, lanky man with a trim mustache and ginger hair gave his name as “Captain Paul Cole.” He was in France, in mufti, he explained, “to aid an escape line that conveyed stranded English soldiers from Brussels to Marseille.” But at this moment, Captain Cole seemed less eager about helping trapped soldiers and more intent on obtaining a “proper” copy of Monopoly with metal tokens to replace the English version he had had to abandon in Belgium.

Frankenthal added, “My partner replied, ‘I could help if perhaps you could do something to remove the occupation, yes?’” The Englishman left in a huff.

Watson let this sink in. “He gave his name as Cole? And his rank as captain?”

Frankenthal replied affirmatively, “You have interest in this man? Do you know this Cole?”

Watson demurred, “I have never met him. But Monopoly is his game as it is yours and mine.”

Outside the train’s window, the sight of a new American air base under construction caught Watson’s eye. He knew the earl whose estate was being paved over with runways. It seemed the American 8th Air Force was setting up for business throughout southern England.

Cole has settled in France. Watson was intrigued. He debated what he should say about Cole during his meetings today. “Paul” Cole must be the same man as Harold Cole. Had he been promoted from sergeant to captain? Was he truly aiding an escape line in France? Or was he a deserter lying through his teeth in order to remain at large?

Chapter 3

The Deeds of Conspirators

London percolated with wartime departments, ministries, and installations—some boiling in plain sight; others steaming under lids. Norman Watson’s endeavors consigned him to visiting those hidden in the shadows.

As his train entered the city, Watson surveyed the damage to the neighborhood surrounding King’s Cross. Despite a year having passed since the end of the first London Blitz, rubble remained heaped like craggy hills. Fortunately, German bombs had missed the great terminal, and its northerly tracks had been quickly repaired after suffering damage.

This railway hub happened to be the first London site selected by his father for inclusion on England’s Monopoly game board. Street names from seaside Brighton had been recommended by George Parker, the founder of Parker Brothers and frequent visitor to the British Isles, because the twenty-eight names on the American board originated in Atlantic City, the most famous beach resort in the States.

Victor disagreed. To his mind, the names on the game’s board and deeds must be from his nation’s capital. And so on a day of penetrating cold in January 1936, during the depths of his country’s Great Depression, Victor Watson and his secretary, Marjorie Phillips, arrived at King’s Cross and began to scout the city, riding around on the Underground’s Circle line. They selected streets ranging from shabby Old Kent Road to elegant Mayfair, plus three other rail stations and two utilities.

By late afternoon, believing they were done, both celebrated with a spot of tea at the Angel Islington, until, to Phillips’s consternation, she discovered they were one name short. After a moment’s contemplation, a wicked smile spread across the kindly face of Victor Watson. “Miss Phillips, don’t you think the Islington pub is as good a name as any?” She concurred: “Add it on your list, then.” And so a lowly watering hole would forever grace a light blue space on the cheap side of the English game board. At Waddingtons, it became known as the odd one out.

Soon after Monopoly’s publication, word of mouth generated unprecedented orders from the trade. Monopoly established Victor Watson’s printing firm in Leeds as a “name” throughout the British Isles. Waddingtons recovered financially well before the Depression waned.

Just the past month, Norman Watson had honored his dying father’s request to revisit the streets on the 1936 “naming tour.” Victor wanted to know which ones had suffered during the Blitz. Norman began in the government quarter and saw that it was only moderately roughed over. Whitehall remained open for business, aside from the House of Commons, which had taken a direct hit; ministers were now obliged to convene elsewhere. By contrast, there was extensive damage throughout London’s residential neighborhoods. Entire blocks had been flattened. The German High Command had apparently decided to “de-house” British workers and make their lives miserable.

Norman Watson scoffed at Germany’s folly. The resolve of the British people had stiffened throughout the Blitz. Watson was duly impressed by a newspaper photo of a young boy holding aloft his Monopoly game before the rubble of his family’s London home. The game was the only item the boy had taken with him to the shelter the night before.

Like their leader Winston Churchill, the British people were up for a fight. On many nights during the Blitz, Churchill stood fearlessly—some said recklessly—on the roofs of Whitehall buildings watching bombs explode nearby. On following mornings, Churchill walked the bombed neighborhoods, raising two fingers in a V-for-victory sign, proclaiming no quarter for the Nazis.

Four months later, Hitler called off the first Blitz. On June 22, 1941, he launched Operation Barbarossa, sending three million invaders into the Soviet Union, expecting it to surrender within three months. A year later, Mother Russia continued to fight fiercely, consuming more and more German resources in ever more costly battles.

The threat of an invasion of the British Isles was now unlikely. Aside from a shortage of taxicabs, life in London was returning to normal. Accordingly, Norman Watson rode the Underground to Saint James’s Park station. From there he strode to an imposing building bearing a “To Let” sign, implying the building was vacant, which it wasn’t. It hummed with activity. This structure housed the activities of MI-5, whose headquarters on the grounds of HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs had been leveled during the Blitz. Watson was here for his tedious monthly debriefing. Mercifully, his report seemed to assuage his interrogators. But just as the meeting wound down, a twist of the arm was applied, this time by a junior staffer who smiled ingenuously and said, “You would be much better off, Mr. Watson, by accepting our offer to provide security.”

Watson replied resolutely, “And you, young man, would be much better off if I didn’t.”

After a vigorous walk through Trafalgar Square, whose name graced a property deed in the game, Watson arrived at the headquarters of Imperial Chemical Industries in the Millbank district. Watson was ushered into an “off-limits” room in its basement to discuss cartridge production. The Ministry of Supply’s order to disperse vital industries had directed this business to Norman’s factory. The ministry’s aim was to assure no German bomb could knock out a sole source of vital manufacturing, including ICI’s explosive-cartridge production.

ICI was the nation’s largest producer of chemicals, second only to Germany’s IG Farben cartel among all European chemical enterprises. The Waddingtons munitions project was top secret, and therefore not memorialized in writing. Referring to his cryptic notes, Watson reported on the prior month’s output and specified the quantities of raw materials needed during the ensuing sixty days. Watson did not know the composition of the ICI “devil’s brew” his workers packed inside the cases, deducing it was likely an explosive, or perhaps a flare.

Watson’s next stop was the Ministry of Supply at Shell Mex House on the Strand—another “lovely red deed” on the Monopoly board, he mused. While the surrounding neighborhood had been battered by the Blitz, the Shell Mex stood defiant, like Saint Paul’s Cathedral in the midst of its bombed-out surroundings. Winston Churchill had created this ministry to relieve the Royal Army and Air Force of the need to grovel and cajole to obtain the means by which each conducted war. Inside a room marked “Clothing Department,” a man named Edward D. Alston greeted Watson. One day during the past spring, Alston had appeared at Waddingtons, purportedly to place a small order for calling cards. Watson had an inkling that this stranger was no ordinary businessman.

The rugged-looking Alston had dark eyes and an imposing cleft on his iron jaw. Watson thought E. D. Alston would make a fine detective. When Alston had returned to collect his cards, he confessed that, in actuality, he had vetted Waddingtons and wanted to discuss “a much larger order for printed goods on behalf of His Majesty’s government.”

Discretion required Alston to discuss the details outside of Waddingtons. Watson suggested his home by night. It was there, in Watson’s library, that Alston read him the Official Secrets Act, gained his adherence, and proceeded to disclose the “matter at hand.” He had come here, he began, to persuade Watson to produce a supply of maps. Having come from the textile trade prior to joining the Ministry of Supply, Alston was no mere bureaucrat. These maps would be highly detailed and printed on, of all substances, silk.

Alston had selected Waddingtons because of its long history of printing playbills and posters on silk. He asked Watson to explain how his father had come across the right kind of silk and additives to assure ink did not smudge during printing. Watson explained, and in so doing realized that Alston did not know of his firm’s work for ICI. If Alston had, he would not have asked Watson to agree to the terms of the Official Secrets Act, Watson having previously done so. As with each of his firm’s clandestine activities, the left hand never knew of the right.

Watson asked how many maps would be needed. Alston replied, “Thousands,” explaining that most would be a yard square, but some as small as 17 inches by 22. Many would be printed with only black ink, but some would require multiple colors. All had to fold to “pocket size.” Watson assured Alston these requirements posed no difficulty, if adequate silk was supplied. Alston assured Watson that he would have all the silk he needed. Most of it would come from the remains of parachute production.

The finest map designer in the United Kingdom, John Ian Bartholomew of Edinburgh, had agreed to provide the masters royalty-free for all maps requisitioned by the ministry. “What subject matter?” Watson asked. Alston replied, “Every country occupied by the Germans, and Germany and Italy as well.”

Alston added, as anticipated, “The purpose of these maps is not a topic of discussion. If you find your mind conjuring up their purposes, you must keep your suppositions to yourself.”

Watson agreed, but noted that he could not suppress speculation among his workforce. There was no practical way to hide this production within his immobile printing department. Alston had foreseen this concern. “Tell your workers that these maps are being purchased by John Bartholomew and it is not your place to know why. Let them speculate; they will lose interest in time.”

Since that day, Waddingtons had printed far more silk maps than anticipated. Consequently, the parachute remains were now inadequate. Watson advocated switching to a cotton-blended version, Bemberg silk. Alston, with a most contented look, agreed, and then suggested printing “excess” maps on tissue because he had found a supply from a most unlikely source. It seemed that a Japanese ship carrying pulp made from mulberry leaves had “wandered into our hands.” This amazing substance produced a very fine paper: thin, easily folded, durable, and, like silk, nonrustling.

After their business concluded this day, Alston informed Watson that their next meeting would take place at a Victorian-style Turkish bath hotel known as the Swan Hydro, in Harrogate, a few miles from the Waddingtons factory. Watson liked to put up business visitors there. The Hydro became famous in 1926 when Agatha Christie, having disappeared for eleven days, was “discovered” there. She claimed amnesia. In truth, she was dealing with the shock of her husband’s infidelity and request for a divorce.

Bidding adieu to Alston, Watson headed into Whitehall, the heart of London, the locale of several names on the Monopoly board. He was greeted at Chaucer’s Pub by a bespectacled genius named Christopher Clayton-Hutton of Military Intelligence Section 9.

Watson mused that if the men met with that day were playing cards, the MI-5 agent would be a knave (jack), Alston a king, and “Clutty” of MI-9 the joker. Clayton-Hutton held the rank of lieutenant but Watson had never seen this eccentric in uniform. Today, Clutty wore dark trousers, a herringbone jacket, and a clashing checkered tie. His large eyes were made even larger by the magnification of thick lenses and his receding hairline.

With typical urgency Clutty announced, “I have commandeered a table for us in the kitchen where the staff dines. I negotiated us some lamb. We’ll chat there.”

Watson had met Clutty at the Hydro a year before, a few days after Hitler launched his surprise attack on the Soviet Union. E. D. Alston had arranged their meeting. There, over baguettes and tea, Clutty revealed that he was the inspiration behind the silk maps procured by Alston. “The maps are for our brave airmen, Mr. Watson. One of your maps gets sewn into every flying suit or boot. Others are included within escape packs, which I’ve designed. It’s my job at MI-9 to design all manner of aids to help downed airmen avoid capture.”

Watson remained impassive. Clutty wiped his mouth. “What utter trash are regulations. Bureaucracy does nothing but slow progress among honorable men. I’ve read your dossier. I know you are trustworthy to a fault. No need for us to dance around like marionettes.”

Clutty stirred his tea and muttered, “I get into trouble daily. With the likes of the Bank of England, Scotland Yard, the suffocating gits at MI-5 and MI-6, not to mention Custom House, assorted ministries, local police . . .”

“Why is that?” Watson interrupted.

Clutty was quick to explain. After conceiving of a device to improve the odds a downed airman could evade the Nazis, Clutty could not tolerate the time wasted by procurement departments that “grind progress to a halt with such as forms.” If, for example, a compass maker on Old Kent Road (which Clutty suggested was unjustly the cheapest property on the Monopoly board) needed magnetized steel wire to assemble two million tiny compasses, he would circumvent the production bureau, go straight to the steel-wire company, and, by posing as a high-ranking government agent, arouse the owner’s sense of patriotism, arrange for payment, and insist the rods be delivered within forty-eight hours.

Clutty had also wrangled into production an escape kit resembling a canteen, loaded with foodstuffs and tools. When emptied it could be filled with water (quinine tablets included, thank you). Clutty had redesigned flying boots by making their upper leggings removable. Nothing identified a man walking about as being a “downed airman” more than clumsy flying boots. He had also perfected several ways of hiding compasses, tools, saw blades, and maps within an airman’s uniform, having been a flier himself during the Great War.

Clutty had read with fascination the memoirs of an airman who had escaped a POW camp in 1917. He thereby organized boys from a rugby school to visit the British Library and gather all such “escape” books in order to compile a list of techniques successfully employed. From this, he quickly deduced possession of a map and a compass as being essential.

Having become an amateur magician as well, Clutty knew the art of misdirection. (Houdini had once outfoxed him.) During his initial meeting with Watson at the Hydro, Clutty asked for help to design a new trick, one Houdini would surely approve of. “I want you to alter a Monopoly game by hiding certain items inside its board. Include a map . . . and these.”

Clutty reached into his pocket and produced a tiny compass, not more than a half inch in diameter, along with a flat saw blade six inches in length. “Make sure they do not rattle, nor give away their presence with bumps or depressions. When you are satisfied with your work, call me at this number.”

Clutty handed Watson a business card bearing the name George Bunson. “That’s me. I have a secretary. She’ll answer and say I am a solicitor. Do not be put off.”

Clutty then explained the purpose of the loaded Monopoly game. “Evasion is one thing, escape from a prison camp is another. More and more of our airmen get shot down daily. Most get captured. It became my job to help these poor souls escape confinement. I found myself realizing that the printer of our silk maps also makes my favorite game, Monopoly. Kismet, sir! That’s how I came to conceive it as the best means to smuggle escape aids. It has a wonderfully large board, doesn’t it?”

Watson’s prototype met with Clutty’s delight. Since that humble beginning, Watson had provided to MI-9 hundreds of doctored Monopoly games, along with a larger number of “straight” games, leading Watson to deduce that several straight ones always accompanied a loaded Monopoly game sent to a German POW camp.

To indicate which map was hidden inside a doctored Monopoly game—be it of the Low Countries, France, Germany, or Italy—Clutty suggested the addition of a tiny dot (a “full stop,” as he termed it) on a particular space of each doctored Monopoly game. This assured the game sent to a camp contained the correct map for its area. A substantial sum in Reichsmark bills had been entrusted by MI-9 to Watson. A few were to be inserted into each game board—or, if requested, folded and hidden beneath the Monopoly play money inside its package.

However, two facts were denied Watson: how these games got into prison camps, and how the POWs knew the meaning of a “full stop” on a game board’s space. But he had no doubt the solutions settled upon by Clutty and MI-9 were impeccable.

Clutty began his career at MI-9 inside London’s Great Central Hotel. These days, he tinkered inside an underground bunker near a graveyard adjoining MI-9’s expanded headquarters in Beaconsfield, twenty miles removed from Whitehall. Clutty came into London on this day to participate in a significant meeting to which Watson had been invited. “You’ll finally meet my superior, Crockatt—splendid man—and two other gents of importance. I would like you to regard today’s experience as just reward for your splendid work. And for your discretion.”

Watson restrained his wonder.

Following their meal, Clutty took Watson to the War Office on Horse Guards Avenue, where a new branch of MI-9 had taken up residence in Room 900. This chamber being too small for a proper briefing, the War Office had provided a spacious venue for this day’s gathering.

A massive table dominated the meeting room. Beneath its high ceiling, large portraits of heroes from Britain’s glorious military history hung on paneled walls, the likes of Marlborough, Cromwell, Wellington, and Kitchener. A side table at the rear held a pitcher of water, along with a tray of biscuits. Four officers in uniform were conversing near this table—or, to be accurate, the younger three were held captive by the stern-faced, bespectacled, gray-haired fourth.

Clutty stopped in his tracks and grabbed Watson by the sleeve. “Jesus Christ, why is that shit here? God help us.” Watson had never heard such vitriol spew from Clutty’s mouth. Clutty leaned into Watson’s ear. “That bastard is Claude Dansey, known as Z. He’s the powerhouse of MI-6. That man has the power to crush MI-9 like a bug if he should feel like it. He boasts he’s our suzerain.”

MI-6, Dansey’s Secret Intelligence Service, conducted espionage within Hitler’s Europe. It was several times larger than MI-9, whose creation Dansey opposed because this sixty-five-year-old spymaster did not want rival agents “running about” his domain. Despite MI-9’s noble mission of aiding evaders and escapers, Dansey had warned that no MI-6 agent would lift a finger to help an MI-9 operative on the Continent. The establishment of yet a third secret organization, Winston Churchill’s pet Special Operations Executive (SOE), had further pricked Dansey’s pride and arrogance. SOE’s elite force of armed saboteurs was charged with “setting Europe ablaze.” By contrast, Dansey’s agents sought information subtly. This brought Dansey’s “piss to the top” because he felt civil turmoil in a foreign country made espionage far more difficult and endangered the lives of his agents. Not one to discriminate, he also took umbrage with the new American espionage/sabotage organization, the Office of Strategic Services, and began doing his best to thwart it.

Watson noticed when Dansey had stopped talking, the other three men visibly relaxed. Salutes snapped; smiles were forced. Colonel Claude Dansey turned and made his way to the door. His cold eyes stared at Clutty and Watson as he approached. Both men stepped aside. Watson tightened his backbone. Clutty came to attention and said, “Sir!”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” a sandpaper-edged voice replied. “And stay out of my way.”

Clutty exhaled as he closed the door. “Danger’s passed. Let’s join the others.” Clutty now introduced Watson to Major Norman Crockatt, another veteran of the Great War during which, despite two wounds, he had amassed an outstanding record of service.

Clutty remarked that if not for Crockatt, he might be in military prison. Crockatt concurred and remarked, “My protégé tends to get into jams.”

Watson admired this man’s professionalism, and the cut of his Scottish uniform. Crockatt was perhaps a few years older than the thirty-nine-year-old Watson, well proportioned, and possessed of striking green eyes. A brush mustache, immaculately trimmed, guarded his upper lip. “So good to finally meet you, Mr. Watson. Your service to this section is without price. I promised Clutty that I would bring you into my presence upon a certain auspicious occasion. It has arrived.” Crockatt then added, “I believe passionately in our mission, and everyone who aids it to help military personnel evade and escape Hitler’s grasp. That most assuredly includes you, Mr. Watson.”

Crockatt now turned and introduced the fine-looking, one-armed soldier whose empty sleeve was pinned to his uniform. “Sir, meet Captain James Langley. He is my liaison with the MI-6 officer who just left here, Colonel Dansey. Jimmy lost his arm at Dunkirk while protecting the beaches. He was hospitalized, imprisoned, but found his way home. He is a fan of your game, Monopoly, and enthusiastically supports its use in our efforts.”

Crockatt next introduced the fair-haired officer to his right. “And this brave man, Mr. Watson, is Captain Airey Neave. He has the distinction of being the first escapee from a German POW camp to make it back to our shore thanks, in meaningful part, to the escape aids hidden inside your Monopoly game. Officer Neave has agreed to join MI-9 and lend his best efforts to help return many others to their loved ones.”

Despite his boyish looks and easy smile, Neave’s physique suggested he was tough as nails. He replied, with a confessor’s modesty, “Mr. Watson, I could never conceive that the map, compass, tools, and money I was issued in my camp—I was at Colditz—arrived inside your Monopoly game. Its secret is that well guarded.”

Clutty beamed. “Mr. Watson, our Monopoly scheme works. Major Crockatt felt you should meet Captain Neave to see living proof. We hope many more lads will make it home aided by your deception. Let the sight of Captain Neave serve as inspiration. You and yours are not wasting your time up there in Leeds.”

Crockatt changed the subject. “Mr. Watson, you may have noticed that our American allies are arriving, specifically the Eighth Air Force. We have briefed its commander, General Carl Spaatz, on how we do things at MI-9. He is rightly interested in replicating our organization with one of his own. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty to suggest he see your secret room and learn how your mechanics load Monopoly games. He’ll carry the knowledge back to Washington in strictest confidence. Clutty will arrange the details. Are you with me?”

Watson understood the merits instantly and thought of Robert Barton, his American counterpart, the president of Parker Brothers. Surely, he thought, Barton will be enlisted to doctor his firm’s Monopoly games. “I am glad to have an American partner,” Watson said.

Clutty broke the mood of unity by commenting to Jimmy Langley, “I don’t envy your task of liaising with that bastard Dansey. He’s the spanner in our works.”

Langley, seeking to calm down Clutty, remarked, “Well, Clutty. I may be on Uncle Claude’s payroll, but I don’t relish it. It is rather frightening to work for that officer. Nonetheless, it is my job, and I make certain to learn what he is thinking.” Langley cheerfully added, “Captain Neave has joined to help me with the escape lines. And Uncle Claude has offered to help us recruit personnel to run a new line from Marseille to Spain. The old line is rather in disarray.”

Clutty retorted, “I wouldn’t trust anyone your uncle recruits for such a line!”

Neave jumped in. “Mr. Watson, allow me to explain. It took only two days for me to reach Switzerland from Colditz, but three months were required before the deck was organized to get me to Marseille, where I lingered. We have to help them move faster.”

Marseille. Watson seized the opening. “Captain Neave, when you were in Marseille, did you perhaps hear of an Englishman working on a French escape line, name of Cole? Harold Cole, or perhaps Paul Cole? Holds the rank of captain, I gather. I know a little about him.”

The faces of Neave, Langley, and Crockatt turned ashen. Crockatt was aghast. While Langley muttered epitaphs under his breath, Crockatt said, “Mr. Watson, you’ve heard of this man? You better know right now that Cole is no renegade hero. He’s been turned by the Germans.”

Neave interjected, “Cole has betrayed dozens of members of the line that got me to Spain. He’s a bloody disgrace. A turncoat. The worst kind of traitor.”

Crockatt’s eyes narrowed and his mustache twitched. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what you know about this man Cole. Since we’re about done here, let’s find an office?”

An hour later, on the journey to Oxford Street, the “never to be repeated” discussion replayed inside Norman Watson’s head until he engaged in “a bit of shopping” at Selfridges department store. He had promised his wife, Ruby, that, time permitting, he would purchase pajamas, unavailable in Leeds, for their growing boys. Victor II was approaching his fifteenth birthday, Beric his eleventh. Among the half-empty displays, Watson also spotted a lovely pair of black evening gloves, glistening with sequins. He envisioned Ruby’s smile upon opening their box.

There was just enough time left for a cup of tea, paid for with the aid of a ration coupon, before he must make his way back to King’s Cross. He sat down in the Selfridges Palm Court. Fatigue closed Watson’s eyes . . . and a memory of a prior visit entered his head.

It was on a summer day in 1931, in this very room, with Ruby, that Watson stole a glance at a most significant bridge tournament.

A team composed of the best contract bridge players in England opposed a team from America led by legendary Russian American Ely Culbertson, the man who, with help from three friends, had established the game on both sides of the Atlantic. Watson, a devoted bridge player himself, watched sales of the Waddingtons “Number One” card decks double and quadruple following Culbertson’s promotion of “his” game. On that occasion, the crowd of onlookers was denied sight of the table by makeshift walls. But if one was willing to wait in a line, there was opportunity for a brief look over the wall via a periscope. Watson got his peek.

An innovative electric scoreboard kept spectators apprised of the current bid and the cards played during each hand. At the end of the match, its lights signaled that Culbertson and his American team were victorious.

As he sipped his tea and recalled all of this, Watson found himself musing about whether Monopoly might someday engender players of championship caliber to organize tournament competition.

Watson regretted not having waited for an opportunity to meet Culbertson during that unforgettable tournament. Watson had recently read that Culbertson had devised a peace plan and was actively promoting it. Reportedly, this renowned champion had also suspended playing bridge until the war concluded, even declining flattering invitations from celebrities and politicians for a rubber or two.

And, Watson recalled with disappointment, Culbertson had been quoted as saying, “That new Monopoly game is so shallow, I have erased any memory of having played it.”

Chapter 4

The Americans Join the Game

Nevertheless, Monopoly was very much on Ely Culbertson’s mind on the day he announced his arrival at 812 Park Avenue. Not because Monopoly’s leap to fame had dented the popularity of his beloved game of contract bridge, but because this upstart game was literally the means to decode the secret message in his pocket.

The elevator operator lifted Culbertson to the tower’s penthouse and deposited him in its confining hallway. A lone door stood on either side. The one on the left opened into the foyer of a duplex owned by a man whose imposing name, Waldemar von Zedtwitz, seemed ideal for a Raymond Chandler villain. In fact, von Zedtwitz, who had been one of Culbertson’s most trusted bridge partners, preferred the rather unimposing nickname of “Waldy.”

A decade earlier, Ely Culbertson and ex-wife Jo had catapulted contract bridge into the stratosphere of mass popularity. He promoted this version of the game, an exciting improvement over auction bridge, with well-publicized tournaments, publications, bridge schools, and his own magnetic personality. Well-to-do bachelor von Zedtwitz, an exceptional auction bridge player, converted to contract and helped Ely, Jo, and Harold Vanderbilt put the game across throughout the Western world.

Waldy opened the door, having sent his manservant home early. “Come in, Ely.” Their wingtips snapped across his foyer’s chessboard of marble tiles: a sweeping staircase on the right, a wall adorned with old masters to the left. Waldy walked with a chess player’s hunch, Culbertson with head thrown back. Whiskey, glasses, and a bucket of ice were set out in Waldy’s oak-paneled library. Both lit cigarettes, Waldy’s a malodorous Turkish import and Culbertson’s his fourteenth Chesterfield of the day. Culbertson suggested a toast to Giorgi Toldze, the man who had transmitted the coded message tucked into his pocket. Toldze was no small fish. He was a confidant of Joseph Stalin. Glasses clinked.

“Waldy, my friend,” Culbertson exclaimed. “We’re now in the war even though we’ve been rejected for service.”

“If only that were due to age,” Waldy quipped. Here in the spring of 1942, Culbertson was fifty years old, Waldy forty-five.

Heritage had disqualified them, each being a child of two continents. The FBI suspected their loyalties. Waldy’s parents included a nobleman from Germany and an heiress from Kentucky. Ely’s were an American mining engineer and a beauty from the Caucasus Mountains in czarist Russia. There must have been height among their ancestors because these offspring had grown quite tall‚ and lean. Both had also found wealth—von Zedtwitz the easy way through inheritance. Culbertson rose from pauper to prince thanks to the bridge empire he had built, brick by brick. While both had lost interest in tournament play, von Zedtwitz was also fascinated by chess, backgammon, and many other games of skill. The closest he came to a profession was his devotion to etymology—pinpointing the origin of words. Culbertson had put bridge aside to devote every waking hour to a newfound passion: advocating a plan for world peace.

Similarities aside, the two men differed in temperament. Culbertson was a publicity hound. Von Zedtwitz avoided publicity like a porcupine avoids the sun, and was just as prickly when caught in the limelight. Culbertson was suave, bug-eyed, attractive to women, quick-witted, and sometimes mesmerizing. He spoke with an engaging Russian accent and possessed a glibness that either soothed or irritated so severely that one was tempted to reach for a blunt instrument.

Despite his European upbringing, von Zedtwitz spoke flawless English. He was regal, somber, and possessed an angular face that was not particularly handsome, aside from gleaming blue eyes. He felt uncomfortable around women, unless one was seated opposite at a bridge table. He tended to be reserved, analytical, and nonconfrontational. He would rather pick an imaginary fleck off his jacket than expound on someone’s shortcomings or inane politics.

When it came to subterfuge, however, they were brothers in arms. In the world of bridge, each had contributed significantly to the cryptic “art of the bid.” To the uninitiated, bids were not what they seemed. “Two Clubs,” for example, did not necessarily mean one had strength in clubs. Rather, it compelled one’s partner to keep bidding. With their bridge accomplishments in the past, a mutual interest in world affairs drew both into the realm of international intrigue.

Bridge luminaries, it seemed, possessed the kind of mind adept at cracking secret codes, like those devised by the Japanese and Germans. Expert players such as Alfred Sheinwold and Oswald Jacoby were hard at work for, respectively, the OSS—the Office of Strategic Services (the United States’ international spy service)—and Naval Intelligence. Culbertson and von Zedtwitz had been excluded from consideration due to their alien pasts. An exasperated Culbertson made it abundantly clear to the FBI that he hated communism. He had seen firsthand the devastation it had caused to his mother’s village, and the decimation of its population. Von Zedtwitz despised Hitler and worried often about the fate of many old friends in Berlin and Paris. Ironically, though, both men were impressed by Hitler’s regard for chess and chess champions.

After a few moments, they set down their drinks and walked over to Waldy’s game table, which rose like a throne on the library’s dais. Through the glass doors to the veranda, buds of green could be seen among the many potted bushes and trees arranged around Waldy’s patio chairs.

It was out there that an FBI agent named Thompson had hunted for hidden antennae and signaling devices in the event Waldy wasn’t the Nazi hater he claimed to be. While von Zedtwitz shrugged, Thompson also went through his closets and bureaus. Waldy had contended with such suspicion since his arrival in the States back in 1924, even though he had renounced his baron’s title.

Culbertson reached into his jacket and handed von Zedtwitz the coded telegram. They pondered for a moment what great secrets it might contain. Toldze was a man of importance in the NKVD and he knew a great deal about Joseph Stalin. Surely, they concluded, Toldze had provided an insight into Stalin’s thinking—maybe advance warning of a request he planned to make of the president, or an unexpected military double-cross.

Whatever the message, its contents were sparse and looked something like this:

GOOD BETS STOP 11343 STOP 34256 STOP 87345 STOP 31744 STOP 93121 STOP

55633 STOP 23487 STOP H57 STOP VED

“VED” were the initials of the man entrusted by Toldze to transmit his brief message. This unknown message bearer went by the cover name “Victor E. Day.” The first two words, “GOOD BETS,” were misdirection to imply the subsequent groups of numbers were lottery or sweepstakes picks. They weren’t; the real message was concealed among the seven five-digit numbers. “H57” at the end revealed the procedure used to construct the message.

Culbertson had befriended Giorgi Toldze (likely not his real name, concluded von Zedtwitz, realizing it was essential for Culbertson to protect his friend’s actual identity) during their days together in the Caucasus region, prior to the fall of czarist Russia. Unlike Culbertson, Toldze was enamored of communism. After Joseph Stalin’s ruthless rise to power following Vladimir Lenin’s death, Toldze was awarded an important position in Stalin’s sinister NKVD (Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del, the precursor of the better-known KGB). Stalin favored Toldze; both were Georgians. According to Culbertson, they spoke alike, drank alike, and looked somewhat alike. But during the ensuing years, Stalin’s unending string of murders, imprisonments, and show trials (“Show me the man, I will show you the crime”) so revolted Toldze he did the only wise thing he could do. He smiled, saluted, and found a way to get the truth out through German-occupied Russia to the one man in America he trusted, Ely Culbertson.

By March 1942, the Wehrmacht had pushed the Russian army to the gates of Leningrad. During the brutal winter of 1941, the Germans’ forward observers had seen the spires of the Kremlin and terminal stations of Moscow’s subway lines, before the Russian counteroffensive. Months earlier, two capitals—Minsk and Kiev—had been conquered by Hitler, along with much of European Russia. Many living inside this vast area hated Stalin and welcomed the Nazis. Among them was “VED.” He had somehow managed to deliver to Culbertson, via a telegraph office in Budapest, Hungary, Toldze’s communiqué from the Lubyanka (NKVD headquarters) in Moscow.

Such a message needed to be obfuscated, not sent in the clear. A simple solution was settled on. There were plenty of German codebooks left over from World War I. Toldze gained one, and so did Culbertson. Both men understood Deutsch. Four- or five-digit numbers, as found in this old codebook, were substituted for the actual words in Toldze’s message. A second layer of obfuscation was necessary to prevent anyone else from looking up the actual numbers. For this, Culbertson approached von Zedtwitz and requested he compose something so obscure that its basis could never be discerned via routine code-breaking techniques. Von Zedtwitz had long studied coding techniques. What he set out to devise was a “key number” additive. For this he needed a basis. Past coders had employed words from a novel, or a newspaper.

One evening the prior fall, Culbertson had noticed his children and friends playing the “red-hot but vacuous” Monopoly game. He may or may not have joined in, depending on his retelling of the experience. But realizing that this game was also widely played in Europe, Culbertson suggested to von Zedtwitz that perhaps something to do with the game’s deeds could provide a basis for the key.

Von Zedtwitz’s curiosity had already compelled him to analyze Monopoly to determine if the game could be won through mathematical decision-making, like his favorite gambling game, backgammon. He concluded Monopoly was too dependent on luck and thus decided to stash his game on a shelf in the library. Challenged by Culbertson, Waldy’s razor-sharp mind—which enabled him to deduce the location of every card during the bidding of a hand in bridge—arrived, after he dusted off the Monopoly game, at a dazzling solution. The only difficulty, he told Culbertson, was that his method would require Toldze to possess a copy of the American game board as well.

Culbertson wasn’t fazed. One of his many printing contacts photographed the Monopoly game board and made a print on thin photo paper, which was then sliced into 52 pieces. Each of these was sandwiched inside the front and back of a playing card. The adhesive used permitted the cards to be peeled open when moistened with water. This innocuous deck was circuitously delivered to Toldze who, upon mastering its use, reported back to Culbertson: “Ready.”

Now began the tedious process of decoding his first message. Von Zedtwitz placed a sheet of stationery on his desk and penciled out the five-digit numbers in a single straight line. Culbertson fetched the Monopoly board; it would be needed to extract letters specified by “H57.” Once Waldy had pinpointed these, he would convert the letters to numbers and subtract a string of them from Toldze’s five-digit numbers. Culbertson would then consult the German codebook and announce the words that Toldze had communicated.

Waldy went to work, while Culbertson hovered over him smoking yet another cigarette. The digits “57” indicated that following the board’s Go space, every fifth space on the board would contribute to the key number and the complete key number would have seven digits. Therefore, seven specific spaces on the board needed to be studied. As for the “H,” it was the zinger, the obscure twist. H stood for “hat”—one of six tokens found in a standard Monopoly game. Arranged alphabetically, these shiny metal tokens were: battleship, cannon, hat, iron, shoe, thimble. The hat (actually a “top hat,” shortened to “hat” for this purpose) fell in third place in the sequence and therefore stood for “third,” meaning that only the third letter in the wordings on each of the seven spaces would be included in the “key number.”

Reading Railroad was the fifth space following Go; an “a” was noted by von Zedtwitz on his sheet of paper. The fifth space following Reading was “Just Visiting”—not “In Jail”—yielding an “s.” After consulting all seven spaces, Waldy had “a-s-n-e-o-t-o.” Letters of course can’t be subtracted from numbers, so his next step was to convert these seven letters to their numerical positions in the alphabet: “a” being 1, “b” being 2, and so forth.

The letters became the numbers 1-19-14-5-15-20-15. Now came a simplification. All “tens” digits were crossed out. The seven-digit key number revealed itself to be:

1-9-4-5-5-0-5.

Von Zedtwitz wrote this sequence repeatedly beneath the line of five-digit numbers in Toldze’s message before subtracting the numbers on the bottom from the numbers on top (discarding all remainders). Waldy announced each five-digit number as it was calculated. Culbertson flipped the pages in the codebook and called out the German word it represented. Waldy translated, then wrote it down in English.

After the final word fell into place, silence filled the library for many seconds. The message was unlike any anticipated. It had nothing to do with Stalin’s thinking, just the product of his duplicity:

THREE TRAITORS IN WHITE HOUSE MAYBE FOUR

“Good Lord. What do we do with this kettle of fish?” von Zedtwitz asked.

Culbertson gazed at the ornate ceiling and blew a smoke ring. “Giorgi,” he muttered to it, “how do we respond to your bid? Do we raise or pass?”

“Amazing claim,” commented von Zedtwitz. “Soviet agents in the White House? Could your friend be imagining?” Culbertson said that Giorgi Toldze was not given to speculation. “My God!” Waldy replied. “We can’t help. We are not trusted in Washington.”

“Giorgi does not know that,” Culbertson replied. “He is counting on me, his old friend.”

Each man poured whiskey and took a seat by the fireplace. A portrait of an unattractive woman painted by Cranach the Younger hung above it. Her dark eyes were skeptical. In contrast, Culbertson was convinced Toldze would not send such an inflammatory warning if not certain of its content. The inclusion of the word “maybe”—regarding a possible fourth Soviet agent—clinched this for him. Three traitors in the White House, maybe four.

Lacking the knack of telling a good joke, von Zedtwitz tried anyway. “I know what to do,” he said with an odd smile on his face. “Let’s knock on the door of the White House, ask for the president, and tell him to beware, there are three or four traitors under his roof.”

This elicited a guffaw from Culbertson, who sucked smoke into his lungs. “We need a reliable third party. We’re two civilians shunned by the War Department. We’re not trusted by the FBI because I had a Russian mother and you had a father who was a great friend of the kaiser.” Waldy’s father had, in fact, been killed when struck by a mast on the kaiser’s yacht during a race off of Southampton in 1896; Waldy was three months old at the time.

“Let’s reason this, Ely,” von Zedtwitz responded. “Who do we know we can absolutely trust and that the president will likewise believe?”

“Well . . . thanks to bridge,” Culbertson replied, “we have many famous acquaintances.” Among them was Chico Marx. Von Zedtwitz revered the comedian as a master player, but reviled his womanizing and self-destructive gambling. Culbertson knew “everybody” in Hollywood, but most celebrities had loose tongues, as did the politicians in their orbit, who loved to engage these masters in rubbers of bridge. Instinctively, most of those traded knowledge for influence. There were, however, a few not prone to deceit or indiscretion.

Three credible names were voiced: Harry Hopkins; “Wild Bill” Donovan; General Carl “Tooey” Spaatz.

Hopkins was Roosevelt’s alter ego, the man responsible for Lend-Lease supplies to Great Britain and the Soviet Union. Donovan ran the OSS, headquartered in Maryland and Virginia, and Donovan’s subordinate Allen Dulles was based somewhere in Switzerland, likely trying his best to undermine Nazi Germany. General Spaatz at last contact was in Washington, DC, responsible for planning at Army Air Forces headquarters.

Hopkins actually lived in the White House and, despite gastronomic difficulties that sapped his strength, often made arduous trips to London and Moscow. He was, for all intents and purposes, the mobile president, what with Roosevelt crippled by polio. Von Zedtwitz asked Culbertson, “Perhaps Harry?”

Culbertson shook his head. “What if Hopkins is one of the three, or four? You know I’ve never trusted that man across a bridge table.”

Von Zedtwitz took exception. “Bridge is not government. Harry is Franklin’s man, and in my opinion must be loyal. But he is a White House insider. It may be risky to inform him. He might inadvertently mutter something in the presence of one of the real traitors.” Some years later, von Zedtwitz would rethink his opinion.

“What about Donovan?” William Donovan had earned the “Wild Bill” nickname in France during World War I because of his bravery and endurance in combat while badly wounded. After the war, he became a highly regarded attorney.

Von Zedtwitz again took exception. “The FBI has jurisdiction to hunt subversives in the States, not the OSS. We’d start a turf war. J. Edgar Hoover and Bill Donovan hate each other. Hoover is power hungry and opposed the creation of the OSS most vigorously. He wanted the bureau to stretch its tentacles overseas. No. Let’s not give Hoover another reason to spy on us.”

Culbertson grunted, then experienced an epiphany. “Wait a minute. If there are three traitors in the White House, there must be many more spying for Stalin throughout the government in Washington, don’t you think?”

“Yes, dozens,” von Zedtwitz agreed. He returned to the problem at hand. “That leaves Spaatz.” As a linguist, he couldn’t help but note that Carl had added the second “a” in his surname so his name would sound Dutch, not German. Then he quipped, “I wish there was an equally fine way for me to alter ‘Zedtwitz.’”

“The general owes me a favor,” Culbertson replied. “Maybe it’s time to collect.”

In 1939, Culbertson had partnered with Spaatz at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, DC. During an idle moment, Spaatz mentioned that his oldest daughter, “Tattie,” had her heart set on beginning a year of study at the Sorbonne in Paris. Spaatz was ambivalent about this.

“Don’t let her go, Tooey. Well-placed friends tell me Hitler will start a war by the fall. France, and especially Paris, will become quite dangerous.”

Spaatz replied, “One of Tattie’s professors at school scoffed at that notion, but you’ve removed my doubt, Ely.”

After Hitler marched into Poland on September 1, 1939, and France and England declared war on Germany, Spaatz sent Culbertson a telegram reading: I OWE YOU ONE.

Culbertson called his housekeeper and asked her to consult an address book inside a desk drawer to provide the phone number for General Carl Spaatz. Culbertson placed the call. Eventually Waldy heard him say. “I see . . . no . . . no message.” Culbertson put down the receiver. “It seems Spaatz left for England last week and is gone indefinitely. He’s been given a new command.”

Von Zedtwitz sighed. “There’s nothing left to do but sleep on this.” Then an idea struck. “Ely, when you respond to Toldze, suggest he tell us the cover names identifying these traitors in communication with the Soviet embassy in Washington.”

“What good will those made-up names do us? I suspect that’s why Giorgi didn’t provide them.”

“Who knows? Ask him. Use your normal channel, whatever it is. Find out.”

Culbertson grumbled an OK, then said, “My friend, if we circle back to Donovan, you must be the one to contact him. You were a client at his law firm before the war.”

“Well, if it comes to that,” von Zedtwitz replied. “But I know his underling better, Allen Dulles. A competent attorney and quite a bridge player.”

“You said Dulles is in Switzerland somewhere. Out of reach.”

“I’ll have to find a way to get to him.”

Culbertson stubbed out his cigarette. “This brings to mind your dear friends in Paris.” He inquired about the Jean family.

Following the Great War and compulsory service in the German cavalry, von Zedtwitz wanted nothing further to do with the country of his birth. He moved in with a relative on the Champs-Élysées in Paris. Both his baroness mother and her sister, a marquise, had died before the war. He immigrated to the United States in 1924.

Typically, it gave Waldy pleasure to update Culbertson about Alec and Emma Jean and their daughter. This time, his mood darkened. “I was startled to learn that the Jean family moved back to Strasbourg after the fall of Paris. Benoîte included. It seems there is a push by Hitler to increase the German population after reannexing Alsace. They have roots in Alsace.”

“Oh?”

“Emma is of German ancestry. Her family had wealth. She married Alec, a Frenchman, and they settled in Paris before the last war to distance themselves from the combat. Now they have ventured back to the border. We exchange letters, of course, but much less frequently. We use a code and choose our words carefully.”

Alec and Emma Jean had been among his aunt’s closest friends. Both husband and wife were skiers. Emma was also an avid games player, in harmony with her German heritage. Waldy enjoyed playing auction bridge with this couple. He would have become godfather to their newborn daughter, Benoîte, if not for the inevitability of his moving to America to reclaim his mother’s fortune (confiscated under the Trading with the Enemy Act). Whenever Waldy visited Paris thereafter, he would call on the Jeans. “Uncle Waldy” saw Benoîte grow up “as if in flickering images.” The awkward child became graceful; the obedient girl became defiant and adventuresome, a versatile athlete and a fierce games player. Her plain face had matured with beauty and confidence.

“So the Jean family has returned to Emma’s ancestral home? You once told me they work for the Resistance.”

“They live modestly. Emma’s country estate was confiscated years ago. There is no love for Hitlerism. Alec is quite astute. Both are quite sensible. Benoîte is another story. She has indeed joined an escape line. She risks her life to help downed fliers reach Brussels from the German border.” Waldy added, with resignation, “Her family’s move to Strasbourg made her ideal for recruitment.”

Von Zedtwitz accompanied Culbertson to the door. “I worry for Benoîte. If she is betrayed, her fate will be unspeakable.” The Gestapo shows no mercy to women caught helping airmen escape, or those who aid and abet them. “Her parents will surely be arrested as well.”

“Such bravery for a young woman.”

Von Zedtwitz smiled wryly. “Benoîte is not an everyday woman. She is active, perhaps too active. She despises the taste of boredom and routine. She savors risk and devours danger.”

“Ergo,” remarked Culbertson as he made his exit, “she must be a fine bridge player.”

Von Zedtwitz was not thinking bridge as he closed the door. It occurred to him that the Jean family might have connections that could put him in contact with Allen Dulles in Switzerland.

He would compose a letter.

* * *

Across the Atlantic, it was nearly ten p.m. when two automobiles arrived at the darkened Waddingtons factory. Through the curtains in his office, Norman Watson observed five men get out and walk toward the front door; three others remained at the vehicles.

Flashlight in hand, Watson unlocked the main door. Clutty held it open as Norman Crockatt and three imposing Americans entered. The beam of Watson’s light led the group into the factory, its vast array of machines resembling slumbering mechanical demons. Watson motioned toward a stairway, dimly lit, leading to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs, they walked around presses consigned to printing His Majesty’s money, then descended a staircase into the subbasement where a heavy door was illuminated by the glow of an overhead light. Watson knocked in a coded rhythm. A mechanic from within unlocked the door and stood in its opening. He waited for a nod from Watson, then stepped aside to allow these six men to enter.

Only now did Crockatt introduce to Watson Major General Carl Spaatz along with officers “Johnson and Holt.” All were out of uniform. Upon Watson’s command, the mechanic produced an unlabeled Monopoly game board (the “blank”) and laid it on the table in the room’s center. On this surface were arrayed a series of steel rule dies (resembling cookie cutters), strips of cardboard, tape, and glue. While Watson narrated, the mechanic—whom he did not introduce—commenced to hammer-punch an array of openings in the thick blank. From a small box resembling a gift package he extracted a folded map, a tiny compass, a saw blade and file, a few Reichsmarks, and an identity card of some sort. He carefully inserted each into its own contoured nesting place before gluing or taping cardboard on top of each. With the help of Watson’s experienced hands, he precisely aligned a Monopoly label, its underside coated with adhesive, over the blank. A large roller was repeatedly pressed down upon it from one end to the other. When satisfied, Watson asked the mechanic to present the completed game board to General Spaatz. “Please advise if you can feel anything odd about this game board, General. We did rush a bit.”

Spaatz rubbed and touched and squeezed and shook the board by one corner. A pleasant expression overcame his somber face. “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing to arouse suspicion.”

Clutty spoke up. “A perfect Trojan horse, if I may say so.”

Watson thanked the mechanic and excused him. Crockatt concluded, “Well, I think that’s it for this evening.”

Watson had previously learned from Clutty that Carl “Tooey” Spaatz was commander of the American 8th Air Force. Shouldering an enormous task, Spaatz had to ferry hundreds, and eventually thousands, of airplanes and crews to England, build countless air bases, provide for their supply, and find a way to work in harmony with his British aerial counterparts, because no toes were to be stepped on.

In appearance, Spaatz had the grave look of a man carrying a heavy weight. Even his eyes seemed pained. His hair, austerely combed back, lay flat upon his skull. His nose was blunt like a prizefighter’s, while his mustache did little to shelter a surprisingly delicate mouth. His overall countenance suggested modesty, yet there was something exceptional about the way he carried himself. A confident fire burned within and, judging from his witty comments while the game board was being loaded, Spaatz did not lack for imagination.

Clutty had told Watson, “This man thinks far ahead. He does not dismiss the likelihood or consequences of casualties. He knows for every mission he orders, some percentage of his crews will not make it back. Some will die, a few will evade, and the rest will become prisoners. He has assured me he wants to do everything possible to help his men in captivity. Mr. Watson, think of Spaatz as a musician who plays our Monopoly song!”

After many months of preparations following the December 7, 1941, Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the United States was finally ready to engage the Germans. In contrast, the United Kingdom, with its twenty-seven-month head start, had thwarted the previously unstoppable Nazi war machine and was bombing Germany nightly. In matters of escape and evasion, Crockatt was leading graduate students; Spaatz was convening grammar school.

Downed British fliers on the run were being rescued in ever-increasing numbers. Airey Neave was hard at work shaping up the main escape lines in France and Belgium. More and more of Clutty’s escape aids were being hidden inside Monopoly games and common household objects prior to their shipment to German POW camps via fictitious charities. A steady trickle of British captives was slipping out of prison and distracting a disproportionate number of German personnel until their recapture. Fortunately, some slipped their grasp. Every British airman who made it home improved the morale of fellow airmen and provided further return on the £10,000 cost of his training—a substantial sum for the time.

Carl Spaatz knew now what had to be done, and how to do it. Nevertheless, his superiors were not easily convinced. Just as Claude Dansey of MI-6 had delayed the approval of MI-9, US Secretary of War Henry Stimson blocked approval of its counterpart in the United States.

While Stimson hesitated, Spaatz appointed Major Stull Holt to be his liaison with Crockatt and MI-9. An underutilized major on Spaatz’s staff named Robley Winfrey was selected to run the hoped-for American escape organization. Spaatz sent Winfrey to MI-9 to learn its techniques and study how Neave supervised the European escape lines, and when his training was complete, Winfrey came home ready to act.

But the US military was not ready.

Spaatz, furious over their indecision, asked Winfrey to invite Crockatt to the States to help persuade his doubting superiors, including Secretary of War Henry Stimson and Chief of Staff General George Marshall. Stimson was mule-like because he believed, as he put it, that “trying to aid POWs will never work.” He changed his tune after Crockatt’s team presented solid evidence of success due to its efforts. Spaatz got what he wanted, albeit later than hoped for.

Colonel Edward Johnson became overall commander, securing $25,000 in funding (in absolute secrecy) from a department with no direct connection to the military. In October 1942, Major Winfrey was given a green light to staff and build the installation, which was given the name Military Intelligence Service–Department X, or MIS-X for short.

From the outset, it was to be a “neverland” that only a handful would know existed. Among the many kept in the dark were members of Congress and the president. Spaatz had concluded, following his days in Washington, that the federal government “leaked like a sieve.” If a leak revealed the existence of MIS-X, German spies would frantically alert the Abwehr (army intelligence service), and all of the efforts of MIS-X would be good as dust. In addition to limiting knowledge of the existence of MIS-X, it was never to be referred to by name. From the start it became a number: “1142,” after its postal box in Alexandria, Virginia.

1142 was established inside Fort Hunt, Virginia, where another intelligence agency, MIS-Y, interrogated German prisoners of war. Fort Hunt, built during the First World War and largely abandoned thereafter, occupied a corner of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. To establish MIS-Y, the Department of Defense renewed its lease on the property with a term “for the duration of the war plus one year.” MIS-Y had built barracks, a mess hall, security posts, and utility buildings before the arrival of 1142. The existing infrastructure made it much easier to conceal 1142 because the new agency needed only erect two operations buildings of its own—one known as the Warehouse, to fabricate escape aids; and the other as the Creamery, to handle coded messages to and from POW camps. The British impressed upon Winfrey the importance and value of back-and-forth communication with code users inside German POW camps. By now, hundreds of incarcerated code users were providing invaluable intelligence to MI-9 and specifying the need for escape aids, camp by camp.

Winfrey began to race the clock. The United States Army was a month away from landing on three beaches in North Africa. Its aim was to push on from Casablanca, Oran, and Algiers to capture Tunis before General Erwin Rommel, commander of the legendary Afrika Korps, could retreat from Libya and flee through this port back to Sicily.

General Carl Spaatz abruptly learned that he must delay his buildup in England and support this push from new headquarters in North Africa, where he was to organize a second flying force (the 12th Air Force). Spaatz would retain command of the diminished 8th by way of his subordinate, Ira Eaker.

Winfrey quickly staffed 1142 and expedited its full operation. Those responsible for codes decided to duplicate the British “code inside a letter home” technique. They educated hundreds of code users at their US training bases and also in England. Each code user was admonished never to reveal his skill, or even attempt to identify another code user. In effect, these men would comprise an “invisible regiment” scattered to the wind. Only after arrival inside a POW camp would a code user privately inform the camp’s senior Allied officer of his skill, so this commander could avail himself of it.

Spaatz, having seen the Waddingtons factory, contemplated and then requested Winfrey not to enlist the efforts of manufacturers like Parker Brothers. 1142 would purchase the goods it needed in retail stores and figure out, within the confines of the Warehouse, how to seamlessly insert escape aids inside them. Spaatz was concerned that “hundreds and hundreds” of factory workers at manufacturers might otherwise become aware of what was going on, and word would slip. Why entertain such risk?

In the instance of Monopoly, this posed a formidable challenge: how to “lift” the label off its game board to access its cardboard liner and, equally, how to reapply the label as if nothing was amiss. A slight tear, crease, or misalignment could arouse the suspicion of a competent German inspector.

Winfrey hired chemists and put them to work to discover an effective solvent rather than asking the leaders of Parker Brothers to disclose their adhesive. After much trial and error, the chemists succeeded. Equipment was purchased to precisely reapply the game label following the liner’s loading.

And so, as an ironic footnote, Parker Brothers—the firm that had made Monopoly a household name—would not know, until decades later, that its game was used to smuggle escape aids, or that its partner across the Atlantic, John Waddington Limited, was actively doing so on behalf of British military intelligence. Moreover, Parker’s leaders were baffled by the steady sales of Monopoly, week by week, at stores in the Washington, DC, area, supporting what became known as the Spaatz Effect.

Chapter 5

The Spaatz Effect and the Birth of Monopoly X

Army intelligence officer Technical Sergeant Ralph Baer was once challenged by a mathematically minded airman to calculate the disruption to the American military establishment and budget caused by the creation and transfer, to England, of the 8th Air Force. Baer, a radio engineer by education, immediately thought of defining the “disruption” as an equation. He had in mind one pertaining to a series of resistors where RT = R1 + R2 + R3, etc.

Baer would become a television expert, designer of defense electronics, and go on to invent video-game technology, for which he was awarded the National Medal of Technology in 2006. His achievements are the subject of an exhibit in the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.

Baer, a unique combination of modesty and self-confidence, was also a secret agent. He was a member of a select group of European immigrants trained undercover at Camp Ritchie in Maryland, who became known as “Ritchie Boys.” His German Jewish family had escaped Hitler’s terror in 1938. At Ritchie, the twenty-one-year-old Baer learned methods of interrogating German prisoners of war, including techniques of counterintelligence and psychological warfare which he applied when he was transferred to MIS-Y (where he also became aware of 1142). When D-Day approached, his team was quietly transferred to England to await their turn to enter France. It was during his downtime that Baer devised his ingenious equation, never suspecting for a moment, as he later admitted, that Monopoly X was influenced by its terms.

Since General Carl Spaatz was the overall air commander in Europe, Baer named his calculation the “Spaatz Disruption Effect,” which in time became generally known as the Spaatz Effect or “SE.” (The use of initials was rampant in the military and intelligence services and, some would say, still is, indiscriminately so.)

Baer came up with:

SE = Af + Sp+ B+ F+ Au+ Tr +P+ C + WHE

It was a string of consequences, resulting from the fundamental decision necessary to produce the total effect. It went like this:

SE—the sum total

Spaatz had been given the objective of rendering German industry incapable of supporting its armed forces, which required bombing it into ruin while also destroying Germany’s protective shield—its air force (the Luftwaffe). SE, the Spaatz Effect, encompassed all the elements required to achieve this dual goal. These included:

Af

The number of airfields needed to base the required airplanes and crews. Each group of forty-eight bombers—four squadrons of twelve bombers each—needed its own airfield. A fighter group contained sixty fighters among four squadrons.

Sp

The number of support personnel needed to build and maintain these airfields, load the aircraft with bombs and fuel, keep them in flying condition, and shelter and succor the crews and staff. Additional support personnel were essential to deliver the required supplies to these bases.

B, F, Au

These represented the number of bomber, fighter, and auxiliary groups needed to accomplish the mission, taking into account expected losses and obsolescence.

Tr

The number of training facilities required, stateside, to shape up all the men (and some women) needed to fly these aircraft.

P

The requisite number of pilots to be trained to fly these planes, allowing for expected losses. It was also critical that women learn to fly bombers, fighters, and transports to get the planes from the factories to their assigned staging bases in the US.

C

The number of specialized crew members needed, especially for the bombers (the largest of which had a crew of ten: two pilots, bombardier, navigator, radio operator, flight engineer, and several gunners).

It was anticipated that many of these aircraft would be shot down, with the loss of one heavy bomber resulting in ten men either dead, on the ground running from the Germans, and/or captured. Should Spaatz order one thousand “heavy” bomber sorties within a given week, two hundred to three hundred crew members would typically become unaccounted for.

WHE

This stood for whatever the hell else.

Unbeknownst to Baer, WHE included the number of Monopoly games needed to smuggle escape aids to imprisoned airmen. With each passing week, the ever-increasing number of bombers Spaatz employed to achieve his objectives increased this need in direct proportion. 1142’s Warehouse produced escape aids including doctored Monopoly sets that earned the nickname “Monopoly X.” Each was accompanied by two or more unaltered Monopoly games, known as “Monopoly V” (Monopoly vanilla).

The Spaatz Effect jolted American industry because it compelled the production of tens of thousands of aircraft (B, F, and Au) in factories that formerly made consumer goods, like automobiles. These included:

Fighter aircraft (F) known as Lightnings, Thunderbolts, and Mustangs

Bombers (B) known as Marauders and Mitchells if medium in size; Havocs; and (later) the more powerful Invaders if designated as “attack”; and most especially the “heavies,” Liberators and Flying Fortresses

Dakota transports (Au) that flew supplies and airdropped paratroopers, while trainer airplanes instilled a firm grip on the stick in rookie pilots

Combined, these warplanes were produced in numbers that were beyond imagination prior to the war. For example, throughout 1944 one such plane was completed every six minutes.

Eighty-four airfields in England were manned by one hundred thousand ground personnel. Back in the States, military facilities popped up in city after city, greatly altering their commerce and employment.

CAMP BOARDWALK

Perhaps no two cities were so fundamentally transformed as were Miami, Florida, and Atlantic City, New Jersey. These became the sites of the Army Air Forces’ basic training centers (Tr). With no time to wait until proper bases could be built, the air force commandeered forty-two hotels in Atlantic City, for a dollar a day per room, and dozens more in Miami, and turned them into austere barracks.

The Atlantic City Training Center became known as “Camp Boardwalk.” The city’s famous boardwalk, the most prized space on the Monopoly board, became a thoroughfare for marching and drills. Convention Hall, at the time the largest structure of its kind in the world (big enough to host regulation football games), was used for exercises and physical training for budding airmen, up to four thousand per session. The nearby beaches and sand dunes became gunnery practice ranges. WAAC (Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps) cadets were trained here as well. Hundreds of medical personnel manned Thomas England General Hospital, where wounded 8th Air Force airmen convalesced.

Eventually over 100,000 crew members (C) and 25,000 pilots (P) would be trained to serve in the 8th Air Force. The compilation of all these jaw-dropping numbers dramatized the massive impact of the Spaatz Effect.

Camp Boardwalk was popular among its trainees. Atlantic City still had plenty of attractions that could provide some fun. To keep up morale on the home front, entertainers presented shows, and the city’s annual Miss America Pageant continued during the war. Airmen found lots of pretty women to woo; most women had multiple men chasing after them. Sports and games were quite popular. Baseball and basketball, poker and dice, but also backgammon, bridge, and especially Monopoly, given the game’s obvious connection to Atlantic City.

The forerunner of this game originated in Washington, DC, with made-up street names. The version Parker Brothers licensed based its property names on those found in or near the self-proclaimed “world’s playground.”

Atlantic City was planned in the 1850s as a vacation resort. Built on a barrier island off the coast of southern New Jersey, its crosstown streets were named for states of the union, like Pennsylvania and Illinois, while its long avenues were named for oceans and seas, such as Baltic and Atlantic. As the city grew, “stub” streets such as Oriental and Saint James bisected a few of the state-named streets. Four railroads (one of them actually a bus service) and two utilities provided inspiration for the remaining properties. The theme of amassing and developing real estate, the handling of lots of cash (even if only play money), and the threat of a sudden plunge into bankruptcy kept players—including many of the troops in Camp Boardwalk learning the basics of air force life—coming back for more.

Carl Spaatz himself never had opportunity to visit Camp Boardwalk, where so many of his airmen got their start. But two of them, Lee “Shorty” Gordon and Harold Lawrence Klem, would typify the thousands who became POWs and who benefited from his determination to establish 1142. Many others would contribute to the success of the escape lines run by Neave; justify Norman Watson’s determination to provide escape aids under Clutty’s influence; convince Spaatz to attack a sinister facility in Poland built by IG Farben; reveal the traitors in Culbertson’s message from Giorgi Toldze; and thrust Benoîte Jean into a life-or-death struggle with, among others, England’s worst traitor: Harold “Paul” Cole.

Chapter 6

The Top Hat

“Get Out of Jail Free”

After the final rescue ship sailed away from Dunkirk on June 4, 1940, a sense of foreboding gripped the stranded rear guard of the British Expeditionary Force. Surrender seemed inevitable. Amid the gloom, Harold Cole stood tall, like a beachgoer unperturbed by the appearance of deadly sharks in the water and swirling tornadoes on the mainland.

Forty thousand British troops plus a larger number of French soldiers were left behind so that four hundred thousand others could be rescued. It was assumed the German army had netted the lot of them at Dunkirk. But the net was frayed. Many French soldiers slipped through to fight another day. At least two thousand British warriors went to ground and headed for their “homes away from home” in Flanders, where they had been billeted prior to hostilities. The hosting families had not resented the “British invasion” of 1939–40. Many recalled, with appreciation, the staunch defense of their towns by the previous generation of British troops during the Great War. With the arrival in 1940 of soldiers comprising the 2nd British Expeditionary Force (BEF), they felt safe once more. That is, until neighboring Belgium upheld its neutrality and forbade the British army from advancing into its territory. This gesture backfired. When the blitzkrieg began, the BEF had no fortified positions or forward command posts near Brussels.

After the Wehrmacht threw aside the weak Belgian army at their common border, the Belgian king belatedly begged the BEF to advance into his country. At the moment the BEF approached Brussels, the rapidly advancing panzer tanks of the Wehrmacht swept southward, to the Somme Valley, thereby cutting off the British warriors from French soldiers entrenched in northern France.

The Wehrmacht’s action threatened to isolate and expose the entire BEF to capture. It had to retreat, and rapidly, so they selected Dunkirk, a seaside town in northern France, as a rallying point. As in any forced retreat, disorder ensued. This one transformed a highly organized army into a routed crowd making haste, discarding all manner of equipment along the way.

At the beginning of the panic, Sergeant Harold Cole was sleeping inside a military jail in Lille. Before his British army jailers fled, they unlocked his cell and advised Cole to fend for himself. Remarkably, Cole’s first aim was to square the score with his nemesis, Private Martin Moran. But the canine’s attack near the café where Moran was sleeping thwarted Cole’s revenge. In time he would fear similar behavior by any dog he encountered, and he developed a tactic to ward them off: a swift kick under the jaw. More significantly, the canine attack seemed to have jolted Cole into the awareness that he was an “undesirable.” The record of his criminal past and recurring imprisonments would have been discovered by now. He would surely be incarcerated if found among the rescued Tommies of the BEF.

Cole determined that if he were to be welcomed home, he would need to redeem himself. Accordingly, Cole hurried not west but south, to the home of a friend. From his friend’s window, he stole glances at the endless German infantry marching past his hiding place, as if watching a loop on a movie screen. None of the Germans took notice of the British deserter.

The dash of the panzers had left the German infantry breathless. Its main objective became to catch up. None of these troops could be spared to police the rear because the war with France wasn’t over. After Dunkirk, the German army had to pivot and attack the French army across northern France. Only after the Wehrmacht punched several holes in the French line did French leaders sue for peace. Paris had been abandoned on June 14; France formally surrendered four days later. The blitzkrieg in France lasted five weeks from start to finish.

During his time in hiding, Cole became aware of hundreds of fellow British soldiers stranded in Lille. He joined them for games. Acey-Deucey, the backgammon variant, was a favorite. So was Monopoly, if one could find a set. Cole continued to lament the lack of metal tokens in the French edition and was obliged to settle for one of its hated colored “chits.”

Some of these British soldiers elected to go to ground and wait out the end of the war. How long could it take? Six months? A year? The rest were desperate to get home as quickly as possible. The “short way” across the Channel was out of the question. According to the terms of the Armistice, the entire north of France, including Paris and all of France’s seacoast, was now in the German Occupied Zone. The coastal portion of this zone was further known as the Forbidden Zone (Zone Interdite). No one entered or left this area without proper identification. It could take months to obtain official papers, and the delay encouraged counterfeiting, abetted by a local priest named Pierre Carpentier who employed his own printing press for this purpose. Cole befriended him.

The unoccupied Free Zone of southern France became Vichy France because the seat of government was established in the resort of Vichy, 250 miles south of Paris. Even this zone wasn’t exactly free, though. The French leaders at Vichy were those who aligned themselves with the Germans, led by Maréchal Pétain, a French hero of the Great War.

While the zones and the documentation issues were sorting themselves, a Great War widow in Lille began to admonish the citizens around her, saying, “We must once again collect the English and send them home.” Day after day, she led three or four stranded BEF soldiers disguised in civilian garb to the train station in Lille and sent them on to Paris, where friends awaited to escort them farther. Some of her brave friends acted as interpreters to ward off curiosity during the train rides. While the widow encouraged many of her friends to help, she preferred young women because they most easily distracted the Germans.

The following two months—June and July of 1940—were termed the “romantic months” in the history of escape. The Germans were kept busy setting up border crossings and administration centers in the Occupied Zone. The Gestapo (Geheime Staatspolizei, or Secret State Police) was just beginning to flex its muscles inside the Occupied Zone. The Abwehr had not yet arrived, nor had the dreaded SS security squads.

There being no need yet for organized escape lines, the widow’s group of friends proved quite sufficient. Then the belt of German security tightened.

Every dictatorship learns, by default (and usually to its chagrin), that an ever-increasing percentage of its populace does not welcome demands for conformity, obedience, and sacrifice. To enforce its grip, the regime must rapidly train security forces, let them loose on the people, and as surely as night follows day, a police state emerges. The despotism of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei) led by Adolf Hitler proved to be no exception. In France, the ever-efficient Nazis required only three months to organize and impose one.

Those Tommies still languishing in Lille knew they had to move. Their only hope for salvation was to get inside Vichy territory and keep going, three hundred miles farther, until they reached the great Mediterranean port of Marseille.

Like grains of sand cast upon the surface of a lake, these British soldiers gradually descended into Vichy and reached bottom. There they discovered that no ships were sailing for England. Nevertheless, defiant souls had organized escape lines based in Marseille to help them cross the southern coast of France. A trickle of Tommies soon reached safety in neutral Spain after trekking across the imposing Pyrenees Mountains.

As August unfolded, a new escape line organized itself in Lille. It shaped up under the direction of a leader who appeared as if out of thin air. Based in the suburb of La Madeleine, he went by innumerable names. Some came to call him Captain Paul Delobel. To most he was known as Captain Paul Cole.

This leader was obviously English, and rumor had it he had been sent by British military intelligence. He became the Tommies’ special emissary—deserving of respect, obedience, and even awe.

Cole’s tactics bespoke cunning, although he did raise eyebrows with extravagant tales of escape from pursuing Germans. The gullible believed it to be a miracle he had not been captured. Unlike the youthful soldiers he rescued, thirty-three-year-old Cole was seasoned and savvy. He relied on skills like stealth and misdirection, learned during his years of criminal experience. When necessary, he was courageous. Every fortnight, Cole brought between ten and fourteen soldiers to Paris, then returned 140 miles to La Madeleine and did it again. As his confidence grew, so did his range. By August, he was collecting and escorting BEF soldiers the full distance to Marseille, where he agreed to join forces with the highly effective “Garrow line” that had the means to get them safely into Spain.

His helpers revered him for his eccentric bravado. One took a top hat from a scarecrow and presented it to him as a tribute. Cole would don the purloined hat when at his hideaway in Paris. He loved being called “the Top Hat.”

On July 10, 1940, the aerial Battle of Britain began to rage. Many British pilots, shot down on the wrong side of the Channel in northern France and Belgium, were compelled to evade capture. The story of Cole’s rescue of one of these pilots exemplifies his daring, quick thinking . . . and con-artist instincts.

Spitfire pilot First Lieutenant Denis Crowley-Milling came under fire while escorting RAF bombers. A bullet pierced his engine and Crowley-Milling’s aircraft went into a dive. He had two options: bail out or ride his fighter plane to the ground. He chose the latter, and through skillful use of his control column he brought the now engineless plane out of its dive and slid across an open field. He jumped out and set a detonator to prevent his plane from falling intact into enemy hands, then ran. His belly landing occurred thirty miles southeast of Dunkirk, thirty-six miles from Lille. Having been briefed by MI-9, he knew that in the event he had to bail out, Lille was a good place to go, because there were many “helpers” in its vicinity. MI-9 dared not provide the names of these helpers because there was too great a risk that interrogation, or torture, would extract the helpers’ names from them. Pilots would have to sort this out for themselves. Advice had been provided: seek out a farmhouse, a church, or perhaps a town doctor.

Crowley-Milling carried one of Clutty’s evader kits—the type that resembled a canteen. It included not only a map, but food and medicine, and within its cap a watch and compass. Guided by the latter, he headed eastward. At nightfall, after walking twenty-five miles through the woods, he knocked on the door of a farmhouse. Fortunately, the occupants knew of a helper on the Garrow line. A week later, Crowley-Milling was turned over to a blacksmith who took him to Lille. In the back of a butcher shop, he was presented to “Captain Paul” Cole.

Upon hearing Crowley-Milling’s tale, Cole nicknamed him “Stick” because of his skill with his control column to land his stricken Spitfire. Recently, Cole had harbored two BEF soldiers and a Czech pilot. Together with a mate named Roland Lepers, all six men set out for Marseille with Cole in the lead.

Stick was unnerved from the start because Cole stuck out so glaringly. Given his manners, appearance, Cockney accent, and atrocious pronunciation of French (especially worrisome when speaking to Germans), it was obvious he was British. But he was completely fearless. In Bethune, six additional soldiers and pilots joined the band on the run.

Their first objective was the train station at Abbeville. A bridge had to be crossed and documents produced, and Cole had only four passes. With aplomb, he escorted the first four men over, then returned and handed the same passes to the next group. Stick was alarmed. “I don’t look like this photo!” he cried. Cole told him it wouldn’t matter. Sure enough, Cole distracted the German guard, who didn’t bother to match photos to faces. All crossed safely.

On the Abbeville platform, Cole told the group, “If you see any German soldiers, mix with them. Don’t try to hide. Whistle at the girls if any are about, like glorious French bastards do.” On the train, the evaders, dressed as they were in a curious collection of civilian garb, tried to sink into their seats and pretend to sleep. Cole wasn’t tired, but he was hungry. He said to Stick, “Let’s go to the restaurant car.” Only two seats were available, opposite a pair of German officers. Stick was dumbfounded when Cole loudly broadcast his awful French to gain the waiter’s attention. The officers remained oblivious.

In Paris that night, Cole arranged rooms in the back of a brothel. Stick slept fitfully, Cole like a baby. In the morning, the group grabbed a train to Tours, then switched to one heading east across the border into Vichy. Along the way, the train filled with German soldiers. Cole’s inner alarm sounded; he ushered everyone out at the next station. After hiding in the woods until dusk, Cole adroitly led them thirteen miles across the border to a station in Vichy where they boarded another train. Several hours later, they got up to disembark at Marseille. French gendarmes, under a spotlight, were stopping each exiting passenger. Those with suitcases were detained. Those clutching little bags or nothing at all were waved through. Cole had previously advised each evader to abandon all large bags. “Sorry, chaps, it’s you alone—no bag—or you’ll get something much worse.”

Minutes later, and almost surreally, Stick and the others were sipping tea in the stylish apartment of Dr. George and Madame Rodocanachi, wealthy patrons of the Garrow line. Cole then bade his adieus to them all. It seemed he had a lady friend to visit—in fact several lady friends. Cole had mastered the art of impersonating an upper-crust British officer, which proved irresistible to many young, patriotic French beauties.

Cole continued to bring five to ten pilots and other servicemen south every two weeks, maintaining this amazing turnaround for an entire year. Cole’s well-deserved reputation had come to the attention of Ian Garrow, the rugged Scotsman who had founded this, the first effective escape line manned by partisans in southern France. What Garrow lacked was a skilled leader to supplement his line in the north. Garrow decided Cole could be that leader. But he needed approval from London.

An MI-6 agent named Donald Darling was stationed in Lisbon. Garrow informed him, via courier, of the dashing but somewhat mysterious soldier who called himself Captain Paul Cole. Garrow was aware of Cole’s extensive love life and reported this in his communiqué. As part of his mission, Darling was tasked with making certain no undercover Gestapo agent penetrated an escape line. He was alert for unusual characters, like Cole, who might be working for the enemy.

While Darling did not think Cole was “turned,” instinct warned him this Cockney fellow’s behavior could lead to him being compromised. He therefore requested that MI-6 headquarters in London ask Scotland Yard to run a background check. Strangely, no reply was forthcoming. Darling could offer Garrow no facts to justify caution. Garrow, anxious to move forward, hitched his star to the persona of “Paul” Cole, not realizing he was also getting a confidence man.

Cole’s ability to be the “good lad” was inevitably overwhelmed by his demon, which stirred once more and demanded attention. Money fueled this demon. The tall, lanky Englishman liked to pay for another round of drinks. He also needed copious amounts of money to entertain women at both ends of the escape line, and a lover in Paris.

Bringing an evader to Marseille required hard cash. Food, clothing, train tickets, and identity cards had to be purchased, as did also the payment of an occasional bribe. Cole used these legitimate needs to persuade Garrow to advance ten thousand francs to fund his northern operation. He guaranteed Garrow that a Belgian backer would cover the sum. Cole, of course, siphoned off much of this handsome windfall, as he had done with the sergeants’ mess fund he’d purloined.

When necessary, the con man in Cole could be summoned to avoid arrest. In July 1941, Cole was taking a downed squadron leader named F. W. Higginson to Marseille. Higginson was a bona fide hero, having shot down thirteen German aircraft. Cole had obtained forged documents for Higginson from Abbé Pierre Carpentier, the kindly priest in Abbeville who owned that printing press. Higginson’s forged papers stated: “This man has an unsound mind and cannot function.”

Higginson regarded Cole as loyal and admirable, although he did question his choice of dress. Rather than trousers, Cole wore plus fours—knickerbockers that extended four inches below the knee—and loud shirts. Higginson also learned Cole’s briefcase contained a mass of information on German troop departures from Lille, including details of one unit being sent to Poland.

Higginson had no idea how Cole came upon this trove, but its presence worried the pilot because if they were stopped and searched he would be guilty by association. Higginson’s fear increased when they crossed the demarcation line. A German officer ordered them to halt.

Cole had advised Higginson to keep his lips sealed in such a situation. Cole smoothly explained that his friend was simpleminded, and then produced his papers. The officer read the document but remained skeptical. “I see too many simpleminded men these days. Healthy men. I am not convinced.”

Higginson carried a small case of his own in which were packed spare clothes beneath a large slab of dark chocolate. Under the clothing was one of Clutty’s escape kits.

Cole got into a shouting match with the German. Nonplussed, the German accused the mute of being an English airman in disguise. He insisted Higginson’s briefcase be opened. Cole’s case was ignored, so he set it aside and obliged the officer by “turning out” Higginson’s briefcase at the roadside.

The German knelt down to peer into the case as it was opened. Due to the hot summer sun, the dark chocolate had melted. Cole immediately worked a con. “You see! You see! This man has shat in his briefcase. I told you he was out of his mind.”

The German sprang upright and winced in disgust. He ordered the case closed and commanded Cole and his bewildered companion to go.

A few days after delivering Stick to the Garrow line, Cole embarked on a new and more dangerous sideline business. He began to gather intelligence. As a member of an escape line, he cast an eye on things of military value, like troop dispositions, which he reported to a grateful British consulate official in Lyon. Cole appreciated the pat on the back and reminder of one’s worth to Mother Britannia. But “Paul” Cole was not merely observing. He had begun to go out of his way to gather secrets.

In midsummer of 1941, in order to facilitate his diversions, Cole began delegating escape runs to Private James Smith, a Gordon Highlander, who had also slipped past the Germans. Cole had enlisted Smith’s aid as an escape-line helper the prior month and knew this young man was both tireless and reliable. While Smith was engaged on a run, Cole would wander off to study German units and installations. He obtained maps of airfields and even actual Luftwaffe orders. With the German Wehrmacht poised to leap across the Channel and invade England once the Luftwaffe subdued the Royal Air Force, this intelligence was invaluable to British command.

So why was a womanizing, sybaritic deserter risking his life to spy on the Germans when he had become so adept at hoodwinking them? Unbeknownst to every one of his escape-line contacts including Ian Garrow, Harold “Paul” Cole had become an agent for MI-6 and Colonel Claude Dansey.

Dansey’s hiring of Cole contravened the agency’s long-established recruitment policy. MI-6 signed up graduates from the right universities who drank at the right pubs and belonged to the right clubs. Cole came from a threadbare district of London. His parents had married only a month before his birth; his father shuffled from one unskilled job to another. The family moved five times within the district of Hoxton—one of the roughest neighborhoods of Cockney London.

After Cole’s father died during the Great War, his mother remarried, and his stepfather cared little for him. Harold Cole left school at fourteen and drifted into crime. By 1923 he was in prison.

Although Cole was not properly schooled, he possessed brains and decided to get out of his London “shithole” and move up in the world—by deceit if necessary. Once released, and using a series of disguises, he began to operate in well-to-do neighborhoods, bilking rich people. When this scheme misfired in 1928, he landed back in jail.

After serving his term, Cole adopted fancy dress and improved his speech. He learned that in the stratified realm of Great Britain’s upper classes, appearance counted far more than substance. His pencil-thin mustache and carefully groomed hair completed his transformation to “upper-class chap.” He began to use his tall, thin frame as a sexual lure, and gained love and money from unsuspecting women. He devised new scams, struck bargains with police, and learned how to manipulate others in authority. When prison reclaimed him in 1935, he convinced the warden he was dying of consumption (tuberculosis) and got early release—only to be arrested once more in early 1939. Fatefully, seven months later, he showed up in Martin Moran’s recruitment line at Colchester, and within a few months’ time was promoted to sergeant, and stationed on the Continent.

Though Cole’s criminal past should have outright disqualified him from consideration by MI-6, Dansey signed him up for reasons both urgent and practical. During Germany’s lightning conquest of western Europe, all of Dansey’s field stations had been rolled up. He was left blind on the Continent at the very moment his prime minister wanted to know everything that was happening behind the lines. Therefore, when Donald Darling issued his request to MI-6 regarding one Harold Cole, Claude Dansey took notice, put principle aside, and decided he needed Cole. He ordered Scotland Yard’s report on Cole’s nefarious past to be sealed, and had his man at the British consulate in Marseille recruit “Paul” Cole as an MI-6 agent. There would be grave consequences.

Cole already possessed complete knowledge of the Garrow escape line in France. He seemed to have a photographic memory for names—even of those helpers he had met but once. Simultaneously Cole was acquiring detailed knowledge of German dispositions, much coveted by MI-6. German intelligence soon became curious about his comings and goings.

The all-powerful Dansey knew that in northern France, MI-9 relied upon a handful of French and Belgian patriots who helped downed fliers reach an escape line. Given the vacuum in his own network, Dansey surmised—incorrectly, as it turned out—that these MI-9 helpers were also reporting intelligence. Rattled by his own suspicions, he provided Cole with the names of the helpers (MI-9 could keep nothing secret from Dansey) and instructed Cole to observe their actions.

One such agent was going to and from Strasbourg on the German border. Strasbourg, the capital of the province of Alsace, lay inside the easternmost part of the Occupied Zone, which the Nazis termed the “Closed Zone.” Alsace and Lorraine had been ceded to Germany after its victory in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. These provinces had been returned to France after the Great War, but flipped once again following the capitulation of France in May 1940. Germany began kicking out French citizens and encouraging migration of German citizens into these provinces. Consequently, if one were not German, or at least married to a German, it became difficult to obtain travel papers—even more so when traveling near the coast in the so-called Forbidden Zone, where many German units were stationed. Dansey’s man in Marseille managed to provide Cole with an immaculate forgery. Thereafter, Cole had no difficulty getting to where he needed to go.

In late 1941, Cole discreetly tailed an agent to Strasbourg. He watched as this man—with a bouquet of flowers in hand—traversed a cobblestone street and lingered under a lamppost. Two other men emerged from one of the stately homes opposite. Seeing them, the agent lowered his arm and allowed the bouquet to slip from his grasp and drop to the sidewalk, then turned and walked away. The two men opposite followed him to the Hauptbahnhof, where all three boarded a train for Brussels.

Cole followed, and by so doing missed the sight of an attractive young woman when, moments later, she emerged from the same home, walked across the street, and retrieved the bouquet. Her name was Benoîte Jean. Their paths were destined to collide, with profound consequences.

Ian Garrow and his brave souls knew nothing of Cole’s affiliation with MI-6. However, the devil in Harold “Paul” Cole now compromised him. His flamboyant behavior was drawing the kind of attention that could place them all in jeopardy. With the Germans beginning to sniff, Pat O’Leary began to worry that, if arrested, Cole would “sing.” He also became convinced Cole was an imposter, and suspected he was stealing line funds.

The dominos tipped in La Madeleine, where worked a French city administrator named François Duprez. Duprez, thirty-two years old, was tall and lanky like Cole. But he was patriotic to the core and brave to a fault. His task prior to the blitzkrieg had been to find billets for British soldiers stationed in his town. After the Blitz, he was asked to provide the same service for the Wehrmacht’s Soldaten. Duprez’s city job included the issuance of many types of documents, so he had access to forms, papers, and authorization stamps. Since evaders required forms to travel without fear of arrest or suspicion, Cole and Duprez became closely associated and forged an effective working relationship. Duprez provided Cole with accurate information about German troop positions and, to Cole’s delight, willingly offered some funding. Cole counted his blessings and before long persuaded Duprez to advance larger sums of money, all the while assuring Duprez that the British consul in Marseille would repay every franc. Cole then boasted to Garrow in Marseille that a “banker in the north” had guaranteed all the money that Garrow had donated from his private funds.

This volatile scheme might have endured had Cole not lit a fuse because Ian Garrow’s most trusted assistant in Marseille, the thoughtful, studious Albert-Marie Edmond Guérisse, began to suspect Cole of chicanery. The thirty-year-old Belgian medical officer admired the Irish and thus was inspired to hide his identity under the cover name “Pat O’Leary.” He set aside his profession, and his country, to work for the big Scotsman, Garrow, out of Marseille. “O’Leary” rapidly absorbed his techniques for whisking an evader across Vichy France to Spain.

Inevitably, O’Leary had dealings with “Captain Paul” Cole. He was unsettled by this womanizer and spendthrift, and began to wonder how Cole could afford it all. He also asked himself: Why did Cole disappear for days without accounting for his movements, and why were some of the evaders under his escort never heard from again?

Garrow agreed to dispatch O’Leary to La Madeleine to compare notes with François Duprez. There, O’Leary discovered that city administrator Duprez was not a banker as Cole had claimed, and that “Captain Paul” had scammed both of them out of handsome sums.

O’Leary reported his findings to Garrow, who agonized over what to do. Should they kill Cole? Or must they turn the matter over to the British consulate? But before Garrow could make up his mind, Garrow himself was arrested by the Vichy police.

Who exposed Garrow? O’Leary wondered, suddenly in charge of the Garrow line. He suspected “Paul” Cole had at least a finger in this pie. Angered, O’Leary devised a trap intended to ensnare Cole.

In November 1941, Cole was instructed that, after delivering his next group of evaders to Marseille, he was to report at the safe house of Doctor Rodocanachi. After Cole arrived, O’Leary and two of his men—dapper businessman Mario Prassinos and escape-line hero Bruce Dowding—asked Cole to explain once more the financial guarantees by this man Duprez. When Cole repeated his assurances, Duprez burst out of the adjoining room. He assailed Cole with the words “Liar! Liar!” Cole fell to his knees, and when he begged for forgiveness, Duprez struck him on the face. Bleeding, Cole, in a moment of weakness, confessed, upon which they dragged Cole into the bathroom and locked the door. They debated, rather heatedly, if Cole should be shot there and then. Prassinos, a short, pudgy man of gentle disposition, was horrified at the thought of murder. Dowding, a rugged Aussie who had faced death many times, opposed clemency, saying, “Cole is a con artist who can talk himself out of any jam. If we don’t kill him, he will find a way to kill us.”

O’Leary and Duprez were swayed, but didn’t feel the shot should be fired there. They decided to summon a security detail from the British consulate to take Cole into captivity and thereafter file evidence of treason against him.

Cole had surely heard every word spoken and knew three of the four men desired that he die. Just before the bathroom door was opened, a muffled noise was heard. Garrow burst in and saw the room’s small window partway open. Somehow, Cole had wiggled his skinny body through the opening and, despite the third-floor height, had reached the alley between the flats. Garrow rushed to the window as Cole made for the thoroughfare. The Top Hat quickly blended into the crowd milling about on this street in Marseille, turned a corner, and disappeared.

Cole, realizing he had become a man with a bull’s-eye on his back, rushed back to Paris and found shelter in the arms of his girlfriend. He relied on her help and concealment while making arrangements to flee farther north. Three weeks later, he was back in Lille and living in the Deram household, to whom he explained he had dealt with “a bit of German trouble” in Marseille necessitating his staying out of sight for a bit. He dared not mention that Duprez had exposed him as a fraud, and would return to spread the word.

By now, the Gestapo was not the only German agency seeking out “Paul” Cole. The Abwehr had designs on him as well. This agency of German counterintelligence, Germany’s counterpart of England’s MI-5, had watched Cole, and others, for several months. Its chief, Cornelis Verloop, took advantage of his Dutch origin and avoided suspicion by going about in plain clothes and, in the process, learned much about local escape-line members. After gleaning that Cole was back in Lille, Verloop sent agents to corner him at the Deram residence. Cole was quickly apprehended and brought downstairs, after hastily dressing in shirt and pants. He was forced to walk shoeless through the snow to a waiting car. Only after he was inside was he handed his coat and shoes. He was then driven to Abwehr headquarters, a few miles way.

Cole was offered a choice: execution following torture if he did not cooperate, or a paid position as a double agent if he agreed to help the Abwehr arrest everyone Cole knew to be working for escape lines.

Cole made his decision rather quickly. So quickly, in fact, that he denied Verloop the delicious pleasure of “persuasion.”

With a tip of his hat, this Monopoly player, army deserter, false captain, gigolo, and erstwhile hero chose to betray his country and become a consummate traitor.

Airey Neave and the escape lines were about to suffer greatly.

Chapter 7

“That’s Too Wonderful to Be True”

On a summer day in 1942, Airey Neave summoned Norman Watson to discuss a new escape aid. Watson was struck by Neave’s appearance. He found his new friend “beaten,” his confidence shaken. Watson delicately asked the Monopoly Escape Artist what was so troubling. Neave responded by referring to a scene in The Wizard of Oz. Watson visualized the movie as Neave spoke.

Toward the conclusion of this 1939 motion picture, Glinda, the good witch, tells Dorothy Gale, played by Judy Garland, that she has the power to go home merely by clicking her heels together three times and saying the words “There’s no place like home.” Dorothy, joyous, replies, “That’s too wonderful to be true.” She closes her eyes, says the words a few times, and wakes up safe in bed in Kansas. A happy, reflective ending ensues.

Neave had set up his point. “There being no place like home, Mr. Watson. Every downed airman and every Stalag escaper wants nothing more than to return home. Every day more of these depend on my magic, or truth be told, my lack thereof. Nonetheless, I bear the weight of their desires, but more often their disappointment.”

“But you—”

“Enough of my torment,” said Neave, turning to the day’s business topic—the feasibility of printing small maps on pure guncotton that would explode when touched by the end of a lit cigarette. This feature was essential, Neave emphasized, because these maps, unlike prior ones, would show actual escape routes and must not fall into enemy hands.

There was, however, a danger: Guncotton was highly volatile. Watson imagined the Waddingtons factory going up in flames if something went amiss during manufacture. While he agreed to conduct the needed experiments, Watson resolved that a fire brigade would be present throughout. Watson attempted to brighten Neave’s mood, saying, “So, Captain Neave, returning to the movie, you must be a good witch.”

Neave’s eyes became downcast once more. “A good witch endowed with small powers, beset by several bad witches with great powers.”

Watson absorbed the depth of his friend’s exasperation. “Nonsense. You have experience and expertise like few others, Captain. No one can handle your task better than yourself.”

This was implicitly correct. Neave’s experience was vast, including two failed attempts to escape captivity before a third—the harrowing dash from Colditz to Switzerland—succeeded. Watson reminded him, “You know your job. You have lived it.”

Watson further told Neave that every airman he helped rescue was a great victory worth celebrating. “I celebrate whenever Clutty informs me that one of our chaps has gotten back because of Monopoly. And there are many more as well, I trust.”

In time, Neave emerged from his funk.

Not long after, Neave offered a gift of sorts to Watson. He had learned, from Jimmy Langley, that MI-5 was about to send a man to break into the Waddingtons factory at night, leave a notice of his success, and report back to MI-5. This escapade would result in embarrassment for Watson, and MI-5 taking over security inside the Beast.

On the night of the break-in, after the MI-5 agent was well inside, Harry Moran flicked on the lights while others dropped a net over the hapless man’s head. The agent’s note was discovered and confiscated. He was obliged to take back to London a different one that read, simply: “You lose.” Peace was declared; MI-5 turned its attention elsewhere.

Neave bid Watson goodbye and returned to more pressing matters.

Aided by the one-armed Jimmy Langley, he was endeavoring to bolster, equip, and direct each of the main escape lines operating inside Belgium and France, helping them avoid the “nose” of the Gestapo secret police and the “X-ray eyes” of the Abwehr and SD intelligence agencies.

Several problems were confounding the mission of Room 900: a lack of priority at the Royal Air Force; a scarcity of radio equipment; the reluctance of the escape lines to take orders; and their opposition to adopting radio communication. And externally, there was the ever-present danger of turncoats and traitors—to wit, one Neave already knew about, named Harold Cole.

Neave relied on the RAF to airlift his agents into France. Once on the ground, they rendezvoused with escape-line leaders, who informed them of their latest routes and the location of German security posts. They also provided lists of items requested by their helpers, especially forged documents. Money always topped such lists. Cash was vital to pay smugglers and local guides to escort evaders across the Pyrenees (price: forty UK pounds for an officer and twenty pounds for an enlisted man).

After an MI-9 agent completed his mission, it became essential the agent not be captured. He had to be picked up, in an open field at night, and flown at a disconcertingly low altitude back to England. So far, none had been lost.

The aircraft used for these clandestine flights was nicknamed the “Lizzie.” Officially known as the Westland Lysander (the former the manufacturer, the latter the name of a Spartan admiral), this cleverly modified spotter plane could land on or take off from an exceptionally short field, carrying one passenger (two, uncomfortably) on a bench in its rear-facing compartment. In a pinch, one or two more people could lie on the adjoining platform, under the rear canopy).

The cause of the bottleneck was a lack of pilot availability. The RAF was concentrating its resources on Bomber Command to take the fight to the enemy. When some could be spared, the pilots were often prioritized to run missions on behalf of MI-6 and SOE agents. These rival agencies tended to ignore MI-9’s needs. Neave was exasperated because RAF leaders didn’t fully appreciate the rise in spirits whenever a downed pilot or crew member safely returned to base. Neave was compelled to lean on Jimmy Langley, in his role as MI-9’s liaison with Colonel Dansey of MI-6, to plead for the loan of a Lysander when absolutely essential.

Neave wanted to fly on one such flight. He regarded it as his duty to be dropped into France in order to meet the leaders of “his” escape lines. Norman Crockatt outright forbade this. He told Neave, “You simply know too much, not the least of which is the Monopoly secret. If subjected to unrelenting Gestapo torture, you will crack. And then down comes everything.” And so Neave would remain at his desk—“chained,” as he termed it—but also resolved to lead effectively at a distance (until a fateful day arrived in the summer of 1944).

The escape lines were grateful for Room 900’s support and funding, but they bristled at the notion of obeying orders from Neave. No topic evoked more intransigence than Neave’s desire to “drop” a radio set and operator into key cities, like Marseille and Paris, to provide timely transmissions.

Neave felt handicapped by the snail’s pace of courier messaging. It could take six to seven weeks to send a message and receive a reply. By now, Neave had adopted the cover name “Saturday.” If Saturday wanted to inform O’Leary in Marseille of the arrival of an MI-9 field agent, he would transmit the message to MI-6’s Donald Darling (“Sunday”) at Gibraltar. Sunday would dispatch a courier to the British consulate in Barcelona as soon as one became available. The courier would wait there until the next delivery of “parcels” (evaders) by an escape-line member—this helper and his parcels having negotiated the crossing of the Pyrenees with a Basque guide or a smuggler. The lines tended to deliver “goods” every ten to fourteen days, so the courier’s wait could be protracted. Upon his return to France, the line helper would carry Saturday’s message to Marseille. O’Leary would collect it after secure arrangements were made, then compose an acknowledgment to be sent off via the next helper going to Spain. Time would tick, and tick, and tick.

Should Neave wish to send a message to Paris or Brussels, he would contact the British attaché in Madrid (“Monday”) who would dispatch a courier to the consulate at San Sebastian, or Bilbao, on the Atlantic coast, below the western Pyrenees, to await the next Comet line delivery. The subsequent journey and return also took weeks.

O’Leary and other line leaders opposed using radio sets because they were aware of the Gestapo’s roving vans which used a then advanced technique of “triangulating” to locate a transmitter. Once a set was pinpointed, Gestapo agents attempted a quick arrest. Neave offered a countermeasure. If lookouts were posted and the operator moved his transmitter instantly after use (an exit route having been plotted in advance) the Gestapo’s arrival would likely be too late.

Reluctantly, the lines agreed to adopt radio. Having achieved this small victory, Neave contended with lack of equipment and the need to persuade skilled operators, most of whom had previously exited these nations, to risk their necks by returning to occupied France and Belgium. The first operator to return disappeared after arrival. It seemed his primary motivation was to find his estranged family. Only through persistence and extreme patience did Neave finally organize sufficient drops of radio operators and sets inside France to make communication timely.

The situation on the ground in late 1942 was much different than after the 1940 surrender of France, when millions of displaced people clogged the rail lines and roads, enabling evaders—even in uniform—to easily blend in with the crowds. The Gestapo clamped down and initiated a search for escape-line helpers, as well as leaders and wealthy backers. These men and women frustrated the German secret police. They were quite clever and knew how to evade a tail, or to feign innocence. Eager for tips and leads, the Gestapo began to offer large rewards to anyone who provided the names and whereabouts of escape-line members. The bribes produced only meager results. The Gestapo decided it needed an “inside” ally.

Its most fervent prayers were answered on the day after Pearl Harbor when Harold Cole dropped into their lap. While other informants had fingered a lone associate or two, Cole pinpointed everyone on the O’Leary line.

As this adverse turn of events unfolded, O’Leary pulled off the daring rescue of Ian Garrow from the Mauzac concentration camp in southwestern France. A husband-and-wife team fabricated a guard’s uniform and smuggled it into the camp for Garrow. The following morning he blended in with the night guards upon their departure.

O’Leary was hiding in a bush just fifty yards from the main gate. He hurried Garrow to Toulouse (north of the Pyrenees) where guides took him across the mountains and on to Barcelona. Garrow eventually reached safety in London. This brave Scotsman was decorated, promoted, and granted leave. MI-9 celebrated his escape but insisted he not return to France until the war was won. Before his departure, Garrow’s final words to his brother-in-arms Pat O’Leary had been, “How long can this go on?” The answer would arrive all too soon for Pat O’Leary.

Cole’s entrapment in Lille occurred five months before Neave took command of Room 900. Neave grimaced while reading a report detailing the carnage that ensued. In the SD’s first sweep, fifty helpers were rounded up. In addition, and most alarmingly, Cole induced an assistant named Roger le Neveu to betray O’Leary. The Pat line’s leader was arrested, tried, and imprisoned. Moved from one concentration camp to another, he ended up in Dachau near Munich, where he was tortured and eventually sentenced to death. In the spring of 1945 his life was spared only because the final death sentence was handed down just a few days before Dachau’s SS garrison surrendered. O’Leary and Cole would meet again, though only one would be aware of the occasion.

The Pat line’s main financial backers in Brussels were also sent to concentration camps. Harold Cole was present when some of these were arrested, to make sure the right persons were nabbed. During these operations, Gestapo agents typically pretended to arrest Cole as well, in order to conceal his duplicity.

The O’Leary line, however, even though it was so depleted, refused to die. An eccentric sixty-one-year-old woman named Marie Louise Dissard (code-named “Françoise”) and her cat (Mifouf)—virtually the sole survivors of the line—revived it that summer. Dissard resided in Toulouse where she sheltered many downed airmen in her apartment before escorting them, and Garrow, during his escape, to the Pyrenees. During the remainder of the war, Dissard frustrated all attempts by the Gestapo to locate her.

Neave referred to the revitalized line as the “Françoise line.” By war’s end, the Garrow-O’Leary-Françoise line had saved more than six hundred soldiers and airmen.

While Cole’s traitorous collaboration with the Gestapo was knocking down this line, another was on the rise. The young heroine at the top of the Comet line inspired Neave like no other. Her given name was Andrée de Jongh. She went by the nickname “Dédée,” and was only twenty-five years of age.

Dédée first appeared from out of nowhere at the British consulate in Bilbao, Spain. With her were three men whom she claimed to have personally escorted from Brussels. One was an evading soldier; the other two were Belgian officers who wanted to rejoin the Allies.

Unfortunately, the British consul was away and it was left to the vice consul, Arthur Dean, to decide what to do with the lot. Dean was immediately suspicious of the girl and the officers. Fourteen months earlier, it had been his task to get the Duke of Windsor, the former King Edward VIII, who had abdicated the throne, and his American wife out of Marseille. Dean knew from that, and other experiences, of the Gestapo’s ploy of disguising its agents as French patriots. Once the German agents gained the confidence of their targets, they revealed themselves, and multiple arrests would follow.

Dean asked the three men to wait in another room. He then proceeded to challenge the young girl. He quickly found her forthcoming. Andrée de Jongh was a commercial artist and had trained as a nurse. Her heroine was a nurse from the Great War named Edith Cavell, who had secretly helped more than six hundred British soldiers escape before she was arrested and executed by a German firing squad in Brussels. Dean knew the story of Nurse Cavell.

Inspired by her courage, de Jongh had, with help from friends in Brussels, established a string of safe houses between Brussels and Saint-Jean-de-Luz on the coast near Bayonne, France, north of the Pyrenees. She hired a Basque guide to escort her and the three officers from there across the mountains, climbing over five towering peaks.

Dean was incredulous. How could this delicate beauty endure the physical demands of such a journey? Dédée seemed insulted. She was fit, energetic, accustomed to climbing, and quite determined. Impressed by her character, Dean began to believe her, and his suspicion melted. He asked her, “What do you want, Dédée?”

“I wish to come back again, this time with British evaders, and I would like your consulate to provide for the expense of bringing them to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, including the fee to the guides who will risk their lives to take us across the Pyrenees.” She then added, quietly, “For me, I want nothing.”

While he consulted with London and Madrid, Dean provided Dédée accommodations in Bilbao. Colonel Claude Dansey had to be informed of the young girl, her proposition, and request for money. Instinctively, he denounced her as a plant. Attaché Michael Creswell (“Monday”) arrived from Madrid, vetted her, and told Dansey he believed “Dédée” to be “a girl of radiant integrity.” She was also, he said, “hard as nails,” for how else could she have crossed the Pyrenees? In as polite a way as possible, he told Dansey to back off.

Dansey was opposed to women running anything beyond a washing machine. But in this instance, he grumbled “OK.” Dédée accepted living life on a razor’s edge.

Monday told Dédée how valuable were downed British air crews, given the cost of their training and their special skills. Three weeks later, Dédée returned with six such airmen. Three weeks after that, she came back with another seven. To save travel time, she requested that the drop-off point be moved north to the British consulate at San Sebastian. Monday agreed, and he tried to be there every time Dédée arrived. His admiration for her exploits grew and grew—as did Neave’s.

Dédée’s charisma and tireless energy won over everyone. Each British airman she rescued was taken to the Great Central Hotel in London—like Neave—for debriefing. Every one of them spoke of Dédée’s exploits, some with tear-filled eyes. She had saved the lives of these men; many of them feared she would lose hers.

Dédée ran the gauntlet nineteen times, bringing batches of downed airmen safely through enemy-controlled territory. Her ordeals were often terrifying and painful. She was cut, bruised, and twice suffered a broken bone.

Dédée had named her line “Comet” because the sight of a burning aircraft in its arc toward the ground reminded her of a new comet. Her father, a schoolteacher in Brussels, assisted her in her missions of mercy, as did her mother and older sister. To Neave’s exasperation, Dédée steadfastly refused to work with a radio operator. She wanted her escape line to be spirited, informal, and unfettered. She assured Neave that messages would move quickly back and forth to Monday. Neave, like others, finally decided to trust her instincts.

Dédée was quite particular in her choice of helpers. Her couriers had to look innocuous and pass unnoticed at railway stations during the long journey from Brussels to Saint-Jean-de-Luz via Paris. If confronted, each had to convincingly explain the presence of passengers who looked English and did not speak French.

Young people proved to be the most adroit helpers—young women were especially eager to help. Dédée chose her jeunes filles based on signs of inner strength, determination, and confidence. She instructed them to dress quietly and act with modesty. Word began to spread among British airmen: If a member of the Comet line picks you up—even a young woman—follow without question. You will get home.

On a typical mission, Dédée would lead four to six RAF airmen by train to a rail station near the Somme River. There, to avoid a checkpoint, they would disembark and cross the river by boat under the cover of night. The subsequent train ride to the Atlantic coast in southern France might go through Paris or, if Paris was at the moment too well patrolled, via another route.

In the south, the indomitable Madame Elvire de Greef supervised her line. A Belgian who had moved to a villa in Saint-Jean-de-Luz before the fighting began, de Greef went by the nickname “Tante Go,” meaning “Aunt Go,” an homage to Gogo, her beloved, deceased canine. The airmen she sheltered knew nothing of the dog; they thought of Madame de Greef in terms of Monopoly. As one put it, “It was like we moved about the Monopoly board, avoiding the spaces with houses and hotels thanks to Dédée, until we reached safety with the Madame at her Go space.”

Tante Go’s husband was an interpreter at the nearby German Kommandantur, a position which afforded him access to all manner of identity cards and passes for entry into the coastal Forbidden Zone. Their son served as a courier while their lovely eighteen-year-old daughter led airmen to homes where patriots temporarily hid them. Over time, 337 airmen were sheltered by the de Greef family and their friends. These evaders, thankful for their salvation, were deeply impressed by Tante Go, a small woman with a round face and large gray eyes.

When all had been arranged, Tante Go would lead a group of airmen to the edge of the Pyrenees, where a larger-than-life Basque guide named Florentino provided escort across the mountains. A transplanted Londoner named Albert Edward Johnson, who went by the cover letter “B,” often assisted Florentino. Together, these two formed an indomitable human chain.

Every week, Monday transmitted a report to Saturday (Neave) detailing the latest progress of Dédée, her helpers, and guides. By October 1942, this slip of a girl had personally escorted fifty-four men to safety. In early 1943, Neave and Langley finally persuaded Dédée and the Comet line to adopt radio links and accept trained agents, airlifted from London.

Neave’s affection for Dédée was second only to that which he felt for his wife. He learned that when Dédée was young, her father had named her “Little Cyclone.” After the war, Neave wrote a book with that title, describing her exploits.

Hermann Goering, Air Marshal of the Luftwaffe, became incensed that this secret escape organization was thriving in France and Belgium, recovering downed RAF pilots and crews. A former fighter ace, Goering knew firsthand of the boost provided by the return of a seemingly lost comrade to base. Goering ordered his own security force to take over and crush the line.

The first casualty of his campaign was Dédée’s older sister, who was arrested by the Luftwaffe’s secret police in February 1942. A young helper who resembled Dédée, Nadine, went next. A price tag of one million Belgian francs was placed on the heads of Dédée and her father, Frédéric de Jongh, who was forced to flee from his schoolmaster’s position in Brussels. He relocated in Paris and doggedly continued operations. Six days later, the three lieutenants he left behind were arrested. It seemed the Brussels end of the Comet line would now collapse. However, one of de Jongh’s assistants, a thirty-six-year-old Belgian nobleman named Jean Griendl—towering in height and with ice-cold nerves—took command. He worked undercover at the Swedish canteen in the city. A fan of Jules Verne, he adopted the cover name of “Nemo.”

During the fall of 1942, the Gestapo reclaimed the task of penetrating the Comet line. It cleverly arranged for two “Americans” to be picked up by the line in Brussels and taken to the home of Madame Elsie Maréchal, one of Nemo’s most trusted helpers. They purported to be flying for the RAF (hundreds of such Americans had volunteered). Both appeared to be hungover. Maréchal’s daughter was suspicious the moment they sat down and only picked at their food.

“You don’t look American,” she said casually. “Where are you from?” One replied “New Jersey” while the other said “Kansas.” They were asked to write their names and numbers and the location where they bailed out and name their type of aircraft. They complied, nervously so. They did not behave like the downed airmen Maréchal had aided in the past. She took it upon herself to go to Nemo. He told her to rush back and detain these two men at all costs. However, just before she arrived, Gestapo agents were banging on the door, and grabbed her. One said, “Madame, the game is up. You go to jail now.” She and her father were hauled in. During their interrogation, they made no mention of their leader, Nemo. For the moment, Nemo and the Swedish canteen remained in business.

The Gestapo was just warming up. More line members fell in the south and, sadly, on January 15, 1943, they snared Dédée and jailed her locally. Loyal helpers gathered to devise a rescue plan; however, before they could put it into action, Dédée was transferred to a concentration camp in Germany. Her father was soon arrested and sent off to confinement.

Neave’s grief at losing Dédée endured until the end of the war. He continually sought information about her whereabouts and asked MI-6 what might be done to save her, but to no avail.

Dédée’s plight redoubled his resolve. He organized not one but three new lines. The Shelburne line would play a crucial role before the D-Day invasion in May 1944. Another, known as the “Burgundy” (Bourgogne) line, originated in the Netherlands and took downed airmen all the way to the Pyrenees. A third staked out western Belgium.

The Shelburne line, based in Paris, arranged “feeder” lines across eastern France to bring evaders to the capital, where downed airmen were sheltered in its Parisian apartments. Safely hidden inside, each received a new name, identity cards, clothing, and special passes. When the moment was right, a group would be transported through the Forbidden Zone to the Brittany coast. On a moonless night, evacuation would take place via a high-speed British type 503 motor gunboat. From the Shelburne’s beginning, radio was essential to its success. The line’s cofounder was an expert operator; Neave valued this man, Raymond Labrosse, above all others of his ilk.

Operating at the end of a feeder line was a young woman with Parisian roots who had been inspired by Dédée. She had moved from Paris to this location, close to the German border, with her parents. Even Dédée could not imagine the profound impact her protégée, Benoîte Jean, would have on the course of the war to come.

Chapter 8

Benoîte, la Mademoiselle de la Monopoly

Someone was rapping on the door. Alec Jean set down his newspaper and peered through the peephole installed behind a painting in the parlor. Its lens afforded a clear view of any “visitor.”

He saw a man dressed in a wrinkled suit, anxiously looking over his shoulder. Alec noted that he appeared quite different from the young, lean airmen who groped their way here, in the midst of escape, seeking help from his daughter, Benoîte. This man of moderate height was paunchy and approaching middle age. However, his features bespoke intelligence and resolve, even in his state of stress. Perhaps he too was on the run from something, or somebody.

Or perhaps he was Gestapo. Alec Jean was not about to be taken in by one of their ruses. He extracted a snub-nosed pistol from the bureau drawer where his wife kept the table linens and held it behind his back as he approached the door, “Yes? Who is there, please?” By now Emma, Alec’s wife, had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wringing her hands on a towel.

“My name is Baumann. Others sent me here. May I come in? Please.” The man’s Deutsch was laced with urgency, and strangely accented.

Alec looked at his wife, who silently nodded. Alec opened the door. The rumpled man burst in and closed it behind himself. He stood awkwardly, then took off his hat and squeezed it before his chest. He offered his hand, which Alec accepted while holding the pistol behind his back. “I am Karl Baumann. I was sent here.”

“You said that.”

“Yes. Yes. I have vital information. You are Herr Jean, correct?” His eyes darted. “And you are Frau Jean, yes?” She nodded. “I must be sure, you see. I am in danger and—”

At that moment Karl Baumann looked upward and his mouth dropped open. His eyes stopped their nervous movement. They seemed to absorb completely the young woman standing on the stairs. “I . . . I was told that you were quite beautiful,” he said softly.

Benoîte Jean stepped down the stairs, “Mama, why don’t you make some tea for this man?” Benoîte felt his eyes as they moved. They gazed first upon her firm legs, then her narrow waist, her full bosom, her wavy golden hair, and, only last, her face. She was accustomed to this sort of thing. If a man tried to comprehend her in a quick glance, she gathered, he would insult her femininity. One must absorb, not gulp. Benoîte knew how to use this for advantage. “Papa, I think I would like to speak to Herr Baumann in the dining room.”

Seated at the table, Baumann asked, “May I have something stronger than tea?” When Alec Jean suggested whiskey, Herr Baumann politely suggested it be added to the tea.

Alec, who was tall and fit for his age, and skilled with his hands, slid the pistol into the pocket of his trousers. He took up position in the front hall and focused on the nervous man seated within an arm’s length of his daughter. Emma Jean, her high-cheeked beauty fading only now, set down two steaming cups and asked if Herr Baumann would also like something to eat. “Yes, please. Anything.” Food being scarce, Emma brought him bite-size pieces of German bread topped with jam and butter. Baumann sipped his tea rapidly and ate several morsels. Alec Jean obliged by pouring more whiskey into his tea before resuming his guard.

Benoîte began to coax their visitor. Her voice was both serene and seductive, and usually elicited the response she sought. “You may relax. You are among friends. This is a nice household, as you can see. Tell me please, Herr Baumann, why you have come here?”

“I am, I should say, from Frankfurt, where I work as an engineer at IG Farben. Yes, IG Farben. But, actually not. You see I am originally from Budapest. I now provide liaison with Bayer Hungaria, the IG Farben affiliate there. You know of Farben?”

Benoîte nodded. “Farben? Such a big company.” She had to be careful. As intelligent, worried, and sincere as this man appeared to be, if he were a Gestapo agent his intent would be to inexorably gain admission of her association with an escape line. She must not allow the conversation to proceed in that direction. She glanced knowingly at her mother.

Mama Jean understood what she must do. She opened the front hall closet and removed a wooden box filled with gardening tools. “I did not prune the roses today. Oh my, so forgetful.” Herr Baumann paid Emma Jean no mind as she disappeared into the front yard even though there, in September, the hour was approaching eight and shadows were lengthening, and, besides, who pruned at night? Benoîte asked him, “What type of engineer are you, Herr Baumann?”

Baumann’s cup rattled on the saucer; his tongue loosened. “I am a hydrogenation engineer.”

“Oh, can you explain?”

“I will. Hydrogenation is a chemical reaction between molecular hydrogen and a compound or element in the presence of a catalyst. I develop techniques to mix hydrogen with reactive coal and obtain gasoline. And that is why I am here.”

“You said someone sent you. Did this person tell you anything else, perhaps?”

Baumann winced and slapped his forehead. “Ach. Yes. Herr Los. His name is Herr Los and I must ask the banker to pay me two hundred Reichsmarks.”

Benoîte’s blue eyes studied him closely. “Do you know what this means? Explain, please.”

Baumann shook his head and said he did not. She added, “But you must know the game Monopoly.” He said he had of course heard of it, but it was not a game permitted to be sold in Germany, and besides, he preferred bridge and Skat.

Benoîte became very cautious. “So, a man who calls himself Mr. Los tells you to demand money. This sounds quite strange.”

“I am sincere. I say what Herr Los tells me to say.”

Benoîte stood, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the cupboard where the family’s French-language version of Monopoly was stored. She removed two one-hundred-franc bills and held them before her white blouse. “I cannot pay you in Reichsmarks. Will you accept francs?”

“Ah! Exactly right!” Herr Baumann exclaimed, standing to accept them. “You have done as Herr Los specified. Francs are the right currency.” He gave the paper bills back to her. “You are indeed the young lady of the Monopoly game.”

She smiled demurely. “There is so much to this game. You must try it sometime. It is easy to select a bill or a card or a property for use in, say, a password.”

“Yes. And thank goodness. Now will you trust me? I am not Gestapo. In fact they are surely looking for me.” Emma Jean came inside and stowed her gardening tools. Benoîte studied her face; Baumann was facing the other way. Emma shook her head from side to side; her mother had not seen anyone loitering about. If Baumann were Gestapo, there would have been others loitering along the street, ready to burst into the house upon his signal.

They sat down once more. “We must talk. I have a deadly secret about IG Farben that the Allies likely know nothing of.” The secret was this: In a once forested area of southwest Poland, near a town named in German Auschwitz and in Polish Oświęcim, a huge hydrogenation plant was being erected by his employer, IG Farben. When completed it would manufacture vast quantities of synthetic rubber and gasoline. So much so, in fact, that even if the Allies bombed all the existing synthetic fuel and rubber plants inside Germany, the Nazi war machine could endure.

“Why are you telling me this?” Benoîte gently asked. “You are betraying your employer.”

Baumann’s face contorted. “Because Farben has betrayed me, like so many of my old friends.” He explained how in 1938, the Nazi party ordered all Jews working for industry, including Farben, to be fired—even accomplished executives and engineers commended by the kaiser during the Great War for their great contributions to the Fatherland. Baumann had managed to hide the fact he was part Jewish, and relying upon forged papers, he retained his liaison position. However, as more and more sons of Farben executives joined the dreaded Schutzstaffel, one—formerly a close friend—uncovered the truth about Baumann and reported it. Perhaps due to a sudden pang of remorse, he also warned Baumann to flee.

Baumann was acquainted with an elderly man who worked for the Franz Schmidt game company. This brave soul secretly helped downed airmen reach France. Calling himself Herr Los (“Mr. Go”), he directed Baumann to the Jean household and taught him the Monopoly procedure to verify his identity.

The Jean family, of course, knew Herr Los quite well. “Los” had already directed five airmen to them. After each was hidden in a nearby safe house, MI-9 was contacted via a radio operator, who directed each to be secreted elsewhere in Strasbourg. Alerted, Airey Neave then sent an MI-9 agent to bring the escaper to Brussels.

Of late, Neave had alerted Benoîte to the existence of a traitor named “Paul” Cole, who was sniffing out the location of Neave’s agents in Brussels. If it was unsafe for MI-9 to send a man, Benoîte volunteered to escort the escaper herself.

Baumann withdrew from his jacket a shiny tubular object. It appeared to be a gold-plated lipstick tube, somewhat smaller than usual. Its tip was rounded. Baumann removed its cap, revealing a shade of red. “Farben makes all manner of chemicals, medicines, and even cosmetics. You may not know this, but the IG invented synthetic dyes in the past century. Huge success. Then came aspirin, and Novocain, and chemical fertilizers, and—”

“I do know,” Benoîte replied. “Your company is a chemical octopus with very long tentacles. One can go nowhere in Europe without encountering Farben.”

Baumann groaned as if in agony. “Until five years ago, Farben was like an angel. So many chemicals and drugs to help all humans. In my home city of Budapest, Bayer Hungaria was proud to be an affiliate. Then came Farben’s synthetic gasoline and rubber. Hitler wanted all he could get, at any price. Farben became Nazified. The devil’s money poured in and the angel fled. My employer has become, I am pained to say, the devil’s laboratory.”

Rumors floated on the wind about a pesticide named Zyklon B, made by a Farben subsidiary. It was instantly lethal if inhaled by humans. Another one—a gas later named sarin—crippled the nervous system of animals during experiments. Anyone with a clear head could guess what these two might also be used for: mass genocide.

Baumann held the lipstick tube before Benoîte. “It appears normal. Yes? It should arouse no suspicion. You saw it work. But if one rotates the base too far in the opposite direction . . .” He did so; the base popped off. He held the tube sideways so she could peer inside. “Do you notice there is but a little amount of lipstick at the top? See the tiny slip of paper clinging to the walls?” She nodded. Baumann snapped the base back in place and replaced its golden cover. He asked for her open palm, then closed her graceful fingers over the tube.

“You want me to do something with this?” She looked into his eyes.

Baumann blinked and smiled awkwardly, like a man hiding a pain in his heart. “I have no one else to turn to. It torments me to ask of you such great service. I am aware of the danger, but I am told you travel easily in Germany and that you know how to take care of yourself. You are an athlete, no?” In fact, Benoîte and her parents were passionate skiers during winter’s snowy months. And in warm weather, well, Benoîte refused to sit still. She hiked mountains, swam lakes, and practiced archery.

Baumann took in his breath, released it like an air brake, and blurted out, “You must take this to the OSS in London. You must know of the American OSS, yes?”

“Anyone who defies the Nazis knows of the OSS. But why must I take this to those American spies?”

“Because this facility—the Buna-Werke—is too far away for an airplane to bomb. A spy must go there on the ground to determine how to sabotage it.”

“But Herr Baumann, I work for an escape line. I do not know the OSS. And London? My God! I may be able to ride the railways on the Continent, but there is no train going to England. London is out of the question.”

Baumann shook his head emphatically. “It is not. Do you not send evading airmen back to England? Why not go with one, yourself?”

“Because there would be no return ticket. How would I get back? Swim? And even if I had a magic carpet, how would I manage to gain admission to the OSS? Its location must be a secret. I work with British military intelligence. I know no American—”

“You must see the Americans,” Baumann reiterated.

“Why can’t I inform my British contacts? Why must it be the Americans?”

Baumann sighed. “Because I am told that the spies at MI-6 and the saboteurs of SOE cannot be trusted. They always squabble. They will block each other from doing what must be done. The Americans, you see, are smarter. They have only the OSS. Their agents both spy and blow things up. They have no such silly conflict.”

“I said I do not know these Americans . . .”

Baumann pushed ahead. “Perhaps someone you know could introduce you, yes?”

Benoîte looked at her parents to see if their faces advised terminating the conversation. They appeared to encourage, not dissuade. Benoîte suspected why. “Perhaps,” Benoîte replied, to Baumann’s relief.

Baumann pointed to her palm, its fingers tightly embracing the lipstick. “Everything the OSS needs is on the slip of paper inside, printed in very precise writing with diagrams. I have chosen this means of concealment because I do not believe a lipstick tube will raise suspicion if you, heaven forbid, get searched. But I advise you to take the greatest of care. I do not recommend you carry it in your purse or bag.” He stiffened as if the words he was about to utter required special courage. “The reason this object is small is so it may be hidden where—and please forgive my indiscretion—where even a Gestapo agent would not search a lady.” Benoîte remained silent. Baumann’s eyes began to tear. He jumped up and said sharply, “I must go. I endanger all of you the longer I stay. Please find a way . . .”

“What will you do, Herr Baumann?” Emma Jean asked, wringing her hands once more.

“Rush to Budapest and hide. There is a safe house. I know the owner. I believe he will accept me.” He uttered a farewell in Hungarian, “Viszontlátásra. Isten veled!”

Benoîte understood. “Yes, I also hope to see you again, Herr Baumann. God be with you as well.” Baumann gripped Benoîte’s hands as if they were a lifeline. After he let go, he disappeared into the night.

For what seemed like hours, father, mother, and daughter debated if Benoîte should go to London with the next evader she assisted. Or maybe another line member should go. Or maybe Emma should make the journey, or Alec . . . or maybe none of them. But eventually their thinking jelled. It was not necessary to go to London. An introduction to the OSS could be gained by means of a solution as brilliant as the dazzle of a diamond ring upon opening its box. Inscribed on that ring was the name of their Parisian friend, Thérèse Bonney.

Thérèse Bonney—a tall, attractive, vivacious American—had come to Paris years before to gain her doctorate from the Sorbonne. Free to explore the City of Light, Bonney came to love it. She found work as a journalist and a photographer at the Paris bureau of the Washington Post. Thérèse met Emma Jean at the upscale photography studio her husband owned in Paris. They became fond of each other’s company.

In the fall of 1939, after the Soviet Union attacked little Finland, Bonney made a name for herself by fearlessly covering the war, taking hundreds of combat photos and writing poignant stories about the heroic, overmatched Finns. In so doing, this little country of four million people came to revere her. The Finns inflicted terrible losses on the Soviet forces in what became known as the Winter War; however, the overpowering strength of the Soviet Union finally compelled an armistice in which the Finns gave up some territory, though they otherwise remained sovereign.

Conflict erupted once more in June 1941 when Finland became a cobelligerent in Germany’s war against the Soviet Union. The Finns despised and feared their greedy communist neighbor. They were seduced by Hitler’s promise of gaining extensive Russian territory once their combined armies won this war, and they expected victory by the fall of 1941. Russia, however, bolstered by massive Lend-Lease aid from America and England (thousands of trucks alone), held on. The “Eastern War” was now in its second bloody year with the outcome very much in doubt, and no end in sight. The latest German offensive had sent the Wehrmacht and its panzers speeding across Ukraine toward a city on the Volga named Stalingrad. A fight to the finish was expected.

With this new war waging, the OSS decided to enlist the aid of Bonney. The Office of Strategic Services—America’s new and fast-growing spy agency—persuaded her to return to Finland. It had learned that during the Winter War, a close personal relationship developed between Bonney and Carl Gustaf Mannerheim, the masterful and influential leader of Finland’s armed forces.

Bonney’s objective was to persuade Mannerheim to abandon Hitler. But before she could leave Paris, Colonel Dansey and MI-6 got into the mix and stalled her departure. During this delay, she was arrested by the Gestapo, released, and kept under surveillance. Never faint-hearted, Bonney managed, with the aid of friends, to give her minders the slip. The Gestapo never realized she was no longer holed up in her apartment. In June 1942, adoring Finnish army officers delivered her to Mannerheim outside of Helsinki. Mannerheim, a towering figure with magnetic appeal, was seventy-five; she was forty-seven. There were faint rumors of intimacy. Be that as it may, Bonney had serious business to discuss and she doggedly pursued it.

Mannerheim listened carefully before explaining, via an analogy, why he could not entertain switching sides. The Finns were trapped inside a German vise with the Russians standing by holding a blowtorch. Finland was isolated from Great Britain and America. Neither could hope to extinguish the flame. Apart from this rejection, Mannerheim was quite helpful. He provided Bonney with military information and even mentioned the Finns were “reading” Russian mail—a common expression used to indicate a nation’s code breakers had broken into another country’s codes.

These details were, of course, outside the knowledge of the Jean family. But Emma had learned that Bonney had returned from a mission on behalf of the OSS, and remained in its good graces.

Emma was therefore confident that Bonney could bridge the gap between her daughter and the American spies. Emma Jean would travel to Paris and sort this out.

Chapter 9

Nori

In mid-November, a broad-shouldered man wearing a trench coat, and carrying himself like a haughty Gestapo agent, entered a restaurant on Route de la Meinau in Strasbourg and waited just inside the door. A newspaper folded, askew, under his left arm was a signal.

Benoîte set down a plate she was serving and seated this rugged man at the small table in the rear corner, which most patrons disliked because it offered no view of the street. His face was windburned, his hair was wheat-field blond, his eyes steel blue; and he was tall, perhaps four or five inches beyond her five-eight stature.

He took time to appraise Benoîte, then reached into a pocket and produced a common die, setting it on the table with its “one” face upward. Benoîte turned the die to “three” and said, “There are three Andrews Sisters.”

He turned it back to “one” and replied, while tapping the die. “Yes, but I prefer Marlene Die-trich,” emphasizing the first syllable, pronouncing it incorrectly, as required.

There was no further chatter. Benoîte proceeded to serve him pork sausages with potatoes and a beer. When it came time to pay, she handed him a slip. On the underside was written an address and a time.

Weeks earlier, Emma Jean had received word that Thérèse Bonney had succeeded in meeting with the OSS. Benoîte would not have to come to London. The OSS would send someone to meet her. That day had arrived.

After her shift ended in late afternoon, Benoîte bundled into her coat and set off to window-shop. Most of the stores on the street she wandered around had little to offer. She eventually entered a tobacconist and purchased a pack of something or other for her father. Standing before the glitter of the merchant’s cutlery, the tobacconist motioned with his eyes toward the rear. Benoîte nodded and walked through a curtain into the room in the back of the shop.

The man from the restaurant was standing there admiring a display of silvery knives. He gave her the slightest of glances and said, “Which one do you most admire?” She walked closer, with arms folded, to have a look.

In that instant, he grabbed one of the knives with his right hand, jerked her backward with his left—pinning her arms against her chest—and touched the knife blade to the side of her throat. “I prefer this one,” he whispered into her ear. “It reminds me of the fighting knife from my training days.” His grip was unyielding; Benoîte was breathing rapidly. “Now if I insert it exactly here, push and twist, my victim will be unable to scream and death will come quickly.”

She waited for the end. But this charade concluded with a laugh; the man let her go. He had demonstrated his prowess and tossed aside the knife. Infuriated, Benoîte attempted to knee him in the groin. Anticipating this, he thrust out an open palm to redirect her knee into a wooden cabinet. Hearing the bang, the tobacconist flung open the curtain, alarm written on his face. Benoîte straightened her clothes and said, “We are getting acquainted. No reason for alarm, Herr Kuhn.”

They took seats on cushioned chairs in the room’s corner. “Excuse my manners, Mademoiselle. I am prone to outrageous behavior. I have been sent by Allen Dulles. My name is JC. That’s not my real name, of course, but it is what you will call me.”

She stared at him, suppressing her rage, and coldly replied, “JC, eh? I am Benoîte.”

“Not anymore,” he replied. “No one engaged in secret mischief during this war should ever go by one’s real name.”

“Oh? And what should mine be?”

He smiled; it was big and genuine. “I like games, indoors and out. I know you do too. So I have a name for you from a game: Nori.”

“Nori? Why are you smiling? What game is this from?”

“A favorite. You’ll figure it out. And when you do, you too will smile. I guarantee.” He added, “Now relax. We must talk.”

Questions flew for several minutes, and answers were provided. When he had all the answers he had sought, JC told her, “Normally, I would ask you to give me the information you have for my boss. I would assure its delivery. But he wants to meet you in person. You won’t have to travel very far. We have just set up new headquarters in Bern.”

Bern, she thought. What good fortune. Benoîte knew the Swiss capital very well. “Where may I find Herr Dulles in Bern?”

“Herrengasse 23. And from now on you are to refer to him only as Agent 110. You are never to address him by his actual name unless inside Herrengasse 23.”

Agent 110 at Gentlemen’s Lane. Unbeknownst to JC, Benoîte also shouldered a second reason to see the spymaster who went by a number. This reason had arrived in the mail the past month in the form of a letter to her father from an old friend in America whom she often referred to as “Uncle.” The content of the letter appeared ever so innocuous, but the manner of its salutation, “My Old Friend Alec,” signaled that it contained a message hidden from the German postal censor’s eyes. Alec was well versed in the technique of extracting the real message from the fluff. This one proved brief. No need to write it down; Benoîte carried it in her brain. It too contained a number. She asked JC, “When do I depart?”

“In three days’ time.”

During their brief time together, Benoîte had learned that JC grew up in Wyoming and had broken wild horses during his teen years.

She asked, “So you are a co-boy?”

“Cowboy,” he replied with a toothy grin. “I was, once upon a time.” JC’s father had Germanic roots and conducted business in Germany between the wars, during which time JC mastered its language, including a smattering of slang. When war began, JC came to the attention of the OSS. At a training camp in Pennsylvania, he learned every conceivable way to disarm and kill a man. It was inevitable he would apply these skills against the Germans.

“Have you ever killed someone?” she had asked him.

He nodded. “Yes, in North Africa. And I almost had to kill another while entering Switzerland. My train was approaching the border from Vichy France at exactly the moment the Wehrmacht occupied the Free Zone. Damn border guards almost stopped us even though the order to seal the border hadn’t taken effect.”

“What would you have done if the border guards blocked the train?”

“I’d have killed one, stolen his uniform, and made it across.”

The morning after the Vichy occupation, headlines in Germany screamed ENEMY INVADES NORTH AFRICA. As a consequence, southern France was no longer free, placing Airey Neave’s escape lines in even greater peril.

Benoîte asked, “You said you killed someone in North Africa. How could you have done so? The invasion just happened.”

“Let’s just say I was one of a few that went in early to see who was home, and left before the big show started.”

“I see,” she replied. JC was probably a commando, perhaps a saboteur. He pressed that knife against my neck within a split second.

JC got up to leave. He paused just before leaving the room. “Remember, you are ‘Nori.’ One-Ten will not see you if you call yourself otherwise.” He added nonchalantly, “Maybe I’ll see you again in Bern, Nori.”

Bern, Switzerland, was but 145 miles from Strasbourg by rail. Armed with the right papers, a modest bag, and carrying a basket of homemade food, Benoîte embarked on a journey “to visit her sick aunt” near the Swiss border. Here in late November the air was brisk. She wore drab clothing under her winter coat to convey the impression of a tired worker. Even so, there was only so much she could do to conceal her figure. Her blond curls had been pinned tightly against her head and covered by a field-mouse-brown wig with short bangs, artfully secured by her mother. Benoîte’s lips were bare. Dull makeup on her cheeks blunted the glow of her skin to foster an appearance of fatigue. Her father had taken a photo of her “tired” alter ego and affixed it flawlessly to a forged identity card.

Initially, her compartment was empty. The cabin, being quite warm, compelled her to remove her coat and lay it across her lap. Then fate intervened. Just before departure, an SS major entered. He took off his hat and coat and placed them on the rack over the seat opposite hers. He managed a wicked smile before he sat down and dug into his briefcase. He resembled Joseph Goebbels, the minister of propaganda: Callous with overly stern features and menacing dark eyes. His black uniform gleamed with decorations. He was also wiry and, like Goebbels, not very big. Minutes after the train departed Strasbourg, two of his lieutenants arrived breathless, apologizing to their commander, with heels snapping, for boarding the wrong car. Fascinated, they began to leer at Benoîte. She rued her decision to take off her coat. She knew the effect her figure had on men, even when shrouded under peasant garb.

Benoîte willed herself to remain calm. She smiled innocently, knowing the danger of revealing alarm or, worse, encouragement. The underlings wanted to know who she was and where she was going. She was ready for this. She announced herself as “Berit Jaeger.” She reached inside her purse to produce papers. They told her that wasn’t necessary. “What’s in the basket?” they asked. She showed them the meal her mother had prepared for her bedridden sister. “Can we eat it?” one asked before laughing and assuring her he was jesting. The major seemed to pay them no mind; he continued to read and jot with his pen. Benoîte took note of the major’s firearm and the long dagger sheathed against his thigh.

“We are going to Freiburg,” the lieutenants told her. Benoîte gritted her teeth. Freiburg lay midway between Strasbourg and Bern. With any luck, she’d be rid of these inquisitive junior officers and their commanding officer in less than one hour.

At Freiburg, however, the major snapped closed his case and, without looking up, said, “Would you mind coming with us?”

Benoîte complied. There was no choice in the matter.

After descending the platform, she was led a few blocks to a small hotel. The lieutenants enjoyed a muffled laugh then pretended to cough. At the hotel door, they peeled off. The major took Benoîte by the arm. His grip was firm. He motioned to the innkeeper, picked up the key proffered, pocketed it, and led Benoîte up two flights of stairs. Inside a modest room he set his briefcase on the dresser, took her basket of food, laid it next to it, and said, “You are to be comfortable. Take off your coat. You will empty your purse and your suitcase on the bed. I must see what you are carrying.” Benoîte complied. The major withdrew his dagger; she noticed his fingers had large knuckles. He used the blade to poke at each article in turn, flicking it from side to side. He studied her identity card and her passes. Indifference claimed his long face. “Repack your bags.” She did so and, as he instructed, placed them on the floor.

The wicked smile now returned. “I find no reason to suspect you, Berit. You, therefore, must repay me. Take off your clothes.”

“Of course,” she responded quietly, placing her clothing on an armchair. His evil grin grew larger. She lay on the bed naked and, against all principles of faith, lured him by opening her legs in the hope he would abandon caution. The major, his appetite whetted, placed the dagger on the bed stand, then pulled off his boots, gun belt, and pants. He got on top of her. She wrapped her arms around his back and made a cooing sound. He tried to enter; she squirmed and then rolled him to one side.

“A frisky one!” he said, pushing against her. She rolled back and forth—and then smoothly rolled him over, seductively whispering, “I am better on top.” In one quick motion Benoîte grabbed the dagger—and drilled it into his neck. She twisted it as she pushed it in, to the hilt. Very little blood appeared at the point of insertion; much spewed out the exit wound. The major’s hands weakly grabbed at hers before falling limp.

The only sound coming from the major’s mouth was the gurgling of blood. Benoîte stood and watched him convulse. Tears filled her eyes, and her breath came in spasms as he died.

Benoîte washed her face and straightened her wig. She wiped the hilt of the dagger embedded in the major’s neck with a handkerchief to obscure her prints, and cleaned away all possible evidence. Then she dressed, threw on her coat, grabbed her bags and the basket of food, and started to leave. With sudden presence of mind, she paused inside the door until her breathing slowed. When she walked slowly down the stairs, her face was a mask. The innkeeper averted his eyes as she strode past. He had, assuredly, abetted the major’s escapades on prior occasions.

Benoîte followed a circuitous route to the station and caught the next train heading south. She feared that the lieutenants might appear, but they did not. She rode in third class, squeezing into a seat between two middle-age ladies who complained of food shortages and smelled of sauerkraut.

Berit Jaeger / Benoîte Jean / Nori finished her journey to Bern uneventfully.

In the restroom at Bahnhof Bern, she packed away her wig and plain dress. She would need them both for the return journey. Caution had suggested she not bring a second set of identity papers. Had she foolishly done so, the major would likely have discovered them and taken her in for a severe interrogation.

Benoîte took a room at a hostel near the station and slept the night, albeit fitfully. In the morning, she left her basket, having eaten its contents, in a trash heap. She traveled over two miles by streetcar to the charming medieval section of Bern delineated by the city’s oldest cathedral. Nearby was Herrengasse, an arcade-lined cobblestoned street high above the river her streetcar had crossed, the Aare.

After locating number 23, Benoîte circled around a fountain to reach its heavy wooden door. She was unaware that vineyards between the mansion and the river below enabled “informed” visitors to approach undetected and enter at the rear. By night, “front door” visitors may, or may not, have noticed that the streetlight opposite did not work, thereby assuring discretion for those arriving under cover of darkness.

This abode was the final among a row of fourteenth-century town houses built by the city to house dignitaries. The four-story building was at once convenient, isolated, and secure. Amid its stately quiet, the war seemed far away. The Herrengasse ended in a cul-de-sac caressed by a low wall beyond which its hill descended to the Aare. The view from on high was striking. The river’s path meandered through a horseshoe bend lined by the old city’s walls. Beyond forested plains, three Alpine peaks penetrated the blue haze on the horizon.

Benoîte knocked and was admitted by a servant. She announced herself as “Nori to see 110.” She was shown into a handsome study and seated before an oaken desk. An imposing fireplace provided warmth and a pleasant crackling chatter. Red drapes framed the room’s windows. A pleasant garden could be seen through the panes.

A man resembling a kindly professor entered. “Allen Dulles,” he offered. The spymaster, himself. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I speak several languages. I am the one called Nori.” They shook hands, then Dulles sat behind his desk and pressed an intercom button. He mumbled something that Benoîte did not quite hear. He smiled pleasantly and said nothing further. She found his face remarkably placid, a face that neither frowned nor smiled. A benign face with blotchy cheeks, full lips beneath a small gray mustache, and vivid blue eyes framed by wire-rimmed spectacles perched on a nondescript nose. His tweed jacket reinforced the professorial impression; she half expected him to withdraw lecture notes from it and conduct a lesson.

A door opened in the opposite corner, and JC entered. Dulles asked him, “Is this the woman you met with?”

JC approached Benoîte and studied her before issuing a challenge. “Who did I tell you I preferred when we last met?”

Benoîte thought back. “You said you preferred Marlene Dietrich, and you emphasized the ‘Die’ in her surname.”

“She’s genuine,” JC said contentedly. Dulles excused him, steepled his fingers, and said, “I understand you have something of interest to me.”

“Two somethings, in fact,” she replied. He encouraged her with his hand, and she opened her purse, producing the lipstick tube, which she had wrapped in a handkerchief. “I regret to say I was advised to hide this . . . on my person. A man from IG Farben provided it. Let me demonstrate.” Benoîte removed the golden cap and popped off its base. She oriented it so that Dulles could look inside, “Do you see the paper? That is for you.”

After Benoîte had rewrapped it in the handkerchief, Dulles accepted the tube and begged her patience while he excused himself. He returned empty-handed. “While the paper is being studied, can you tell me what you might know about its contents? IG Farben is no small enterprise. It fuels and arms the entire German war machine.”

She related what Herr Baumann had told her about Farben’s Buna-Werke, noting its extreme distance and Baumann’s plea that an agent be sent to determine how to sabotage it. “He said this facility is so large, it can synthesize all the gasoline and rubber Germany needs, even if the nation’s other plants are destroyed.”

Dulles lit up a pipe, reinforcing further his professorial appearance. He puffed. “I will handle this.” He continued to smile pleasantly. “Now, in what clever device have you concealed the second reason?”

Benoîte brushed aside her hair in order to touch her head. “It is concealed in here, Herr Dulles. I have memorized this message. It is brief. A man—a dear friend—mailed it to my father, in code. Many years ago this man moved from Europe to America. He came upon the message in collaboration with a friend who, it seems, has a significant contact in Russia. You may wish to write down what I tell you and then decide if the message has value, or not.”

Dulles produced a pad and a pen. “The message is this, Herr Dulles: ‘Three traitors in the White House, maybe four.’” She waited for Dulles to absorb these words. “Our friend does not know their real names. But he has learned their code names. They are ‘lawyer,’ ‘page,’ and ‘ales.’ The one who is a maybe, he goes by a number, not a name, just like you do.”

“Which number would that be?”

“Nineteen. The digits one and nine.”

Dulles drew deeply on his pipe with his eyes on the words written on his pad. “This information, if true, is very troubling and will require the utmost care and discretion in pursuing. Utmost. And so I must ask you, before I take the necessary risk, is your friend trustworthy? Are you certain he has access to Stalin by way of an intermediary?”

“He is the most reasoned man I know, or I should say knew. We are separated by the war, you will understand.”

“Can you tell me his name so I can verify for myself?”

Benoîte thought carefully. He would want it this way. “His name is Waldemar von Zedtwitz. Son of a German baron, long dead, and an American heiress, also dead.”

Dulles’s blue eyes lit up. “Von Zedtwitz? The bridge master? I know him.”

Benoîte was pleased. “He is a master of many games. And a linguist.”

“Indeed.”

And with that, the conversation ceased. Benoîte suspected this man Dulles spoke only when he wanted something, and seldom otherwise.

She anticipated being dismissed, but Dulles surprised her. He invited her to dine. The noon hour had arrived. She accepted, but felt uncomfortable, because she was in her shabby dress. Her discomfort increased when she was led through an immaculately furnished salon into a grand dining room where a dozen finely dressed guests could dine in elegance.

“I’ve asked a third to join us,” Dulles noted. JC arrived wearing a jacket and tie. Servants appeared and poured wine and presented trays of lovely appetizers. Benoîte became contrite. “I am so sorry to be dressed so plainly. I chose to adopt this disguise for my journey. I thought if I packed nice clothes, I might arouse suspicion. As it turned out . . .” She hesitated, banishing the image of the Gestapo officer, and his evil smile, from her mind.

“Yes?” asked Dulles.

She caught herself. “As it turned out . . . I wish I had a proper outfit for this wonderful meal.”

“Nonsense,” replied Dulles. “Nothing you might wear would diminish your beauty.”

Excellent Wiener schnitzel was served. As the meal progressed, the aromas of fine food were intoxicating. More wine was poured; she had to request a halt to refilling her glass. Throughout, JC spoke very little. The reason for his presence remained unclear until Dulles explained the man’s purpose.

“I would like you to provide some modest help, Nori,” Dulles said over coffee, quickly adding, “No, I am not asking you to enlist and become one of my homegrown spies. I sense you would not like that. Rather, I am inspired by Thérèse Bonney, the lady whose intercession brought us together. Miss Bonney would approve of what I am about to ask you to do. In fact, I believe she would enthusiastically urge you to accept. And we will keep no record of it. Your identity will remain hidden and safe.”

The “task,” as Dulles put it, was for Nori to assume a new persona and travel by rail to Barth, Germany, on the Baltic Sea. There she would meet a great friend of Mademoiselle Bonney, a Finn, as yet unnamed. “All you need do is deliver a message, which I must explain will be based upon the message you brought me from von Zedtwitz. What do you think?” He spoke softly, his words sincere. He offered encouragement. “I suggest approaching your decision this way. I am only asking you to finish wrapping a gift box by tying the bow.”

She found herself saying, “I do know something of Barth.”

“You will have no trouble. Mademoiselle Bonney’s friend there will be honored to meet a dear friend of Thérèse’s, and to help us. I have arranged a perfect cover for you. JC will take you on a shopping excursion, provide advice, and make all your travel arrangements. You will depart early tomorrow morning. During the time you are shopping, I will arrange all essential identity papers. When you return, photos will be taken. And then I will send for a manicurist.”

“But my nails don’t need attention.”

An unsettling smile appeared. “The message you will carry is to be hidden beneath two false nails. Once these are applied, all your nails will be painted a color of your choosing. When you arrive in Barth, a simple application of vinegar by our friend will loosen the overlays. He will know precisely what to do with them.”

At times, Benoîte wished to return to so-called normal life. She asked one more question. “Do I understand that I am to go directly to Barth from here?” Dulles nodded. She replied, “My parents will be worried sick. They expect me home later today, tomorrow at the latest.”

Dulles reassured her. “I will arrange for their hearts to be eased. They will know you are well and that you are engaged in something Miss Bonney would approve of. In this new decade, women are as valuable as men.”

Benoîte’s adrenaline kicked in. “Nori” accepted.

“Good,” replied Dulles. “JC will take it from here.”

Chapter 10

Baltic

JC brought Nori to the Loeb department store in Old Town where she selected, and JC paid for, two silk blouses, two fine wool skirts, and a sensible jacket. In addition, she also bought an expensive winter coat for the cold weather ahead, as well as gloves and hat, to complete her ensemble. In a nearby leather shop, a calfskin valise was procured to carry her possessions. This suitcase included a false bottom under which papers could be hidden.

Nori had been transformed from a plain-looking girl carrying a basket of food to her sickly aunt to a well-heeled representative of the International Red Cross bound for Barth to conduct a surprise inspection of the Hotel Speicher, where, the next month, an IRC delegation would arrive to review conditions inside Stalag Luft I, a significant camp currently housing mostly British POWs.

The task of the IRC was enormous. Based in Geneva, Switzerland, its daunting goal was to deliver one eleven-pound food package every week to each incarcerated serviceman confined inside the burgeoning German POW-camp system. Great Britain, the US, and other caring nations provided the packages, which were shipped to the port of Marseille and on to Geneva by rail. The International Red Cross divided the deliveries among boxcars that followed a multitude of rail lines to camps across eastern Germany. The recent occupation of southern France by the Wehrmacht did not disrupt the flow. Reliance by Germany on these packages to meet minimum Geneva Convention calorie requirements provided incentive to keep them moving, even though Hitler considered feeding POWs a “nuisance.” While nearly every kind of food was rationed among his people, Hitler’s cronies convinced him to maintain support of the IRC to avoid reprisals against Germany’s servicemen confined inside British and American POW camps.

Germany was among forty-seven signatories to the 1929 Geneva Convention (and its later amendments), which set forth the terms and conditions of caring for prisoners of war, as well as other rules governing war engaged in by any of the convention’s signatories. A designated neutral nation served as the “observing power,” responsible for periodic visits and appraisals of each POW camp inside a particular nation. The United States had been the observing power in Germany before Hitler’s brazen declaration of war against the US (four days after Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor). The Swiss subsequently took over this responsibility.

After checking out of her hostel, Nori handed over to JC the worn suitcase containing her papers, old clothing, coat, and wig. At 23 Herrengasse, a manicurist secured a fake nail to each middle finger before painting all her nails a shade of rose. A stylist reshaped her flowing blond curls with hair clips, achieving a more severe, businesslike look. Photographs were taken, developed, and affixed to her new documents.

Later that afternoon, JC handed Nori a set of identity papers in the name “Helga Miller.” He also gave her identity documents for her true self: Benoîte Jean. She would jettison Helga Miller on the way back from Barth, at Frankfurt, 136 miles from Strasbourg. Reentering the Resettlement Zone from there would be routine for a resident. By contrast, a representative of the IRC would most assuredly be questioned. (“Fraulein Miller, there are no Stalags in Strasbourg. Why are you coming into this zone? What is your business?”) JC taught her how to access the false bottom in her valise; Nori slipped these documents beneath it.

Over dinner at the Café Fédéral, opposite the Swiss parliament, JC continued to brief Nori. In addition to looking the part of an IRC representative, she must, if challenged, speak with an air of authority. He explained the history of the International Red Cross, the terms of the Geneva Convention, and the duties of the person she was substituting for—an older woman on the IRC’s staff due to make this inspection trip a week hence. Dulles had arranged with the IRC for this woman to “take ill” and cancel her journey in favor of Nori’s. JC told her that Dulles maintained a close friend at the IRC, whom he had met during the Great War when he first drew the assignment to set up a shop in Switzerland.

One of Dulles’s great regrets during that tour of duty was that he had refused to see a curious, rather radical Russian named Vladimir Lenin. Rebuffed, Lenin solicited the Germans; Germany got him into Saint Petersburg. The communist revolution followed. Stung by that failure, Dulles made it his policy to welcome a bewildering stream of visitors at 23 Herrengasse. Flowing along this stream was a woman named Nori for whom he had found purpose in a small city on the Baltic Sea named Barth.

During their evening together Nori and JC felt a growing rapport. He held her hand as they walked toward the heart of Bern and the stately Hotel Schweizerhof, opposite the Bahnhof, where a room had been reserved for her. As the hotel’s imposing entrance came into view, JC pulled her into the shadows. Cavalierly, he said, “Nori, if this was Wyoming, I would take you for a ride in my Ford convertible. And as we say back home, I’d make plans for you. But damn it, I can’t do any of that.”

Gazing into each other’s eyes, they embraced. She replied softly, “Maybe I’ll come to America after the war. But for now, we are here, and Bern is—”

He cut her off. “The way I figure, when this thing is over, the chances are pretty good I won’t be around to see it. And maybe you won’t either.” He kissed her hard. Minutes later, after she was handed her room key, he winked, turned, and disappeared from her life.

She rose early to take the first train to Zurich. JC had not routed her through Freiburg. Recently, a Gestapo officer had been found murdered in a cheap hotel. The perpetrator, a woman, was being sought. Trains were randomly stopped and inspected at Freiburg in the event the “murderess” was attempting to return home. A description had been posted.

From Zurich, Nori switched to a train bound for the German border. She switched to another from there to Frankfurt. For 254 miles she shared a compartment with four civilians, including a distraught middle-aged woman who was showing everyone photos of her son. Her boy was a lieutenant in the Wehrmacht, attached to von Paulus’s 6th Army, which was now besieged and encircled—along with a quarter million other German soldiers—in Stalingrad. Her son was seen in uniform: clean, enthused, and youthful. “Goering boasts his Luftwaffe is supplying the city until help arrives,” the woman said with the faintest hope lifting her voice. A fellow passenger ventured that with December approaching, Goering’s boast would fade into the snow. The woman grew tearful and sobbed, “I know.”

Nori thought of her own loss, hiding her grief. His name was Henri Giroux, the man she had planned to marry. Giroux was so very handsome, and such a marvelous skier (they met on the slopes at Gstaad). He graduated college with a degree in physics in 1938, and joined the French army as a pencil-pushing lieutenant, but soon rose through the ranks for a command. He became captain of an artillery company and was killed on the day after the blitzkrieg began when the panzers broke through the front line. Nori wiped her eyes and stared out the window at a sign pointing to Moosburg and Munich. Her nerves tingled. Stalag VII-A was located at Moosburg. She had previously aided three British airmen who escaped VII-A. One had mentioned the arrival of the first few American prisoners.

She saw no sign of bomb damage in Frankfurt, unlike in the Ruhr Valley farther north. But with much industry surrounding Frankfurt am Main, Nori suspected it would become a prime target for the American Army Air Forces.

That night, in bed inside a quiet hostel, she recalled her family’s idyllic visit to Frankfurt during the summer of 1936, on their way to attend the Berlin Olympics. The Jeans had friends there who proudly showed them the sights of their city. She was most impressed by the massive IG Farben building, built a few years earlier her artistic father noted “in New Objective design,” by renowned architect Hans Poelzig, The seven-hundred-foot-long structure, the largest of its kind in Europe, curved in a gentle arc, interspersed by six identical wings, seven stories in height. Each housed the staff of one of IG Farben’s six constituent companies: Agfa, BASF, Bayer, Chemische Fabrik Griesheim-Elektron, Hoechst, and Weiler ter Meer. Upon seeing the building, her father had mentioned, “All the chemicals I use in my photography business are made by Agfa.”

Herr Baumann had worked in this headquarters of Interessengemeinschaft Farbenindustrie AG (“Dye Industry Syndicate Corporation”). Nori reflected on his sudden arrival one night the past week, and how he had, without knowing, led her to the very city which he had fled.

In the morning, she gathered her resolve and departed for the nation’s capital, Berlin—the center of all things wicked. The train was occupied by foreign workers, soldiers, military commanders, businessmen, housewives, and the occasional Gestapo agent made obvious by a trench coat, either worn or carried under an arm. On this train, at least, no papers were demanded.

Bomb damage began to be evident as the train passed through Berlin’s south-side suburbs, including Potsdam and Wannsee. As the train rolled closer to the city center, more and more bomb craters appeared. It seemed that British Bomber Command employed an indiscriminate technique called “area bombing” necessitated by its policy of bombing only at night. As one of the RAF escapees had lamented to Nori, “No wonder the average Deutscher wants to kill us if we parachute to the ground. We drop our bombs hoping to hit a factory or rail yard and end up bombing them out of their homes.”

Berlin’s Olympic stadium and grounds remained pristine, reminding Nori that in 1936, the entire city had appeared picture-perfect. Her father insisted they join the crowd at a department store on the Kurfürstendamm where a marvelous new invention, television, displayed live images of the competition. Nori absorbed the four-hundred-meter race. More German people watched the games on the eight small screens set up downtown than attended in person. The nineteen-year-old Benoîte regarded Berlin as a beautifully decorated Easter egg. She now realized that even in 1936 the egg was rotting from within. The first concentration camps had been erected; the Gypsies were their first occupants.

A recent attack by the RAF had disrupted the line connecting Dresden and Leipzig, and it had been restored just this morning; the station was jammed. In early afternoon, she boarded a train to Stralsund, the express stop closest to Barth, and arrived in time to catch a local train heading for Barth. By four o’clock she was walking into the Speicher, a historic hotel near the heart of this small medieval city, situated as it was on a picturesque lagoon of the Baltic Sea.

Swedes once occupied Barth, and some of their descendants still resided in the city, along with a number of Finns. Most of its five thousand citizens were of Prussian stock. That is, if the 1,500 RAF officers confined in the POW camp outside of town were excluded from the count.

JC had noted that Baltic was the cheapest space on the American Monopoly board. This reference meant little to Nori; she was accustomed to the French game board, whose least expensive space was “Boulevard de Belleville,” a Parisian street in one of the city’s grittier neighborhoods.

The Speicher was historic; its exterior looked ancient. She introduced herself at reception and, in authoritative German, asked to see the proprietor, Klaus Voormann. JC had coached her. “Always use your best German and speak loudly. We both know Germans respond to authority, not necessarily politeness.” The slender, bespectacled manager appeared, his mouth twisted in shocked displeasure.

“Why are you here, Fraulein Miller? We are expecting Frau Brunner next week.” Nori, as Helga Miller, explained sharply, “Frau Brunner is ill and I was asked to take her place. I am busy and my schedule does not permit a week of idleness. So I am here. Let us begin with the inspection of your rooms, Herr Voormann.”

Voormann said that was unacceptable. Plaster patching was ongoing in some of them. Others were being painted. Nori softened her tone and expressed understanding. “I will not interfere in the work.” Voormann overcame his reluctance and led her to the second floor where he “exposed” some of its rooms, all the while spouting apologies. The rooms, she concluded, would be quite fine once repaired. She then broached topics written on a checklist regarding meals, secretarial services, and transportation to and from the Stalag. She expressed her satisfaction with his answers. Relieved, Voormann bowed, shook her hand, and asked if she wished to stay the night, as his guest. She demurred politely, her “hectic schedule” serving as the excuse.

At six thirty, as scheduled, she appeared before the door of a modest home to the west of town. A modest, gray-haired woman wearing an apron answered her knock. She also wore an inquisitor’s scowl. Helga Miller / Nori said quickly, “You must be Kari Virtanen. I am a friend of Thérèse Bonney. I was sent to you.”

Kari’s husband appeared. Esa Virtanen was slightly bowed, with an inquisitive face whose most prominent features were a sharp nose and cobalt-blue eyes. His fingers were long and graceful, like a concert pianist’s. He asked the stranger, “Why would you think we know someone named Bonney?”

“Because the songbirds like her music.”

Esa Virtanen asked, “And what type of songs do they like?”

“Not classical; they prefer iskelmä.” This Finnish word derived from the German Schlager, meaning a “hit” song.

With her identity verified, Esa Virtanen beckoned her with his slender fingers. “Well then, come inside. Fraulein Miller, yes?” For the duration of her visit, Nori would be Helga Miller.

As Kari Virtanen applied vinegar to loosen Nori’s fake nails, her husband eagerly asked for news about their mutual friend Thérèse Bonney. Nori explained that Bonney had connected her to the OSS in Bern. Acting on JC’s instructions, she repeated the brief message sent by von Zedtwitz, adding, “The microfilm that I have brought you contains a request. That is all I know.”

“Traitors in the president’s home!” Esa shook his head knowingly. “The Russians are much smarter than the Germans. Why engage in a bitter costly war when you can undermine from within? Little cost, no visible bloodshed.”

Over tea and Runeberg tortes, “Miller” learned that Esa ran the liaison office of the Finnish army in Barth, whose purpose was to coordinate the exchange of information with its “allies” in Berlin. “We Finns,” Esa boasted, “are the world’s best cryptographers.” Using a very complex coding system, messages from Helsinki were transmitted to Esa’s receiving station. His team deciphered the messages and delivered them by train to the German High Command in Berlin. Esa told Nori his countrymen would never risk providing their “German partners in the war on Russia” with the actual code, only the product of it.

Discussion turned to the role Barth played in this war. Esa told her that within walking distance of their home was the POW camp Stalag Luft I. Adjoining it was a massive antiaircraft gun training center, or flak school, as it was more commonly known. Its students were mainly young women and members of the Hitler Youth. A mile farther along was Barth Airport, used exclusively by the Luftwaffe to train pilots and test new aircraft. This had included, briefly, the new jet-powered Messerschmitt fighter. Beyond that, in a realm no one was permitted to talk about, loomed a concentration camp. Rumor had it the camp was filled with decrepit French and Russian prisoners.

Miller memorized these details before Esa surprised her by asking if she would like to see the Stalag. “You’ve come all this way on behalf of the IRC supposedly because of this camp. I think you should see it.”

“But it is nighttime.”

Esa assured her the arc lights of the camp would show the way, along a path that meandered through a broad meadow. She agreed to follow him, substituting a pair of Kari’s boots for her nice shoes. They trudged across spongy ground, guided by the glow in the distance, stopping only when Esa felt it was unwise to proceed any farther. She saw for the first time the kind of foreboding environment from which airmen fled to seek her help. The camp’s double barbed-wire fences appeared jagged under the stark artificial light. She could see the silhouettes of guards in their towers, and the ominous black shapes of barracks inside the wires. Esa explained that all barracks windows were shuttered and locked at night to deter escape attempts. As she gazed at these harsh features, the air was eerily silent.

Esa explained that Stalag Luft camps were guarded by Luftwaffe personnel. Hermann Goering had this romantic notion of airmen being “knights of the sky,” so he insisted that the enemy’s knights be guarded by his own knights. The Luftwaffe bent some rules but generally adhered to the terms of the Geneva Convention.

Before retiring in the Virtanens’ house that night, they shared a drink called lakka. Made with cloudberries, it was quite potent. With her inhibition dulled, Miller divulged, “Our friend in America believes the best way to determine the names of American traitors is to obtain a Russian codebook.”

Esa replied, “Of course,” but then noted purloining one would be no good if the Russians discovered it had gone missing. “They would poison the wine, if you understand.”

“Meaning?”

Esa explained that if the Russians knew one of their codebooks had fallen into enemy hands, they would quickly change to a new code. The advantage would be fleeting.

She asked if it was possible to obtain such a codebook without the Russians knowing it. Esa merely grinned like a Cheshire cat, shrugged, and said nothing further.

In the morning Helga Miller boarded a train back to Stralsund, where she awaited the Berlin express. Milling about on the platform were many blue-uniformed Luftwaffe personnel, their silvery, wing-shaped medals gleaming. The train proved crowded; she found herself standing in an aisle. Within an hour, a contingent of security appeared at the far end of her car, checking papers and looking through bags. One woman’s suitcase aroused suspicion and she was led away by two agents. Nori flinched. Her papers, vital to get home from Frankfurt, were hidden in her valise. But what if these brutes were aware of her style of bag and knew of its secret compartment?

She decided to make her way into the next car where, perhaps, she could hide in a restroom. That car, however, was packed with members of the Luftwaffe. All seats were taken, and junior officers were standing at the far end. Unsure of what to do, she stopped and looked about. The officer seated at her side took notice.

“And who might you be?” He was fortyish, and of high rank, a colonel. She told him she was Helga Miller of the International Red Cross and had come from Barth. “So have we,” the officer replied. “What were you doing in Barth?” His voice suggested interest, not suspicion. She told him.

The car door burst open and two security agents entered. One looked directly at Nori and said, “Your papers, Fraulein, and you are to open your bag for us.”

The Luftwaffe officer jumped up. “There is no need to inspect this woman, Captain. She is on a mission from the IRC. We already have enough friction with the International Red Cross.” He reached down and lifted Helga Miller’s valise onto the rack above his seat and bade her to sit in his place. He fixed his eyes on the security captain until he and his minion, properly intimidated, saluted and walked past.

The officer seated beside her was asleep, his head bobbing next to the window. Nori found herself engaged in sporadic conversation with the gallant colonel standing in the aisle, a man accorded respect by his fellow officers. Hours later, when the train approached Berlin, he hunched down and said to Fraulein Miller, “I would be most honored if you would share lunch with me at the station. I will rebook your trains to Frankfurt and Zurich.” A look of uncertainty must have overcome her because the colonel added, “I have no ulterior motive, Fraulein Helga. I am, well . . . lonely. I haven’t seen my wife in Leipzig for three months. I am somewhat tired of all the man talk. I would like to listen to a lady for a change.”

Over a simple meal and a bitter coffee substitute, Colonel Manfred Krepps spoke openly of many things. She encouraged him while revealing little of herself. Krepps told her that Stalag Luft I would be shuttered in the spring for expansion, its English occupants sent to another camp. It was inevitable, Krepps said, that the Americans would begin daylight bombing of Germany after their trial runs against northern France and Belgium. Many of their air crews would be captured. Luft I would, upon reopening, accommodate many of them. Should the war endure, there was open space—the meadow—to build even more barracks. “You and the IRC will have much to inspect.”

Helga dared mention the flak school. He told her that at any given time a thousand students were learning how to operate flak cannons and develop deadly aim at Allied bombers high in the sky.

She casually mentioned hearing about an airplane that made a strange new sound. Krepps suspected she meant the new jet fighter. With modest pride, he informed her he had flown one.

“It must be a marvelous weapon for Germany,” she commented while dabbing her lips with a napkin. He agreed, also surmising that the Americans and British must be trying to catch up. With a note of disdain he added, “They are likely years behind in developing this technology.” Then he sighed, “Of course, what difference does it make if our factories are destroyed? The Americans have a most marvelous bombsight and, unlike the British, their bombers hit what they aim at.” A prideful smile appeared. “Helga, do you know that its inventor, Carl Norden, was educated in your country? This is true. He was a Dutchman, educated at the Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich. I admire that man.”

“So then, Germany has jets but America has superior bombsights.”

His eyes flickered. By now she realized this colonel was so beaten down by the war and the duties he shouldered that he had to unburden. Talking to a young lady he believed to be from the Swiss Red Cross must surely be without consequence. Her innocence seemed the right antidote for his malady. Yet he hesitated before replying: “Maybe not. Maybe we will outdo the Americans.”

“How so? I imagine it would help to have the plans for the American bombsight and improve upon them. Did you say the inventor’s name was Norden?”

He gave her a curious, knowing smile; it reminded her of the look on Esa Virtanen’s face when discussing the Russian codebook. His reply consisted of two words, “Yes, Norden.” He offered nothing further.

When the meal concluded, Colonel Krepps proved to be a man of his word. He rebooked her trains and kissed the back of her hand before wishing her safe travels home to Switzerland. In turn, she wished him the grace of God. His eyes became downcast, as had JC’s and those of the distraught mother on the train when contemplating her son’s fate.

In early evening, Helga Miller arrived in Frankfurt. She would not go on to Bern, of course. Her goal was Strasbourg. She purchased a ticket, paid a quick visit to the restroom to remove the pins from her hair, adjust the collar on her coat, and dig out her hidden identity documents. As Benoîte, she climbed aboard just before the big steam engine wheezed into life. Flushed away in the restroom were shreds of papers in the name of Helga Miller, as she once again became Benoîte Jean.

During the short ride, Benoîte was not challenged. Back at home, her father embraced her while tears of joy ran down the cheeks of her mother. “My, look at you,” Alec Jean exclaimed. “Such fine clothes. And what a nice suitcase. What did you do to be so rewarded?” Benoîte said she would explain everything in the morning. She was exhausted, having slept fitfully the past four nights.

She closed her eyes in the comfort of her own bed. Images of Esa Virtanen and Colonel Krepps floated through her mind. With a start, her eyes opened wide, following her epiphany. The Germans have the plans for the Norden bombsight, and the Finns have a Russian codebook. The Russians do not know they have it.

Benoîte had hoped JC would be sent back to Strasbourg, but instead, three days later, 110 directed a female OSS agent to appear at her restaurant. She advised Nori to go to the lakefront in the Parc de l’Orangerie at four in the afternoon. The sight of two young women walking leisurely in a park would not arouse suspicion, and that was essential. Nori verified delivery of the microfilm to Esa Virtanen and conveyed the information she had gathered from both Esa and the Luftwaffe colonel. As they reached the park’s exit and feigned a goodbye between old friends, Nori asked, “And how is JC?”

The woman replied, “I wouldn’t know. He’s gone, on another mission.”

Chapter 11

Monopoly and the Brothers Parker

Since 1935 the epicenter of the Monopoly game had been Salem, Massachusetts, inside the factory of Parker Brothers. Within its rambling clapboard walls, millions of copies had been hand assembled. In 1942 the distant war in Europe temporarily wreaked havoc with production. Robert Barton, the firm’s president and the son-in-law of its septuagenarian founder, George Parker, had to contend with the disappearance of cellophane—the clear, crinkly wrapping that sealed the trays in the bottoms of the game’s packages, allowing consumers to lift off the cover of a game’s box to peer inside and see what they were getting while shopping in a store. Barton solved this by substituting an inner cover made of cardboard with die-cut openings. The next setback was the War Production Board’s decision to remove metal from the list of approved materials for toys and games. Monopoly’s iconic and beloved die-cast tokens were unenthusiastically replaced with turned wooden pawns, vat-dyed in various colors.

Fortunately, George Parker had learned how to anticipate shortages. His factory had sputtered during the First World War after running short of paper and cardboard. Fully aware from his trips to Europe in the late 1930s that war was again likely, he instructed son-in-law Barton to “stock the warehouse with as much board and paper as you can cram into it.” By mid-1942, Monopoly was one of five games the company continually kept in production. All five were procured by the government to provide entertainment, eventually for millions of men and women serving in Europe and the Pacific.

Monopoly was purchased in the greatest quantity, by far. This decision assured that Monopoly was found on store shelves across the United States, which in turn meant that MIS-X had no difficulty purchasing locally all copies needed to convert into Monopoly X versions.

Prior to the war, businessmen like George Parker who annually traveled to Europe were quietly enlisted by the State Department to “observe places of interest” during their stays. George and wife Grace obliged by touring a different part of the Continent each summer. They attended the 1936 Berlin Olympics, even though Parker had little interest in sports. In 1937, they toured Benito Mussolini’s Italy. During the Czech crisis of 1938, they did “sightseeing” in Central Europe, then hurried to the safety of a Parisian hotel. In 1939, after a visit to Germany, they found themselves in Belgium when the Wehrmacht invaded Poland. The Parkers ferried to England, requested gas masks, and completed their itinerary in Great Britain before sailing home through U-boat-infested waters. After their ocean liner docked in New York City, Parker was debriefed and told his services as a gentleman spy were no longer needed. A few months later, the OSS made spying an American profession—and, eventually, a highly trained occupation.

In 1882, when only sixteen, Parker invented Banking, his first game. He continued to invent during his brief career as a cub reporter before establishing the George S. Parker Company. By 1890, he had lured his older brothers, Charles and Edward, to join him, and Parker Brothers was launched.

During that distant era, all leading games and toys originated in Europe. Sailing vessels would arrive in New York’s harbor every February with new items to offer American toy companies. With spunk and ingenuity, young Parker scooped his competition by sailing to London in advance of this annual buying spree (much like the reporter he had been, who aimed to be first at the scene of a newsworthy event). His initiative paid off. He licensed Tiddlywinks and Ping-Pong before his rivals had even heard of them, and suddenly Parker Brothers became the “name” in games. Early in the twentieth century, he marketed three wildly popular card games, Pit, Flinch, and Rook, then produced big quantities of wooden puzzles under the brand name Pastime Puzzles (each cut by hand by one of his firm’s skilled jigsaw operators). By World War I, Parker Brothers was America’s leading game provider.

The mah-jongg fad lifted it further during the 1920s, but the firm was unable to ride the great contract bridge wave in the early 1930s. Without a new hit, the Depression took its toll. George Parker, having lost both his sons before each was old enough to join his firm, looked to his son-in-law, Robert Barton, to take over and somehow save his business. Barton agreed to leave the law practice of his own father, in Baltimore.

In England, a game called Sorry! was gaining in popularity. Barton licensed it from its maker, John Waddington Limited, thus beginning a long and fruitful relationship with the Watson family. The next year, Barton heard that a game named Monopoly was selling well in Philadelphia. His father-in-law had once turned it down. Barton acquired it anyway. The quick success of Monopoly not only saved Parker Brothers from dissolution, it compelled Barton to hire every able-bodied soul in Salem to keep up with its demand. By the end of 1936, Monopoly was an unqualified phenomenon. Its components became icons: the shiny tokens, the deeds, the game board with its Atlantic City street names, and the text on its Chance and Community Chest cards. By the late 1930s, Monopoly’s impact on culture was comparable to that of the Star Wars movie trilogy forty years later. (“Do not pass Go, go directly to Jail” was spoken as often back then as “May the Force be with you” in the seventies.) Monopoly appeared in movies, inspired a song, and graced a range of merchandise, including greeting cards.

With its imagery deeply ingrained in popular culture on both sides of the Atlantic, men at war instinctively used the names and terms of Monopoly to craft codes and inspire cover names. Monopoly was selected to smuggle escape aids because its game board was large and accommodative—and because the vast majority of service men and women knew and desired it.

So it was highly ironic that Parker Brothers knew nothing of any of this.

Not everyone loved the game, of course. Monopoly had its share of critics. Among its biggest detractors was burly bridge champion Philip Hal Sims. In early 1943, Sims came knocking on the door of Waldemar von Zedtwitz’s duplex. Sims’s bridge team—imaginatively named “the Four Horsemen”—had pushed its own bidding system, which relied on intuitive “psychic” bids. Culbertson’s team was challenged many times by the Horsemen, and just as often the Horsemen lost. Sims’s scheme was now dead; Culbertson’s Approach-Forcing method was universally accepted. While there was little love lost between Hal Sims and Culbertson’s team (which included Waldy) there existed professional, grudging respect.

Von Zedtwitz looked up from the chess problem he was working on in his library as Sims was announced. “Hal. What might you want?”

Waldy thought of Sims as “the bridge walrus.” Sims carried three hundred pounds upon his six-foot-four frame. Before acquiring an enormous appetite, this unkempt man with unruly hair and bulbous lips had been a svelte pilot. It was easy to compare him to Hermann Goering, whose once lean airman’s body had become a mound of blubber (addiction to painkillers being his explanation).

“I’m just back from Washington,” Sims said, wheezing as he took a seat across from Waldy, swirling his scotch. “Army intelligence wants you.”

Waldy looked up from the chessboard. Sims told him that Axis soldiers, taken prisoner in the North African campaign, were arriving at an interrogation camp outside Arlington, Virginia. Thousands more were expected by April. Interpreters were needed. Waldy came highly recommended because of his perfect command of German and English. His knowledge of other European languages might prove useful as well. “You would be volunteering, of course,” Sims made clear, “since you don’t need the money. But the FBI will look kindly on you.”

Waldy contemplated. “Well, as you know, Harold, I’m perfectly happy to sit out the war. But if I should volunteer I would hope for an increased gasoline ration. My car is worthless at the moment. I keep it stored in a garage in Queens. I can travel farther in a taxicab.”

Sims shrugged and suggested the request was worth the asking. Sims, a notorious busybody, inquired about fellow bridge master Alfred Sheinwold. “What do you hear about the kid?”

Waldy twirled his hair, a longtime tic when nervous or perplexed. “Alfred is elsewhere. That’s all I know.” His response was disingenuous. Von Zedtwitz had learned that the thirty-year-old math and bridge expert was the chief code and cipher expert for Wild Bill Donovan’s OSS. It was through Alfred Sheinwold that Waldy gleaned that the army’s cryptographers did not possess a Russian codebook.

“What was it that Sheinwold always said, about others who make mistakes?”

“Alfred said, ‘Learn all you can from the mistakes of others. You won’t have time to make them all yourself.’”

“That’s very clever,” Sims replied, adding, “God knows I’ve made my share.”

Von Zedtwitz lit up a Turkish cigarette and continued, “Alfred also said, and I’m paraphrasing, the test of a bridge player is not keeping out of trouble, it is escaping once in it.” He tapped ashes into an ashtray. “Hal, are you telling me I’m no longer in trouble with the government?”

“That’s the gist of it. The POW department needs you. Be a good volunteer.” Sims took another sip and smacked his lips. “What have you heard about Ely?”

“He’s on the rails pushing his peace plan. I haven’t heard much of him, either.” In truth, it was only the past week that Culbertson had shared a dark fact with von Zedtwitz: Giorgi Toldze was dead. Stalin had caught on to this “traitor to the cause” and ordered Toldze executed. There would be no more leaks from the NKVD in Moscow. Fortunately, his second-to-last message to Culbertson had included the cover names for the three traitors. Von Zedtwitz had dutifully provided these to Alec Jean in a cryptic letter. And in Toldze’s final message, he had identified a Polish partisan going by the name Tluczek (“Masher”), a communist, who knew the actual identity of the “maybe” whose cover name was “19.” Tluczek agreed to provide it, but only in person.

A misspelling of the first word in Toldze’s last message bothered von Zedtwitz: “Sum bets,” rather than “some bets.” The bridge side of Waldy’s brain took this as a signal, as in a bid whose meaning suggested other than face value. What was Toldze trying to signal? Had he written this under duress?

“The Germans just lost the war, I think,” Sims opined. “Joseph Goebbels as much as said so.” The past week, the Nazi minister of propaganda announced the surrender of von Paulus’s 6th Army at Stalingrad. Ninety-one thousand starving German soldiers, their guns empty of ammunition and their medical supplies exhausted, raised their hands and abjectly marched away to captivity. A total of six hundred thousand German, Hungarian, Italian, and Romanian troops had been killed or captured outright during the six-month battle. It seemed inconsequential to Joseph Stalin that Soviet battle deaths had exceeded one million. The Russian dictator was conscripting endless numbers of replacement manpower from central Asia. Germany had no such reserve.

Von Zedtwitz replied, “You, I, and Goebbels agree on that. But I imagine Hitler doesn’t.”

Sims grunted, then hoisted his bulk out of the chair. “I should go.” He took notice of the Monopoly game sitting on Waldy’s bookshelf. He pointed at it with a beefy paw. “I hate that game.” He sneered. “Imagine, in order to win it, that game makes you bargain. Where are the smarts in that?” Sims departed.

Before returning to his chess exercise, von Zedtwitz contemplated a decoded message he had scrawled on a sheet of stationery. The unusually terse missive had been extracted from Alec Jean’s most recent letter.

Daughter burn message to dull sent north Bart fins might have it.

From this von Zedtwitz deduced that Alec Jean’s daughter, Benoîte, had traveled to Bern, Switzerland, and had delivered Toldze’s message to “dull”—Allen Dulles—who in turn had sent Benoîte north to . . . von Zedtwitz consulted his atlas: Barth, Germany. Waldy knew the city from his youth. While there, Benoîte learned the Finns “might have it.” Von Zedtwitz wondered what could be so incendiary that Jean dared not specify “it.” And why were the Finns involved? Contemplating this sparked a decision of what to do with the final revelation of Giorgi Toldze, may he rest in peace—whoever he had been.

* * *

In London, Airey Neave and Jimmy Langley concluded that in the wake of Harold Cole’s treachery, it would be more prudent to start an entirely new line, whose members would be unknown to Cole, rather than rebuilding the Comet line.

Two French Canadian escapees had proposed a uniquely brilliant idea. Rather than piece together a chain of French Resistance agents from Paris or Brussels and on to the Spanish border, why not nurture “feeder” helpers in eastern France, build a new operation in Paris where evaders and escapers would be gathered, and take them to the Atlantic coast in nearby Brittany, where fast British motor gunboats could pick them up and dash back to Plymouth, England?

The Canadians, to Neave’s delight, believed strongly in the value of radio communications. One of them, bespectacled Raymond Labrosse, was quite skilled at transmitting in code. The other, Lucien Dumais, possessed movie-star good looks and was a born leader.

The two Canadians mapped out potential pickup beaches. One in particular seemed ideal. Behind this rocky beach stood a cliff. Into it Nature had carved a cave where men could hide for hours until a signal from a gunboat was seen. The 128-foot craft carried four small boats on deck that would be rowed to shore ladened with supplies for the French Underground, and then return loaded with as many as twenty airmen. Once they were onboard, the gunboat would quietly make for the open sea, then open-throttle all three of its diesel engines in a roaring dash to the south coast of England.

Neave and Langley felt the plan was worth the risk and put it into action. There was only one “small” concern. On top of the cliff, the Germans had built four concrete gun emplacements. The rescued airmen and their guides would have to slip past these before descending, dangling on ropes to reach the beach below.

The new escape line was initially named the “Oakline” for no obvious reason. But Neave suggested that “Shelburne” become its name, in honor of a former English prime minister. By coincidence, Shelburne was also the name of a town near the birthplace of Lucien Dumais.

A list of feeder helpers was compiled. One of the names in it was Benoîte Jean, who had collected several airmen in Strasbourg for pickup by Comet line agents. At times, she provided escort all the way to Brussels. There was little evidence to suspect Cole knew of her, but surely he would if she continued with the Comet line. Dumais therefore paid her a visit. Benoîte struck him as exceptionally feminine but, more important, physically capable and fearless, and her resourceful parents stood ready to assist her. Benoîte understood the need to sever ties with Comet and agreed to work for Shelburne. She did so with some regret.

* * *

In Algeria, a sergeant assigned to guard the headquarters of General Carl Spaatz announced, “An OSS agent is here to see you, sir.” Spaatz put aside the plans he was reviewing. A rugged-looking man dressed in civilian garb was ushered inside. He saluted and announced himself as “Major James Smith.” He presented papers signed by “Agent 110” in Bern, Switzerland. Spaatz replied, “I assume you are not really named James Smith. What should I call you?”

“JC,” came the reply. “I am a major, but rank is unimportant in my work.”

“And why are you here, Major?”

JC informed Spaatz of the massive synthetic fuel and rubber complex, known as Buna-Werke, revealed to the OSS by an embittered IG Farben engineering manager. He told Spaatz a member of the French Resistance had couriered this information to Dulles in Bern, including a diagram of its precise location. JC presented Spaatz with a copy. “Agent 110 applauds your decision to make the German oil industry a top strategic bombing priority. He thought you should know the Germans have this ace in the hole. It is reputed to be a very big ace.”

Spaatz located an atlas and handed it to JC, who flipped to its map of Poland and pointed. “Here. The Germans call this place Auschwitz. We’re told the Germans have cleared a vast amount of forest and are hard at work. The region is near coalfields, three rivers, and several rail lines. All are essential to support manufacturing on this scale. One-Ten poses one doubt, however. Where does their labor come from? This is not a populated area.”

“Thank you, Major.” Spaatz asked, “Will 110 send an agent to appraise this place at ground level?”

“No, sir. He will not take that risk, which he believes is great. If caught, such an agent will be tortured and, you know, give up all, before being executed.”

Spaatz nodded. “I understand. I would like nothing myself better than to fly a mission in one of my bombers to see what my airmen are up against, and to experience the high-altitude conditions they endure. But I am forbidden from so doing. The risk outweighs the reward, so the explanation goes.” JC expressed understanding. They saluted. “Go find some chow, Major. Get some rest before you depart. My regards to our 110.”

Spaatz picked up a pen and circled the location of the Buna-Werke on the map, then snapped closed the atlas. He exited his tent to walk off a new bout of frustration.

Spaatz had transferred from foggy London to sand-choking North Africa; General Eisenhower, commander of the European Theater of the war, had ordered him to carve his 8th Air Force in two and establish the new 12th Air Force here, which was needed to support Operation Torch, the North African campaign. Spaatz, in command of both air forces, relied on his friend General Ira Eaker, in London, to plan daily operations of the 8th, while war hero General James Doolittle directed the 12th—the same Jimmy Doolittle who had led the first raid on Tokyo in April of the prior year. Sixteen Army Air Forces B-25 medium bombers were brought within range of Japan and launched from the deck of the USS Hornet aircraft carrier, a feat never before imagined. Doolittle piloted the lead plane.

The allies were winning the war in North Africa until winter rains delayed their progress. Nevertheless, a vise would close on Rommel’s Afrika Corps. The American and British troops in Algeria, led by General George Patton, were pushing east. British general Bernard Montgomery’s troops in Libya were advancing from the west. Inevitably, a trap would close at the port of Algiers—hopefully before the bulk of Rommel’s army and air force could be evacuated. Plans called for the island of Sicily to be invaded next, followed by mainland Italy. The Italians, it was believed, would throw out their dictator, Benito Mussolini, and quit the war. During all of these operations, the 12th Air Force would provide air cover and support for the soldiers on the ground, attack German and Italian shipping in the Mediterranean, and destroy German air bases in Sicily.

Doing so entailed great sacrifice. The 8th, in England, had waved goodbye to its most experienced squadrons and groups. It became too weak to begin strategic bombing of industry inside Germany. Spaatz’s “oil campaign” was delayed indefinitely. Instead, the top priority for General Eaker and the 8th became attacking ports and submarine pens along the French and North Sea coasts. U-boats were sinking an alarming number of ships in the North Atlantic.

The Buna-Werke “problem” became yet another that Spaatz would wrestle with. When making crucial decisions, he had trained himself to, as he put it, “walk away from my emotions” and rely on objectivity and reality. He reasoned thusly: Buna was beyond his aerial grasp. It would remain so until the lower half of the Italian “boot” was captured. Only then could reconnaissance aircraft take off and return with detailed photos of the facilities being built near this remote place the Germans named Auschwitz. Until then, his newfound awareness of Buna would gnaw at him like a toothache.

Chapter 12

The Top Hat

“For Services Rendered”

Harold “Paul” Cole—the Top Hat—callously helped the Abwehr to dismantle much of the northern end of the O’Leary line. He began by taking his revenge on Monsieur Duprez and Bruce Dowding (as Dowding feared) since after his confession in Marseille both wanted him dead. Cole next settled a score with gentle Abbé Carpentier, who had willingly forged documents for evaders at Cole’s behest, but who, of late, made the mistake of openly suspecting Cole’s allegiance. Death would be the fate of these three, in kind with fifty others.

Emboldened by its northern success, the Abwehr conveyed Cole to Paris in order to betray the center of Comet’s operation. Cole proceeded to do so with cold efficiency, exposing one trusted associate after another in the French capital, with one exception. He carefully shielded his girlfriend, dark-haired, nineteen-year-old Suzanne Warenghem. She was very attractive, and more important, she was “loyal as sin,” as Cole put it.

Warenghem first appeared in Marseille during July 1940, bringing two Scottish soldiers with her. In Paris she had conveyed these soldiers past unsuspecting German security by dressing them in raincoats over their uniforms, providing false papers, and taking them sightseeing to the Eiffel Tower, where an escape-line helper described the best route to follow into the Unoccupied Zone. Warenghem intended to accompany them on to Spain and depart the Continent with them. Being half British, her goal was to return to England and leave the bloody war behind. O’Leary, however, recognized talent when he saw it. Warenghem was bright, determined, and clever. She was cut from the same cloth as many other outstanding young women on his line. O’Leary persuaded her to join up. Filled with youthful pride, Warenghem set aside her desires and fatefully agreed. O’Leary then introduced her to the man who would serve as her coordinator—“Paul” Cole.

By August, Cole had her mesmerized. Warenghem, an impressionable nineteen-year-old, was awed by Cole’s taste for “fine wine, food, and women.” He insisted on the best seats in a restaurant, and got them. She quickly bonded with this “British gentleman.” A few weeks later, Cole told “Suzy” he loved her. She was overjoyed. He then asked her to return to Paris and prepare her apartment for use as a safe house. Among her loyal friends in Paris was Eugène Durand, the proprietor of a restaurant known as Chôpe du Pont-Neuf, located near the Île de la Cité and Notre-Dame. This large brasserie became the first Parisian stop whenever Cole and Warenghem shepherded evading airmen into the city. It was not unusual to find German soldiers and French civilians dining in the front, or in the open air along the street, while, at the same time, Durand was serving a hot meal to evading airmen in the back.

Cole’s pledge of love occurred before his near disaster in Marseille where O’Leary and Duprez had exposed him as a liar and a traitor. He chose not to mention this to his Suzy. Warenghem was equally unaware of his subsequent arrest by the Abwehr in La Madeleine. In place of the truth, Cole confided an “exciting secret”: He was an agent for British intelligence. She believed this, once more without question.

Cole and two Abwehr accomplices arrived in Paris on December 11. The Abwehr agents would lurk elsewhere whenever Cole arrived at the apartment of one of his former associates. Believing Cole to be loyal to the O’Leary line, one helper after another dutifully followed him into the arms of these German agents. Cole even prioritized his victims. Those with no means went first; those with money came last. The Abwehr had no idea that Cole was lining his pockets just prior to the conclusion of his “services.”

There was a strong motive for this by the Top Hat.

While Cole was engaged in these betrayals, Warenghem became sick with worry. Weeks had elapsed since Cole’s “important assignment in the north” had begun. His top hat—which he claimed brought him good luck—sat forlornly on his dresser. When rumors began to float that Cole was actually working for the Germans, Suzy dismissed these out of hand.

With his missions in Paris completed, Cole duped a mutual friend into falsely warning Warenghem that the Abwehr was hunting him. She must stay in her apartment and await further word. The next day, he sent Eugène Durand to fetch her. Durand led her to the Chôpe du Pont-Neuf, where Cole was waiting in the back of the restaurant, hidden from view. After a tearful reunion, Cole, in an agitated state, told his lover an amazing story of heroic escape from the Germans, and then he fell on the floor in a fit—which he was not faking. By the time he recovered, Suzanne Warenghem was convinced the rumors she had heard of Cole’s treachery were outrageously false. She would provide whatever her brave secret agent boyfriend needed, and if need be give her life to his cause.

Cole told Warenghem to gather clothes, money, and identity papers and bring them to the brasserie the following evening. After she arrived, he burst in, took the bags, and directed her to wait at a nearby corner. After disguising himself, Cole ran out the back, bag in hand. A darkened car idled at curbside. Cole directed the driver to pick up Warenghem and speed through the streets of Paris to a metro station.

Once again Harold “Paul” Cole had outfoxed his Abwehr minders. Upon receiving this unsettling news, Verloop, the Abwehr commander in Brussels, rued the day he had let Cole out of his cell in Lille.

Cole, however, now was beset by enemies on all sides. The O’Leary line wanted him shot. The Germans wanted him imprisoned, tortured, and executed. Only Suzanne Warenghem, with her devout belief in Cole’s idealism and courage, continued to support and shield this craven traitor.

O’Leary became deeply concerned when the flow of airmen from the north ceased in early 1942. He decided he must go north and identify the cause of the setback. In La Madeleine, he discovered the distraught wife of city official Henri Duprez. O’Leary had to convince the distressed, suspicious woman that he was, indeed, the leader of the escape line her husband had worked for.

Then she burst into tears and revealed that her husband had been arrested, along with many others—including a brave priest named Pierre Carpentier. O’Leary located the prison where the priest was incarcerated. By bribing a guard, a slip of paper was delivered to the priest, upon which was written the question, “Who betrayed you?” Carpentier’s reply: “Paul Cole.”

O’Leary learned that several missing airmen had remained in hiding after the line was compromised. They needed to be moved south. Somehow, he patched together a makeshift team and got them to Marseille. Then he began to search for Cole.

At that same moment, Cole was hiding at the Parisian apartment of Suzanne Warenghem’s aunt Jeanne, a lady who adored his “British officer’s charm.” Concurrently, Cole came down with a dangerously high fever. Aunt Jeanne considered calling a priest to administer last rites. But Cole returned to health and told her, deceitfully, that he had suffered a recurrence of malaria, contracted during his (nonexistent) Far East service. Jeanne Warenghem’s esteem for Cole also soared. She claimed that only Charles de Gaulle deserved more admiration.

O’Leary became convinced Cole was working for the Abwehr, despite the admiration of those Cole had actually helped, like “Stick” Higginson (of briefcase-chocolate fame). Brushing the disbelievers aside, O’Leary sent a detailed letter to MI-6 in London outlining Cole’s treachery and asking permission to kill him on sight. His letter concluded: “Cole is a major security risk to the largest escape line in Europe and must be removed.”

The response, authorized by Colonel Claude Dansey, stunned O’Leary, “Your summing up of the Cole situation is not appreciated.” Dansey also instructed O’Leary not to write further on this matter.

Dansey was known to order prompt execution of double agents and spies. His merciless attitude applied to anyone who put his agents at risk, such as loudmouth, evading airmen. They all had to go—but not “Paul” Cole!

In late March, following a lover’s spat, Cole proposed marriage to Warenghem. A secret church ceremony was arranged; the Abbé Amy would preside. To meet all legal requirements, a civil marriage was first required. Cole produced a forged document. The vicar obtained authorization from the archbishop of Paris for a mixed marriage (Cole had been baptized by the Church of England). The abbé conducted an interview to determine Cole’s understanding of doctrine and faith. However, within minutes he too became enthralled by Cole’s tales of life as a British secret agent. The abbé thereby concluded that Cole was “very agreeable, very attractive.”

Suzanne Warenghem had not one but three aunts living in Paris. In short order, all three found Cole absolutely charming. Two of them served as witnesses at the ceremony held in the small Catholic church. Their niece, Suzanne, was now twenty; their new nephew, Paul, was thirty-six years of age. Love knew no bounds, or so it seemed.

Sadly, Cole’s heart was as black as a winter’s night, and just as cold. Soon after the wedding, Suzanne lamented to Cole that he no longer allowed her to work for the line. She missed her brave associates, many of whom had disappeared: Garrow, O’Leary, Nadine, Father Carpentier, Henri Duprez (the “nice” Lille official). Cole told his new wife that his mission would be to rebuild the organization. He valued her patience, and to dispel her melancholy sent her on assignments (all meaningless).

During May he hit upon a grand scheme. When ready, he sent Warenghem to Tours to await three airmen at the station. Their arrival would be “sometime” the next day, so she might have to wait there for hours. At six that evening he would rendezvous with her and the airmen at the designated safe house in Tours.

He had already convinced each of her aunts that their apartments were needed to hide airmen that same day. Honored to help, each dutifully found lodging elsewhere. Cole then ransacked their homes, making off with silver, jewelry, money—and every small object of value.

With his bag filled with loot, the Top Hat departed Paris for Tours. He found Warenghem quite upset. The three airmen had not arrived on any train. Cole told her they likely were discovered and, more important, that the Abwehr had sniffed out his trail. Neither of them could risk going back to Paris. Warenghem, pregnant with his child, became despondent. She was weary from her all-day ordeal at the station, avoiding the curious eyes of the Gestapo agents roaming the platforms. Cole encouraged her. “We will remove ourselves from harm’s way. We will go to Marseille, and from there, home to England.”

O’Leary continued to search for Cole’s whereabouts. But what could one man do? He needed help. Somehow, Dansey must be convinced to take this turncoat seriously and assign his agents the task of locating him. O’Leary sent a helper to MI-6’s Geneva station with a folder packed with evidence against Cole. He hoped these documents would persuade Dansey to see the light. It had not occurred to O’Leary that Cole was working for Dansey. In fact, Cole was burning a candle at three ends, if that were possible. The O’Leary line, the Abwehr, and MI-6 had each been conned by him.

O’Leary selected Louis Nouveau, a loyal businessman who had been with the line from the start, to take the folder to Geneva. To avoid arrest at the Swiss border, Nouveau required the assistance of the well-connected American vice consul in Lyon: George Whittinghill. Whittinghill often slipped into Switzerland to provide intelligence to Allen Dulles. To do so, Whittinghill had devised a foolproof route and kept its secret to himself.

Nouveau arrived at the consulate and pleaded with Whittinghill to share his secret route.

It was urgent, he told the American vice consul, but he did not reveal that “Paul” Cole was the cause of his urgency. Why? Nouveau knew that Cole had befriended Whittinghill. In disbelief, he would likely bristle and demand an explanation. Worse, Nouveau suspected Cole was passing intelligence to Whittinghill. However, Nouveau considered Whittinghill an honorable man. The vice consul had taken on a great risk by assisting the O’Leary line. He even allowed evading airmen to hide in the American consulate on their way south to Marseille—a criminalité.

In time, a beautiful young woman appeared before Whittinghill at the American consulate in Lyon. Benoîte Jean asked for his help, as instructed by Agent 110. It seemed her father had received another message from America. The spymaster in Bern must be informed of its contents. The message was brief; she had not written it down. She persuaded Whittinghill to memorize it as well: Armie Ludowa, Lublin, the masher knows name of 19. Benoîte was certain that 110 would understand its meaning.

JC had told Nori in Bern that she must not come back to this city. If in the future she had “something” for 110, she should present herself at the American consulate in Lyon and the vice consul would carry the message to Bern.

But that day was yet to come. Whittinghill’s decision was whether to help, or not help, Louis Nouveau by providing the secret of easy access into and out of Switzerland. Whittinghill knew Nouveau well enough to conclude the man’s need was genuine. He relented and told Louis that the secret route ran through the town of Bossey. Once there, Nouveau was to contact the grocer and say, “Maria says hello.” The grocer would deliver him to associates who would make the border guards look the other way.

Nouveau reached Geneva without incident, and he found MI-6’s operation hidden behind the British passport office. The agent on duty had no knowledge of Paul Cole and expressed no interest in learning about him. Nouveau exploded and told the agent that Cole was the biggest danger facing their nation in France. The bureaucrat snapped out of his stupor. In a private office, he asked question after question about Cole until he was satisfied this man was, indeed, a rotten apple. Then he cabled London. It would take time to receive a reply; he offered a bed to Nouveau for the night. In the morning, MI-6’s station chief arrived, as ordered by London. He plied Nouveau with more questions and asked him to compose a written report.

Cole’s execution was finally authorized. Nouveau returned and informed O’Leary, who hoped his bullet would be the one that found its mark.

From Tours, Cole and Warenghem made their way south, first stopping in Lyon where, of all people, Cole contacted Whittinghill. “Do you have anything for me?” Whittinghill asked. Cole’s intelligence for MI-6 went by way of Whittinghill.

Cole had polished some “gems” of info, which he absorbed, and—not realizing they were fabrications—Whittinghill thanked Cole. Capitalizing on the moment, Cole asked for money “for the line.” Whittinghill knew that O’Leary suspected Cole of being a traitor. After giving Cole 25,000 francs (about $500), he asked where he was next going. “Marseille,” came the reply, “after a bit of rest at a hotel here.”

Once Cole left his office, Whittinghill contacted O’Leary in Marseille. O’Leary dropped everything to race to Lyon, north of Marseille, intent on heading off this Judas. But he arrived too late. The Vichy police had arrested Cole and Warenghem at the Hotel Angleterre. The charge was espionage. The police found 41,000 francs in Cole’s possession, along with jewelry, trinkets, and false identity papers. The Abwehr, it turned out, had ordered this “show” arrest by the Vichy police. It had an unseen motive. A crestfallen O’Leary went back to Marseille empty-handed.

At the courthouse, a prosecutor found Suzanne Warenghem crying, disconsolate, and obviously pregnant. She poured out her woes. Her husband, under arrest, was a British secret service agent. She too was accused of espionage, but she didn’t even understand what it meant to be a spy. Warenghem was merely detained. Cole, meanwhile, was undergoing intense interrogation.

His story, and name, changed several times until the interrogation turned harsh. Then he spoke the truth. He was, indeed, Harold Cole, British army deserter turned by the Abwehr. He convinced his tormentors that Suzanne Warenghem was innocent of any knowledge of his intrigues. Cole, in fact, admitted to a scheme that would have sent his wife into the hands of German security with damning evidence on her person, to “get rid of her.” The result would have been execution, or perhaps given her pregnancy, a trip to a concentration camp.

Not knowing this, Warenghem clung to her belief that Cole was not a traitor. His interrogators physically seized Cole and led him to Suzanne, where they compelled him to confess, demanding he go down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness, which he did. “I am a traitor,” he began.

She recoiled in shock. Cole was soon led out. Warenghem didn’t see him until the trial at Montluc Prison—a forbidding place that became a Gestapo prison under the control of the notorious torturer Klaus Barbie, the “Butcher of Lyon.” Warenghem was freed, and Cole was condemned to death by the Vichy authorities. He did not react to his sentence.

Warenghem, alone and heartbroken, continued to Marseille, where, penniless, she became dependent on members of the O’Leary line to shelter and succor her, which they did to prevent her becoming a security risk. She suffered from malnutrition in a cold room. She gave birth to a male child who died three months later, despite her devotion. Eventually, she escaped France and returned to England, never to be heard from again.

The trial and resultant death sentence imposed on her husband turned out to be a sham. Having occupied Vichy France, the Abwehr was able to orchestrate the mock trial. After allowing Cole to linger in Montluc Prison for a few months, one night they whisked him away “for punishment.” In fact, they took him back to Lille and put him to work once more.

Despite his slippery nature, Cole was regarded by the Abwehr as a valuable asset—but one they must tame and control. They gave him a new name—Jean Masson—and in the summer of 1943 used him to penetrate escape and intelligence networks originating in Brussels, carefully keeping him away from his old stomping grounds. It was during this period that Cole began following helpers plying a new route to and from Strasbourg in Alsace.

It became even more likely that the paths of the Top Hat and Monopoly’s mademoiselle, Benoîte Jean, would collide.

Chapter 13

The Racecar and the Racecar

The arrival of two Monopoly-assisted escapers brought about Benoîte Jean’s confrontation with Harold Cole.

On January 27, 1943, the 8th Air Force bombed the naval base at Wilhelmshaven, Germany, fifty miles inside its border with the Netherlands—the first raid flown by the 8th into German airspace. One flight officer described it as “sticking a big toe in the tub to judge the temperature.” There was little opposition, and all twenty-seven B-17s involved returned to base. Cheers were heard. Then wintery weather caused the next five missions to abort. During this reprieve, the Luftwaffe made adjustments. When the bombers again took to the air, to strike a railroad junction, five B-17s went down in flames. Fifty trained crew members were lost. This time, the Luftwaffe crowed.

The weather cleared once more on February 26. Seventy-six B-17s formed up in the sky over the English Channel and set course for the German naval base at Bremen. Most were from the famed “Can Do” 305th Bombardment Group led by colonel, later general, Curtis LeMay. Enemy fighters reacted quickly and attacked five of these bombers before they had their target in sight.

Nestled into the ball turret under one of these “lame ducks” was Lee Carl Gordon, a five-foot-four dynamo whose apt nickname was “Shorty.”

Gordon’s diminutive height was just right for the ball turret. Constructed of Plexiglas and aluminum, it was so small that the knees of an airman of average height were pushed up to either side of his head, in order to press his feet against pedals that rotated and angled the electrically powered turret. Hand controls activated the turret’s 50-caliber machine guns, one located on either side of his head. The explosive sound of the guns firing, coupled with the noise of the B-17’s four radial engines, would be enough to deafen him if not for headphones. A built-in throat intercom was necessary for Gordon to hear the pilot’s instructions (and to chatter back and forth).

The ball turret was thought to be the most dangerous of the ten crew positions in a B-17 because of its underside exposure and the difficulty for the gunner to hoist himself back into the body of the plane during an emergency. But it wasn’t. The waist gun positions took that honor. These two gunners each stood behind an open window in the thin-skinned midsection of the bomber, each manually aiming and firing a 50-caliber machine gun. The only protection they had was a steel helmet and heavy flak jacket, worn to absorb shrapnel.

On February 26, two German Messerschmitt fighters attacked Gordon’s bomber, striking engine number four and engulfing in flames its right wing, which, like the left wing, had gasoline tanks lining its interior. Exploding cannon shells killed the top gunner and bombardier, and the tail gunner was seriously wounded by flak. In the ball turret, flying glass and metal shards cut Gordon, and the trickle of blood on his face turned into a stream. Lieutenant Stallman, the pilot, began to lose control of his airplane and ordered everyone to bail out.

Gordon did not hesitate. He maneuvered, popped the hatch, and fell into the subzero, oxygen-depleted air at twenty-four thousand feet. Panicked, he made a dangerous mistake by immediately opening his chute. This was the first time he’d ever jumped. No airman received parachute practice; a training film had to suffice. His straps were not properly tightened. He cursed himself and struggled to hang on after his boots and gloves were ripped off by the fierce wind of his descent. Flak burst to either side of him. The air was deeply cold. He attempted to rub his bare feet and hands together to create warmth. After falling through the clouds, he spotted a breakwater far below. His teeth rattled as he hit the ground with a terrific jolt.

Gordon had taken but a few painful steps in the mud when a young girl appeared. Dazed, he managed to ask her, “Where am I?” She replied in Dutch. Gordon figured he must be in Holland, or at least nearby. Back at Cheverton airfield, a trainer from 1142 had presented a lesson in evasion: Run for cover, hide your chute, stay out of sight, get away from the area. Shorty, however, had no chance to follow this sound advice. An elderly German soldier arrived on a bicycle and pointed a rifle, saying, “For you, the war is over.” Shortly after, Gordon found himself in a jail cell alone, his wounds patched up, his feet clad in used shoes, with no way of knowing the fate of the seven crewmates still alive when he jumped.

That evening, ten other gunners and two officers were brought in, but none were from Shorty’s crew. Soldiers from a flak post were summoned to improvise a guard detail and march the prisoners to the nearest railroad station. All were delivered by rail to Auswertestelle West, the Luftwaffe’s intelligence and interrogation center, a few miles north of downtown Frankfurt. The Allies incorrectly referred to it as “Dulag Luft” (the real Dulag Luft was the “distribution center” charged with assigning a permanent Stalag to every airman following “processing” from Auswertestelle West). Knowledge of Dulag Luft was widespread, thanks to messages from code users inside Stalags. The time spent at Dulag Luft could be short, just a couple of days, or as long as four weeks, depending on the value of information the interrogators anticipated extracting from a prisoner. The Geneva Convention specified that prisoners need state only their name, rank, and serial number. Commanders told their men that providing anything else was treasonous.

The chief interrogator at Dulag Luft was a lowly Obergefreiter (private first class) named Hanns Scharff. A quirk of fate had cast him in his role (for which he was to achieve lasting fame). In 1939, Scharff was managing a large industrial concern in South Africa when its parent company brought him back to Germany for a summer vacation—just in time for the outbreak of the war. Scharff’s exit visa was revoked and he soon found himself a panzer grenadier. His rather perfect command of English, plus intervention by his British-born wife, prevented transfer to the Russian front. Instead, he was assigned to Dulag Luft at Oberursel.

Scharff was tall with a receding hairline. His face was gentle and intelligent, its small mustache bespeaking modesty. He resembled a kindly uncle. This persona proved ideal for his work. Scharff became an interrogation wonder. He chose not to employ threats, rely on mental torture, or inflict physical abuse. One by one, newly arrived fighter pilots would be delivered to his humble office. When fighter “business” was slow, such as after unescorted bombing raids, he was pleased to interrogate bomber crew members. Most airmen, like Shorty Gordon, were wracked with tension and anticipated rough treatment, but Scharff was, to their surprise, always humane. “Come in, please. I am your interrogator. Have a seat.” Scharff then offered an airman a Westpoint brand cigarette and some enticing food.

Once satisfied that he was interviewing a genuine airman and not a spy, Scharff expressed sympathy for the airman’s plight. And then, to the shock of most, he revealed accurate knowledge of the airman’s unit, his date and place of birth, names of his immediate family, and even what his folks were up to back in the States. The intimacy of Scharff’s knowledge softened many. Often, resolve began to melt. They could not know that Scharff’s extensive knowledge had come from several different military intelligence departments and from a network of German agents in the States who gathered newspaper clippings. Scharff also read, cover to cover, each issue of the US servicemen’s newspaper Stars and Stripes (delivered to him via Spain), as well as documents scavenged from crashed aircraft, and transcriptions of air-to-air communications.

Eventually, Scharff would request an airman to empty his pockets. All items that could be useful during an escape attempt were, he regretfully explained, to be surrendered. Shorty’s escape kit, maps, and money were whisked away, along with his identification photos. Each airman carried two small pictures of himself, which a skilled member of the French Resistance could use to forge an identity document. The photos had been taken by a photographer located near the airman’s base in England, as arranged by either MI-9 or 1142. However (and as yet unknown to both of these escape organizations), Scharff had detected a flaw visible in every unit’s photo. The base photographer had dressed each airman in the same suit, shirt, and tie. Scharff’s assistant, Sergeant Kauner, needed only to look through his photo files to find pictures of previously captured airmen who wore the same clothes. In that instant, he pinpointed the airman by squadron and group.

Gordon doggedly stuck to the terms of the Geneva Convention, stating only his name, rank, and serial number. Scharff claimed to understand his reticence, then sent Gordon to brood in one of the Dulag’s 250 solitary confinement rooms. A few days later, Scharff invited Shorty for a walk outside the camp, during which he asked no leading questions.

Subsequent talks were conducted in Scharff’s office or in a formal interrogation room. These sessions were more intense. An airman like Gordon had to keep his guard on high. Most felt they did well, providing nothing of value. But judging from Scharff’s success rate, most had slipped up.

Shorty Lee Gordon had a problem with authority. He disliked taking orders. This trait caused problems for him with teachers, employers, and the brass in the military. But his obstinacy denied Hanns Scharff the information he was seeking. Scharff, having decided this prisoner wasn’t worth more of his time, turned Gordon over to a “tough guy.” After all, Gordon was a staff sergeant manning a ball turret, not an officer flying a fighter plane. Gordon held out and spent four “leisurely” weeks at Dulag Luft. Eventually, the tougher interrogators extracted a little of what was wanted, but none learned Gordon’s most closely guarded secret: namely, that Shorty wasn’t a noncom (a noncommissioned officer, such as a sergeant). He was, in fact, a “knocked-down” private who had lost his sergeant’s stripes due to insubordination. Gordon was permitted to wear his triple stripes only on missions because base intelligence knew that noncoms, if captured, were treated better than one-stripe privates or two-stripe corporals.

At the end of March, after a brief pause at the distribution center, Gordon and several other American airmen were issued British uniforms (no American uniforms being available) and marched to a rail depot. They joined a hundred other prisoners shipped off on a freight train bound for Stalag Luft VII-B at Lamsdorf, Germany, a large camp primarily designated for British POWs. There, Gordon was fingerprinted, photographed, and issued a zinc identity disc bearing a POW number: 27680.

A week later, forty American POWs in this largely British camp were told to prepare for transfer to an Americans-only camp. They were loaded into a freight car whose door latch was wired shut. During the long ride, Shorty and a few others enlarged a hole in the door, reached through, and disengaged the wire. When the train slowed during its approach at a station, Shorty and five others slid open the door, jumped, and raced for the shelter of a nearby woods. For the next two days they walked along a road paralleling another rail line, in search of a station. Their goal was to sneak onto another freight train and get far away from this area. When a group of German soldiers walked past, the escapers did not break stride. Shorty figured these soldiers must be new recruits because they seemed oblivious to the telltale difference between the blue coloring of British RAF and German Luftwaffe uniforms. The escapers kept right on walking.

Three villages later, after being observed by over a hundred Germans, they arrived at a train station. Elated, the group picked up its pace. Then police arrived on motorcycles and bicycles. Game over. Shorty was thrown in the nearest jail. Three days later, he and his comrades were taken to the largest POW camp in Germany, Stalag VII-A in Moosburg, north of Munich.

There, Gordon began a bewildering experience. Most camps were segregated by nationality. Not this one. VII-A was crowded with British, Australian, Canadian, Russian, and French POWs. And while most camps accommodated five thousand POWs or fewer in an area of a few acres, Stalag VII-A crammed seventy-five thousand POWs into ninety-six acres.

In addition to being defiant, Gordon was a born daredevil. He regarded danger as something to be expected while living a large life. Before the war, he had raced hot rods, often winning because he was so fearless. Naturally, during basic training the racecar token was his favorite whenever he played Monopoly.

At Moosburg, to fill the idle time, Gordon picked up his play once more; the racecar won several games. But this diversion did not suppress his desire to thumb his nose at the Germans by escaping. He listened attentively to every story of escape that came his way. He took note of how best to get out of the camp, what dangers lurked beyond the wire (dogs, patrols, physical barriers, busy towns, and police), and where escapers had been recaptured within a few weeks. With all this intelligence, Shorty devised his plan.

By now, he knew how POWs organized themselves “inside the wire.” The highest-ranking Allied officer was the camp’s SAO—senior Allied officer—who established committees to oversee everything of significance, be it food, laundry, sanitation, medical care, or sports. The SAO also appointed an officer to head up the escape committee, and then steered clear of it so that, if interrogated, he would have no knowledge of its activities, resources, and means. The head of this committee was known as “Big X.” Big X in turn relied on “Big Y” to handle camp security. Big Y’s men provided alerts if German guards came nosing around while an escape-related activity was in progress (such as a planning meeting, handling escape aids, or digging a tunnel).

Tech Sergeant Ken Kurtenbach, a member of the escape committee, reviewed Shorty’s plan, shored up its weak points, and approved his attempt. Kurtenbach advised Shorty that once outside the camp, he must get far away quickly before he was found missing during an Appell (roll call—once in the morning; once in late afternoon). While a fellow POW would try to sneak behind the line and be counted twice, this ploy typically worked only for a day. Then the alarm would be sounded and news would travel fast on the airwaves.

Kurtenbach had more advice to offer: Rely on your map and compass to know where you are, but never look at them when anyone else, adult or child, is in sight. Short train rides are safer because papers will not be checked. State only your destination when buying a train ticket, followed by “bitte.” Say nothing else, because you don’t know German. Look happy, not worried. (That was easy for Gordon, with his upbeat attitude. This is going to be a great adventure!)

Kurtenbach gave him a map, compass, spending money, and a small saw blade, plus the loot he would need to trade for a disguise. “Where’d this all come from?” Shorty asked in amazement. Kurtenbach, forbidden to mention Monopoly, remained stone-faced and replied, “Never ask where. That’s an order.”

Kurtenbach agreed that Shorty needed a disguise to help him blend into the German populace. He approved Gordon’s desire to dress like a teenager, a Junge Mann, because of Gordon’s baby face and short stature.

Guards were vulnerable to bribes of cigarettes, chocolate, and coffee. A few Reichsmarks thrown in would seal any deal. Big Y and his team of security personnel kept a book on which guards were ripe for compromise. Most were either old veterans or young airmen recovering from wounds. They lived nearby with their families, for whom they were always eager to bring home something highly prized.

In exchange for Shorty’s bounty, the compromised guard smuggled him lederhosen, a white shirt, a black jacket, an appropriate cap, and a knapsack. Gordon’s pièce de resistance was persuading another guard to hide a bicycle for him along the distant roadside. At this stage of the war, the Geneva Convention’s article condoning escapes was acceptable to both sides. It was regarded as sport, although if an escaper was caught, he could expect a week or more in the Isolierbaracken—the isolation barracks, the “cooler.” While in the cooler, a POW would be denied his nourishing weekly Red Cross package. Since this could be tolerated, there was not much to lose by trying.

On June 1, Gordon volunteered for a work crew outside camp. He trailed behind and then slipped off into the woods. When he heard yelling, he lay down in an oat field. After the commotion died down, Shorty ran to the rendezvous where a second (bribed) guard was waiting with a backpack, civilian clothes, a coat, and the bike. Shorty paid him handsomely, then stripped off and hid his uniform, revealing the “German teen” garb underneath. He now covered this with the civilian clothes and coat, and began to pedal. Six miles outside of Munich, he ditched the civilian clothes and became a “youth.”

From then on, if encountering someone on the road, he would enthusiastically stick his arm out straight and say “Heil Hitler!” He typically received the same in reply.

Shorty’s goal was to reach the Swiss border after turning south at Ulm, Germany. But thirty-seven miles west of Munich—after hours of riding—Shorty’s legs were cramping. The sight of a haystack lured him to leave the road and climb inside to sleep. By chance, a guard was patrolling the road and took notice. When Shorty woke up, two Germans were inspecting his bike. With a look of grave concern, one asked, “Junge Mann, was ist denn mit dir los?” Shorty didn’t understand, and could not reply that nothing was the matter, that he was just tired. The police were summoned; they discovered his POW identity disc. Shorty had, in effect, drawn a Go Directly to Jail card.

Back at Stalag VII-A, Gordon was confined to the cooler for two weeks and periodically interrogated. True to his indomitable spirit, he did not reveal details of his escape. Cheers and hoorahs awaited when this “spark plug” was released back into the camp’s general population.

Undeterred, Gordon went to work on a new, more ambitious escape plan. This time he would head for France. In specific, Alsace, where rumor had it that help could be found. By now, the Americans housed in this Stalag were only days away from being sent to Krems, Austria. Shorty was desperate to flee before the move took place. Krems was much farther away from France.

He requested to appear before the escape committee, but this time was denied help. Kurtenbach turned thumbs down because Shorty had squandered precious materials. A recent raid by the German “goons” (barrack inspectors) had uncovered most of what else Kurtenbach was hiding. Shorty, resolute, took his case to the SAO. Convinced of Shorty’s determination, the lessons learned during his June escape, and the ingenuity of his new plan, the SAO interceded. The committee parted with packs of cigarettes, a map, a compass, and a thousand Reichsmarks.

Shorty put his new plan in motion. He began by switching uniforms with an Australian named Lloyd Ferguson, and also by changing identities. He had heard about an important British army captain, housed in the adjoining pen, whose jeopardy increased the longer he remained behind the wire. The two men made contact. Thomas Carr spoke fluent French and passable German. Shorty’s language deficiency would not be a handicap with Carr at his side.

Fortunately, and unbeknownst to Shorty, a Monopoly X game had arrived prior to October 13, 1943, his “over the wire” date, and he was given much of its contents. He bribed a guard, with cigarettes, to be slipped into the officers’ compound so he could meet up with British captain Tom Carr—tall, wavy-haired, resolute, and, to Shorty’s dismay, tight-lipped. Another guard provided civilian clothes in return for the remainder of Shorty’s smokes. Carr also bribed a French orderly to escort them into the restroom behind the administration building, where the would-be escapers hid in adjoining stalls. When darkness fell, they peered out of an exit door to study the movements of the guard in the nearby tower. When the guard turned his back, Shorty slipped out and went over the low wire behind the admin building. Carr followed at the next opportunity.

Blessed by a clear sky and a full moon, they made good progress, bypassing nearby Moosburg and walking briskly along the road heading southwest toward Freising and Munich. Their shadows marked the difference in their heights: one quite short, the other tall and lean. At three in the morning, they took cover in a thick forest and waited there throughout the next day. They ate their chocolate and drank from a stream. Twice, German patrols drove past, oblivious.

Hoping to induce Carr to open up, Shorty said, “I’m a California kid. I was born and raised in Los Angeles. How about you?” Carr hesitated before claiming to hail from a “character-building neighborhood” in London, and admitted to having relatives in Boston. He imitated their New England accent so well Shorty could not contain his laughter. Carr also hinted at having attended Oxford.

Gordon coaxed him. “There’re a few girls back home who really miss me. How about you?” Carr replied tersely; there was no one waiting at home. Gordon had sized up a lot of officers since boot camp. This one, he’d been told, had been a commando, but then again, maybe he wasn’t. Whoever he was, Carr wasn’t talking. Somehow, the topic turned to how they passed the long hours of boredom in camp. Monopoly was mentioned. Carr had played the game a lot. Like Gordon, he preferred the racecar token because, well, “car” was part of his surname.

Gordon jokingly told Carr this “racecar conflict” could not stand, that when they made it to England, he would challenge Carr to a game. The winner would keep the racecar; the loser must forever select another token as his piece. Gordon thought Carr would slough this off as nonsense, but he didn’t, “This Brit would rather enjoy knocking an American hotshot off the track. You’re on, Los Angeles.”

At six in the evening, they resumed their flight. By now they had buried their uniforms and donned the civilian garb. It didn’t take long for this decision to pay off. A roving German guard came into view and his dog began to bark.

The guard struggled to contain the dog on its leash. He called out to the men, “Wer sind Sie?” Carr nudged Shorty to keep walking, replying in German, “We’re tired workers going home. Get your dog away from us.” Shorty anticipated a pistol aimed at his face. Instead, the guard apologized and resumed his patrol in the opposite direction.

After completing the twenty-mile trek to Munich, they made their way to an address on the Hauptstrasse provided by one of the French soldiers in camp. Carr spoke the password, “Weissbier,” and French Resistance members led them inside. They had set up an underground escape line for Allied POWs. One named Philippe grilled Gordon and Carr intensely before declaring them genuine. It being dangerous to linger, Philippe led them to the nearby railway station and helped them hide inside a freight scheduled to depart for Strasbourg. He provided instructions to find a particular restaurant and look for a strikingly beautiful blond waitress. She would ask for the pass phrase, “I’m looking for free parking.” (This waitress was fond of Monopoly.) Shorty asked, “But what if there are two blondes, how do we tell them apart?”

Philippe lit up. “The one you want is known as Nori and she is built like your film star Rita Hayworth.”

Gordon grinned. “Really? I got plans for Rita Hayworth after the war!”

Ten hours later, the freight train had chugged to within a few miles of Strasbourg. Philippe had advised Gordon and Carr to jump off outside of town to avoid the risk of being discovered at the station. He showed them how to lie down in the car’s open doorway, with arms wrapped around their chests, and roll out, preferably onto brush or into a farmer’s field.

Up ahead, the city’s first homes could be seen. The train began to slow. Carr decided not to wait any longer; their freight car was passing a grain field. “I’ll roll out first. You follow me, Shorty.”

Carr tumbled out onto a sloping field and continued to roll until he reached the base of a depression. When he looked back at the train, Shorty was still standing in the open doorway, seemingly frozen with fright.

In fact, Shorty was staring at a rocky embankment. He had no choice but to wait and hope for another clearing to appear. Carr took note of farmers working at the far end of the field. He hunched down and took cover in the woods.

Minutes later, the train slowed to a crawl and Gordon dangled his legs out of the door and jumped clear. He dusted himself off and darted onto the street opposite the tracks. He carried a map sketched by Philippe to guide them from the freight station to a restaurant on Route de la Meinau. Shorty soon found his way there. Upon his arrival, and to his chagrin, the restaurant was serving dozens of German soldiers. Fearful, Gordon headed for the kitchen. With the kindness of fate, a beautiful blond waitress appeared through the swinging door, carrying a plate of sausages and potatoes. Even Rita Hayworth would envy her figure. Shorty became tongue-tied, and could not remember the required pass phrase. Instead, he blurted out, “I am an American!” Adding, “Are you Rita, I mean Nori?”

Benoîte Jean/Nori had been informed that two escapers were coming her way from Munich. She set down the plate, and said in her normal voice, “Yes, you will come, please, and see the chef about your farm eggs.”

Inside the door, she put a finger to her lips before tasking him. “Now, softly please. Do you not have something to tell me?” Shorty Gordon got a grip. “Yes, you are going to the free parking. No, I am looking for free parking, right?”

She nodded. “Good. But I cannot leave now. Take this card. . . .” She handed him a Chance card from her Monopoly game, told him of an address, led him to the door behind the kitchen, and pointed to an alley. “At the end, go right for two blocks, then left for one until you come to that address. Knock on the door; show this card. Wait there until I can get free. Meanwhile, I will arrange help.” Then she asked, “Do you not have a friend? I was told there were two.”

Gordon nodded and frowned. “Yes, and no. The big guy got off before me. I’ve lost track of him.” Shorty then asked, “Maybe I should wait around for him here?”

“My God, no,” she replied. “You see those Germans out there, don’t you? Go now.”

That evening at seven, a helper from the Shelburne line appeared. Nori, at her second-floor bedroom window, watched him approach on the sidewalk opposite her parents’ home. He held a modest bouquet of blue flowers in his left hand. At the prescribed lamppost, he looked around and switched the bouquet to his right hand, signaling all clear.

Gordon was standing beside Nori dressed in hand-me-down French clothing, previously owned by a neighbor’s teenage son. She pointed and spoke rapidly. “Tonight that man goes by the name Louis. Louis will take you to Paris. Others will get you to the coast from there. All is good. Go now.”

Gordon, exhilarated, expressed appreciation to Nori and her parents. As he left, he called to her, “See you after the war, Rita.” She didn’t seem to understand.

Meanwhile, Captain Tom Carr was compelled to hide in the woods the entire day because the hardworking farmers, and some late-arriving teens, toiled all day in their field. Carr found a secluded spot behind an oak tree, with a good view of the edge of the field. If anyone approached, he’d take off for a sheltered ravine he’d scouted.

Carr knew a great deal about concealment and flight. Although he professed to being a navigator in the RAF—and indeed he had been until a year before—he was now a trained saboteur for the Special Operations Executive and had been dropped into France to blow up German trains and other vehicles.

His transformation from flier to guerilla began early in 1942 while Carr was in the hospital recovering from a shrapnel wound. A Special Operations Executive recruiter appeared, looking for volunteers. Back then, Churchill’s brainchild was woefully understaffed. It had not “set Europe ablaze” as the prime minister wished. The RAF wasn’t providing airdrops and “Uncle” Claude Dansey of MI-6 spitefully blocked SOE’s progress at every turn. When the recruiter asked Carr if he might like to do something “less risky” and “a bit more satisfying” than guiding a bomber to its target, Carr said yes. It was common knowledge among Royal Air Force bomber crews that the odds of completing a tour of duty without being killed or shot down behind enemy lines were close to zero.

Once he had recovered, Carr, along with several others, was sent to the Scottish Highlands where the SOE had established several well-hidden training bases, the main one being at Arisaig—a town legendary for its citizenry’s reputation for keeping secrets. At these bases, would-be SOE agents were rigorously trained in the use of firearms, Morse code, hand-to-hand combat, sabotage, and demolition. Plastic was the preferred explosive because it could be shaped and decorated—for example, to resemble small animals and fish—without risk of it detonating prematurely. Put one under a rail and the jostling caused by an onrushing locomotive would ignite the charge’s pressure switch and blast the hapless tank engine into the air, leading to its crashing destruction.

The SOE boasted that every one of its agents, on a typical sixty-day mission in enemy territory, had a better than even chance of being picked up and flown home without a scratch. Carr, though, was not so lucky. Just three weeks after he and his supplies were delivered by a Lysander aircraft into eastern France, his cover was blown.

All SOE saboteurs reported to England via their assigned radio operators. Each operator communicated in Morse using a secret code, known only to himself and his handler back home. All were implored to transmit for no more than twenty minutes at a time, and never twice from the same location, because Gestapo radio vans and search teams were routinely able to pinpoint the location of a radio signal within twenty-five minutes.

All too frequently, weather garbled the messages received. When this happened, the baffled receiving party would request a sentence, or more, be retransmitted. It was vital the code’s letters be clearly understood because of their unique meaning. For example, a “b” that came across as a “d” might confuse the entire message. Carr’s operator overextended his welcome one night in early 1943 and was caught. Tortured, he gave away Carr’s hiding place, and that of the other SOE agents in his cell.

Alerted, Carr rushed to don the RAF uniform which he had taken with him, to conceal his SOE status. Every SOE agent was informed that the Geneva Convention did not apply to spies or “terrorists.” For them, torture and death were near certain. Carr had long practiced what to say if captured (including when and where he was shot down). He also carried false identity documents so that if imprisoned, his real name could not be traced back to a certain RAF navigator who had joined the SOE.

Carr withstood interrogation—his RAF experience added conviction to his tale—and, like Shorty Lee Gordon, he landed inside the sprawling Stalag at Moosburg, Germany.

During his RAF days, Carr was trained as a code user. Once processed at Stalag VII-A, he revealed his special skill to Group Captain Alfred Henry Willetts, the senior British officer. Willetts put him to work from time to time, transmitting special requests. Now, alone in the woods, Carr began to compose a letter/message, using the nub of a pencil and the scraps of paper he carried to pass the hours. In the event he was captured, he would persuade his captors to mail it for him. The letter appeared to notify his family that he was alive and well, but remained interned. However, certain words in the letter were to be culled out conveying details of his escape and probable location of his recapture. If this letter were received in London, it would quickly be routed to MI-9, like all missives from known British code users.

The technique Carr used was called “4/6.” The fourth word in the second line was a “message word” and so was the sixth word following, then the fourth word after that one, followed by the sixth word thereafter, and so on. To indicate how many words comprised the message, the number of letters in the first word was multiplied by the number in the second. His letter began with “Today we,” indicating the message contained ten words in all (5 × 2). Carr also employed clever ways to spell out words too dangerous to include in the clear, and how to signal if a word was to be read in reverse, like “draw” for “ward,” “flow” for “wolf,” and “was” for “saw.” (By now, Carr had a knack for reading words in reverse.) In a final flourish, the message words were sequenced in reverse order—its last word coming first.

It took time to hide such a message inside a bland letter, but code users like Carr had plenty of idle time in camp, as he did in the woods this day. Since his arrival at Stalag VII-A, Carr had been asked to write seven letters/messages detailing dozens of facts of military value, mostly overheard in conversation among the guards. A few weeks after each “letter home” was mailed, a reply appeared (seemingly from a family member). In the most recent reply, Carr was advised to try an escape. He was needed in London, reason unstated.

Carr thought briefly about the fate of his escape mate, Shorty Lee Gordon. With luck, Gordon was on his way to Paris. Carr suspected he would see Shorty again only if both were recaptured and sent back to Stalag VII-A, and the Monopoly showdown would prove to have been pure whimsy.

Fortunately, Gordon made it to Paris without incident, albeit much later than planned. At a safe apartment, he learned that both leaders of the Shelburne line had left for the coast to organize the line’s first motorized gunboat pickup. Too late to join them, Gordon was taken with seven other evaders to the Breton port of Douarnenez. The seas were unkind and the waves so rough that their small boat began to break up, forcing the occupants to scramble onto the rocks to avoid drowning. Gordon found himself back in Paris, awaiting the next run by the Shelburne line. Several tedious weeks passed. During this time, the Shelburne line received no word about the fate of his mate, British captain Tom Carr.

A break in the weather finally enabled a motorized gunboat to make a run from England to a beach in Brittany code-named “Bonaparte.” A guide took Shorty and a Belgian flight sergeant named Harmel by train to Guingamp, a commune in the Côtes-d’Armor area east of the coast. Despite the guide radioing ahead, no one was waiting at the station to pick them up, likely because their train was hours late. Their helper had no choice but to leave them on the platform. He had to catch the final train back to Paris.

Harmel suggested they not wait on the platform. Since he spoke fluent French, he led Gordon to a local bar and ordered beers. Harmel failed to take into account that the undersize man at his side had not tasted a drop of alcohol in over a year. Gordon, carefree and careless, rapidly became intoxicated. Harmel began getting tipsy as well.

The proprietor, suspecting they were Nazi agents, notified a Resistance member who, in turn, contacted the leader of the Shelburne line, Lucien Dumais. Two of his agents arrived at the bar and took Gordon and Harmel in for questioning.

By now, Dumais was a seasoned, tough-minded commander. His Shelburne line, unlike the compromised Comet and O’Leary lines, had successfully eluded German security and was fully secure. Dumais intended to keep it that way. He pointedly scolded Gordon and Harmel for their outrageous and inexcusable behavior in the bar. Both sobered up quickly. Dumais grilled Gordon relentlessly, assuring him that if he was a Nazi spy, he’d put a bullet in his brain.

Shorty was accustomed to being on the hot seat. He explained the absence of his dog tags (the Germans had taken them months before), named his group and squadron, gave the date he was shot down, described his hometown, explained why he had an Australian’s ID, and provided details of life inside Stalag VII-A, then he said, “You still think I’m a Nazi?”

Dumais still wasn’t convinced. When he said, “Convince me, or else,” Gordon began to sweat profusely, but managed to lucidly describe his prior escape attempts and the bomb damage he had seen from the air on his final mission. He then admitted his most shameful secret to Dumais: his demotion to the rank of private. With that, Dumais finally felt he had enough. He radioed Airey Neave at Room 900, reported these facts, and asked for confirmation. The reply came back positive. Shorty Lee Gordon was genuine. Dumais told him, “Gordon, you are a very lucky man.”

Harmel, on the other hand, seemed confused, and continued to raise suspicion. The Belgian could not be vetted, so Dumais ordered him handcuffed. The next night, both men were taken to the evacuation beach.

Two hours after sunset, Dumais’s partner, radio operator Raymond Labrosse, heard on the BBC the phrase “Bonjour tout le monde”—the signal that motorized gunboat MGB 503 had departed Plymouth three hours earlier. The message was passed from safe house to safe house. In all, seventeen evaders and escapers were gathered.

They walked in silence through damp, icy fields, and lost some time waiting in a ditch while a dog barked. Finally, shivering in the cold, they held hands in the dark and climbed over a hedgerow to reach an unpaved road. Dumais collected them after they entered a home near the beach. He ordered everyone to hand over identification, money, papers, and photographs. In the event they were ambushed, these would be destroyed to avoid a trail for the Abwehr or Gestapo to follow. If they reached safety in England, all would be returned.

The men reached the cliff above the beach, having been warned in advance that a concrete German gun emplacement was nearby on the ocean-facing precipice. Not a word was uttered.

To descend the cliff, each had to lie spread-eagled on his back, and then slide down using his heels as brakes if sliding too fast. Once on the beach, each was to make his way into the cave that Nature had so kindly etched into the cliff, where two of Neave’s Room 900 agents met them. Their mission had been accomplished, and it was time for them to return to England.

Gordon was nimble; he completed the slide without tumbling and raced into the cave. Over the water, a small blue light came into view, blinking in Morse code. Four rowboats appeared. Their crews unloaded eight heavy suitcases and welcomed onboard nineteen fugitives. The cases contained supplies for partisans, including arms and money, along with whiskey, cigarettes, and chocolate for the Shelburne line—tokens of Neave’s appreciation.

Dumais and his guides lugged the heavy suitcases up a rutted path as MGB 503 turned and raced for Plymouth, England. Several hours later, Labrosse received a message. The gunboat had reached the harbor. The latest mission of the Shelburne line was a complete success.

And so on February 27, 1944—a year and a day after his capture—Shorty Lee Gordon became the first American airman to escape from a German POW camp and hit a “home run.” America was alerted and everyone, it seemed, could not wait to fete its latest hero. (Unknown to all, the Monopoly game had helped make his return possible.)

Gordon was flabbergasted. He just hoped he could live up to the accolades.

Chapter 14

Love and Treason

The morning after Shorty contacted Nori, British captain Tom Carr also slipped into Strasbourg and approached the restaurant, which had not yet opened. He hid for a while in the shadows of an alley he located near the restaurant’s rear door. Then he walked the neighborhood to find the best escape route if he should attract undesired interest. He returned to the alley to wait and watch. Eventually staff members began to show up: a rotund man who might be the chef; an older man with a limp who could be the proprietor. Then came women, likely waitresses, including one of striking beauty. Before entering, she removed her beret and shook out her hair. It was the color of sunshine.

Carr moved to a convenient park to study activity at the restaurant’s main door. He waited there for thirty minutes after the restaurant opened, then entered. A blond was taking an order from an elderly couple. Carr took a few slow steps inside, pretending to look for a friend already seated. When the blond headed for the kitchen, he approached her and said softly, “I’m looking for free parking.” Then added, “That is, if you are Nori.”

Without changing her expression, Nori replied, “The chef expects you. Follow me.” Once inside the kitchen door, their eyes met. “Yes, I am Nori. And you are . . . ?” He told her he was Tom Carr. She replied, “You were due yesterday. What happened?” Carr explained. She bit her lip as she contemplated how to help him. “Your friend left with the helper sent by Paris. I will have to make other arrangements for you.” She reached into her apron, handed him one of her Chance cards, and led him through the kitchen to the restaurant’s delivery entrance. “I will be working here for hours. I’m going to tell you an address.”

After she did so she said, “Look out the door,” pointing to the alley. “You’ll go to the end, turn right for two blocks, then left for one. Show this card at the address.” Having memorized the neighborhood, Carr visualized where he was to go.

The Shelburne line could not be of assistance. Its helper was, God willing, in Paris with Lee Gordon. The Gestapo and Abwehr were surely homing in on Carr. Her only option was to contact the broken Comet line. If one of its helpers could get here quickly, he (or she) would take Carr out of the jaws of danger and escort him to Brussels.

A year earlier, this 260-mile journey by train would have been considered routine (if there was ever “routine” while bringing an airman to safety). But now the Comet line was deeply compromised, and the rails were frequently damaged by air strikes. Travel delays could last for hours, and there was always the likes of a Harold Cole lurking behind the scenes, aiding the Abwehr.

Benoîte managed to complete arrangements before her shift ended. When she got home, she found Tom Carr nibbling on something her mother had prepared, seated in the same chair where Herr Baumann had poured out his story of IG Farben’s Buna-Werke. Carr was dressed in clothes provided by her father, who was of a similar size, though Benoîte suspected Carr had lost weight during his months in captivity.

Carr stood to acknowledge her arrival. Her father asked her if Carr would be staying or leaving tonight. “He will go,” she told him. “All is in order. He must go to Brussels, not Paris.” Her mother, Emma, appeared with wine. She worried that Brussels was dangerous.

Carr took Benoîte’s hands in his, feeling their warmth. “I’ll be OK. Your father gave me new papers. He and your delightful mother know an Alpine trail I rather favor. I am so sorry to trouble you. Bit of a bother.”

Benoîte brushed a hair off her forehead. Their eyes met once more. “You ski? How nice. You are no bother, Captain. It matters only that the Germans are denied the pleasure of recapturing you. I promise you will be delivered into good hands at Brussels.”

That evening, Benoîte awaited the arrival of a Comet helper named Luc. From the vantage of her window, she saw him as he walked under the glow of the streetlights. A man of modest height, Luc was perhaps a year or two older than her and eked out a living as a cobbler. The air was crisp; Luc was bundled in a coat. He carried a small bunch of wildflowers gripped by the glove on his left hand.

Under the designated lamppost, he stopped and scanned the street. Seemingly satisfied, he shifted the bouquet to his right hand. Then, as Benoîte opened her lips to tell Carr that it was time to go, Luc shifted the flowers back to his left and turned to run.

Four men wearing long gray coats appeared as out of nowhere and grabbed hold of him. A fifth man slowly emerged from the shadows. He was tall and lean, his face shadowed beneath a large hat. A long thin finger rose and pointed at Luc. With his next step, a streetlight illuminated this man’s face. Cruel lips moved beneath a thin mustache.

Having seen him once, and having heard many stories of his treachery, Benoîte gasped, “Mon Dieu!”

Carr peered through the windowpane and said sharply, “I know the bastard under that stupid hat. His name is—”

“Cole,” Benoîte interjected. “He calls himself Paul Cole. I have to get you away from here, right now.” The trench coats were turning in every direction on the street below. Cole slapped Luc and seemed to yell at him, probably demanding he reveal which home he was going to.

Downstairs, Alec Jean helped Carr into one of his coats and handed him an old chapeau and leather gloves. Benoîte searched through a chest of drawers and found a purse, checked its contents, and snapped it shut. She turned to her mother. “I myself will take this man to Brussels, and if you are questioned, Mama, say you haven’t seen me this evening.” Emma Jean handed her daughter some folded Reichsmarks. Benoîte told her parents not to worry, and led the British captain away.

A rap on the front door came just as she and Carr went out the back. They mounted the garden wall, hurried through the neighbor’s side yard, and ran three blocks before jumping onto a tram.

Once aboard she asked, “You also know this man Cole?”

“Too well,” Carr replied.

During the ride to the station, Benoîte engaged an elderly lady in conversation. She learned the tracks in the Ruhr Valley—the shortest route to Brussels—were in disrepair. Benoîte decided to purchase train tickets to Luxembourg, with a connection to Brussels. She secured compartment seats. In open seating, they would easily be spotted if the Gestapo were looking for them. At one point during the ride, two men in trench coats did walk through the aisle. Benoîte had extracted a scarf from her purse and had wrapped it round her hair. She had also handed Carr a fake mustache. He asked her how she happened to carry such an element of disguise. She replied, “I kept this purse packed with bare essentials when I worked for the Comet line.” She helped Carr apply the trim mustache. “It looks good on you. You should grow one.” She studied him and said, “Now for your hair. I have a brush. Let me try parting your hair differently. Even small changes confound the enemy when they are going by a set description.” She quickly disrupted the pattern of his wavy hair, which was thick and lustrous.

For emergencies like this one Benoîte hid, behind the black lining of her purse, identification papers in the names of three different women. Each was specifically suited for the part of Belgium or France where she might be traveling. She explained her options, then reminded Carr, “I have for you but one set of papers. Here.” She handed them to him. “You must take a look at them, adopt a persona, and be convincing if challenged.”

An hour passed before curiosity overcame him. Carr remarked, “You don’t look like a Nori.” She explained how her cover name was bestowed by an American agent she once knew.

Carr’s code user’s knack for spelling words in reverse summoned itself. “Nori is ‘iron’ spelled backward.”

“Iron?” She mulled this over. “That can’t be so. I was told my cover name came from a game.”

Carr smiled knowingly. “You’ve proved it. The iron is a token in the Monopoly game.” She told him the French version lacked metal tokens. It used flat squares of colored wood for playing pieces. “Well, in England and America our games contain these nice shiny metal tokens. Or at least they did before the war.” He told her he preferred the racecar. She preferred to be “unpredictable” and would choose one at random. They enjoyed their diversion a moment longer, then prepared for arrival at Luxembourg station.

They had to wait an hour before the train to Brussels could depart. A stalled engine had to be removed on the line up ahead. At one point, Carr noticed a man watching them. When the man began to walk toward an office, Carr excused himself and “helped” the man into an alcove. Benoîte, noting that Carr emerged alone, said, “Do we have trouble?” He replied: “Not anymore,” and they quickly boarded the train.

By the time they reached the Belgian capital, curfew was in effect. They begged a nearby innkeeper for a room. Carr slept on the floor of the modest chamber.

Early the next morning, Nori admitted she was unsure of the identity of the current leader of the Comet line. She was, however, certain of the loyalty of a helper who lived outside the city. This person would know where they could find the Comet line’s current leader. They bused to Abbeville, on the Somme at the edge of the Forbidden Zone.

They passed the Church of Saint Gilles and saw the home of the Abbé Pierre Carpentier, the vicar whom Cole had betrayed. His stepmother, Julia Carpentier, still lived here. Inconveniently, a Gestapo-occupied building was located across the street. Knowing this, Benoîte advised Carr to hold her arm when they neared Madame Carpentier’s door, as if they were two lovers out for a stroll, and to keep his face turned away from the Gestapo building.

An old woman responded to the urgent knocking. Her weathered face was fearful until she recognized Benoîte. Then it turned to joy. Madame Carpentier served tea and shed tears for her adopted son, Pierre, still imprisoned at Lille (where he had informed O’Leary that Harold Cole was his betrayer).

“Cole nearly ensnared us last night,” Carr confessed. “I know that scoundrel from my childhood.” While Carr had promised to tell Nori the full story, his priority at the moment was to get word to London of his whereabouts. “Madame Carpentier, I understand you can help us to reach the Comet line’s leader.”

The elderly lady did not reply to Carr. She challenged Benoîte instead. “A thousand pardons, my dear, but why should I trust this man with such penetrating eyes? You must convince me.”

Benoîte replied, “My father, whom you know well, has determined this man to be fully trustworthy. He allowed me to bring him to you, unescorted. Is not that enough trust?”

Julia Carpentier pursed her lips. “Very well. I will contact Christofer and ask him to arrange Monsieur Carr’s satisfaction. Christofer knows how to get you to the leader you seek.”

Christofer, a boy of high school age, led them through back alleys to the garage of a portly man who owned a small truck. “Rollie” hid them among bags of potatoes after bundling Benoîte and Carr inside empty sacks. When the bumpy ride concluded, they found themselves back in Brussels, this time in the caring hands of a suave middle-aged man named “Jean Serment,” the Comet line’s current chief. Serment’s real name would never be revealed to them.

Serment, a former city clerk, knew of Benoîte from Dédée and her father. He expressed delight in meeting “such a brave young woman” in the flesh. And then, in short order, beseeched her for help with a pressing problem.

“Benoîte, alas, I have been playing housemaid to nine Allied airmen. I have them hidden here and there, you see, but I have no reliable helper left to take them to Paris and on to Tante Go. True, I could escort them myself, but then there will be no one to shelter the next airmen that fall from the skies.” His dark eyes were pleading. “Will you help me?”

Benoîte asked for a moment to think this over. “My parents—”

Serment crushed her spirits. “My dear, I must warn you not to return to Strasbourg. To do so would jeopardize your parents and surely lead to your arrest. You are isolated, I am afraid. You must avoid your loved ones until this war is over.” Benoîte’s face drained at the harsh reality. Serment quickly offered reassurance. “Your absence will be measured in mere months, not years. The invasion of France is coming, and rumor has it soon. Once the German lines are pierced, the rats will flee Paris, and keep going all the way to the German border. Strasbourg will be liberated and you may safely return home.”

Serment placed a call. Satisfied with its outcome, he advised Benoîte to wait there while he took Carr to his radio operator. Minutes later both men were approaching a noticeably damaged two-story brick home. Several upper-story windows had been boarded up. Without knocking, Serment led Carr inside and up the stairs. The Comet line’s radio operator awaited in a room with its window boarded up. He was an Englishman who introduced himself as “Gene” from MI-9. Carr asked Gene to report his successful escape and request instructions. Gene composed the message, encoded it, and tapped it out in Morse code. “Let’s go!” he said upon completion, quickly packing his gear. “German radio detection vans prowl many neighborhoods in this city.”

An hour later at Serment’s place they received a response from MI-9. It seemed that “Saturday,” upon learning that Tom Carr had made it to Brussels, wanted to bring him to London via a Lysander aircraft on the next favorable night. (A naval rescue was out of the question because of rough seas.)

Benoîte, upon learning that Tom Carr must return to England, said, “You will see your family, yes? Do you . . . Are you married?”

Carr marshaled his emotions. “No one is waiting for me.”

For Benoîte, the successful delivery of a British or American airman was a source of pride, a cause for celebration. This time, though, she felt emptiness and, chastising herself for allowing emotion to intrude, promptly agreed to lead Serment’s airmen to Paris.

One of the IDs Benoîte carried was that of a young woman named Nathalie who had worked for the Comet line. They bore a resemblance. Although Nathalie was of shorter stature and her hair was a darker shade of blond, neither fact was obvious in black-and-white identification photographs. Benoîte had carefully memorized the “legend” of Nathalie. Tested by the Gestapo twice previously, she was confident she could withstand questioning a third time if need be.

Serment prepared a modest meal that evening and accompanied it with an especially fine wine. With their spirits floating, he insisted on showing his guests his source. He led them into the basement of this safe house to its secret passage. Its entrance was hidden behind a wooden panel. The chamber, about thirty feet long, was brick-lined. “Last year,” he explained, “Resistance members excavated for me this passageway to connect the basement of a neighbor, a wealthy banker. Such money he has. My friend the banker is a loyal Comet line supporter. He allows airmen to be assembled in his basement before I organize a run. During the next two days, I will gather together those Benoîte will take to Paris.”

“Will we meet your banker?” Carr asked.

“Unfortunately, at the moment, he is elsewhere.”

At the opposite end of the passage, Serment unlocked the door into the banker’s basement, and flicked on the light. Benoîte and Tom Carr found themselves in an aromatic chamber lined with bottles of wine. “This part of my friend’s basement houses a fine wine reserve. Yes, we sampled a bottle from it this evening.” Serment revealed another motive for bringing them to this underworld. “I believe you should stay here tonight. I will close the door in the event I have unwelcomed visitors, and awake you in the morning.” He then added, “We keep a variety of clothing in a nearby room, for our guests on the run. Help yourself. You will find cots nearby. Have a look around and make sure you locate the exit on the other side. It leads to a shed and a narrow unlit backstreet.”

“Do you anticipate trouble?” Benoîte asked.

“No, the Gestapo is still unaware of me. But it is wise to know how to leave a party without being noticed. Don’t you agree?” They concurred. “You’ll excuse me now.” Serment bowed slightly as he backed away. “I have unfinished business to attend to.”

Beyond the wine reserve Benoîte and Tom Carr entered a room featuring a stuffed sofa. After admiring it, Benoîte turned and sought sanctuary in Carr’s arms. “I will miss you.”

It had been three years since she had allowed herself to express affection for another man. The loss of her fiancé in May 1940 haunted her spirit; she had vowed not to crush it again. Yet here she was, telling this man, whom she had known for only three days, that she cared for him. True, she had flirted with other evaders, but they, like she, knew such moments were but momentary release from overwhelming tension.

Carr very properly hugged her. She pulled him closer. Her fingers rose to turn his cheek; their lips touched. She pressed hers against his and held the kiss. They melted into each other’s arms and fell onto the sofa. The world spun round and round.

When Benoîte awoke, during a dream, she felt as if she were still floating on a cloud. Carr stirred, took her in his arms, and they floated even higher.

The reality of being lifted into the air was fast approaching for Tom Carr. When the hour approached, before sunset on the next day, Benoîte embraced him. “God pray I will see you once more.” Her voice was hushed by the racing of her heart. Tears burned her cheeks.

“I hope God is listening,” Carr replied. His eyes glistened as well.

Carr was led away by partisans, and Benoîte followed Serment to the basement where awaited nine evaders whose lives were now placed in her hands.

South of Brussels, under pale moonlight, Carr watched from the edge of a large grassy field, its L-shaped “runway” outlined by flares, as a black Lysander touched down. The pilot turned the craft around in the base of the “L,” taxied back to its top, and swung around. A partisan raced up the metal ladder bolted to its rear compartment, slid open the canopy, and handed down two large cases likely filled with weapons and ammunition. As these men ran off, Carr climbed in and pulled the canopy shut over his head. The idling engine suddenly roared, and the plane lurched forward. A cheery voice over the intercom said, “Hang on, mate. Off we go.”

The pilot gunned the engine, pressing Carr against the back of his seat. Aided by the flares, they took off in the dark and skimmed the treetops until reaching the seacoast north of Dunkirk several minutes later. Then the pilot pulled back on the stick and the little plane soared into the heavens.

Ninety minutes later, Tom Carr was on the ground at Tangmere, south of London. Protocol required him to be taken to the Great Central Hotel, where interrogators from MI-9 spent two hours in the middle of the night coaxing from him details about his ordeal in Stalag VII-A, and his subsequent escape. Only when they were satisfied was he was rewarded with a room with hot running water and a comfortable bed.

After a brief sleep, he ate a big breakfast and was driven to the War Office. There, inside Room 900, awaited an old chum named Airey Neave.

Upon seeing his old friend, Neave asked, “What name has the SOE given you?”

“I go by Tom Carr.”

“Tom, you should go by the name Slim. You remind me of how I looked after I got out of Colditz. We’ll put some meat back on your bones. When I learned you had slipped away from Jerry, I decided to offer to make your life rather interesting once more.”

Neave told Carr about his own escape, and his role at Room 900. Of late, he was in sole command because Jimmy Langley had been promoted and reassigned to Beaconsfield. Langley’s transfer freed up more options for Neave to employ when helping downed airmen, because Langley was no longer privy to Neave’s “schemes” and could no longer be compelled to reveal them to domineering “Uncle Claude.” MI-6 could not stop what Dansey didn’t know about.

Following tea, Neave told Carr, “Forgive me, Tom, but I’ve had a chat with the Baker Street Boys,” referring to the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive. “The SOE has agreed to lend me your services. Seems your chaps can do without you a while longer.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s to do with an old acquaintance. Nemesis, actually. Harold Cole.”

“Oh, jolly that bugger,” was all Carr could think to say. “He almost had me the other night.” He told Neave the story.

Neave responded bluntly. “It’s now your turn for revenge, Tom. I want you to find that bloody swine and put an end to him.”

“Is it because I know the scoundrel?” Carr asked.

“Might say so.” Neave acknowledged the value of Carr’s childhood association with Cole, and his grasp of the man’s clever but criminal mind.

Carr had grown up in the poor Shoreditch borough of London, not far from where Cole, ten years his senior, also lived. Their mothers knew each other; young Tom Carr was often admonished by his mother not to grow up to be like the ruffian son of Mrs. Cole.

Carr’s mother worked as a nanny for a wealthy lord. One day, the lord’s three-year-old son developed strep throat and began gasping for breath. A maid was commanded to call the doctor. But with his arrival uncertain, instinct drove Mrs. Carr to put the sick toddler into the bath, run the shower hot behind the drawn curtain, and humidify the suffocating lad. The boy responded and kept breathing until the doctor arrived and provided medication.

The lord doted on his lad, his only son. When he learned how close his boy had come to death, he expressed his gratitude by promising Mrs. Carr he would pay for her own son’s higher education. He knew a bit about her boy, Thomas, whose mother had proudly boasted of his intelligence (“I wonder what bolt of lightning struck my boy!”). Carr subsequently attended Hackney, and his mother took work as a full-time janitor at the school.

Neave said to Carr, “Tom, I remind you, you are sworn to the Official Secrets Act, as am I. Nothing we discuss can be repeated.”

“Thanks for the reminder. Not necessary.”

“When the war ends, neither of us can even write our memoirs without censorship. Can you live with this?” Carr shrugged and made a comment about never wanting to be famous.

“Harold Cole is a problem. I’m going to set an objective. I would like you to achieve it, for king and country.” Neave knew that Carr, tough as nails, followed orders.

Carr studied him and replied, “What’s keeping you, Airey? Go on already.”

Neave provided chapter and verse of Cole’s sordid treachery and revealed that Cole was loyal to the SD (Sicherheitsdienst), the intelligence service of the dreaded SS. “We want him dead,” Neave added.

Carr asked where he could be found. Neave answered, “Paris. After Cole compromised most of the helpers on the northern end of the O’Leary line, it seems he’s been relocated to the French capital. They’ve tucked him away somewhere in the city.” Neave then said, with a note of disgust, “There’s more, I’m afraid. Before his treason was confirmed, Cole managed to wiggle into Uncle Claude’s good graces. He’s provided 6 with intelligence on the Wehrmacht, real or otherwise.”

“Cole is working for MI-6?”

“Seems he’s conned all sides every which way from Sunday,” lamented Neave.

“You’re sure about MI-6?”

“Long story. But Claude Dansey was much too eager to replace the agents he lost at the start of the war. He was horribly embarrassed, and Mr. Churchill rode him hard.”

“So now I’m supposed to bail out of a jam the head of the agency who most hates the SOE. Do I have that straight?”

“Yes, bit of a twist-up.” Neave watched while Carr wrung his powerful hands, then said, “Dansey knows he’s been played for a fool. He’s acknowledged the need to kill Cole. But he doesn’t have anyone to get at him, and also doesn’t know where he’s holed up. Meanwhile, MI-9 is forbidden to step on MI-6’s toes. My agents are strictly disallowed to go about blowing things up, or killing people, like you SOE gents. So, Tom, you’re my man.”

“How am I to find the missing bastard?”

“One of my lines has well-connected helpers in Paris. I will ask them to comb the city for Cole. I cannot ask them to shoot him, because if a Resistance member kills Cole, well, the Germans’ vengeance would be swift and far-reaching upon our friends. Many innocents would die in revenge. But the Germans know we’ve been searching for our turncoat. That’s why they protect him so.”

There was an awkward pause. “It’s your choice, Tom. All is fine if you say no.”

Carr shrugged. “I don’t know Paris.” Neave told him that didn’t matter. Carr would work out of Jean Serment’s safe house in Brussels and venture into Paris a day at a time to survey, plan, spy, and ultimately pull the trigger.

Carr’s thoughts turned to Benoîte. His need to see her again was pulling him like a magnet. Neave, unknowingly, had contrived to bring them together again, perhaps for the last time. While Carr mulled, Neave changed subjects. “Tom, I don’t know where or exactly when, but the invasion is coming. Once the Allied armies land, western France will become a battlefield. The mission of my escape lines will have to change. After Cole is dealt with, perhaps you would consider remaining in Brussels to help me bring about this change.”

“Airey, let’s say I tell you no. What happens?”

“I’ll let you go. I trust you will report directly to Vera Atkins at SOE headquarters and draw a new assignment. She’ll get you back in shape and drop you somewhere behind the invasion beaches to cause some needed mischief.”

“Vera tidied me up and saw me off the last time.” Carr laughed wryly and took a moment. “To sum the total, Airey, I can either say ‘up yours’ and let the SOE send me back, or I get into that flimsy airplane of yours and return to the underworld I came from, dispose of dear old Harold Cole, and set the world right.”

“Pretty much, old chap,” Neave replied.

Carr’s face grew intense. “Bugger. I’m in.”

* * *

The fate of Shorty Lee Gordon remained unknown to Tom Carr during the time he completed his firearm practice and mission training. Then, one night, Neave learned Gordon was on the beach in Brittany and, much overdue, was to be rescued. Neave informed Carr the moment Gordon arrived in Plymouth. Upon hearing the good news, Carr asked Neave to arrange a reunion.

Shorty Lee Gordon, the first American to escape a German POW camp (“hit a home run”), had become an instant hero back home. He was being booked on a tour of US cities to boost morale and sell war bonds. However, it would take a few days to arrange his flight to the States. During his brief respite in London, Gordon insisted on playing that game of Monopoly with Carr to determine who would retain the right to the racecar.

Neave hosted the game at his flat one evening after dinner. He would play, and so would his wife, Diana, as the shoe. The fates were not kind to either Gordon or Carr. Diana Neave bankrupted them both after finishing off her husband. The shoe had booted them all. The battle for the racecar remained unsettled. A rematch was agreed to, in defiance of the odds their paths would ever cross again. It was never to be.

When the weather turned favorable and the stars shone like diamonds, the Lysander swept Carr across the Channel. Once again safe at Serment’s in Brussels, he melted into the arms of Benoîte Jean. By now, lady “Iron” had successfully transferred three groups of evaders from Belgium to Paris.

Neave’s Parisian helpers tried but failed to locate Harold “Paul” Cole. Aware of this, Benoîte Jean sought help from an old friend of Dédée’s who still lived there. This diminutive spinster discovered the whereabouts of Cole. He and his new boss, Sturmbannführer Hans Kieffer, the sinister chief of the SD, were living rather comfortably inside the formidable building containing the SD’s Parisian headquarters on a tree-lined avenue not far from the Tour Eiffel.

Chapter 15

The Cole Mission and the Operation

Cole was quartered on the fourth floor of the SD’s headquarters at 84 Avenue Foch, less than a mile west of the Arc de Triomphe. It was the most notorious building in occupied Paris. Inside, German counterintelligence agents interrogated imprisoned foreign infiltrators, especially captured SOE agents. At night, screams could be heard coming from cells on its fifth and sixth floors. Equally sinister was the radio section on the second floor, which played the “radio game” using captured SOE sets, and codes beaten out of hapless operators, to transmit bogus messages to England. The building was guarded day and night by uniformed guards as well as by undercover agents on the street. Savvy Parisians gave the building a wide berth, walking on the opposite side of the broad thoroughfare. All of this was disclosed to Tom Carr before he returned to Brussels.

Understandably, Benoîte pleaded with Tom Carr not to go to Paris. Carr, however, remained determined. “I gave my word I would do my best to kill this traitor. His Nazi friends benefit from his services. If I get a clean shot in the kill zone I will take it.” He added a touch of reassurance. “But only if I have a better than even chance to get away alive. Those are my orders from London.”

Neave’s friends in the Resistance had discovered that the only time of day the Top Hat was vulnerable was when the SD “walked” Cole for exercise. Hans Kieffer, its stocky commander, was always at Cole’s side during these daily strolls, which began at precisely ten in the morning. One would expect no less from an order-obsessed, rigidly punctual Nazi official. Kieffer’s security was light, just two other agents. The SD’s commander apparently was certain that no Frenchman would dare assassinate him because reprisal would be swift and of enormous magnitude.

On his first foray into Paris, Carr lingered behind a parked Citroën on the opposite side of the street. He visualized what his movements would be once Cole and his nursemaids appeared. Carr would cross the wide road, looking into the distance as if headed to the café farther up the block. Then he would abruptly angle in and turn with gun drawn to shoot Cole at close range. During the initial moments of confusion, he would flee, hopefully dodging any bullets aimed his way, winding back to the nearest metro station and disappearing from sight. No matter how he figured it, depending on how many incognito SD personnel were on the street, the odds of escaping with his own life were no better than, at most, fifty-fifty. He had to improve them.

On his next trip to Paris, Carr sat in a coffeehouse and observed the comings and goings of the SD’s agents and guards. Carr was sipping a bitter cup of ersatz espresso when he caught sight of Cole, Kieffer, and guards exiting the SD’s main entrance. The foursome proceeded along the sidewalk, chatting. Cole appeared none the worse for wear. He had altered his appearance by donning large eyeglasses, parting his hair down the middle, and wearing a suit that made him look as if he were from the business world (goodbye, plus fours). Carr returned two days later to observe his quarry once more.

Each time Carr came to Paris, he too altered his look. He was now confident he hadn’t aroused suspicion. On each occasion, he had concluded that two or three “pedestrians” and loiterers were other than they appeared. So, in all, he might be pursued by five trained killers.

When his plan was fully rehearsed and his surveillance complete, no excuse remained to delay the climax. Carr was ready to kill. On that fateful day, he returned to the city dressed in a brown suit whose drab color would blend with the background. He had stuffed a well-oiled pistol inside his waistband. But, alas, on this morning, Cole’s ensemble did not appear on schedule. Lingering as long as he dared, a frustrated Tom Carr retreated to a safe house in Paris and spent a sleepless night.

On the gloriously clear next morning, Carr returned to Avenue Foch. This time Kieffer and Cole appeared at midmorning, accompanied as usual by two uniformed SD agents. Carr recognized their stoic faces. He scanned the sidewalks and detected two plainclothes agents. Then again, maybe there were three or four. Traffic was light, and birds were singing. Conditions seemed as favorable as he could hope for. Carr excelled at marksmanship, and had no doubt his aim would be true. Nevertheless, Neave had drilled into him: Harold Cole is not worth killing if you die as well. If you pull the trigger, make sure your escape route is perfectly planned. Carr estimated the current odds in his favor at 60 to 40.

He rolled the dice, waiting only for a bus to rumble past, then began to jaywalk across the street.

Kieffer was a pug of a man. His black SS uniform was sinister, intended to command respect and strike fear.

Lean, lanky Harold Cole, walking on Kieffer’s far side, towered several inches over the SD chief. Carr imagined taking advantage of their height difference by first shooting over Kieffer’s head and killing Cole, then firing a second time and extending the courtesy to Kieffer. But Neave had forbidden this, so he banished the thought. Tom Carr crossed the median and adopted the well-practiced shuffle of an unfit businessman. He angled toward the spot on the street where he would raise his pistol and, in a blur, assassinate his childhood acquaintance.

His plan became bollixed the moment his fingers touched the pistol. A contingent of SD officers walking toward 84 Avenue Foch snapped to attention when they encountered their commanding officer, and they surrounded him while engaging in conversation.

Carr slowed his shuffle. He no longer had a clear shot. Harold Cole is not worth dying for. Carr turned away, picked up his pace, and headed for Boulevard Flandrin. He found an innocuous alcove to stop, and to wrestle with his next move. How long can I wait here? Should I go back? Do I abort? Three men rounded the corner of Avenue Foch and solved Carr’s dilemma. When one of them pointed toward him, Carr knew all good options had expired. He ran into the nearest metro. His pursuers would surely see him descend its steps so instead of jumping the turnstile, Carr hid behind a steel column and made himself skinny. All three came running past, pushing pedestrians aside as they flew down the steps leading to the train platform. Carr turned and ran up to the street, two steps at a time. An hour later he was in Gare du Nord, boarding a train for Belgium.

That evening Benoîte wiped away tears of joy as they embraced, and she scolded him. “You must promise me you will not risk your life again. I cannot bear losing you.”

Carr had purchased a small bottle of rather expensive French perfume at the Parisian station. He offered it to her, saying, “I would die for you, but not for anyone else. I ask one thing from you, in return, that you will not risk your own death out of blind patriotism.”

She sobbed and said yes. Carr then said, “I must ask you for one more thing.” A playful look appeared in his resolute eyes. “I don’t fancy you as being ‘Nori’ even though you are made of iron. I want to know you always as Benoîte. Perhaps Benni, when we act silly.” (Carr had taken to calling her “Benni” during light moments.) “I love Benoîte; bid farewell to Nori for me, OK, love?”

She kissed him. “Nori is gone.” As was the memory of JC. Time stood still for Benoîte and Tom.

When their spirits had calmed, he poured whiskey. “I must locate our new wireless operator and report my failure.”

“What if you are asked to try again?” Benoîte asked cautiously.

Carr didn’t answer, but silence proved golden because events, moving swiftly and beyond control, compelled Neave to postpone the day of reckoning for Cole. Neave was asked to place in motion a “new plan” intended to save lives, not take them. He wanted Tom Carr to run a mission in support of it. For Neave, the time had come to organize a post-D-Day strategy for all his escape lines because the invasion of France was, at most, ninety days away.

While Carr awaited orders, Neave summoned to London a loyal member of the Comet line named Jean de Blommaert, who had narrowly escaped a trap in Paris set by a Belgian traitor named Pierre Boulain, a betrayer other than Cole, for a change. Neave assigned de Blommaert the mission of becoming his eyes and ears in France to execute his new plan.

Neave was ordered to provide shelter, somewhere in France, for all newly downed airmen, because escorting them through the length of France and across the Spanish border (or to the Brittany coast) would become prohibitively dangerous. Neave charged de Blommaert to locate a thick forest southwest of Paris where a hidden camp could be constructed. Airmen would be gathered there and protected for weeks until the German army had been forced beyond Paris.

Neave assigned a code name to this proposed camp even before its location was settled upon: Sherwood Forest. Neave recalled his Wizard of Oz philosophy and advised de Blommaert, “There’s no place like home,” adding, “Home for many, many airmen will be the forest you find, which I have already christened Sherwood.”

De Blommaert, with advice from the Resistance, recommended to Neave the Forêt de Fréteval, located between Le Mans and Orleans, a hundred miles southwest of the French capital. Fréteval Forest was quite large—over three hundred square miles of verdant wilderness—punctuated by clearings ideal for parachuted supply drops. The Resistance maintained a strong presence in this area.

Two smaller forests elsewhere were also selected to hide airmen, one in the Ardennes and the other near Rennes. Nevertheless, Sherwood Forest would house the most, including all evaders who were routed through Paris. Neave airdropped a squadron leader to supervise workers who hacked out the campground, as well as a radio operator to communicate their supply needs, including tents, blankets, food, and medicine.

Airmen brought into Paris would travel by rail to the station at the town of Châteaudun. From there, a winding ten-mile hike under the cover of trees would bring them to the camp’s entrance. Neave fretted that the German High Command might bivouac reserve troops into the vicinity, thereby blocking the route, though luckily, they never did. The German military had decided to keep its distance following assassination of three of its overly curious officers.

Security was Neave’s next worry. A single German mechanized brigade could easily defeat the lightly armed Resistance members protecting the camp. To prevent this, Neave insisted knowledge of the camp be strictly limited. There was yet another source of worry: Following the breakthrough by the Allied armies likely in midsummer, retreating German troops might flee into the forest if the Allies broke through nearby. Neave was helpless there, it being someone else’s dice roll.

No operation of this magnitude could succeed unless all escape lines cooperated and signed on. This was no cinch. Pride, ego, independence, suspicion, and loss of influence threatened to sabotage the nascent plan. Neave decided to send radio messages to the leaders of Comet and Shelburne, explaining that in the near future their operations would shift gears. They would become shepherds guiding flocks in a deep forest, then hunkering down to await liberation. Neave also had to inform them that their independence would cease. The two great lines were expected to fully cooperate with each other. Furthermore, all the smaller lines would merge into the larger whole.

In early April 1944, Neave arranged for de Blommaert to gather together the skeptical leaders of the lines, especially Serment and Dumais, and hammer out a deal. Knowing that money talked, de Blommaert let it be known that he had squirreled away in Paris two million French francs, generously provided by MI-9, to be used to cover all expenses. He told Dumais, Serment, and the other leaders that if they pledged support for the plan, the faucet would turn and money would flow.

What was the plan? Only after each agreed could de Blommaert bring them into his confidence. Following initial grumbling, dissent withered. Money was allocated and de Blommaert provided complete details of Operation Sherwood Forest. Mercifully, no debilitating friction was experienced in the months ahead.

De Blommaert learned that, of late, Jean Serment had been relying on a fearless young woman named Benoîte Jean, cut from the same cloth as the legendary Dédée, to bring downed airmen to Paris. She would be crucial to the routing of airmen to Sherwood. De Blommaert also gleaned that she was in love with Neave’s friend Tom Carr, a British enigma who had earned Serment’s highest respect. C’est la vie.

On June 6, 1944, 156,000 American, British, and Canadian troops stormed ashore on five Normandy beaches spanning fifty miles. Hitler hesitated to reinforce the defending Wehrmacht infantry because he had been taken in by an Allied scheme to convince the Germans that the real invasion would come later at the Pas-de-Calais, the same place where Neave had been wounded and captured in 1940. By the time Hitler acquiesced to reality and released his panzers, hundreds of thousands of Allied soldiers had pushed inland. The Wehrmacht was now engaged in a life-or-death struggle to prevent the Allies from liberating Paris.

* * *

During a rainy night the following month, not one but five American escapers, one dressed as a Luftwaffe major, arrived at Serment’s place in Brussels. The other four leapt from the rear of a puttering charcoal-powered delivery van owned by a Comet line member, and gingerly carried the officer, whose leg was badly broken, inside.

After challenging the men to determine if they were truly American airmen, Tom Carr led them through a passageway into the neighbor’s wine cellar, where Serment had set up a cot for the injured officer, whose false Luftwaffe document identified him as Major “Alois Braun.”

Benoîte had just returned from her latest run to Paris, having delivered three more evaders to the Shelburne line. On the way back, she narrowly avoided a Gestapo sweep at the Somme River. Her clothing was still wet from her unexpected swim. “What have we here?” she asked while toweling her hair.

The men surrounding the major took turns explaining. They had fled Stalag Luft I some days before, and had rendezvoused with the major, who had escaped from Stalag Luft IV, at a safe house near the Belgian border. Resistance members provided them with passes, which had enabled them to travel by rail unimpeded. There had been delays and detours because of 8th Air Force bombing attacks. Before their final train approached Brussels, a team of SD agents entered their railcar. Perhaps these sinister figures had been alerted to look for five Americans on the run. Not wishing to press their luck, the Americans moved into the next car, and kept moving until they reached the rear of the train. From there, they jumped.

The major went last, and his luck was bad. Landing on a pile of twisted rails, he broke the tibia and fibula of his lower left leg. It took two days and the help of a priest to locate a Comet line member, who secured a van and drove them to Serment. By now, the wound suffered by “Major Braun” had become infected. The major, they explained, is carrying an important message. They did not know its contents.

“We must summon a doctor,” Benoîte said after wincing at the sight of the major’s protruding bones and swollen flesh.

Serment replied somberly, “There is no doctor left around here, at least none that I trust.”

“Think,” Carr urged. “There must be somebody.”

Serment tapped his forehead. “Ah, the old man. He might be able to help.” Serment was referring to Louis Fabré, an ancient friend of Dédée and the de Jongh family, from before the war. Dr. Fabré was retired, but he often assisted at a clinic. Serment left to fetch him.

Carr arranged food for the grateful Americans. The major, in obvious anguish, asked only for whiskey. He told Carr of how he had been ordered to make an escape attempt in order to deliver a vital message. Carr replied that he had escaped from Stalag Luft VII-A. “Men of shared experience,” the major replied weakly. “But you’re in one piece. I’m afraid my chance to be a hero is over.”

Forty minutes later, Serment returned with a small, potbellied man, his head fringed in gray, his beady eyes enlarged by thick spectacles. Dr. Fabré set aside a small bag and knelt beside the cot. Carefully, the old doctor examined the wound and broken bones. The major flinched whenever touched. Fabré spoke no English. Benoîte acted as translator. “The doctor says he cannot set the bones; they are too splintered. The infection is serious. Gangrene will set in unless the leg comes off.”

“An operation?” Serment exclaimed. “We cannot risk taking this man to a hospital unless he is willing to become a prisoner once more.” Upon hearing this, the major shook his head from side to side. “No hospital!” he said. “That’s an order.”

“Then tell the doctor to take the leg here,” Carr demanded. “Ask what he needs.”

Benoîte did so. “He apologizes, but he has performed few surgeries. He will try, but only if he has a bone saw. Also a strap, and something to cauterize the stump.”

“Where do we get a bone saw?” Carr asked in exasperation.

The major raised his hand with one finger pointed. “What is it, Major?” one of the American fliers asked.

“I have a Gigli saw,” he said softly. “It’s wound around the inside of my cap.”

Cutting tools were among the crucial items smuggled into Stalags, including saw blades and files. This one was special. A “Gigli” saw was not a blade. It was a coarse-surfaced steel wire. MI-9 easily hid them, coiled, inside Monopoly games. They were designed to be capable of cutting through steel bars. A POW need only fashion two handles out of wood or metal, and pull the wire back and forth across a rod to cleanly slice it. Ironically, as exceptional as a Gigli was cutting through steel, its original use was for sawing bones in operating rooms.

Dr. Fabré had but one morphine syrette in his bag. He motioned for an airman to lift up the major’s head while Serment helped him drink a healthy amount of whiskey. After a minute, Fabré jammed the needle of the syrette into Braun’s left thigh. Only then did Fabré tell the major, through Benoîte, that he would likely still feel pain, perhaps a great deal of pain. Serment reappeared carrying a thick belt. The doctor advised his patient to bite down on it to avoid screaming. The Gestapo, roaming about, might hear his cries.

Both bones would be severed below the knee. Once the morphine had a chance to numb the major’s nerves, Dr. Fabré began sawing. The operation proved neither quick nor smooth. And it was agonizing, judging by the ever-reddening skin on the major’s wild-eyed face and his deep groaning as his teeth bit ever deeper into the belt.

A galvanized pail was used to contain the bone fragments, and a red-hot poker, wielded by Serment, cauterized the stump. Its application, mercifully, knocked out the major.

Fabré then deftly sewed the flaps of skin and the operation was, at last, complete. Fabré exhaled and drowned his tension in anisette.

The following morning, Major Braun awoke to the sight of Benoîte applying a cold compress to his forehead. “An angel,” he said softly. He beckoned Captain Tom Carr to his side and whispered into his ear, “My message . . . is in a small pouch, bandaged to my back. Somebody’s got to take it to the OSS in Bern, or to the American consulate in Lyon.”

Carr listened attentively as the major explained how he had agreed to serve as a backup in the event the primary carrier of this message did not get through. There being no way of knowing if the primary had succeeded, the major’s copy must be delivered. If not to Bern, then to Lyon where an OSS agent named Duval had the means to convey it to Bern. Major Braun then grabbed Carr’s hand and said, “You’re a British captain. I’m an American major. But I can’t order you. I’ve sized you up, however. You have the savvy and guts to do the task. Will you accept my charge and take on my mission?”

Carr looked at Benoîte. Her eyes lowered.

She nodded gently. “Go, Tom.” Then smiled bravely. “See you in the forest.”

Their orders had already arrived. All evading airmen were henceforth to be delivered to Sherwood Forest. Guides awaited in Paris.

Carr would disguise himself by wearing one of the Americans’ Luftwaffe uniforms. He joked, “Thanks to vacation time in Stalag VII-A, I know how to impersonate one of these imperious bastards.” Carr would also carry a small case with a change of civilian clothing. He would make the switch before entering the American consulate at Lyon. It occurred to Carr that there was another benefit in going to Lyon. During his briefing with Neave in London, before embarking on his attempt to kill Cole, Carr had learned that Colonel Claude Dansey instructed Cole to bring all intelligence he’d gathered to George Whittinghill, the American consul in Lyon. Whittinghill knew Cole well, and the OSS agent, Monsieur Duval, knew what Whittinghill knew. Carr decided, at Lyon, that he would ask Duval to disclose whatever he knew about Cole, and to guess what the SS might have in mind for Cole once Paris fell.

Lyon could be safely accessed by rail without going through Paris. Word had it that German military and SS commands at Lyon were severely distracted by reports the Americans would launch a second invasion at Marseille. A rapid American move up the Rhone Valley was expected, which would result in a battle for the city that would find the Germans vastly outnumbered, with retreat their only option.

Carr reached Lyon without difficulty. But once inside the city, his Luftwaffe uniform nearly cost him his life. At twilight, he was attacked by a French Resistance member who tried to jab a knife into his side. At that moment, the man known as Captain Tom Carr summoned his training as an SEO operative—and trained killer.

Carr struck the man in the Adam’s apple, took away his knife, and jabbed its point into the assailant’s right biceps. (If he had intended to kill the Frenchman, he would have stabbed him in his neck instead.) The French fighter wavered; Carr knocked his legs out from under him, and then he ran. He changed into his civilian clothes in the gloom of an alley.

The following morning Carr presented himself at the designated address. A guard, of sorts, opened the door. Carr asked to see Monsieur Duval. When challenged, he provided the pass phrase Braun had given him, “Morning drill on the Boardwalk.” Unbeknown to Carr, “Braun” had been an instructor at Camp Boardwalk in Atlantic City. By contrast, all Carr knew of Atlantic City was that it was much like the beach resort of Brighton on the southern coast of his native England.

Duval was an American of sinewy build and stern features. Carr promptly stripped off his shirt and asked Duval to remove the strips of tape on his back that were securing the little pouch. “What’s inside?” Duval asked as he did so. Carr confessed he did not know but impressed upon the American that “Agent 110” needed it urgently. Duval assured Carr that delivery should not pose a problem.

Carr then brought up Cole. He told Duval about his failed mission to Paris to execute Cole, and asked if Duval could provide help and advice to advance this task.

Duval grimaced. “Cole! Everyone wants him. No one succeeds. I tried once, you know.” He offered Carr a glass of wine. “But times have changed. The SS is no longer hunting; they are preparing to be the hunted. We have reports the SD in Paris will evacuate quite soon. You may have heard that our armies have nearly surrounded the German Wehrmacht at a town in Brittany named Falaise. The breakthrough is coming.”

Carr had heard of this trap. “If the pocket closes, most of the Wehrmacht will be compelled to surrender.”

Duval replied, “Even if most of the Krauts get away, Paris will be abandoned. The Germans will scatter and flee.”

“And Cole? How will he fare?”

Duval replied, “I suspect the SD will take Cole with them because his usefulness is not over.” Duval uttered profanities, then added, “Cole knows how to mesmerize anyone, including our enemies.”

“Under the circumstances, you don’t think the SD will want to be rid of him?”

Duval replied, “Perhaps his corpse will turn up in a gutter. But Cole can be of help in guiding their flight. I think they will take him.”

Carr laughed out of frustration.

Duval asked, “Is there anything I or my friends can do for you?”

Carr did not hesitate. “Yes, you can help me get back to Le Mans as quickly as possible.”

Shortly after D-Day, Major Airey Neave locked his desk in Room 900 and, via motor gunboat, relocated his headquarters to the city of Caen, just behind the battlefront in France. Donald Darling (“Sunday”) of MI-6, with his usefulness in Gibraltar at an end, assumed Neave’s position in London.

From his new French headquarters, Neave communicated with Sherwood Forest by radio. He could do nothing further to help the airmen there until the day he would lead a small force to liberate them and return them to freedom. It was a tedious time for Neave; playing Monopoly was a favorite pastime among those he chummed with.

Sunday remained in touch with Tante Go and reported to Neave that this brave woman was still sending a trickle of evaders across the Pyrenees. Meanwhile, more and more evaders joined those already stuck inside Sherwood Forest. And they were getting anxious. Sentries had to forcibly prevent some from trying to escape. There was still the danger of German troops discovering the camp if they encountered airmen outside the protection of the hidden facility.

The first airmen had arrived in Sherwood on May 20. Now, more than 150 were secluded beneath its green roof. Rationing, of necessity, was strict. No coffee, chocolate, or even rice was available, and there was no fuel for camp stoves. But local French citizenry rallied to the cause. Farmers supplied fresh vegetables, meat, eggs, and butter. A miller baked bread that a young girl in a horse-drawn cart delivered daily. She did this despite the constant danger of being strafed by marauding Allied fighter planes, which could easily mistake her cart for a Wehrmacht supply wagon. Two of the interned airmen were fine chefs, who helped out by building charcoal fires over which they cooked hot meals.

Tents arrived to supplement parachutes hung on branches. Neave arranged for fifteen containers of supplies loaded with essentials to gently fall from the sky, and wrangled a further airdrop of drugs, medical supplies, and bottles of fumigants, that last item needed because the men had made beds out of straw.

The airmen were practical. They fashioned tables and chairs from forest timber and built a stage for performances to ameliorate the boredom and tension. Neave requested an assortment of Waddingtons card decks and games from Norman Watson, including Monopoly sets (Watson was curious why Neave didn’t want these “loaded”). The games were wrapped inside a bundle of tents and parachuted safely into a clearing. Inevitably, gambling became rampant, and game playing, for money or otherwise, made time tick faster inside Sherwood Forest.

Resistance fighters vetted every arriving airman. During patrols, they learned that the Germans were aware people were living inside the forest but believed them to be only Resistance fighters. Luckily, they stayed away, either seeing no benefit in stirring up a hornet’s nest or were too busy dealing with the advancing Allied invaders.

When the sheer number of airmen eventually overwhelmed the first campsite, a second was built. De Blommaert maintained command of the first while another Comet line veteran named Boussa oversaw the second. In both camps there were some airmen with serious wounds, but they lacked doctors to administer medical care. Luckily, some of the nearby French folk lent great aid. An elderly French woman who lived on the opposite edge of the forest turned her home into a hospital, and a doctor from a nearby town became its chief physician, ministering to the airmen and even performing lifesaving operations, notably an appendectomy and the reinflation of a lung.

Captain Tom Carr made his way from Le Mans to Sherwood, narrowly surviving an errant artillery barrage along the way. A well-organized and smoothly functioning Sherwood Forest hideaway awaited him. Once he had been screened and admitted, he searched for Benoîte but found no sign of her. He did, however, stumble across two of the Americans he had last seen in the cellar at Brussels. “Where are your friends? And where is the lady who brought you here?”

Both spoke at once, and Carr quickly got the picture. On the road to the camp they were attacked, and their comrades and Benoîte were wounded by shrapnel. Though her arm began to bleed, she was able to walk unhindered, and all three hiked to “the hospital.” Carr asked for the route to the field hospital and raced there.

To his complete relief, Benoîte had recovered, and despite a heavily bandaged left forearm, she was serving as a nurse. When she saw Carr, she set down a pan and threw her right arm around him. “God is good,” she sobbed.

Benoîte made light of her wound, claiming the shrapnel was “poorly timed.” She explained that she had just raised her arm to protect her head when the jagged piece of metal hit her. A second earlier, or later . . . well, no need to think about that.

In early August, the road leading to the forest was cleared of enemy troops. On August 14, Neave persuaded two groups of soldiers sitting idle at Le Mans to accompany him to the forest in their vehicles. A number of local wood-burning buses and their drivers joined to provide return transport for the occupants of Sherwood Forest. These buses were curiously modified. Each had a cylindrical chamber hanging off its rear end. Hydrocarbons inside this “stove” condensed into a volatile liquid that drained into the gas tank, providing fuel to operate the engine. Neave mused, Ingenuity under adversity.

During the evacuation of Sherwood Forest, Neave located Tom Carr. “You’ve become good at undercover work, I hear,” Neave said, offering a salute. Carr nodded. “You may be SOE, Tom, but you should consider intelligence work after the war.”

Carr laughed; Neave did not. “You need to think ahead.”

Carr retorted, “Indeed, maybe,” adding, “You should sell autos, Airey. You’ve become quite good at sales.”

“I have something else in mind, for a while at least.” Neave explained he had agreed to help at the trial of the “Nazi bastards” who had started this “bloody awful war.”

Chapter 16

The Baltic Radioman

In December 1943 Carl Spaatz moved his headquarters back to England. The 8th Air Force had grown mightily during the time he was in North Africa and Italy. On the morning of February 21, 1944, after weeks of storms, Spaatz ordered 841 bombers, in three waves, to lift into the air and head for Germany. They were only the beginning of his much anticipated “Big Week” offensive.

The goal of Big Week was to exhaust the Luftwaffe and fatigue its fighter pilots. The day’s targets were eighteen airfields in northwest Germany, all part of mission #228 for the 8th. It had been nineteen months since mission #1. (By now, all of Spaatz’s original crews were either dead, captured, or—for the lucky few—home and discharged.)

One of the recruits aboard Miss Ouachita—a B-17 of the 8th’s illustrious 91st Bombardment Group—was Harold Klem, a mild-mannered twenty-year-old radio operator kept busy listening to updates from ground control, monitoring enemy radio traffic, and informing his ship’s navigator of their current position en route to an aerodrome near Hanover. Unexpectedly, clouds appeared at their altitude.

The crew members onboard Miss Ouachita (pronounced “wash-it-ta” and named for the Arkansas mountains or Louisiana river of the same name) lost track of their squadron and, upon emerging from the cloud bank outside Hanover, discovered they were in trouble. The other seven bombers of the 323rd Squadron had inadvertently turned right while Miss Ouachita correctly had turned left. A lone B-17 like theirs was easy prey for the Luftwaffe. The copilot shouted over the intercom, “Hold on, we’re going the hell over there.” The pilot, Lieutenant Osterberg, pushed the throttles forward, banked, and raced to catch up with the squadron.

Suddenly, like hot coals from above, fire from the cannons of Focke-Wulf fighters disabled the rudder and wounded the tail gunner.

Klem rose from his seat to man his gun, but was knocked to the floor of his compartment when an explosion shook the plane violently. What happened next was a blur; Hal’s memory struggled to record it all. Another fighter flashed its guns. One of the waist gunners, Clay Morningstar, winced in pain; the top gunner was struck in the head and died instantly; another cannon shell exploded above Hal, and all hell broke loose. Shrapnel from hundreds of pounds of radio equipment shot through Hal, striking his left eye, piercing one of his palms, and otherwise perforating his body. Klem fell to the floor, semiconscious. It turned out that this was a lucky break. Had he not been prone, shells from the fighter’s next burst would have claimed him.

A portside engine quit, compromising the bomber’s electrical system. A second engine quit, and Miss Ouachita began to die. Ostenberg asked for a damage report and ordered the wounded gunner, Clay Morningstar, and semiconscious Hal Klem to be assisted in bailing out. Then he brought the plane down to three thousand feet and instructed the bombardier to unleash, in a single salvo, its sixteen five-hundred-pound bombs before he ordered, “Abandon ship.”

Just as the navigator stuck his legs through the forward escape hatch, the engine fire blew out and Ostenberg managed to restart the other impaired engine. He countermanded his order and gave each crew member an option: Jump now or roll the dice and stay with him. Ostenberg intended to defy the odds and make a run for home base at Bassingbourn, England. The navigator crawled back inside. Along with the remaining crew, he accepted the gamble. Ostenberg flew Miss Ouachita at rooftop level in the hope of avoiding detection. The wounded bomber’s luck held for a hundred miles. Then it rolled snake eyes by inadvertently flying over a German airfield. Within minutes, an F-W-190 fighter piloted by German ace Heinz Bär attacked from twelve o’clock—straight ahead. One of his 20-millimeter cannon shells burst inside the cockpit, killing the copilot and wounding Ostenberg. He managed to execute a belly landing in an open field, but before his crew could destroy Miss Ouachita, all were captured by German home guards.

Bär was credited with his 184th victory in the air (he would total 208 by war’s end).

Miss Ouachita would have become another forgotten B-17 if not for German propaganda. Miss Ouachita’s place in history was secured the next day via a news film and still photographs in which Bär is seen investigating his kill. Notably, a second Luftwaffe officer is present, wearing his prized American flight jacket. (American P-38 fighters soon destroyed Miss Ouachita because the Luftwaffe, having determined her to be flight worthy, had begun attempting repairs.) These photos also appeared in American newspapers. While the bulk of the crew were known to be prisoners of the Third Reich, the parents of Clay Morningstar and Harold Klem remained in suspense.

For Hal, a never-to-be-forgotten ordeal ensued, which would be influenced by Monopoly X.

After being “dumped” from the empty bomb bay of Miss Ouachita, Klem lost consciousness in the oxygen-depleted air. Fortunately, he had pulled his ripcord, and he came to again at around 13,000 feet. But with his vision blurred, he had difficulty judging his height above the ground. He hit a frozen field, collapsed into a ball, and sustained even more injuries. Just as he got his parachute’s harness off, home guards captured him. Klem received some medical care (one German literally tore the shrapnel out of his palm) and, along with a dozen other downed airmen, was shipped by train to Dulag Luft.

Spaatz’s Big Week took its toll on German airfields. But it also resulted in hundreds of airmen bailing out of stricken bombers, with Klem among the first. Some reached escape lines and got back, but for Hal and most of the others, “the war was over.” Every German security person was taught to utter this phrase upon capturing an Allied airman.

Auswertestelle West (mistakenly called “Dulag Luft”) became overwhelmed with new arrivals. Hanns Scharff had to lend a hand interrogating “bus drivers and riders” (his nickname for bomber crews, versus “flyboys” for his favored fighter pilots). Scharff found himself sizing up a young technical sergeant confined in the cooler, whose eye and jaw were heavily bandaged. After introducing himself, Scharff said, “So your name is Harold Lawrence Klem. Your father works for the post office. Your parents and sister are missing you on Holland Avenue in the Bronx. You are a radio operator with the 91st Bomber Group, nicknamed the Ragged Irregulars. Your bomber was heading for Munster airfield but was stricken near Hanover.”

Klem stared at his interrogator with his one good eye. “So what?”

Hanns Scharff had gotten what he wanted, and did not wish to further this man’s suffering, But when, as required, he asked Klem to empty his pockets, Klem produced pitifully little, aside from a wooden box from his flight suit’s leg pocket. It was his art kit.

Scharff studied it. “Why this? Why do you not have food?”

Klem shrugged. “Food I can get. I can’t replace my art supplies.”

Scharff handed it back. “We take only military materials. Keep this. I too am an artist.” (In fact, after Scharff moved to Los Angeles following the war, he devoted himself to creating mosaics. One decorates the floor of the California capitol at Sacramento; several brighten Cinderella’s Castle in Disney’s Magic Kingdom.)

Scharff, realizing Klem required additional medical attention, walked him up a path to a hospital in a nearby forest. A Lutheran sister opened the door. The spotless interior was filled with injured POWs. The lone doctor, Ernst Ittershagen, spoke English. Scharff found him dressing a wound. “Take care of this airman, Herr Doktor. I understand he has metal fragments in one eye and elsewhere.”

When sufficiently recovered, Klem was transferred to the POW distribution center at Wetzlar (the actual Dulag Luft) and from there was assigned to the first of three “permanent” camps—Stalag Luft VI at Heydekrug in East Prussia (Šilutė, Lithuania, today). Klem was now a Kriegsgefangenen, or Kriege for short: a prisoner of war. After being assigned a bunk in a barracks, Klem was bombarded by other prisoners with questions intended to smoke out German spies posing as downed airmen. “Who won the Series last October? How many Andrews Sisters are there? Which auto company makes the Chevy? Who created Mickey Mouse?” Sometimes, to trip up a spy, the last question was worded, “Who created Mickey Rat?”

Once they decided he was on the up-and-up, Klem was welcomed. He was sent to another hospital, where a surgeon was able to finally remove the metal lodged in his blinded left eye. Soon after his return from the hospital, the advance of the Soviet armies compelled the Luftwaffe to begin moving prisoners westward. Hal was removed to the port of Memel and found himself crammed into the unlit, claustrophobic hold of a freighter bound for a naval base on the Baltic. From there, he was trucked to Stalag Luft IV in Keifheide.

Hal’s art kit came to the attention of this camp’s escape committee. Its members were delighted Klem’s interrogator had let him keep it. The fine brushes and inks were worth their weight in gold because they could be used to precisely letter fake documents. Klem, in turn, made friends with the guys on the committee. They formed three impressions about Harold L. Klem from the Bronx. One, he possessed a head of wavy black hair that reminded them of the British actor Stewart Granger. Two, he was soft-spoken, timid, and easily rattled. Three, he had a knack of capitalizing on his mild-mannered persona to gain trust and learn things no one else of his rank came by.

Within days after Klem’s arrival, another new POW appeared amid the squalor and deprivations of Luft IV. He told everyone he had been a waist gunner on a B-24 shot down over East Prussia. But his swagger and lack of “flyboy lingo” suggested he was an imposter. The security committee challenged him with its version of twenty questions. He passed the test; he was no German spy. But who was he?

By order of the senior Allied officer, this “airman” was allowed to keep his real name confidential. Instead, he was to be called by the initials “JC.” This didn’t sit well with his fellow inmates. Whenever chided, JC lashed out in return. It didn’t take long for JC to start a fight with a powerfully built POW. Dozens of Krieges including Hal Klem gathered around to watch. JC ducked the big guy’s first punch, spun, and thrust his leg upward, kicking the brute on the side of the head and knocking him out cold. After that, POWs kept their distance. JC became a loner, wrapped up in his own thoughts, until Hal befriended him.

As the days passed, they talked a little more. When Klem felt comfortable enough, he jokingly said to JC, “You’re no waist gunner. I can tell.”

“Oh yeah?” JC responded, like a tiger whose slab of meat had been snatched away. “And who are you, with an eye bandaged? A pirate?”

“Easy,” Klem replied. “I’m not a threat. Let me prove it to you.” Klem had a soothing way about him, despite his timidity, and possessed a clear mind. He had a year at Cooper Union School of Design under his belt and hoped to become a fine artist once he got home (although in his heart, Hal knew the loss of his left eye rendered that ambition as unlikely). He said to JC, “I’m going to explain something about the air force brass, the guys with the scrambled eggs on their brims. It’s this. They don’t give a damn about us airmen, or even our airplanes. All that matters to Spaatz and his staff guys are bomb bays.”

“What’s your point?”

Klem delighted in relating his curious theory; it went like this. The goal of strategic warfare was “bombs on target.” Jimmy Doolittle and Carl Spaatz and all the other generals measured success by how many bombs hit their targets and how much damage they caused. “If the brass could levitate a bomb bay over its target and remotely open its doors, they would gladly discharge us and tell us to find work elsewhere.

“But they can’t just rely on bombs and bomb bays because, so far, nobody has figured out how to levitate. A payload of bombs has to lift into the air through combustion, which requires four big engines. Engines don’t fly on their own; they need to be connected to a metal airframe with control surfaces on its wings and tail. And they need a source of energy to keep them going—tons of high-octane gasoline stored in tanks inside the wings. Remote control is not yet practical, so the airframe has to accommodate humans who fly and guide the aircraft to its target, including a navigator and radio operator, and of course a bombardier to open the bomb bay and drop those bombs. Gunners are needed to protect the plane from being shot down.” Klem then asked rhetorically, “So, JC, you put all this together and what do you get? A whole lot of wasted weight and expensive training for a crew that mostly has nothing to do with the payload in the bomb bay. A guy like me is just a number in some equation. Numbers are numbers. Numbers can’t rat on anybody.”

JC seemed confused. Klem, having him where he wanted him, asked the question intended to expose JC as a fraud. “So you’re a waist gunner in a flight suit, gripping a machine gun sticking out a window, standing on a metal floor inside a lumbering airframe. You’ve just ripped off two hundreds rounds at a Messerschmitt fighter coming in at nine o’clock, when another appears near the tail. You have to shift your boots to aim at it. What’s your biggest worry now? Come on . . . spill it.”

JC flinched. “That I don’t hit this guy before he puts bullets into our aircraft.”

“That comes second. First, you have to watch where you place your boots to avoid slipping and falling, because two hundred brass shell casings are rolling around on the vibrating floor.” JC was silent. Klem’s voice became soft, coaxing, “You can tell me who you are. Ask around. You’ll find I don’t spill the beans on anybody.” JC nodded and walked away.

Days later, JC approached Klem in the yard and said, “I’ll tell you who I am, but I remind you of the fight you witnessed. I could have killed that arrogant bastard.” Klem said he fully appreciated the consequences of crossing JC.

“I’m OSS,” JC told Klem. “The Nazi goons would assassinate me if they knew I was a spy.”

“OK. We’re making progress,” Klem replied. “Somehow, I figured you were OSS. Big deal. You’re a spy or a saboteur or whatever. Where did you get the waist gunner’s getup you were wearing when you arrived here? Start from the beginning.”

JC told him that his last undercover mission had been to parachute into northern Poland to meet a communist Pole who had “information of interest” to the Office of Strategic Services.

“I hear Poland is a mess,” Klem interjected.

“It’s dismembered like a Christmas turkey,” JC opined. “I was picked up by a B-24 from Italy loaded with supplies for the Polish guerillas I met with. The guerillas got the goods and I hitched a ride home. The plane was light one waist gunner, so I became that guy. I got into the missing guy’s flight suit as the plane took off. But bad luck. Flak hit us on the way and everybody had to bail out. I was outnumbered when I hit the ground, and ended up here.”

“And now you’re a hungry bastard just like the rest of us. JC, we just have to hang on until the war ends. They say by Christmas.”

“Not me, Klem. I gotta get out of here, this month. What I got is a hot number. I have to get it to my boss.”

“You got a number? What is it?” Klem asked.

“Nineteen. One short of twenty. It means nothing out of context.”

Klem was sympathetic. “So, OK, you need to escape. If I weren’t banged up, with one eye gone, I would cut through the wire myself. But what I can do is help you.” Friendship with the escape committee had tipped off Klem that seemingly ordinary items arriving in camp were sometimes loaded with escape aids. After a particular Monopoly game had come in, Klem noticed smoke rising from the stove in the room where the escape committee met. Cleverly, he asked if he could join in playing the new game. “I’ll take any token; it doesn’t matter to me.” When they told him to get lost, Hal put two and two together.

Klem advised JC, “Some of the guys hoard stuff you’re going to need. I can get it for you.” Then he reminded him, “Unlike you, I’ve got friends here.”

“Well, good. I want one or more of your friends to create a diversion. I need a backup so if I don’t get through there’s still a chance the message will.”

The interior of Stalag Luft IV was serviced by many foreign laborers who performed unpleasant tasks like pumping out the latrines, cleaning the many chimneys, slaughtering old horses for meat rations, and periodically siphoning the liquid out of the laundry basin (so foul that it was nicknamed the laundry “latrine”). Many a Kriege tried to escape by slipping into their formations or hiding inside their trucks, prior to departure. A few made it beyond the gate, but everyone landed back in camp, serving time in the cooler, because of one thing or another. Perhaps because an off-duty guard recognized the POW waiting for a train at the nearest station; or the POW could not answer a question from a German civilian; or his disguise wasn’t quite right; or the swarming Hitler Youth caught up with him.

Having been briefed by Klem on these failures, JC determined to go out in a “perfect” disguise. He would become a Polish chimney sweep. His excellent command of German, coupled with a fine impersonation of a Pole speaking broken Deutsch, decided the matter for him. One day, the chimney sweeps and the latrine truck arrived. JC took the place of a chimney sweep, who, richly bribed, joined the latrine squad and hid in its truck before it departed. By so doing, the guards at the front gate tallied the correct totals for each group.

JC told no one of his intended escape route or destination. To Klem, he dropped a hint or two, adding that he wasn’t going to try “something stupid”—like hastening to the heavily guarded port at nearby Rostock and stowing away on a freighter bound for nearby Sweden. Klem surmised he would head to France—which was what JC wanted Klem to think, in the event he was grilled.

JC decided to ride the rails, but not to the French border (even though Nori would surely aid him in Strasbourg). Instead, he would go south and hide in safe houses in Germany that were known only to the OSS and Allen Dulles, before making for Budapest. There, a well-placed and unsuspected confidant of “110” would take him in. An OSS team would collect him thereafter and whisk him into Switzerland.

The “backup” escape would be attempted on the day after JC’s. A major volunteered, and JC helped him work up a plan. Like JC, the major spoke excellent German and had studied the mannerisms and gestures of the camp’s guards. Just after evening Appell, he changed into the dirty garb of a latrine worker and, chattering like the Poles in pidgin Deutsch, he glided out of camp as effortlessly as birds flew overhead. A Luftwaffe officer’s uniform awaited him in a nearby forest, thanks to a generous bribe.

Both JC and the major were well equipped with escape aids, most of which had arrived inside Monopoly games. They concealed silk maps in their socks; tiny compasses inside hollow buttons; Reichsmarks in the linings of their tunics; saw blades, files, or wire saws inside belts, heels, and hats.

While ingenuity played a crucial role in all successful escapes, there was also the blessing of timing. The invasion of France—D-Day—had occurred a few weeks prior to JC’s exit. Ever since D-Day, the guards had been riveted to news of the Wehrmacht’s attempt to bottle up the invaders near the beaches. It wasn’t going well. Hitler hesitated in releasing the panzer reserves, believing the Normandy invasion to be a ruse. Simultaneously, Carl Spaatz reassigned the 8th Air Force to strike rail lines and marshaling yards in western France, preventing German infantry units and supplies from reaching the front.

Neither JC, the major, nor the four airmen returned to Stalag Luft IV. Klem took this as a hopeful sign. Days later, over eight thousand POWs were transferred into this largely incomplete and underequipped POW camp. Conditions became horrid. Unexpectedly, on January 30, 1945, Harold Klem and many others were loaded into boxcars and shipped to Stalag Luft I at Barth. Due to wrecked rails, the ride took a week instead of a day. Prisoners began rioting inside the packed cars. At one point, Klem had to climb “into the rafters” to avoid a murderous fight.

On the ice-cold day of February 1, 1945, Klem was marched from Barth Station to Stalag Luft I. He caught his first sight of the camp from the same direction as had Benoîte, two years earlier. The double-barbed-wire-enclosed prison had expanded vastly. Stalag Luft I now resembled a giant backward L. Its four compounds were crammed with POWs. A squad of “goons” guarded each compound. At surprise moments, “ferrets” would enter a barrack to search for contraband (anything helpful when escaping). These Luftwaffe guards, not of combat caliber, were generally not feared. However, those manning the watchtowers, directing searchlights and machine guns, were taken seriously. These had been trained to kill any POW who crossed the low wire stretched around each enclosure, a few feet from the fence. Entering this no-man’s-land was verboten.

British airmen were segregated inside the original south and west compounds, which had the best facilities, having been built for Hitler Youth camping there, prewar. American fliers filled up North 1, 2, and 3. Klem was assigned a bunk in North 3.

The entire German POW camp system was buckling under the surge of captured Allied airmen. Alas, North 3 offered the least for the most. Its nine barracks each housed 270 men. Every room had bunk beds (little more than shelves with straw mattresses) four high with thin blankets and (not always) a pillow. Two blankets were needed to keep a Kriege from feeling cold, the barracks’ floor being raised two feet above ground level to deter tunneling. Extra blankets were slow to arrive from the IRC. A table and benches to seat eight occupied the middle of each room. It was impossible for all the occupants of a room to stand inside at the same time. In one corner, an undersize charcoal stove provided some heat and was used for cooking. On a brighter note, Compound 3’s commander was Colonel Francis S. Gabreski, the most successful of all American fighter aces (28 “kills”—as compared to Luftwaffe ace Heinz Bär’s amazing 208). “Gabby” Gabreski engendered awe and respect and applied full effort to improve the compound’s lot.

Food was a pressing need. The Germans supplied only a thin soup with potatoes twice a day, along with dark bread that was twenty percent sawdust. The nutritional content of a Red Cross package was therefore essential for a POW to maintain health and weight. In late winter, delivery of these from Switzerland slowed to a trickle—and for two weeks actually stopped. Malnutrition set in. In the spring, the International Red Cross finalized arrangements to begin shipments from Stockholm across the Baltic. Packages began to arrive again, with two airmen compelled to share a weekly package intended for one.

One of Luft IV’s disillusioned guards, befriended by Klem, told him the camp’s commander knew the war was lost, especially with the rapid advance of the Russian army. The Kommandant and his “gang” made morbid bets as to who would shoot them first, the Americans or the Russians. Due to the camp’s location northeast of Berlin, within range of the Polish border, most believed the Russians would win the race. Scuttlebutt had it that when the Russians got close enough to liberate Luft I, the guards and their command staff would flee west and surrender to the advancing Americans.

A week after Klem’s arrival, a set of four MacGregor baseballs appeared, seemingly sent by the mother of an airman imprisoned in North 3. While they were being tossed around on their way to the airman’s barracks, Klem determined they were underweight. He wondered: Had materials rationing affected the national pastime? Klem thought, No, the balls had been hollowed out. The escape committee (somehow) knew this was so. The balls were split open. Inside were the parts, a battery, and an earplug needed to fashion a working radio.

Klem, a radio operator, was asked to assemble it under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Ed Ainsworth, “Big Y”—head of the compound’s security. The existence of this radio in camp was a great secret. Klem was sworn to keep it.

After Klem fine-tuned its coil, Ainsworth was able to listen to the nightly BBC news and transcribe its contents onto paper. A copy was tied around a rock and tossed over the fence to the adjoining compound, and then to the next. In this way, every Kriege was able to follow the progress of the war. The nightly BBC broadcasts reported German city after German city being smashed by Spaatz’s bombers. Segments of the German rail network were always out of commission. The Krieges’ slogan in camp became, “The better they do in the skies, the worse we have it. Keep your chin up, boys!” When the radio’s battery weakened, a guard was bribed to supply a new one.

When a fresh shipment of Monopoly games arrived, this time Klem was invited to play. He took note that while four such games had been delivered, only three were available.

Chapter 17

Fingernails, Finns, and the Fatherland

Emerging from the morning mist over the Gulf of Bothnia on September 20, 1944, were four aging ships from Finland, bound for Swedish ports. Onboard were more than seven hundred souls—the entire Finnish intelligence staff and their dependents (including Esa Virtanen and his team from the Finnish communication center at Barth, Germany). Accompanying them were 350 wooden boxes containing the department’s priceless archive of intercepted and decoded foreign signals, most especially those from the Soviet Union. Days before, Finland had quit the war by signing an onerous armistice with the Soviet Union. It was forced to cede territory to the Soviets along their common border. Nevertheless, there remained great anxiety among the Finns that the brutal Soviets would fail to honor the armistice and invade the whole of their country.

The brilliant Finnish code breakers had, in fact, broken more codes than any country in history, perhaps a thousand in all, including the US Army’s M-94 code (used by its high command) and the principal code of the Vatican. Secured within their boxes were these secrets and genuine foreign codebooks. The US had obtained nothing comparable.

The Finns’ exodus had been encouraged by the Swedish intelligence service and was code-named Operation Stella Polaris (“North Star”). Colonel Reino Hallamaa, commander of the Finnish signals intelligence, quickly settled into the basement of the Hotel Aston in Stockholm and proceeded to microfilm everything. (ABBA member Benny Andersson would one day own this hotel.) Thereafter, Hallamaa dutifully gave one set of microfilms to his Swedish partners and put the others up for sale. The Finns needed money if they were to set up new lives in Sweden. They expected their prime customer, the American OSS, to pay fair value.

Wild Bill Donovan was eager to read the Russian material. While the State Department doggedly believed the Russians to be worthy allies, albeit incessantly demanding ones, both the OSS and J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI felt otherwise. Evidence was mounting that concurrent with Joseph Stalin’s relentless demands for more and more American military aid, his agents in Washington and New York had persuaded an untold number of government officials to spy on their own government. Some of these were avid volunteers who refused any offer of compensation, so passionate was their belief in Stalin’s utopian propaganda.

The warning “Three traitors in the White House, maybe four,” as conveyed to Dulles by Benoîte, had deeply alarmed his boss, Donovan. While not privy to any decrypts, his OSS had sources that confirmed the Russian messages—columns of seemingly random numbers—were impenetrable. None had been cracked. It seemed that the only sure way to pinpoint the identities of these traitors was to “penetrate the impenetrable” by decoding Russian NKVD traffic, finding passages containing their cover names and, through context, link these to specific bureaucrats.

The right Russian codebook in the hands of the army’s code breakers, the SIS (Signal Intelligence Service), would speed up the tortoise-like pace of IBM sorters and tabulator machines (there being no electronic computers), perhaps saving years of effort. The source material itself was extensive. The Radio Corporation of America was dutifully providing copies to the SIS of all Soviet telegrams flying between Moscow and their embassy in Washington, DC, and their consulate in New York City. Those telegrams would be of much greater use to the Allies, if they could be read.

The microfilm under Benoîte Jean’s red fingernails that she had delivered to Esa Virtanen contained a coded appeal from Allen Dulles asking the Finns to help the OSS break the Russian diplomatic code. This was a cheeky request, since at the time Finland was fighting side by side with Germany. Esa Virtanen obediently delivered this message to Reino Hallamaa, whose hands were tied. He could not risk wavering in the war against Russia. But now, with alliances shifting late in the war, Finland had gained common purpose with the United States.

In the eyes of Donovan, Hallamaa’s offer was fair. He wanted to move forward but was obliged to consult the Department of State because there might be diplomatic consequences of making a deal with a bunch of renegades from an unproven ally. Donovan, whose agency had been under attack by rival agencies and the Department of State ever since its founding in 1942, thought doing so was a big mistake. Predictably, the State Department opposed the acquisition. (State, it was later verified, was riddled with more Soviet spies than any other department in Washington.)

Donovan listened to the opposition, but nevertheless decided it would be in the best interests of his country to learn what the Russians were up to. He bought some of the material, including the precious codebook. Since he had direct access to the president, he explained to FDR what he had done—and why. He asked Roosevelt to tell no one. Roosevelt assured him of discretion. It was common knowledge that Roosevelt loved keeping secrets. He especially relished employing confidential information to manipulate those reporting to him, preventing any one of them from becoming too self-assured. “My left hand does not know what my right hand is doing,” was one of FDR’s favorite quips. Donovan was banking on Roosevelt keeping one hand behind his back.

FDR thought he knew everything in the world of secrets during the war. Ironically, neither he nor Bill Donovan knew of 1142. They did not know that two years earlier General Carl Spaatz and the Pentagon brass had decided that knowledge of it had to be denied to anyone not involved, including those at the Department of State, Congress, the OSS, and the president himself. Spaatz believed, from his days in Washington, that no one could safeguard a secret. Had Spaatz not held firm in this, German spies would have danced after informing Berlin of how the tricky Americans planned to smuggle escape aids to POWs in German camps. Russian spies would have eagerly informed the Kremlin as well.

The most influential official with knowledge of 1142 was Catesby ap Jones at the Pentagon (the “ap” means “son of” in Welsh). Jones was descended from a long line of Virginia-born military leaders. His grandfather commanded the ironclad ship CSS Virginia during its battle with the Monitor. Jones and Spaatz were of the same mind when it came to secrecy. At the Pentagon, Jones was responsible for affairs regarding POWs of both sides. Thanks to his constant vigilance, the Monopoly deception and all related subterfuge remained secret. Jones, who despised politicians for what he considered their “unpatriotic blathering,” took the secret of 1142 to his grave.

Meanwhile, despite his pledge to Bill Donovan, Franklin Roosevelt retained in confidence the information shared by Donovan for only a matter of days. Then his tongue wagged to the secretary of state.

Secretary of State Edward Stettinius Jr. was new to the job and his foreign relations experience was almost nonexistent. Like many, he blindly trusted the Russians. He demanded Donovan return the codebook to the Soviets. A flabbergasted Andrei Gromyko, the Soviet Union’s ambassador to the United States, accepted the book from an OSS representative, accompanied by the rather implausible excuse of it having been “accidentally discovered.”

Donovan, hardened by two years of internecine warfare, anticipated such naïveté, and had ordered a copy be made. Donovan passed this to his contact at the SIS at Arlington Hall in Virginia. The once small staff of the SIS had mushroomed. Many on its code-breaking team were young women, hundreds being former schoolteachers. The leader of the SIS, William Friedman, had of necessity moved his operation from the old Munitions Building on the Mall to this former women’s college. By so doing, he distanced the SIS from the eyes and ears of spies and politicians in downtown Washington.

The SIS referred to the challenge of cracking the Russian code as the “Blue problem.” It had made some progress with the aid of IBM tabulating machines, especially after realizing that the Russians had been compelled to reuse some of their “one-time” pads, each containing pages printed with sixty-five random numbers—“daily additives”—used to obscure the words in the Russian code. The arrival of the book purchased from the Finns, along with a few partially burned codebooks Finnish intelligence agents had pulled from a fire, would lead to the successful translation of thousands of Russian messages by war’s end. Their content revealed the Russians’ broad and successful effort to steal countless technological and military secrets, not to mention the existence of a myriad of willing treasonous spies.

* * *

Eighty miles away from Washington, a German with distant Finnish relatives was enjoying a game of Monopoly. His name was Fritz Langer, a former soldier in Rommel’s Afrika Korps. For the past year, Langer and 240 of his fellow Soldaten had been incarcerated inside a small POW camp at Dias Creek—a marshy town in Cape May County, New Jersey—some thirty miles south of Atlantic City.

The presence of hundreds of thousands of enemy soldiers inside the borders of the United States was another largely unknown fact of this all-encompassing war. The Germans had built one hundred or so POW camps. By comparison, the US Army under the supervision of Catesby ap Jones had established, across the United States, 511 camps plus another 175 branch bases, including the one at Dias Creek. The Germans detained 205,000 British and American POWs. By the spring of 1945, the American camp system was populated by 426,000 of its enemies: 372,000 Germans, 50,000 Italians, and 3,900 Japanese.

Most US camps were located in mild climates to save on heating expense. Nonetheless, every state, except for Nevada, North Dakota, and Vermont, had some.

Fritz Langer was impressed by the fair treatment he and his Wehrmacht friends received—especially after the few Nazis within them had been weeded out and sent elsewhere. He and his fellow Soldats were fed three full meals a day and had convinced the chefs to prepare more German food, like pork, pig knuckles, wurst, and—given the robust fishing industry of Cape May County—fish stews. His barracks contained real beds, firm mattresses, and warm bedding. American POWs in German camps could only dream of such.

The captain in charge of Dias Creek had been allocated fewer than a dozen soldiers to guard the camp. To distract the POWs from considering escape, he provided sports and entertainment, including games. He was surprised when he learned that none of his German inmates had ever played Monopoly. They explained the game was “not available” back home. In fact, Franz Schmidt of Munich had acquired the German rights from Norman Watson and his John Waddington company in 1936, and had published a handsome German version. Almost immediately thereafter, however, Schmidt received a letter from the Reichsleitung der Hitlerjugend (the national leadership of the Hitler Youth) demanding production cease because Monopoly was “not suited for the education of German youth.” Unsold copies were confined inside Schmidt’s warehouse in Munich. One night, an errant British bomb set the warehouse ablaze and all copies were consumed. (Today, the wartime German edition of this game is quite rare.)

Not unexpectedly, as game-loving Germans, the POWs embraced Monopoly. Playing it helped them learn English. When they discovered the names on its game board originated in nearby Atlantic City, they spoke wistfully of visiting the Boardwalk. (Many even made up their minds to remain in the United States after the war.)

The acute shortage of manpower in the United States led Catesby ap Jones to authorize work details from among this vast army of captured soldiers and airmen. The Geneva Convention set forth rules on such a practice, requiring payment for services rendered. Fritz Langer and his comrades were paid eighty cents a day (plus ten cents for personal hygiene items) to work on local farms, especially during the harvesting season. Food, in vast quantities, was needed to fill the stomachs of fighting men and women abroad. Langer labored on the 160-acre farmstead owned by Joseph Orbanes in the adjoining town of Goshen. Langer conversed with Orbanes about his hatred of Hitler and the Nazis who had ruined his country.

Meanwhile, 1142, while experiencing complete success with the Monopoly deception, had learned via code users that a few items, like shaving brushes and phonograph records, had been discovered by the German guards to contain escape aids. It then dawned on the German security service that it might employ similar subterfuges to smuggle items from the Fatherland to its POWs in the United States.

1142, of course, smuggled aids for escape. In contrast, the Germans smuggled propaganda to “keep up morale.” One day, while hoeing, Langer showed one of these “gems” to Joseph Orbanes. It was a little slip of paper printed with one of Hitler’s recent speeches accompanied by added praise from Joseph Goebbels. After reading it to Orbanes, Langer spit on it and buried the paper under a row of tomato plants.

* * *

After D-Day, Ralph Baer and his fellow “Ritchie Boys” followed the combat troops across the English Channel. They were among those assigned to interrogate surrendering German soldiers. That is, until Baer and his squad drew a new assignment: to collect abandoned German light arms, which they were to catalogue, pack, and ship to the States, most going to Fort Riley, Kansas. For all intents and purposes, Baer was tasked with provisioning a museum dedicated to German weaponry (which he found to be simpler, more reliable, and more powerful than comparable US Army hand weapons). One day, while searching through a pile of guns at an abandoned stable outside Paris, he found a broken wooden cribbage board. Bits of metal wire protruded from it. Cracking it open, Baer, the prewar radio expert, discovered it contained all the parts needed to build a radio. He assembled it; it worked. From this evidence, it can be deduced that the Germans did copy at least one of the techniques used by 1142 to smuggle contraband.

Joseph Orbanes’s older brother, Edward, worked as a construction engineer in Spaatz’s 8th Air Force in England. His younger brother, Philip, served with Spaatz’s 12th Air Force in Italy.

After the war’s end in Europe, the younger Orbanes, with thirty-three months of combat experience, found himself marking time, guarding German POWs in the Po River Valley of Italy. He was charged to keep all well fed and properly housed. The POWs proved remarkably obedient and contrite. Many admitted to the dread they felt at the thought of returning to their homes, knowing their country was in shambles and that many loved ones were dead or missing. By September 1945, for better or worse, they were on their way.

Philip Orbanes boarded a troopship to New York where, for the first time since November 1942, he—like millions of other service personnel—set foot in the country he had proudly fought for.

In the spring of 1945 the American captain at Dias Creek realized the POWs there posed no threat. With the war winding down, he asked for permission to take his charges on an excursion. Visiting Atlantic City was the German POWs’ first choice, but the presence of Camp Boardwalk and a major rehabilitation hospital precluded this.

Instead, the boardwalk and adjoining amusement park at Seaside Heights, farther north, was approved. The park’s owner consented to close his amusements to the public for several hours, in return for the purchase of 240 or so tickets by Catesby ap Jones’s POW department.

The POWs were loaded onto school buses and their adventure began. Upon arrival at the Seaside Heights amusement park, the Germans dutifully lined up at the front gate.

Then the “fun” started. It seemed the park’s owner had failed to advise the park’s manager of his arrangement. In fright, the manager came running out of his office and accosted the American captain. “What’s going on here? What the hell are you doing?” The captain patiently explained, and suggested a phone call to the owner. He did so.

After being reassured, the manager said, “So you got permission to turn two-hundred-plus enemy soldiers loose in my park. I count only six of you and none of you army guys are carrying rifles or machine guns, just sidearms. How in God’s name are you going to prevent these Krauts from escaping?”

The captain calmly responded, “Where are they going to go?”

Chapter 18

Spaatz and the Buna-Werke

IG Farben—the German chemical manufacturing empire—had transformed into a malevolent extension of the Nazi Party. It had purged all Jewish employees, including Nobel Prize winners, and encouraged its executives to become honorary colonels in the SS. They, in turn, arranged for their teenage sons to also join Heinrich Himmler’s terror organization. Of late, in order to construct the massive Buna-Werke near Auschwitz, its IG manager had come to rely on hordes of slave laborers, proudly “sold” to them by Himmler and his SS “protection squadrons.”

This originator of colorful clothing dyes, aspirin, Novocain, chemical fertilizers, countless household products, and miracle drugs was now selling lethal pesticides to the SS knowing, without being told, the Schutzstaffel must be employing them for genocide. The IG managers at the Buna-Werke could smell the sickly sweet stench of burning human flesh coming from Auschwitz, miles away. They asked no questions. Farben had become a merchant of death.

The plans for the Buna-Werke (literally “rubber factory”) were augmented each time the prospective demand for its products was increased. Farben decided to self-fund the project out of its war profits because its leaders anticipated great importance for Buna throughout Europe once peace was restored. It seems not to have crossed their collective mind that Germany could lose this war. (If it had, to express such doubt was verboten.)

The location of the Buna-Werke had been carefully chosen. Nearby were large fields of coal, the prime ingredient of synthetic gasoline and rubber. Three rivers served up the huge amount of water consumed during the conversion process. Several railroads ran through the area, vital for the delivery of building materials and, in time, for the distribution of the plant’s output.

There were, however, two annoying flaws. This area in Upper Silesia was part of Poland before the German annexation. It had little in the way of infrastructure. The nearby towns of Auschwitz and Monowitz were unappealing. Farben’s younger executives, especially those with families, resisted moving to Buna because of the lack of German schools and, well, everything else to which they were accustomed.

More egregiously, there was insufficient labor in the region. By 1943, Germany had conscripted the available supply of male labor from occupied countries—three million Frenchmen alone—to replace able-bodied German males drafted into its armed forces. Enter Heinrich Himmler. As master of Germany’s concentration camps, Himmler agreed to provide Farben with all the labor it needed from the Jewish populations the SS was rounding up across Europe. At first, Farben’s executives thought of Himmler as the head of a large employment agency, rationalizing that his hands, not theirs, were being tainted.

After the Buna-Werke began to take shape, more and more labor was required because construction was falling behind schedule. Farben foremen began to drive their workers like the slaves they were. Many died from exhaustion, malnutrition, and the very air they breathed. Most were housed in a concentration camp located at Auschwitz, almost four miles away. But it took these slaves time to walk back and forth each day, so a more convenient camp was opened at Monowitz, soon known as Monowitz-Buna. The life expectancy of a Farben worker from “M-B” dropped to under ninety days.

The workers, knowing they were likely to die, found subtle ways to “go slow.” Nuts and bolts might disappear; bags of cement might be dropped and spilled. Pipes (and there were lots of pipes) might be assembled backward.

In time, POWs of several other nationalities, including English, were transferred to labor at Buna, and suffered the same fate as the Jews. The years 1942 and 1943 came and went; Buna remained unfinished. Completion was now estimated for the fall of 1944.

While Buna’s delays were occurring, General Carl Spaatz’s bombers gained the forward air bases needed to reach it. When Italy quit the war, signing an armistice with the Allies on September 3, 1943, German forces immediately occupied the country. Following fierce battles at Salerno and Anzio, the Wehrmacht withdrew to a sturdy defense line across the Italian “boot,” north of Rome. Doing so resulted in giving up several fine airfields at Foggia, east of Naples. Spaatz was delighted to have them. He pulled the heavy bombers and some fighter groups from the 12th Air Force and created a new strategic air force, the 15th. Its mission would be to attack targets the 8th Air Force could not reach from its bases in England.

Among the first of these targets were the oil fields and refineries at Ploesti, Romania, which the new air force damaged badly, though at the severe loss of many bombers and air crews. Meanwhile, on May 12, 1944, Spaatz unleashed the 8th on IG Farben’s existing synthetic oil plants at Brux, Zwickau, Chemnitz, Seitz, and Bohlen, Germany. Mission #353 saw 890 B-17 and B-24 bombers lift from their bases in southern England. Those attacks were followed two days later by 289 bombers in an attack on the Stettin-Posen refinery.

On May 19, following these devastating raids, Albert Speer, Hitler’s minister of armaments and war production, met with the führer and told him, “The technological war has been decided.” Speer opined that if these raids kept up, Germany would have no fuel to speak of. The only hope was that the Allied air leaders were as scatterbrained as the leaders of the Luftwaffe and would not persist in what he termed the “oil war.”

Hitler was nonplussed. He boasted that the Buna-Werke would make up all lost production. His cronies dared not disagree or mention the giant facility’s chronic production delays—especially Himmler, who had optimistically assured its construction would be rapid, thanks to an endless supply of manpower. Goering sealed his lips and did not warn of an air attack on Buna, the prospect of which increased with each passing day. Quietly, he moved antiaircraft battalions and some Luftwaffe fighters into Upper Silesia, anticipating the worst.

By midsummer of 1944, high in the blue skies above the Vistula River appeared contrails of an American reconnaissance fighter plane. The pilot followed the river’s course until he sighted a manmade structure whose size was overwhelming. Within a giant rectangle, the Buna-Werke spanned ninety-six acres. Massive brick factory buildings had row upon row of interspersed gleaming pipes. Railroads crisscrossed the interior like a spider’s web.

On August 20, 1944, nine-year-old Josef Lipovits felt the ground rumble and windows vibrate in his family’s farmhouse in northern Hungary. He ran outside and looked up at an endless wave of gleaming bombers bearing United States insignias. His young friends gathered around. Realizing the bombers’ target would not be the open field they were standing in, they lay on the ground and watched as the big planes roared overhead.

On the previous day, Buna had delivered its first product: nitrogen. As essential as this gas was to the production of munitions, it was gasoline and rubber that was most desperately sought by the German war machine. However, not one gallon or pound of these had been manufactured when the 15th Air Force bombers seen by young Lipovits flew above Buna. Their bomb bays opened and countless black objects fell from within. Bomb damage to Buna was severe. More attacks were forthcoming.

To the east of Buna, the Russian army continued its steady advance that had begun after the German 6th Army’s surrender at Stalingrad. Its rapid pace baffled the German High Command; it should have taken far longer to pursue the dogged German Wehrmacht back to Poland. But thanks to Harry Hopkins and the Lend-Lease aid he had provided Stalin, a great number of aircraft, guns, tanks—and especially vehicles—poured into Russia through its ports. The sheer quantity of these “reallocated” war machines alarmed many in the US armed forces. They had been confiscated from allocations intended for the United Kingdom, the Pacific Theater, and other fronts. Nikita Khrushchev, future premier of the Soviet Union, said at a later time, “We could never have gone so fast if not for the six hundred thousand trucks Harry Hopkins gave us.” To rub salt into the wound, the British—the initial beneficiaries of Lend-Lease goods—were obligated to pay, over time, for their Lend-Lease supplies. The Russians, with Hopkins’s intervention, wriggled free of repayment for American largesse. Hopkins even shipped Stalin items (like butter and meat) that were strictly rationed to civilians back home.

IG Farben began to fear the Buna-Werke would fall into Soviet hands. Its leaders confronted an agonizing decision: Would it pay to fix the damage wreaked by American bombers, and complete the plant? Or would they simply be delivering, intact, the world’s finest synthetic gasoline and rubber plant to the hated communists?

Genial, modest Carl Spaatz had just delivered a knockout blow. By so doing, he handed the Russians an unexpected gift.

While German industry was manufacturing more and more aircraft, the Luftwaffe was nearly out of fuel. And defending the Reich from the unrelenting onslaught of Spaatz’s bombers inevitably led to the sacrifice of its most experienced pilots. These two body blows meant the Luftwaffe was as good as dead. Spaatz had achieved one of his top objectives.

He had since learned that a fearful IG Farben engineering manager had provided the warning that alerted him to the existence of the Buna-Werke. That fearful engineer had gone to ground, returning to the city of his birth, Budapest, Hungary, which was also the birthplace of a very successful pharmaceutical entrepreneur named Janos Pintér, who managed one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in Hungary.

Hungary had no choice but to submit to Hitler’s will and align with Nazi Germany. Back in 1930, IG Farben established the Hungarian Pharma Medical Goods Company. Bayer Hungaria was obligated to sell shares to it and cross-distribute pharmaceutical products with Farben’s Bayer unit.

Pintér dispatched to Frankfurt one of his young employees, Karl Baumann, of German Jewish heritage, to serve as his business liaison, and one of Bayer’s chiefs, Heinrich Hörlein, became Pintér’s boss. Pintér, diplomatic and highly versed in his science, established a good rapport with Hörlein. They even brought their families together for a picnic.

It became a badge of honor for a Farben executive to have a young son in the SS. On that al fresco occasion, Janos Pintér was introduced to Hörlein’s son Ernst, who had recently joined the Waffen SS—the military (fighting) arm of Hitler’s bodyguards. A toast was offered to the young man.

Despite friendship with Hörlein, Pintér was ordered to comply with Hitler’s edict and remove from his firm any employee of Jewish blood. Pintér reported that he had complied with the edict, and that his “former” Jewish scientists, engineers, and technicians had fled the city.

In truth, all of them—along with their family members, forty-two souls in all—went into hiding in the subbasement of Pintér’s mansion at Szent Korona útja 31 (Street of the Holy Crown, 31) in District XI. Fortunately, Pintér’s reputation as an IG Farben favorite dissuaded the Gestapo from investigating the disappearance of his Jewish employees.

By day, those in hiding could enter the basement proper. But none dared walk outside into the light. In 1944, Hungary quit the war and the Wehrmacht occupied Budapest, greatly raising the stakes. Pintér would be executed without a trial if even one of his sheltered Jews were discovered.

Ironically, the Jews did not realize that on the far side of Pintér’s basement, a false concrete wall had been built. Behind that wall was a lighted room with heat and running water. Janos Pintér not only defied the Nazis by sheltering Jews, he provided temporary shelter for OSS agents sent to the city by Allen Dulles to gather information.

Pintér’s son Imre (Emerick, or “Jim,” as he preferred) was a teen in 1944. It was impressed upon him to seal his lips and deny to even his closest friends any knowledge of his father’s heroics. One summer morning in 1944, a rumble began at the far end of Szent Korona útja. The mansion’s foundation began to shake from the movement of dozens of heavy vehicles. Pintér and his son peered out their front door. A column of SS trucks, armored cars, and mobile artillery was pulling to a halt. Father sent son scurrying to urge his wife and daughter upstairs, then shepherd all occupants below into hiding. He implored them to remain completely silent. Imre then pushed a bookcase in front of the door to their subbasement sanctuary.

From the commander’s car emerged an officer dressed in the ominous black uniform of an SS captain. He was a young man and quite tall. Along with three other armed officers, he approached the Pintérs’ front door and banged on it.

Janos Pintér waited until his son appeared at the rear of the central hallway and confirmed the Jews were hidden. Then he opened the door. The black-uniformed officer, with the SS skull and crossbones on his hat, smiled and extended his hand. “Herr Pintér! It is me, Ernst! Son of Heinrich Hörlein. Remember the picnic?”

Janos Pintér compelled himself to stop shaking. “Yes! Of course, what a wonderful afternoon we spent together.” The two embraced. Pintér called his own son forward. “And here is my boy, Imre. You both have grown so.”

The captain explained his purpose while motioning to the driver of one of his trucks. “My unit is reassigned from Paris to the Eastern Front. I have brought you gifts.” Several soldiers arrived carrying crates of wine and cheese and stacked them in Pintér’s hallway. Then came a final embrace, well wishes, waves, and a snappy salute. “I must go.”

The SS engines started up again and their vehicles of war rumbled off, disappearing into the distance. Janos and Imre Pintér remained frozen, coming to grips with what just happened.

During the weeks to come, the Jews hidden in the basement, including one named Karl Baumann, along with an OSS agent hidden behind the false wall (who told Pintér to call him “John Doe,” but whose description matched that of the enigmatic JC), dined on French cheese and wine, courtesy of the SS.

A few days later, a group of laborers arrived at Pintér’s grand home. Painters, in fact. “John Doe” donned a pair of paint-spattered coveralls and left with them as mysteriously as he had arrived.

Chapter 19

The Last Days of Stalag Luft I

When delivery of Red Cross packages ceased at Stalag Luft I, the stomachs of the POWs drew tight and painful once more. The reason given by the German Kommandant was a shortage of trucks to carry the Swedish-delivered packages from the Baltic ports serving Barth. In reality, the shortfall was due to spite. Whenever the Allies achieved a victory in France, food supplies dwindled or stopped. On days when the Wehrmacht held its ground, or executed a daring maneuver, food reappeared. Hal Klem, never an ounce overweight during his civilian days, lost twenty pounds in three months.

In the midst of this trauma at Stalag Luft I on the Baltic, hope arrived in the person of Hubert “Hub” Zemke, America’s most acclaimed fighter pilot leader. Zemke famously had devised maneuvers and tactics that successfully compensated for the combat deficiencies of his group’s cumbersome P-47 Thunderbolt fighter planes. Since then, his pilots had shot down more than five hundred German fighters. Ironically, after Zemke himself shifted to the more agile P-51 Mustang, catastrophe struck. A wing snapped off when he tried to execute a violent maneuver during a storm (a maneuver his old P-47 would have easily survived). Zemke bailed out and after three days on the run with a severely injured shoulder that hampered him, he was captured.

Upon arrival at Luft I, Zemke assumed the role of senior Allied officer because he had been a colonel slightly longer than the camp’s current SAO, the oft-ill Colonel Jean Byerly. Many of Zemke’s oldest and most trusted comrades were already prisoners in this camp, including Ross Greening, a Doolittle Tokyo raider in April 1942, who was captured in North Africa in early 1943. Zemke was also reunited with Lieutenant Colonel Francis Gabreski, a key member of “Zemke’s Wolf Pack” in the 56th Fighter Group, along with Mark Hubbard, who had trained with Zemke and would serve as his chief of staff here. As one airman put it, “It was like a school reunion.”

Its architect was Hanns Scharff.

Zemke, following his interrogation and a visit to the local hospital at Dulag Luft, had turned down an offer of a “wonderful life” if he helped the Luftwaffe make propaganda movies. Scharff, told he must imprison him, applied influence to route Zemke to Luft I, knowing many of his friends were imprisoned there. The alternative was infamous Stalag Luft III, scene of “the Great Escape” in 1943—which so incensed Hitler he ordered fifty of the seventy-three recaptured POWs to be shot dead.

By the time Zemke took command as SAO, Hitler had overruled the provisions in the Geneva covenants that characterized escape as a duty and a sport. From now on, every POW caught escaping would suffer summary execution.

Zemke, born of German immigrants, had a much easier time than Byerly in negotiating with the camp’s German commanders, who no longer reported to Hermann Goering. After a power grab, they now took orders from Heinrich Himmler’s deadly SS. The SS also absorbed the Gestapo—and every other German intelligence organization—while maintaining its iron control over the concentration camps, including those at Auschwitz and Monowitz. The “agrarian” Himmler (mischaracterized as a chicken farmer; he received a university degree in agriculture) had become the second most powerful leader in the Third Reich. Fortunately for the POWs, Himmler had his hands full and did not persecute them beyond manipulating their food supplies.

Zemke’s staunch leadership led to improvements in camp living conditions, such as delivery of more blankets and uniforms. By the spring of 1945, Red Cross packages began to arrive more regularly. Zemke learned that Himmler had decided to present a “better face,” given the inevitability of the camp’s liberation following Germany’s failure in its last-gasp offensive in the Ardennes Forest, the infamous Battle of the Bulge. He suspected that Red Cross packages were being hoarded inside the adjoining flak school. This infuriated him, but his request for their distribution fell on deaf ears.

In April, the camp’s hidden radios tuned in to reports via the BBC that implied the Russian army was within ninety miles of Berlin, and equally close to Barth. Oberst Warnstedt, the current commandant of Stalag Luft I, told Zemke to prepare all POWs for a grueling march to an unnamed camp farther west. Zemke had heard the horror stories of evacuations from camps like Stalag Luft III to avoid liberation by the Russians. Weakened POWs, inadequately clothed and fed, suffered greatly on these forced marches. Zemke refused the order. He told Oberst Warnstedt that no inmate in his camp would budge. This defiance was a risky gamble because it was common knowledge an SS unit had taken up position sixty miles from Barth. It could easily surround the camp and massacre every POW inside. Hitler had in fact ordered this to be done, but the angel of death himself—Heinrich Himmler—refused the command. Himmler was under the illusion he could negotiate peace with the Americans and British. A massacre would not advance his fantasy.

Zemke not only prevailed, he convinced the German camp officers to save their own necks by abandoning Barth before the Russians came calling. One fine morning, the POWs awoke to find miles of barbed-wire fencing had been removed, and that their guards had vanished.

Hal Klem felt a strong hunch, a few days earlier, that the end was near for the Germans, because the guards had stopped using the straight-arm Hitler salute and reverted to the traditional hand-to-the-forehead military gesture.

Before fleeing, the guards exacted a measure of spite by cutting power and water to the camp. These disruptions proved short-lived. Savvy POWs ran an electrical cable from the flak school’s generator to turn the lights back on, and former plumbers fixed the water system. Zemke led a squad into the abandoned flak school to search for food. He found the facility to be modern and very well equipped. Its large kitchen and mess hall were on a par with the Ritz Hotel, in Zemke’s estimation.

While he was absorbing the splendor, a man dressed in a Luftwaffe uniform appeared from behind a counter and pointed a pistol at Zemke’s head. Zemke, thinking fast, reprimanded the deranged-looking man in Deutsch. “Put that down!” The gun-wielding man confessed he was not a camp guard. He had fled the Eastern Front and also was looking for food. Zemke sternly advised that if he fired, he would be arrested and executed. Zemke extended his palm and asked for the gun, promising the man in return that he could leave with his life. The young man acquiesced, food was found and given to him, and he then hurried away toward the west.

It became apparent that at least one German guard had alerted the townsfolk of Barth that food could be had at the flak school. A mob appeared and began to loot it. To disperse the rabble, Zemke’s squad of MPs fired abandoned weapons into the air. The city of Barth had not suffered an aerial attack during the war because this small medieval city adjoined a Stalag. But the city’s luck had run out. The Russians were at its gates. The mayor declared “all the citizens are on their own” before he committed suicide. White banners and makeshift Russian flags began to hang from windows.

Zemke’s “food mission” paid off. A vast storeroom behind the kitchen was stuffed with fifty thousand undistributed Red Cross packages. His team became enraged by the unnecessary suffering inflicted on the inmates of Luft I. When they calmed down, Zemke sent for a company of POWs to transfer these containers into the compound. That night, Harold Klem ate “like a king” for the first time in fourteen months. But like most inmates of Stalag Luft I, he had to limit his intake for fear his starvation-shrunk stomach would be overwhelmed.

There being no further need for or merit in escaping, the camp’s escape committee destroyed all remaining escape aids. This “scrubbing” was the first step ordered by both MI-9 and 1142 to eradicate evidence that deceptions like Monopoly X—or, for that matter, the agencies themselves—had ever existed.

Three different Russian units entered Barth during April 1945. The commanding colonels of each had a different idea for the disposition of the POWs they had “liberated.” The first colonel wanted to move the POWs behind the Russian lines; his unit was ordered forward before he could act upon that. The second (“a real son of a bitch,” according to Klem) ordered Zemke to assemble all POWs. They would be marched or transported to the Black Sea—an incredible distance—and returned to the West via ships. Zemke ingeniously stalled this officer until he moved on. Before the third colonel arrived, one of Zemke’s emissaries alerted General Eisenhower, overall commander of Allied forces in Europe, to the plight at Stalag Luft I. Ike ordered an airlift to bring the 7,800 American POWs to France. The third Russian colonel respected this as being “most practical.”

Before the airlift could begin, the runways of Barth’s airport had to be cleared of debris and mines. It was deemed safe on May 4. During the delay, Zemke ordered each POW to stay put and await a flight to freedom. Nevertheless, impatience took its toll. Seven hundred thirty of them disobeyed orders and began walking toward France. They had been warned that, in addition to the threat posed by the SS, the approaching Russian soldiers were often trigger-happy and, having been raised on the steppes of Siberia, uncultured. (Russia’s European manpower had provided battlefield grist; most were long dead.)

Some truant POWs did make it to France, but German or Russian soldiers killed most of them. Despite the loyalty of 7,000 American POWs who abided by his order, Zemke felt desolate. In a population of 1,458 British and Commonwealth POWs, who had been in Luft I the longest, and who were responsible for most of its escape attempts, only thirty-one had committed infractions.

On May 13, the sky filled with sounds familiar to all the US airmen: B-17 bombers and C-46 transports flew overhead. The POWs incapable of walking were carried on stretchers into the C-46s. A few nurses were aboard—the first American women these POWs had seen in months, and in some instances years.

The remaining POWs gathered their gear, fell into formation, and marched five miles to the airport. The moment a B-17 reached the taxiway, a group of thirty entered its rear hatch. With engines still revving, the pilot pushed the throttles forward the instant the rear hatch closed. Within seconds, his bomber lifted off and headed toward France. Then the next B-17 came in for a landing.

Hal Klem cried because most of these B-17s were from his old group, the 91st. The Ragged Irregulars had arrived to rescue him. It took three days, and 320 touchdowns and takeoffs, before the last American POW, Hubert Zemke, departed Barth.

Hal Klem and his fellow POWs were flown to a tent city in northern France. After a few days of rehabilitation, they boarded trains and trucks that transported them to the biggest tent city any could imagine. Camp Lucky Strike sprawled across untold grassy acres and rolling fields. It was large enough to house every American liberated from German Stalags, some fifty thousand in all.

Despite the throng, Klem managed to locate Clay Morningstar, the waist gunner who had parachuted with him. Both soon found their buddies, the six crew members who rode Miss Ouachita to the ground and survived.

Shipping now became the bottleneck. The former POWs languished for weeks inside Lucky Strike. But eventually, to the relief of Hal Klem and his crewmates, the order came to board an old troopship. Built to transport five thousand soldiers, this one was overloaded with eight thousand former POWs. No one seemed to mind. Eight days later its bumpy Atlantic crossing came to an end at Norfolk, Virginia.

Every American serviceman had agreed to serve for the duration of the war plus six months, at the discretion of the president. Given that the war in the Pacific was still raging, none of these POWs, except those who were infirm, were discharged. For most, including Hal Klem, that happy event was still four months in the future, when Japan surrendered, after the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Their lives were never again placed in jeopardy in the service of their country.

Chapter 20

Finale in France

By August 1944 the fall of Paris became inevitable. The German Wehrmacht—beaten in a series of battles, and suffering the loss of more than a hundred thousand soldiers taken prisoner—was desperately short of supplies, especially gasoline. It could no longer fight effectively and was ordered to retreat to the Rhine. Gestapo and SD officials in Paris joined a mass exodus of Nazi personnel and supporters, heading for the city of Nancy, seventy miles from Strasbourg.

Among those bidding adieu to the French capital was Harold Cole, decked out in a Gestapo uniform, accompanied by Hans Kieffer and most of his staff. Kieffer’s remaining staff members went north to Belgium, taking with them several captive British radio operators. One of them got off a message to London: Cole was no longer in Paris; he was fleeing eastward with his SS minders in a van bearing Gestapo markings.

Four months later, following its retreat through Paris, the German army launched its last, massive, desperate offensive, in Belgium, attempting to split the British and American armies by recapturing the port of Antwerp before negotiating a peace. The Battle of the Bulge got off to a great start for the Germans, but withered when the Wehrmacht’s panzers ran out of fuel. Carl Spaatz’s oil bombing offensive had denied the German war machine its lifeblood. By Christmas, George Patton’s US 3rd Army relieved the beleaguered garrison at Bastogne, whose vital road nexus had been denied the Germans, further slowing the Wehrmacht’s race against the clock. By the time the “bulge” collapsed, Cole and company had fled into southern Germany.

Two months later, with the end of the war in sight, Germany faced unconditional surrender. Hitler was now confined in his bunker, insanely predicting the turn of the tide against the Russians as they attacked Berlin. In the south, SS major Hans Kieffer decided to hide in the Black Forest. He kept Cole close at hand (likely as a bargaining chip) as the slide toward defeat gained momentum. British intelligence had lost track of England’s most notorious traitor. Cole was off its radar screen. What Harold “Paul” Cole managed to accomplish next was simply breathtaking, and predictably diabolical.

In April 1945, Cole, Kieffer, and six SS officers were concealed on a bluff southeast of Stuttgart when they spotted a column of American tanks in the valley below. With their line of retreat threatened, they fled in three stolen cars. During their drive southeast, they caught up with a retreating German army column and decided to blend in. The column came under attack by Allied artillery. Their cars stalled or were damaged.

Many of the Germans panicked, but not Cole. He found the opportunity to stuff his pockets with money and scavenge for official Gestapo seals. He managed to start a stalled car. Kieffer and another SS agent jumped inside and the three drove away, separating themselves from the artillery explosions. When their gasoline was about gone, they ditched their uniforms and donned civilian garb. This particular April proved to be unseasonably cold. The small group was shivering, tired, and hungry. Kieffer wanted to give up but Cole devised another con. He suggested they approach the first Americans they encountered and pretend they were saviors, not captors.

To further this ruse, Cole adopted as his name and rank “Captain Robert Mason,” a mythical British secret agent. Like silk on ice, Cole described to the Americans how he had been captured in France by the SD and subsequently tortured—which seemed believable, because he was banged up. He introduced his SS cohorts as decent civilian Staatspolizei who, with reluctance, were carrying out orders to take him to Dachau, the Nazis’ first concentration camp, north of Munich.

The Americans bought Cole’s story and seemed delighted to hear the sound of his English lilt, overwhelmed as they were by foreign-speaking refugees from the east. They were concerned about Cole’s minor leg wound. The doctor who treated it mentioned the name of a French Resistance member who happened to be among them. Cole knew this man; he had won his confidence prior to betraying the Resistance. Not unexpectedly, the man vouched for him and accepted Cole’s explanation that all the while he was really a virtuous secret agent named Robert Mason.

Cole was back in business, this time with the backing of men wearing American uniforms.

Kieffer and the other SS agent were deemed harmless and set free. Kieffer promptly headed for home where he hoped no one would come looking for him. Cole’s new army buddies asked if he’d like to help find Nazis on the run. Like an enthusiastically loyal soldier, Cole replied, “Yes, sir!”

For his new assignment with the American army, Cole was presented with a lieutenant’s uniform, identification, and a revolver. Amazingly, he had wormed his way into the confidence of a fourth nation, which gave him exactly what he needed to launch another round of fraudulent activity. Within days, he had assembled a squad and led it after Nazis scurrying for cover.

France, granted control over this part of Germany, had its officials working nonstop, rounding up German collaborators and assorted traitors. They gave Cole encouragement, but little supervision. He and his “gang” rewarded them by finding and arresting many Nazis, but Cole’s motivation was not pursuit of justice or display of patriotism; it was plunder. Rumors abounded about the loot the Nazis had gathered across Europe, much of which was reputed to be hidden in this part of Germany. Cole wanted to get a share. He did not hesitate in shaking down and slapping a runaway Nazi with his pistol if he did not receive a satisfactory answer to the stock question: “Where did you hide your money and gold?”

Cole’s confidence grew in step with his newfound reputation. He began to aim higher. A senior Gestapo officer named Georg Hanft rose to the top of his list of Nazis to shake down. When Cole learned the Americans had arrested Hanft, he convinced himself that Hanft must have stashed a fortune, and he was granted permission to grill Hanft. Of course, he had no intention of informing US intelligence of anything he learned.

Hanft was neither big nor powerful. He proved to be soft and rather timid. Cole routinely mistreated him during the impromptu interrogation sessions. Time and again, Hanft pleaded ignorance of hiding any treasure.

In retrospect, something fundamental had changed Cole during his months with the SD. Its brutality had rubbed off on him. Tiring of Hanft’s recalcitrance—and worried that Hanft knew too much about his own sordid past—Cole, accompanied by a few others including a genuine American army hero named Frank Lillyman, led Hanft to a copse where the hapless German was shot thirty-eight times in the head and body. Cole was legally responsible for Hanft’s death, having fired the first several rounds. The others had discharged their weapons into a corpse.

British intelligence never gave up its search for Cole. With all other avenues leading to dead ends, MI-9 played a hunch by assigning a female agent to keep tabs on a former lady friend of Cole’s in Paris. Cole rewarded this hunch by mailing a postcard to this former lovely, signing it, “Much love, Sonny Boy.” Lotte, the recipient, was so happy she showed it to a friend named Sylvia Cooper-Smith, who happened to be aiding the return to health of Albert Guérisse (Pat O’Leary) after he had nearly died of starvation at Dachau.

Lotte did not know that her friend Sylvia was an MI-9 agent. Sylvia quickly notified Major Donald Darling who, with Airey Neave in France, was running Room 900 in London. Darling informed Neave, and they traced the postcard’s address back to Germany. Two agents were sent to its source. One of them, the very tall Peter Hope, had the difficult task of convincing the French and American admirers of Captain Robert Mason that he was an imposter—and, in fact, none other than notorious turncoat Harold Cole. Disbelief turned to anger; Cole had deceived them. They led Hope to the house Cole had requisitioned from a local sculptor. In the presence of this traitor, Hope said sharply, “You’re Cole, aren’t you?”

Cole replied, “Not very keen on admitting it.”

Hope jumped him, along with a French officer and an orderly. Cole rolled under a grand piano with the French officer wrapped around him. Cole got off a shot in Hope’s direction, grazing him before the others subdued and handcuffed him. The end, it appeared, had arrived for Harold Cole.

Promptly deposited in a Parisian jail, situated within a mile of where he had abandoned the scarecrow’s top hat, Cole faced the hangman’s noose. But his day of reckoning was delayed by a SNAFU (popular military jargon for “situation normal all fucked up”). Authorities from three nations—England, France, and the United States—vied for the right to try and convict Cole. While they wrangled for priority, the Top Hat sat alone in his cell and pondered his plight. Cole often made fine use of gifts, including those named “delay, indecision, and distraction.”

Cole was transferred and locked up in the basement of a villa in the well-to-do Parisian suburb of Saint-Cloud. Roland Lepers was sent there to formally identify the traitor. As an enthused eighteen-year-old back in 1940, Lepers had become Cole’s aide-de-camp and proudly shared in Cole’s early exploits. Lepers—like most others—was initially reluctant to accept the truth about the treachery of his former idol. Finally convinced that a diabolical con artist had betrayed him, Lepers accepted the task of assuring that “Captain Paul” Cole met his maker.

He found Cole under armed guard, sitting in the poorly lit basement looking—as Lepers described him—“like a caged ferret.” Lepers could not restrain his vitriol. He accused Cole of betraying the Pat line, his country, and, most painfully, himself. Cole offered one defense. He claimed he could have turned in Lepers’s parents, but, “Out of respect for you, I did not.” On his way out of the basement, Lepers warned the guards to keep a close eye on Cole. “Be careful or he’ll be gone.” The guards scoffed at the notion. “You’ll see,” Lepers retorted.

Cole was transferred once more, this time to the Caserne Mortier, a secure barracks on the northeast edge of Paris. There, he would await trial, sentencing, and likely execution. Weeks passed while the British, French, and Americans continued to wrangle over the priority of claims against Cole. Cole was quick to capitalize on the delay. First, he noticed that security was rather casual. Second, he began to work his power of persuasion on the guard detail. In November, they willingly provided him with a typewriter to write his autobiography. Third, he complained of the chill in his cell and asked if he could work in the warmth of the guardroom. Permission was granted. After he established a daily routine, the guards relaxed their vigilance. One night around eleven p.m., he tucked the typewriter under his arm and announced he was going back to his cell. On the way, he asked if he could use the toilet. There came no objection.

As Cole strode from the guardroom, he deftly lifted an overcoat off a wall hook. With no one watching, he put on the overcoat and smoothly walked out the entrance past two unsuspecting guards. The typewriter he carried reinforced the image of a harmless clerk coming off duty. Cole knew that the Porte des Lilas metro station was but a few hundred yards away. He strode to it confidently and disappeared down its steps.

Once more, Harold Cole had vanished into thin air. A frantic and far-reaching manhunt was launched. Fingers of blame pointed every which way.

During his incarceration, corruption had become rampant in Paris; many contraband military supplies were for sale. Cole had managed to obtain the papers of an American military policeman. In no time, he was dealing in these goods and running cons on gullible British and American troops. Flush once more, Cole used some of his new wealth to acquire a handgun—for potential defense.

Common sense dictated he flee Paris, but the Top Hat decided to stay in the city until he could obtain better credentials. He then intended to move back to Belgium—and from there, who knew?

His first priority was to secure a hideout. Naturally, he consulted his mental index and recalled hearing of a suitable woman whose reputation suggested she could be coaxed to lend a hand. Pauline Herveau ran a watering hole named Billy’s Bar—its name intended to attract British and American soldiers billeted nearby. Cole told her his name was “Henry” and claimed to be a British soldier awaiting orders to go home. He allowed his interest in her to show. Madame Herveau, separated from her wealthy husband, was delighted to have attracted the affection of such a cultured person as “Monsieur Henri.” Admiration of him became a topic of much pleasure when she was in the company of her friends. Neave put two and two together.

Separately, word of the erudite stranger living above Billy’s Bar came to the attention of the French police. They began to watch his movements; this stranger, they observed, only came out at night. They began to suspect he was a fugitive German POW.

Early on the morning of January 8, 1946, two police inspectors arrived at Billy’s Bar and confronted Madame Herveau. She acknowledged that a man fitting the description they provided was living on her top floor. They asked to see him; she led the way.

Cole took note when he heard footsteps and the sounds of Herveau’s voice and two males coming up the stairs. When Madame Herveau reached his hallway, she saw Cole standing outside his door, brandishing his pistol.

“Monsieur Henri!” she exclaimed in shock. “What are you doing?”

One of the inspectors pushed her aside. Cole opened fire, grazing this inspector—Raymond Cotty—with two bullets. Cotty then ended the misadventures of “Captain Paul” Cole with a bullet to the heart.

The corpse was taken away in a wooden coffin and placed in a drawer at Institut Médico-Légal de Paris. Albert Guérisse, “Pat O’Leary,” was summoned to identify the body. “It’s him,” he said when shown the corpse of the man he had once described as “the war’s worst turncoat.” Cole was sixteen days shy of his fortieth birthday.

A correspondent for the Daily Mail decided to embellish Cole’s demise with a romantic twist. He claimed that Cole was aware the police were closing in on him. Nonetheless, beforehand, Cole had casually exclaimed to Herveau, “Someone is after me, but I shall be gone soon. I will take the train to Belgium in a few hours.” Cole suggested a glass of champagne. This delay, allegedly, cost him his life. The reporter claimed that Cole hesitated to pull his trigger because Herveau was in the line of fire.

In one fell swoop, the Daily Mail correspondent recast Cole as cavalier, romantic, and chivalrous. But even this false polish could not penetrate the layers of deceit and betrayal that had corroded the soul of Harold Cole.

Not very far way, an apartment had been cleared of detritus left behind by a prior renter—including an abandoned top hat.

Epilogue

The Final Accounting

More than 50,000 American and 120,000 British and Commonwealth servicemen were incarcerated inside the lands controlled by the Third Reich. They became forgotten men in the hands of an enemy led by a deranged mass murderer. Despite this fact, British and American commands clutched the dice and offered no help to their POWs during the war, aside from the ingenious efforts of MI-9 and 1142. While Monopoly is considered a plaything, a pastime, a source of amusement—or an outlet for pent-up emotions—its role during the war belied any triviality. It provided a lifeline, and hope.

As the end of the war approached, the idea was broached of parachuting weapons into the camps to enable the POWs to stage armed rebellions. This idea was nixed because of the fear that such an action would backfire, resulting in wholesale slaughter. As the Allied vise closed on Germany, anxiety rose over the possibility that Himmler, Goebbels, or Hitler would consider armed POWs a threat that needed to be eliminated, the Geneva Convention be damned, and murder all of them. Helpless in such an eventuality, Allied military commanders could only grit their teeth and press the advance.

In truth, many Germans, most importantly Himmler, regarded the POWs as some type of national treasure. Those confined in eastern camps could have been abandoned to the Russians, but Himmler did not want the Russians to liberate them. Grueling, deadly forced marches to western camps in the heart of winter became the norm (except from Stalag Luft I, where Hubert Zemke stood defiant). The Allies could have avoided bombing towns along the routes of POW retreats, but the Pentagon told Spaatz to apply maximum pressure and turn Germany into an industrial and military waste heap, and Spaatz complied. Alas, several force-marched POWs died from bombs dropped by his bombers.

Nonetheless, an overwhelming majority of American and British Commonwealth prisoners survived their ordeals behind the wire. The decision not to help them, beyond the efforts of MI-9 and 1142, was a high-risk gamble that could have resulted in a slaughter. The Allies were lucky to beat the odds.

The use of games, especially Monopoly, to smuggle in aids for the escape of POWs was a uniquely effective, deceptively simple strategy. Somehow this and other objects of pure fun, like the loaded baseballs, overmatched the power and fury of dictatorship, wretched ideology, and inhumane brutality. The Monopoly secret outsmarted the murderously efficient Nazi security and intelligence agencies.

How many airmen were rescued in Europe during World War II? Sealed records prevent a completely accurate accounting. But the disparate accounts that have been revealed do jibe. By these reckonings, nearly 11,000 evaded and escaped. Another 24,000—temporarily caught behind the lines—got back as well.

Digging deeper, we learn that 613 American officers and enlisted men escaped POW camps in western Europe while another 2,703—almost all aided by escape lines—evaded or, in other words, managed after being shot down to avoid capture by German forces. Among British and Commonwealth forces, 983 escaped camps in western Europe while a further 2,372 evaded. When combined with those who evaded and escaped from the Mediterranean Theater, the total reaches 11,000.

As many as 1,596 POWs successfully escaped German POW camps. Based on the published accounts of all escape attempts at Stalag Luft I by British personnel only, it can be extrapolated that for every successful attempt there were ten unsuccessful ones. Thus Monopoly, and other games and household items, provided enough materials to supply seventeen thousand escape attempts. In the spring of 1945 code users reported that so many aids remained unused, MI-9 and 1142 should send no more. Clearly, these two agencies exceeded expectations. Their methods of concealment were meticulous and—most significantly—gave rise to little suspicion by German censors.

Sadly, all secret bureaucracies thrive on anonymity or invisibility. When the war ended, most raced to see which could most quickly expunge its records from postwar scrutiny: 1142 (MIS-X) was no exception. The Pentagon ordered it to burn all of its extant records and escape aids. It did so. Then they sent in bulldozers, which plowed under both the Warehouse and the Creamery.

In England, MI-9 complied with similar orders. The Official Secrets Acts of both countries required everyone subjected to it to maintain silence until released of obligation. While participants like Airey Neave and Christopher Clayton-Hutton were eventually permitted to publish their accounts, they were heavily censored. Neither could reveal Monopoly’s role in the grand deception. Neave was not even allowed to name MI-6’s controversial leader, Claude Dansey, by name, only by inference. Jimmy Langley and M. R. D. Foot cowrote a history of MI-9 in 1979. Both were forbidden from mentioning any specifics about the items used to smuggle escape aids, including Monopoly.

In 1985, MI-9 partially revealed its Monopoly secret, and a few years later, the American military disclosed some information about MIS-X, and its use of American Monopoly. These revelations, albeit limited in scope, did at least confirm that the Monopoly game and its board had been used to hide smuggled materials. In the early 2000s, the veil of secrecy was further lifted—but by then most in the know had passed away. Many participants still alive never learned that the Official Secrets Acts no longer barred them from disclosure.

I got to know one personally, Staff Sergeant John Katsaros, who had been rescued by the Burgundy escape line. Airey Neave helped organize this and three other lesser-known escape lines. He named each after a wine or liqueur (Burgundy, Brandy, Curaçao, and Pernod). Katsaros served as a waist gunner on Man O’ War, a B-17 bomber of the 8th Air Force that was shot down on March 20, 1944, after a mission over Frankfurt, Germany. Five Messerschmitt fighters jumped his plane shortly after “bombs away.” The pilot, Lieutenant Jack Dunaway, managed to keep the bomber airborne until it crossed the French border. Man O’ War was bullet-riddled from nose to tail, and a wing was on fire when Dunaway sounded the bail-out alarm near Reims, midway between Strasbourg and Paris.

Twenty-year-old Katsaros was badly wounded at his station. He could not raise his shrapnel-pierced right arm, but managed to “hit the chute” after helping stanch the flow of blood from the neck of his fellow waist gunner.

Katsaros, near death, was picked up on the ground by the Burgundy line, received medical care, and over several weeks was carefully inched closer and closer to the Pyrenees.

When healthy enough to embark on a forced march, he was dressed in civilian clothing and obligated to wear shoes two sizes too small. Along with other evaders, Katsaros managed to climb five peaks of the Pyrenees before reaching salvation. During his trek, Katsaros had only two sugar cubes for nourishment. Fortunately, the mountain springs provided abundant fresh water.

When John got back to England, he was sent to an interrogation center and compelled to agree to be bound by the Official Secrets Act. He was told his ordeal was not to be discussed until he was formally notified his sanction was lifted. This never came.

Eventually, Katsaros found out, obliquely, that the security veil had been lifted, so he published his story, which appeared in 2009 as Code Burgundy: The Long Escape.

As Katsaros said in his book, “When [evaders] returned [to England] they were debriefed and ‘sworn to keep secret’ the details of their experiences and identification of those who helped them escape and/or evade. No notification was ever sent to these men and women lifting their ‘Pledge to Secrecy.’ Some individuals, for love of country, carried that pledge to their grave.”

By good fortune, on September 15, 2019, I met ninety-six-year-old John Katsaros at a “war birds” air show at Beverly Airport in Massachusetts. During the ensuing weeks, Katsaros generously shared his knowledge of evaders, escape lines, evader organizations, and his life in the 8th Air Force.

A decade earlier, Katsaros had served as president of the Air Forces Escape and Evasion Society, a group that keeps alive the memory of the ordeals, trials, and triumphs of the tens of thousands who confronted and endured captivity during those frightful years so long ago.

Because of the restrictions imposed by the Official Secrets Acts, it has taken this long to piece together the full picture of how the world’s most famous game influenced the war and contributed to events after the war was over. The consequences are fascinating.

THE FATE OF THE BUNA-WERKE

The Buna-Werke—the 800-million-Reichsmark investment by IG Farben—became a prize of war for the Soviets. Although the immense structure was heavily damaged, portions remained intact. These were dismantled and transported to the Soviet Union. Gradually, the remaining structures (within the revamped border of Poland) were repaired and expanded. By 1958 this works became a subsidiary of Dow Chemical Company. For a time, it was the world’s largest producer of calcium carbide, a key ingredient in the production of acetylene, a gas used in welding.

WHO WAS 19?

It is said that for those living in New York City, you will inevitably encounter your past.

One brisk day in January 1949, Harold Klem—at the time, a senior at Cooper Union—was walking along Fifth Avenue toward a subway entrance. At Sixty-First Street he recognized a man coming out of a phone booth. It was “JC.”

“Look who the cat dragged in!” Klem said gleefully. “You made it!”

“Made it where?” JC asked as he hesitantly shook Klem’s hand, adding, “Your eye looks good.” Klem’s left eye had been heavily bandaged when JC knew him as a POW. A German surgeon had subsequently removed the metal bits lodged inside it. Permanently blinded, Hal’s eye otherwise healed perfectly.

Klem thanked him, then persisted. “You know what I mean. Wherever you were going once you snuck out of camp.” JC replied that of course he had made it, but offered no details. “Whatever happened to that guy, 19?” Klem asked.

JC smiled peculiarly. He directed Klem to look down Fifth Avenue. “Funny you should ask. Two weeks ago, a guy fell from the sixteenth floor at the Institute of International Education in that tall building over there.”

“Did he jump?” Klem asked, struggling to make a connection.

“The police said he fell, so case closed. But he was only wearing one snow boot, left tickets for a flight in the briefcase in his office, and was planning a big meeting. Go figure.”

“Nineteen was murdered?” Hal found himself muttering. Klem did not know it at the time, but the Russian consulate was only two blocks from where they were talking (this fact would cause him pause years later). He asked JC, “What are you up to these days?”

JC was flippant. “I’m with the new company.” Then he begged his leave. Klem would never see him again.

Klem eventually visited the New York Public Library to dig up the facts alluded to by JC.

The man who fell from his office on the sixteenth floor at the Institute of International Education was Laurence Duggan, a loving father of four and a former undersecretary of state for Latin America during the Roosevelt years.

Knowing JC had been a member of the now disbanded OSS, Klem figured his “new company” had to be the Central Intelligence Agency. The prior July, President Harry Truman created the CIA from the ashes of the OSS. Allen Dulles (“110”) was appointed its first director.

As to the link between Duggan and 19, Klem gained no further insight. He did not know of the accusations by multiple sources that Duggan was a Russian agent who had taken advantage of his intimate working relationship with Secretary of State Cordell Hull—and at times the president. Years later, it was verified that Duggan routinely provided the NKVD with copies of private communiqués to FDR from America’s ambassador to the Soviet Union. In effect, Duggan stripped away their diplomatic shield. Thanks to Duggan’s treason, Joseph Stalin learned every confidential detail, observation, and opinion communicated to FDR. Stalin thereby gained an overwhelming advantage by which he confidently manipulated the president.

Following his so-called suicide, many of Duggan’s well-placed friends (including Eleanor Roosevelt) vigorously defended him as a true patriot. Former undersecretary of state Sumner Welles (fired in 1943 for solicitation) published Laurence Duggan, 1905–1948: In Memoriam, which unabashedly exonerated Duggan from any wrongdoing.

Duggan’s close friends seemed not to know that Duggan had enthusiastically worked on behalf of Stalin’s secret service. They knew he had abandoned his career in Washington in order to run his father’s educational institute in New York City, but did not realize that was because Duggan had belatedly experienced a change of heart and wanted to get away from his NKVD handlers. Inevitably, the NKVD came calling again, but Duggan balked when asked to help once more.

At the same time, Duggan was under the spotlight of investigation. The NKVD, unable to return him to the fold, decided Duggan posed a significant risk. To alleviate the menace, two of its sturdy agents launched him out of his office window, following a struggle.

Forty-eight years after Duggan’s death, the Venona Project was made public. This top-secret effort had as its goal the cracking of the Russian diplomatic code. The first breakthrough occurred in late 1946. It was claimed that an expeditious mistake by the Russians—reusing one-time pad additives—led to the code’s unraveling. Each sheet of a one-time pad contained columns of random five-digit numbers that were sequentially added to each numeric code in a single message. After use, the sheet was to be burned.

In fact, the codebook purchased by the OSS from Finnish intelligence provided the impetus. Over the next thirty-four years (until 1980) more than three thousand wartime Russian messages were fully or partially decrypted by the Venona Project. Venona pinpointed a staggering 326 traitors inside the US government, including Laurence Duggan. These decryptions also proved the Russians were heartily dining on information stolen from the atomic bomb Manhattan Project.

Absolute verification came when the KGB opened its archives after the fall of the Soviet Union. For example, the complicity of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg and their associates became undeniable. And Duggan? According to his Soviet handler, Boris Bazarov, Duggan remained “at his hateful job in the State Department” because he was determined to be “useful for our cause.” As alluded to by JC to Hal Klem, Duggan was most probably thrown out of his sixteenth-floor office window on a wintery night in December 1948 by KGB agents. The Soviets feared that Duggan—under FBI investigation—would reveal the names of many others who had spied for Mother Russia.

Hal Klem would only learn of Duggan’s connection to the NKVD in 1997, two years before he passed away. He never learned of the other candidate for the identity of 19. Neither did Waldemar von Zedtwitz, deeply troubled by Toldze’s warning of traitors in the White House.

Intelligent, introverted, and insecure Laurence Duggan was code-named “Frank” and may have been 19, but evidence suggests that, in truth, he was not the real 19. The other candidate was Harry Hopkins. Waldemar von Zedtwitz, a man of exceptional inductive ability, studied postwar evidence and concluded Hopkins must be one of the White House traitors. Death denied him confirmation. He never knew the “maybe” was the worst of the four.

Stalin revered Hopkins of Lend-Lease fame. Hopkins redirected massive amounts of war matériel to the Soviet Union, much of it from supplies needed in the Pacific Theater. He also sent Stalin uranium and metals whose only use could be to fabricate materials for the Bomb. Hopkins even shipped him items (like butter and meat) which were strictly rationed to civilians back home. He remained in contact with the NKVD while living in the White House, “breathing the same air as the president,” to quote Boris Bazarov. But by the time suspicious eyes turned Hopkins’s way in 1946, he was dead at age fifty-five, likely because of stomach cancer.

Just as Duggan had been defended by his loyal friends, those sympathetic to Hopkins vigorously contended he was not a spy. Historian Robert Conquest, for one, supports this point of view. “Hopkins . . . seems just to have accepted an absurdly fallacious stereotype of Soviet motivation, without making any attempt whatever to think, or to study the readily available evidence. . . . He conducted policy vis-à-vis Stalin with mere dogmatic confidence in his own (and his circle’s) unshakable sentiments.”

Hopkins’s critics suggest this somewhat bizarre explanation could only hold water if Hopkins was a mental lightweight, which this suave, confident, and effective bureaucrat surely was not.

Tellingly, a decrypted message from Iskhak Akhmerov, the top Soviet “illegal” agent in the US during Hopkins’s time, refers to 19 as someone who reported on discussions between Roosevelt and Winston Churchill in Washington at which this agent (19) had been present. That revelation could point only to Harry Hopkins as the man behind the number.

So why did the “Masher” in Poland tell JC that 19 was Laurence Duggan? Probably because having exposed Toldze as a spy, Stalin’s instinct was to protect Hopkins. Duggan’s code name was therefore switched to the titular identity before Stalin, via Toldze, enticed Dulles to send one of his agents to Poland whereby he received contrived proof. Why Duggan? Because he was smaller potatoes and expendable. Further, at this point during the war, Duggan was wavering in his commitment to the communist cause, despite his wife’s fervent enthusiasm (Bazarov adored her). Duggan resisted her encouragement and began to feel increasingly insecure. After all, it was his neck at risk for having betrayed his country, not Helen’s. Laurence Duggan’s death demonstrates the callous disregard the Soviets had for him—and for anyone else who embraced their lies and willingly committed treason. All were expendable.

President Franklin Roosevelt died of a brain hemorrhage in April 1945. Throughout the war, until just the previous month, Roosevelt had hoped he could make Stalin a friend, regardless of the relationship between their two countries. He had suppressed every report of Russian crimes against humanity and had spoken glowingly of harmony between communism and democracy after the war. Only when it was too late did he confide that he should have taken seriously the warnings by Averell Harriman, one of the US ambassadors to Moscow.

On March 23, 1945, Roosevelt confided to Anna Rosenberg, a well-known businesswoman and public official during the war. “Averell is right,” FDR lamented. “We can’t do business with Stalin. He has broken every one of the promises he made at Yalta.” Until this epiphany, Roosevelt had elected to rely on noblesse oblige in his dealings with the Soviet dictator. “I think that if I give [Stalin] everything I possibly can and ask for nothing in return . . . he won’t try to annex anything and will work with me for a world of democracy and peace.”

Wrong. After overrunning eastern Europe, Stalin was not about to order his armies home. They stayed put. Puppet communist governments were established in every one of the unfortunate nations, against the will of their beaten-down people, with the exception of Yugoslavia, where popular revolutionary Josip Tito created an independent communist regime.

Forty-four years would elapse before communism collapsed under the weight of its many failures.

* * *

In Salem, Massachusetts, the founder of Parker Brothers, George Parker, blessed by the success of the Monopoly game, believed so strongly in the concept of noblesse oblige that he scrawled these two words on the surface of his rolltop desk, to be daily reminded of his pledge. His workers revered him for it. There was a vital difference. They were loyal Americans grateful for employment, not government bureaucrats swayed by foreign ideology. Stalin was pure evil—a contemptuous cobelligerent who continually took advantage of Roosevelt’s largesse (and the complicity of his minion Harry Hopkins) while—at the same time—eating away the very heart of America.

After the release of Venona I spoke with Harold Klem. We discussed his 1949 visit to the New York Public Library. He said, “I figured Duggan was 19 because I knew JC pretty well. He trusted me to keep his secret. And now we finally know the truth.”

Except we didn’t. The Hopkins twist was yet to come. Klem died before we could talk about 19 one last time.

The identity of the other “three traitors in the White House” is not controversial. Venona decryptions and KGB archival verification pinpoint them as follows:

- HARRY DEXTER WHITE, senior US Treasury official, was “Lawyer” before being renamed “Jurist.” White took his own life on August 16, 1948, swallowing an overdose of digoxin.

- LAUCHLIN BERNARD CURRIE, economic adviser to FDR, was “Page.” Currie advocated policies that led to China becoming communist. He was first suspected of being a Soviet agent in 1939. In 1954, Currie left the US and moved to Colombia, in South America. While there, he was lauded for his economic contributions to his adopted country. He died in Bogotá of a heart attack in 1993.

- ALGER HISS, the best known of the three White House traitors, was referred to in the Venona decryptions as “Ales.” During the war, Hiss worked for the staff of Secretary of State Cordell Hull. He was among the many who attended the last conference of the Big Three (Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin) at Yalta in Crimea, where Stalin’s eventual control over eastern Europe was fated. Convinced that Hull was oblivious to Soviet treachery, Hiss became emboldened in his spying. Former Soviet agent Whittaker Chambers accused him, damningly, during the 1947 hearings of the House Committee on Un-American Activities. Over time, controversial evidence disputed Hiss’s role as a spy, and his license to practice law was reinstated. Hiss lived until 1996. In 2009, however, Yale University Press published Spies: The Rise and Fall of the KGB in America based on the notebooks of and transcriptions of various KGB records by former KGB archivist Alexander Vassiliev. In that book, “Ales”—Alger Hiss—is clearly identified as being a Soviet spy beginning in 1937, according to the KGB’s own records.

These four, and others, not only spied for the Soviet Union. They advocated policies favorable to Stalin. For example, they brought about the dismissal of all the Soviet experts inside the State Department who were dutifully presenting the unvarnished truth about the horrors of communism and Stalin’s regime.

THE FATE OF OTHERS

In 1947, Carl “Tooey” Spaatz became chief of staff of the newly formed United States Air Force and helped plan the Air Force Academy. Daughter Tattie did fulfill her desire to go to Europe by serving in a woman’s auxiliary corps, in England, during 1944 and 1945. Carl Spaatz died in 1974, with the Monopoly secret never having escaped his lips.

Janos Pintér, who saved the lives of forty-two Jews, came to work one morning after the Russians “liberated” Budapest. He found three NKVD agents in his office. The one sitting behind his desk said sharply, “You have one hour to pack and get out of here. Your company is nationalized.” He had to comply. His son, Imre, became a chemical engineer and also a pilot in the Hungarian air force. He managed to escape to the US during the Hungarian uprising of 1956 and became an outstanding chemical sales executive. Among the products made by his employer were molded foam Nerf footballs for my employer, Parker Brothers.

After the war, Reino Hallamaa of Finnish intelligence relocated to France, then moved beyond the Pyrenees to Spain, much like an evading airman. It seemed the Russian NKVD regarded him as a person of interest and wanted to “have a talk.” After the war, as communism became a strong force in France, Hallamaa realized communist sympathizers would make it easy for the NKVD to abduct him. If he was taken to Moscow, they would beat out of him everything he knew about the accomplishments of Finnish intelligence, especially regarding its possible acquisition of a certain codebook. In Spain, Hallamaa changed his name, disappeared from view, and lived out his life never having divulged his great secret. He did, however, become known to a friend of mine, Manuel Borrás, who happened to run the Spanish company that made Monopoly under license from Parker Brothers.

SS Hauptsturmführer Hans Josef Kieffer, the notorious head of its counterespionage in Paris, disappeared after Harold Cole identified him as an “innocent policeman.” That is, until 1947, when British troops found and arrested him at his home. Kieffer had killed thirty-one Allied servicemen, tortured many others, and made use of Cole’s diabolical treachery to arrest dozens more. After being tried and convicted, he was hanged on June 26, 1947.

Waldemar von Zedtwitz continued to live alone in his New York duplex. After peace was restored, he found reason to visit Paris. Benoîte’s parents had moved back to the City of Light. Their reunion was joyous; they spoke day and night. It was during this sojourn that von Zedtwitz was reunited with their daughter and met her husband, Tom Carr. They were very much in love, he observed, adding they “seemed to possess a common mind.” Her husband proved to be an excellent bridge player, in von Zedtwitz’s estimation, and alluded to a “role” in British intelligence. This can’t be proven because of a fire in 1946 at Special Operations Executive’s Baker Street headquarters. Arson was suspected, of course. But even before this fire, the SOE was setting matches to its documents around the globe. The records of thousands who toiled and risked their lives for this brainchild of Winston Churchill are forever lost to history. MI-6, meanwhile, took a more painless route. It simply sealed for all time many of its records, in the name of national security.

Von Zedtwitz was intrigued to learn that this couple, under assumed names, was living in “another European country.” He told me, “I gently probed until I hit a wall of silence.” He began to suspect that Benoîte had joined her husband in espionage as well. He bid the couple a fond farewell on the eve of his last day in Paris. He recalled how Benoîte fought back the tears; he suspected he would not see his almost-goddaughter again. Von Zedtwitz eventually moved to Hawaii. I last visited him there in 1982. I asked if he had any idea what happened to Benoîte and Tom Carr. He would only say that they had “exchanged a few letters.” Two years later he succumbed to a respiratory disease. Unfiltered Turkish cigarettes claimed him twenty-nine years after Chesterfields terminated the life of his famous bridge partner, Ely Culbertson.

In 1992, I accepted an invitation to travel to Berlin and judge that year’s World Monopoly Championship. The Berlin Wall had come down in 1989; Germany was reunified in 1990. It was now legal to sell and buy Monopoly games throughout the former Eastern Bloc nations. Hasbro, which had bought Parker Brothers just the year before, wisely decided to capitalize on this joyous event by staging a World Championship in this once divided city. Several of the eastern European champs proved to be excellent players. Among the spectators was Silke Sladetyk, a young German lady I had met in Tokyo on business the prior fall. She was eager to come to the tournament.

During a brief lull, Silke introduced me to a surprise visitor—an attractive, elderly woman with gray rivulets running through her blond hair, her lovely face wind-roughened like a skier’s. (I somehow pictured her, when younger, looking like currently popular actress Greta Scacchi.) “Mrs. Nearac” informed me we had a departed friend in common, Waldemar von Zedtwitz. I had just expressed my pleasure when I was called back to the games. By the time I had another free moment, “Mrs. Nearac”—having made her excuses to Silke—was gone. I have since concluded she was actually Benoîte.

MONOPOLY, POSTWAR

It seemed that every serviceman, after returning home, wanted to get married and own a house (of which there were far too few). Once settled, each desired a copy of Monopoly for their new families. Annual sales topped a million copies in 1946, and kept rising.

During the Cold War, the game served its country a second time. The Soviet Union had banned Monopoly because of its “decadent capitalistic” values. In 1959, a trade fair was held in Moscow, intended to defuse Cold War tensions. A model home was built inside the US exhibit. The famous “Kitchen Debate” between Richard Nixon and Nikita Khrushchev took place here. Next to the model kitchen was a “typical” living room. A Monopoly game was displayed on its coffee table. It is amusing to know that, one by one, Russian workers stole all copies of the games sent by Parker Brothers for use at the fair. It was not until 1991 that Monopoly became officially available in Russia. During the “forbidden era,” hundreds of ersatz copies had been made by hand, despite state penalties for so doing.

AND THE REST . . .

Andrée de Jongh, “Dédée,” emerged from Dachau concentration camp as a gray wraith. She had avoided execution because a dying inmate exchanged identities with her. While Dédée did recover fully, her father perished, along with many of her Comet line helpers. (It is estimated that for each airman who successfully escaped the Nazis, one escape-line worker died.) Four countries—the United States, France, the United Kingdom, and Belgium—awarded de Jongh their highest civilian honor. Dédée moved to Africa and for many years helped lepers in four countries, an ambition of hers since the age of fifteen. She retired in Brussels and died peacefully at the age of ninety in 2007.

Upon war’s end, Claude Dansey was compelled to retire from his powerful position at MI-6. His peers did not mince words. They described Dansey as a “troublemaker, dishonest, and irrational.” His vindictive interference in the work of MI-9, the SOE, and the OSS bore witness to these charges, as did his reckless handling of Harold Cole. Dansey died in 1947 at age seventy.

Allen Dulles became the director of the Central Intelligence Agency in 1952. He served until 1961 when he was “retired” (taking the blame for the failed Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba earlier that year). Thereafter he wrote books, including a definitive text on espionage, and died in 1969, short of his eighty-sixth birthday.

Hermann Goering was sentenced to death during the first Nuremberg trial. He escaped the hangman’s noose by coaxing his unsuspecting American guard to bring him a suitcase from storage, inside of which was hidden a cyanide capsule which he used to end his own life. He was fifty-three.

IG Farben’s directors were convicted at Nuremberg during one of twelve trials held in that court. Of the twenty-four defendants charged, thirteen were found guilty on one or more counts, and were sentenced to prison terms ranging from eighteen months to eight and a half years (including time served). Suddenly, all were set free by 1951—due to the exigencies of the Cold War. These experienced business leaders resuscitated several West German companies, including the separated parts of IG Farben. One of these, BASF, grew into the world’s largest chemical company. The former Farben headquarters building housed the postwar Supreme Allied Command in West Germany before becoming the administrative building, to this day, of the University of Frankfurt.

After the war, most Afrika Korps prisoners at Camp Dias Creek were repatriated (some elected to apply for US citizenship). Before they left, they were charged with planting dozens of Japanese cherry trees in front of the camp facing Delsea Drive. These beautiful trees continue to bloom every April at the same time as the more famous cherry trees in Washington, DC—which happens to lie on nearly the same latitude.

Hanns Scharff moved to Southern California, became a United States citizen, and helped the US shape its interrogation techniques, postwar. His artistic instincts remained strong. Among others, he created mosaics for the California state capitol, the entry ramps at Disney’s Epcot Center, and the story of Cinderella on the walls inside her castle at Disney World. He often spoke to gatherings about his wartime experiences (I once was in attendance). He died in 1992.

On a lighter note, ABBA bandleader Benny Andersson purchased the Hotel Aston in Stockholm where Reino Hallamaa had copied, and put up for auction, all the codes the Finns had broken during the war.

Shorty Lee Gordon continued to speak proudly of his wartime experiences, especially at POW reunions, until his death six decades later.

Airey Neave, having become an accomplished attorney, served with the International Military Tribunal during the Nuremberg Trials. He spoke personally to his former adversaries in their cells, including Hermann Goering. Given his legal education and German fluency, Neave was accorded the privilege of reading the indictments against each of the twenty-four Nazi leaders on trial. Twelve were sentenced to death; seven were imprisoned for terms ranging from ten years to life; three were acquitted; two were not charged.

Neave became a member of Parliament in 1950 and wrote four books about his experiences during World War II. The Official Secrets Act censored what he revealed. He could not even hint at the Monopoly secret.

Tragically, on March 30, 1979, the Irish National Liberation Party assassinated Neave. He had taken the wheel of his car in the parking garage in the Palace of Westminster. Moments later, a bomb planted by one of its agents exploded. Neave died in great pain.

It is sad that Neave did not survive until the Monopoly secret was revealed in 1985. Fortunately, his friendship with Norman Watson endured. Neave told him what he, himself, could not publish. These cohorts enjoyed meeting for dinner at Watson’s home (typically in the presence of Norman’s son—my friend Victor II) to reminisce about the game that changed their lives—and the lives of countless others—during the most destructive war in mankind’s violent history.

Acknowledgments

Several of the people who appear in this account were, at some point, a part of my life. Their disclosures made it possible for me to weave together the intricate fabric of this largely unknown story of the role Monopoly played in the Second World War. Over and over, I heard them echo two “truths” about their deeds—no one previously had paid much attention to them, and this lack of curiosity, coupled with restrictions imposed by the Official Secrets Acts, would cause them to vanish after they departed. (Many have indeed passed on since I interviewed them.)

So why was I so determined to bring this story to print? Because for some mystical reason, I connected with the Monopoly game very early in my life. Atlantic City was the only city I knew as a child, growing up as I did in a small town thirty miles away. When I was first invited to play the Monopoly game, at age eight, it seemed perfectly natural that its streets were named after the ones I knew in the “World’s Playground,” as tourists called Atlantic City. (I had, as yet, no idea the entire city was once occupied by the Army Air Forces and was known as Camp Boardwalk.)

My father and his two brothers, Edward and Joseph, along with many of their friends and several of my uncles who had also served their country, related their war experiences when I grew old enough to comprehend them. I routinely saw the POW camp in Dias Creek, New Jersey, from my school bus window. By then, the facility had become the Cape May County Mosquito Extermination Commission, although its sturdy wire fences and guard towers were still extant.

I became a game inventor and entrepreneur as I entered college. Thereafter, I began work in the games industry in Manhattan. Three years later, in 1972, I met Waldemar von Zedtwitz through a mutual friend. I agreed to work for Gamut of Games, a small firm he had financed, which marketed a two-handed bridge game named Bridgette. Many more games followed during my leadership. Every month for three years, I appeared at Waldy’s Park Avenue duplex to present a business update. After dinner, he always wanted to engage in a game of chess or backgammon (he won nine out of every ten games we played). I came to learn that Waldy—at the time in his late seventies—had a secret role during World War II.

At first, Waldy was mum about the details. But one evening, he railed about gas rationing and how, despite the help he gave the government during the war years, it would not increase his ration. I pressed for details, and once he accepted my interest as genuine, he revealed what I have set forth in these pages, beginning with the Monopoly code he composed. Then, after much deliberation, he began to tell me of the Jean family, daughter Benoîte’s heroics, and her relationship with British SOE captain Tom Carr. Culbertson’s NKVD friend Giorgi Toldze came next, including his revelation of the traitors in the White House including the mysterious 19. Von Zedtwitz died before the identity of 19 became known, although he had deduced the most likely candidates. During the remainder of his life, he was resolute in protecting the anonymity of the Carrs, likely given their continuing roles in European espionage, about which he dropped hints. I agreed to hold his disclosures in confidence until it was certain they had passed from the scene.

In 1976, I accepted the position as director of games at Ideal Toy Corporation, where Harold Klem became my assistant. (Ideal was the nation’s third-largest toy and game company at the time.) Klem was twenty-four years my senior. I had been with the firm long enough to know he was “different.” While always pleasant, Klem, jittery, was subjected to practical jokes and slights. I found him loyal, hardworking, and worthy of respect. When he realized I had sincere regard for him, he invited me to lunch one day at Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips on Hillside Avenue in Queens, not far from where we worked. There he revealed to me a fact that few at Ideal knew of, especially not his tormentors. Hal had been a prisoner of war in World War II; the experience had been traumatic.

I absorbed his stories and came to understand how this trauma still resided in his psyche. Over subsequent lunches, Klem provided details of daily life inside the Stalags and of Luft I’s liberation while under the command of Colonel Hubert Zemke. After I moved to New England to work at Parker Brothers, Hal and his wife, Ray, spent a weekend with Anna and me. In the quiet of these evenings, Klem told me about JC and the existence of a traitor code-named “19.” My eyes opened wide. The connection to Toldze’s 19 was certain.

I met “Jim” (Imre) Pintér after I joined Parker Brothers in 1979. The Nerf football was among the most popular items marketed by Parker when I arrived. Parker didn’t yet have the industrial capability of molding this cellular-foam, self-skinning sports ball, but Voplex Corporation of Rochester, New York—a maker of chemically based products for the auto industry—did. Pintér was its chief sales engineer.

I spent time with Jim whenever he came to the Parker offices and also visited his firm’s factory near Rochester. I found out that Jim was of Hungarian origin, like my wife, Anna. Along with his wife, Barbara, we became friends. Naturally, I wanted to know how Jim escaped Hungary during the 1956 crisis. He explained: A gold watch got him past a young Russian soldier guarding the border. He also relayed some hilarious (and frightening) experiences he endured while piloting hand-me-down Russian fighter planes. One night over dinner, he told me about life as a teenager in Budapest during the war. I learned about the forced “alliance” of his father’s company with IG Farben; how his father hid forty-two Jewish employees and their families in the subbasement of his mansion; the arrival of an occasional OSS agent (who had to be hidden from sight); and, most especially, of the young SS captain and his unit who caused near panic when they arrived in front of the Pintér house.

By 1985, when the Monopoly secret was partially revealed in the United Kingdom, I was on good terms with Victor Watson II (son of Norman Watson), the current managing director of John Waddington Limited.

Victor had conceived the idea of periodic World Monopoly Championships. Given my deep understanding of the game, its history, and its rules, Parker had appointed me chief judge at Monopoly tournaments. In 1985, Victor was ebullient as he informed me of the role played by Waddingtons in the great Monopoly deception.

Due to my fascination, Victor supplied me with documents provided to him by his father. As time went on, he revealed facts (learned during conversations with his father) that Norman could not disclose during his lifetime because of the Official Secrets Act.

Victor and I met several times over ensuing years. He invited me to dine at his London club whenever we both had business in the English capital. Victor continued to maintain allegiance to his father’s discretion. He made clear that he wanted his father’s amazing contribution to the war not to go untold, and he wanted me to reveal it, after he passed on. Victor died in 2015. Sometime thereafter, I picked up the conversation with John Watson, a younger brother (born in 1944). John filled in several gaps that I had failed to close with Victor.

After my years at Parker Brothers, I formed my own R&D company to serve the toy and game industry. My most valued associate was Ralph Baer, the father of video-game technology and inventor of many handheld electronic games and toys. Ralph and I had quite a run for the next five years before I accepted the position of president at newly founded Winning Moves, Inc. During our time together, Ralph completed his autobiography. He asked me to look it over, noting there was more to his World War II experience than he elected to commit to words. Oh? I was stunned to learn of his role in military intelligence, training as a Ritchie Boy, and mastering of the art of debriefing enemy soldiers. I mentioned MIS-Y. Startled, he replied, “You know about MIS-Y?” I told Ralph its existence had been made public. Ralph was somewhat stunned. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t mention it in my book because I thought it was still off-limits.” I asked if he knew about MIS-X. He chuckled. “Yeah, I saw its buildings. I was curious what was going on inside them. Some wise-ass military police officer told me I better not find out or he’d cut my tongue out. I figured I needed my tongue. Case closed.”

Clockwise: Waldemar von Zedtwitz and Imre Pintér courtesy of Philip E. Orbanes. Hal Klem courtesy of Mitchell and Stephanie Klem. Victor Watson II courtesy of Victor Watson II.

The author with Ralph Baer, courtesy of Dena Baer

Ralph also told me about the radio he had spotted hidden inside a German cribbage board.

Ralph loved electronics. When he passed away in 2014, he was still building circuitry. His basement lab, exactly as I remember it, is now on display in the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.

I am especially grateful to these five men, Waldemar von Zedtwitz, Imre Pintér, Ralph Baer, Harold Klem, and Victor Watson II, for graciously sharing their firsthand experiences and memories of those they knew well. I am humbled to relate what they told me.

OTHERS WHO HELPED

The Game Makers: The Story of Parker Brothers (Harvard Business School Press, 2004) contained my first account of Monopoly’s role in aiding POWs during the Second World War. As modest was its mention, it garnered more interest than any other topic within its pages. The Army Air Forces Historical Association took note and invited me to speak at one of its meetings. Three of its members—Major Al Parisi, Christopher Hartney, and Steven Pavlisko—provided significant insights into the nature of POW camps, Camp Boardwalk, and especially the Dias Creek POW camp “adventure” mentioned in this narrative. The Museum of Cape May County provided additional historical information about the Dias Creek POW camp. Curtis Williams III contributed his memories of Camp Boardwalk (and military activity at nearby seaside communities in New Jersey, including the sight of ships exploding and sinking offshore). My father, Philip Orbanes Sr.; his friends; and several uncles often recounted their wartime experiences during my youth. They stirred my enduring interest in this conflict and its impact on their generation.

Dan Glimne of Sweden kindly provided details of the 1936 German Monopoly game and its fate. Joli Kansil offered his recollections of Waldemar von Zedtwitz. Sybille and Bruce Whitehill translated German documents for me (much appreciated).

I am deeply grateful to Péter Bakó of Hungary for carefully researching details about Janos Pintér. And a special thanks to Luc Mertens of Belgium for his invaluable help.

Mitchell and Stephanie Klem graciously recounted memories of Mitchell’s father, Hal. They also provided copies of the log Hal kept during his days at Stalag Luft I, and other memorabilia, and confirmed many facts related to me by Hal during our times together.

Josef Lipovits kindly recounted his boyhood experience of seeing the bombers of the 15th Air Force flying overhead, bound on that day for the Buna-Werke. (Rest in peace, Joe.)

The early drafts of this manuscript were critically read by Laura Pecci, Anna Orbanes, and Joseph Sequino. Their suggestions were frequently incorporated. Alan Hassenfeld, of Hasbro fame, became a champion early on and offered crucial advice on how Monopoly X should be organized. I am deeply grateful to my agent Jim Frenkel, who not only diligently applied his skills to place Monopoly X, he drew on his deep experience as a leading editor to unselfishly read and edit the initial manuscript.

A manuscript does not become a book without the vision and commitment of a publisher and its team. I am blessed by the belief, support, and guidance provided to me by supreme editor Sean Desmond and his most-able assistant Jackie Quaranto, of HarperCollins. Harper marshaled a committed team of men and women whose magic transformed this story into one capable of finding favor with as many readers as possible. My special thanks go out to Jonathan Burnham (president/publisher), Doug Jones (senior VP and deputy publisher), Leah Wasielewski (VP and associate publisher), Jessica Gilo (marketing director), David Koral (production editor), Michael Siebert (associate director, production), Tina Andreadis (senior VP, publicity), and Kate D’Esmond (publicist). I am especially grateful to Josh Karpf, who queried the spelling of countless names appearing in this manuscript and motivated me to assure they were correct. He also perfected the manuscript using the finest of combs—a talent I wished I possessed. And of great importance, I wish to thank Steven Strumpf for his early graphic contributions and his visual design of the reconstructed Monopoly X board, which Mike Pietruska fabricated based on our interpretation of Victor Watson’s priceless notes. In addition, my special thanks to the fine Harper visual wizards, including Elina Cohen (senior designer) and Joanne O’Neill (director, art).

Everyone I have mentioned above is now a part of the Monopoly X story.

Bibliography

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LIBRARIES AND MUSEUMS

Brian Sutton-Smith Library, National Museum of Play, Rochester, New York

Imperial War Museum, London

International Museum of World War II, Natick, Massachusetts

Metropolitan Ervin Szabó Library, Budapest, Hungary

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Index

A specific form of pagination for this digital edition has been developed to match the print edition from which the index was created. If the application you are reading this on supports this feature, the page references noted in this index should align. At this time, however, not all digital devices support this functionality. Therefore, we encourage you to please use your device’s search capabilities to locate a specific entry.

Abwehr (army intelligence service), 55, 67, 147, 167, 169

Cole working with, 140–43
conning, 144
designs on Cole, 78–79
and destroying Comet operations, 139
helping, 139
orchestrating mock trial, 147–48
ordering “show” arrest, 146

X-ray eyes of, 82

Acey-Deucey, game, 66

Afrika Korps, 6, 56, 214, 259

Agfa, 119

Ainsworth, Ed, 208–9

Alston, Edward D., 29–31

Americans, arrival of

Culbertson meeting von Zedtwitz, 40–42
decoding Monopoly message, 45–47
potential traitors in White House, 46–50

Spaatz Effect, 52–57

VED telegram, 43–45

Andersson, Benny, 259
area bombing, 119

Atlantic City, New Jersey, transformation of, 61–63

Auschwitz, 96, 136, 138, 219–20, 228

Auswertestelle West. See Dulag Luft

Bad Boys. See Neave, Airey

Baer, Ralph, 58, 216–18
ball turret, 50

Baltic

Barth, Germany, in, 115–27
radioman in, 197–209

See Jean, Benoîte

Banking, game, 129

Barth, Germany

IRC inspection work in, 115–16

Benoîte Jean meeting Voormann in, 120–21

Benoîte Jean speaking with Esa Virtanen in, 121–23
leaving, 123–27
traveling to, 117–20

Bartholomew, John Ian, 30

Barton, Robert, 37, 128

BASF, 119

Battle of Britain, 68–69

Baumann, Karl, 226

Buna-Werke and, 111
as business liaison, 224
fate of, 226
and Benoîte Jean, 93–100, 169
working at Interessengemeinschaft Farbenindustrie AG, 119

BEF. See British Expeditionary Force

Bern, Switzerland, journey to. See Jean, Benoîte

Big Week, offensive, 197–200

Big X. See Monopoly (game)

Billy’s Bar, 240

Blommaert, Jean de, 186–88, 195

Blue problem, 214
bomb damage, inspecting, 118–20
bone saw, using, 190–91

Bonney, Thérèse, xiv, 100–103, 113–14, 121

British Expeditionary Force (BEF), xiv, 64–65

British Isles, threat of invasion of, 27–28

Buna-Werke
bombers reaching, 221

Buna-Werke “problem,” 136–38, 169
fate of, 247
fear of falling into Soviet hands, 223–26
first raids on, 221–22
labor in region, 220–21
location of, 220
nitrogen deliveries, 222
plans for, 219–20

Bunson, George, 33

Burgundy line, 91, 245–46
calcium carbide, 247

Camp Boardwalk, 61–63

Camp Dias Creek, 259

Carpentier, Abbé Pierre, 72, 142

Carpentier, Julia, 172–73

Carr, Tom, 158–60
and airmen arriving in Sherwood Forest, 194–96
childhood of, 178
as code user, 164–65
dealing with America escapers, 188–92
and Duval, 192–94
failed attempt to kill Cole, 184–85
fate of, 181
and Benoîte Jean, 168–72
with Airey Neave, 177–80
forays into Paris, 183–84
plan to kill Cole, 183
and Jean Serment, 172–76
in Strasbourg, 168–72
in Tangmere, 176–77
transformation from flier to guerrilla, 162–63
withstanding interrogation, 163

Chemische Fabrik Griesheim-Elektron, 119

Christie, Agatha, 31

Churchill, Winston, 20, 27–28

Clayton-Hutton, Christopher “Clutty,” 31–35, 53, 245

Closed Zone, 75

Code Burgundy: The Long Escape (Katsaros), 246–47

Colditz Castle
embarking for Schaffhausen, 8–12
encountering bad luck, 7–9
and escape across France, 13–17
incinerating game board in, 5

Luteyn and Neave escaping from, 2–11

Monopoly game delivery to, 1–2
summons to Geneva, 13

Cole mission/operation

American escapers, 188–92
attempt to kill Cole, 184–85
christening Sherwood Forest camp, 186–88

Duval on Cole, 192–94
rehearsing plan, 183–84

Cole, Harold “Paul,” xiv, 13–14, 22–25, 63, 97
on Abbeville platform, 69–70

Abwehr encounter, 78–79
avoiding arrest, 72–73
and Battle of Britain, 68–69

Carr and Neave regarding, 177–80
consequences of hiring, 74–78
death of, 240–41
delegation of escape runs, 73
at Dunkirk, 64–66
entrapment in Lille, 85
failed attempt to kill, 184–85
and finale in France, 234–41
fleeing London, 74–75
fleeing Paris, 239–41
furthering ruse, 235–38
hiring of, 73

Paris residence of, 182
polishing “gems” of info, 146
relationship with Suzanne Warenghem, 139–48
reputation getting attention, 71
tactics of, 68
time in hiding, 65–68
vulnerability of, 183

Comet line, 14, 84, 86, 88, 90, 134–35, 169, 171–75, 186, 188–89
conspirators, deeds of
explaining purpose of loaded board game, 33–35
learning about Cole, 37–39
meeting Clayton-Hutton, 31–35
meeting Crockatt, 35–37

See Watson, Norman

Crockatt, Norman, 16–17, 35–37, 83

Crowley-Milling, Denis, 68–69

CSS Virginia, 213

Culbertson, Ely, 38
befriending Giorgi Toldze, 43–44
bridge tournament, 38–39
and cryptic “art of the bid,” 42
decoding Monopoly message, 45–47
promotion of contract bridge, 40–42
temperament of, 41–42
and traitors in White House, 46–50
and VED telegram, 43–45

Currie, Lauchlin Bernard, 253

D-Day, 59, 91, 186, 194, 206, 216,

Daily Mail, 241

Dansey, Claude, 54, 79, 177, 192, 245, 258
and Dédée, 83, 87
fate of, 258
hiring of Cole, 73
and Lee Carl Gordon, 162
and MI-6, 34–37
responding to Cole accusations, 143–44
stalling Bonney, 101–2
and Suzanne Warenghem, 139–48

Darling, Donald, 71, 83, 237

Dean, Arthur, 86–87

Dédée. See de Jongh, Andrée
de Gaulle, Charles, 142

De Greef, Elvire, 89

De Jongh, Andrée Eugénie Adrienne de, 14, 86–92

De Jongh, Frédéric, 90, 257–58

Delobel, Paul. See Cole, Harold “Paul”

Devon, Colin, 2

Dias Creek, camp, 214–17

Dissard, Marie Louise, 86

Donovan, Bill, 48–49
and offer of Hallamaa, 212–13
and Soviet codebook, 213–14

Doolittle, James, 137

Dow Chemical Company, 247

Dowding, Bruce, 77

Duggan, Laurence, 248–52

Dulag Luft, 151–53, 199–200, 228

Dulles, Allen, , xiv, 50, 109–13, 258

Dumais, Lucien, 134–35, 165–67

Duprez, François, 76–78

Duprez, Henri, 143

Duval, OSS agent, 191–94

Eaker, Ira, 137

8th Air Force, 21, 25, 36, 53, 58, 62, 137, 149, 189, 197, 207, 221, 246–47

Eisenhower, Dwight D., 137, 231

1142, 59, 153, 212, 217
and code users, 216
establishing, 55, 63
and final accounting, 243–45
lesson from evasion from, 151
number significance, 55
official with knowledge of, 213
producing escape aids, 61
purchasing goods from Parker Brothers, 56
and scrubbing, 231
staffing, 56

England. See Military Intelligence Section 9 (MI-9)

Fabré, Louis, 189–91

Finland
code breakers from, 210–11
invasion of, 100–102

Forbidden Zone, 66, 75, 89, 91, 172

France, dash across, 13–17

France, finale in

Cole fleeing Paris, 239–41

Cole furthering ruse, 235–38

Germany launching offensive in Belgium, 234–35
getting jump on Cole, 237–39

Franco-Prussian War, 75

Françoise line, 86

Frankenthal, Leo, 24–25

Free Zone, 66, 106

Gabreski, Francis S., 207, 228

Garrow line, 68–70, 73, 77

Garrow, Ian, 13–14, 71, 77

Geneva Convention, 116–17, 123, 151, 153, 156, 163, 215–16, 243

Geneva, summons from, 13

George S. Parker Company. See Parker Brothers

German, speaking, 4

Germany, 30, 33, 41, 91, 96, 98, 106, 111, 129, 134, 152, 154, 157, 205
airfields in, 197
and Ardennes Forest, 229

Barth, 113–27
bombing naval base in, 149–50

Buna-Werke problem in, 137–38, 220–26
declaring war on, 49
escape from Colditz Castle, 1–17
facing unconditional surrender, 235

Finland and, 210–18
head start on attacking, 53–54

Hungary submitting to, 224
hydrogenation plant, 96
lack of reserves in, 133
lightning conquest of western Europe, 74
scoffing at folly of, 27–28
and Spaatz Effect, 59

Strasbourg on border, 75
unconditional surrender, 235–38
war against Soviet Union, 101
watching Cole, 78–79

Gestapo (Geheime Staatspolizei), 14, 24, 93, 95–96, 119, 167, 171–72, 191, 224
absorbing, 228–29
agents, 71, 84, 86, 91, 95, 100, 103, 119, 144
avoiding sweep of, 188–89

Cole collaboration with, 86
enforcing grip of, 67
and finale in France, 234–37
homing in on Carr, 169
identities tested by, 175–76
at Montluc Prison, 147
penetrating Comet line, 90–91
radio vans of, 163
searching for escape-line helpers, 84–85
and women, 51, 100–2, 118

Giroux, Henri, 118

Go Directly to Jail, card, 130, 157. See also Monopoly (game)

Goering, Hermann, 90, 123, 222, 228, 258

Gordon, Lee Carl, 63, 149
bombing naval base at Wilhelmshaven, Germany, 149–51

Dumais grilling, 165–66
escape plans of, 155–60
fate of, 181
hitting “home run,” 166–67
interrogation of, 151–54
making way to Paris, 164–65
meeting Benoîte Jean, 161–62
playing Monopoly, 155
as POW, 154–55
rocky embankment of, 160–61

Greening, Ross, 228

Griendl, Jean, 90

Gromyko, Andrei, 213

Guérisse, Albert-Marie Edmond, 13–14, 140, 173
dealings with “Captain Paul” Cole, 76–78
exposing Cole, 140
identifying dead body of Cole, 240–41
and radio communication, 83–84
rescuing Ian Garrow, 85
and Suzanne Warenghem, 139–48
guncotton, printing maps on, 80–81

Hallamaa, Reino, 211, 212, 255

Hanft, Georg, 237

Harmel, Sergeant, 165–66

Hauptbahnhof, 75

Hayworth, Rita, 160–61

Higginson, F. W., 72

Himmler, Heinrich, 219

Hiss, Alger, 253–54

Hitler, Adolf, 28, 31, 34, 36, 42–44, 49–51, 58, 67, 101, 116, 122, 133, 157, 188, 205–7, 221–22

Hitler Youth, 11, 122, 205, 207, 215

Hoechst, 119

Holt, Stull, 54

Hoover, J. Edgar, 48–49, 211

Hopkins, Harry, 223

Hörlein, Heinrich, 224

Hull, Cordell, 249, 254

Hungarian Pharma Medical Goods Company, 224

Hungary, Buna-Werke and, 223–26

ICI. See Imperial Chemical Industries

IG Farben, 28, 63, 111, 119, 136, 169, 221–22, 258, 263
deadly secret about, 95–97
establishing Hungarian Pharma Medical Goods Company, 224
as extension of Nazi Party, 219
and fate of Buna-Werke, 247
fearing Buna-Werke, 223–24

Nuremberg convictions, 258–59

Imperial Chemical Industries (ICI), 28–230

Interessengemeinschaft Farbenindustrie AG, 119

International Red Cross (IRC), 115–17, 122, 124–25

Isolierbaracken, 156–57

JC, 226, 263
in Baltic, 115–17, 120–21, 126–27
and Baltic radioman, 201–6
and identity of “19,” 247–52, 247–54
informing Spaatz of Buna-Werke, 136
and Harold Klem, 201–6
meeting Benoîte, 104–6, 110–14
talking to Nori, 145, 185

Jean, Alec, 50–51, 126, 170

Jean, Benoîte, xiv, 50–51

Agent 110 at Gentlemen’s Lane, 105–6
assisting Baumann, 96–100
and Thérèse Bonney, 100–102
caution of, 96
coaxing visitor, 94–96
leaving Barth, Germany, 123–27
meeting JC, 104–6
meeting JC and Dulles, 109–13
meeting Karl Baumann, 93–94
meeting Lee Carl Gordon, 161–62
meeting Voormann, 120–21
microfilm under fingernails, 222
near sexual assault of, 108–9
new identity of, 116–17
new name of, 105–6
new task of, 113–14
and Jean Serment, 172–76
and Shelburne line, 135
traveling to Barth, Germany, 117–20
traveling to Friedburg, 106–8
and Esa Virtanen, 121–23

Jean, Emma, 103–4

John Waddington Limited, 19, 57, 130, 264. See also Waddingtons

Johnson, Albert Edward, 89

Johnson, Edward, 54–55

Johnson, Guy, 2

Jones, Catesby ap, 213, 214, 217–1

Katsaros, John, 245–47

KGB, 44, 250, 253, 254. See also NKVD

Khrushchev, Nikita, 257

Kieffer, Hans, 181, 183, 235–36, 255

Klem, Harold Lawrence, xiv, 63
art kit of, 201
and Big Week offensive, 197–99
identity of “19,” 247–52
interrogating, 200
and JC, 201–6
recovery of, 200–201
in Stalag Luft I, 206–9

Kommandant, 12, 89, 208, 227

Kommandantur, 89

Krepps, Manfred, 125–26

Krieges, 202, 209

Kurtenbach, Ken, 155–57

Langer, Fritz, 214–16

Langley, Jimmy
learning from, 81–82
slipping out of prison hospital, 15–17
starting new Shelburne line, 134–35

Laurence Duggan, 1905–1948: In Memoriam (Welles), 249

LeMay, Curtis, 149

Le Neveu, Roger, 85

Lenin, Vladimir, 117

Lillyman, Frank, 237

Lizzie. See Westland Lysander

Lotte, recipient, 237–38

Luteyn, Toni, 2
disguise of, 3–5
encountering bad luck, 7–9
escape from Colditz Castle, 2–11

Man O’ War (bomber), 246

Mannerheim, Carl Gustaf, 101–2
maps, designing, 30–31

Maréchal, Elsie, 90

Marshall, George, 54

Marx, Chico, 47–48

Mason, Robert. See Cole, Harold “Paul”

Masson, Jean. See Cole, Harold “Paul”

Mauzac concentration camp, daring rescue at, 85

MI-6. See Military Intelligence Section 6

MI-9. See Military Intelligence Section 9

Miami, Florida, transformation of, 61–63
microfilm, fingernails and, 212

Military Intelligence Section 5, 20

Military Intelligence Section 6 (MI-6), 32, 34–37, 71, 73–76, 83, 91, 99, 101, 142, 144–46, 162, 177, 179, 194, 245, 255

Military Intelligence Section 9 (MI-9), xiii, 12, 15–17, 36, 97, 153, 164

Americans joining game, 54–55
briefing from, 69

Cole mission/operation, 187, 190
escape operations, running, xiii
final accounting, 243–45, 258
finale in France, 237

French and Belgian patriots, 75
last days of Stalag Luft I, 231
love and treason, 174, 177, 179
providing Monopoly games, 20
and radio communication, 82–84

Military Intelligence Service–Department X (MIS-X), , xiii, 55, 129, 245

Miller, Helga. See Jean, Benoîte

Mirowitch, Fred, 24

MIS-X. See Military Intelligence Service-Department X

Miss Ouachita (airship), 197–99

Monopoly (game), xiii–xiv

Americans joining game, 40–57
and Baltic radioman, 197–209

Benoîte as mademoiselle of, 93–102
birth of Monopoly X, 58–63

Cole mission and operation, 182–96
decoding message in, 45–47
deeds of conspirators, 26–39
and escape from Colditz Castle, 1–17
explaining purpose of, 33–35
final accounting and, 243–60
and finale in France, 234–41
journey to Bern, Switzerland, 103–14

Fritz Langer playing, 214–16
and last days of Stalag Luft I, 227–33
love and treason, 168–81

Norman Watson altering, 18–25
and Parker Brothers, 128–38
in postwar world, 257
and radio communication, 80–92

Shorty Lee Gordon and, 149–67

Soviet Union banning, 257
and Spaatz Effect, 58–63

Top Hat and, 64–79
traveling to Barth, 115–27

Monopoly Man. See Watson, Norman

Monopoly X, 199, 231
birth of, 58–63
converting local copies, 129
delivering game to Shorty, 158

Monowitz-Buna, camp, 220–21

Moran, Harry, 18–19, 21, 82

Moran, Martin, 22–25, 65

National Medal of Technology, 58

Nazis, 1, 12–13, 32, 44, 64, 67, 75, 99, 215–16, 225, 236–37, 258

Neave, Airey, xiv, 245–46
christening Sherwood Forest camp, 186–87
dash across France, 13–17
disguise of, 3–5
discussing new escape aid, 80–82
embarking to Switzerland, 8–12
encountering bad luck, 7–9
escape from Colditz Castle, 2–11
evacuation of Sherwood Forest, 196
and radio communication, 80–92
service with International Military Tribunal, 259–60
starting new Shelburne line, 134–35

Nemo. See Griendl, Jean

“19” (agent), identity of, 133, 145, 247–52

91st Bombardment Group, 197. See also Klem, Harold

Nixon, Richard, 257

NKVD (Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del), 44, 132, 211, 249, 250, 251, 254,

Norden, Carl, 125

Nori. See Jean, Benoîte

North Africa, 55–56, 106, 137, 197, 228

Nouveau, Louis, 144–46

Nuremberg Trials, 259

O’Leary line, 14, 85–86, 139–41, 144–45, 147, 179

O’Leary, Pat. See Guérisse, Albert-Marie Edmond

Occupied Zone, 66–67, 75

Office of Strategic Services (OSS), 35, 42, 132, 191–92, 203–5, 226, 249–50, 258, 264

Baumann and, 48–49
and Buna-Werke, 136
enlisting aid of Bonney, 101–2, 104
and Finnish code breakers, 210–13
headquarters of, 48
introduction to, 100

JC coming to attention of, 106, 121–22, 126–27
making spying American profession, 129
opposition to creation of, 48–49
shelter for agents of, 225

Spaatz meeting with, 135–36

Official Secrets Acts, 29, 245

Oflag IV. See also Colditz Castle

Old Kent Road, 32

Operation Barbarossa, 28

Operation Sherwood Forest
christening Sherwood Forest camp, 186–87
initial attempt at killing Cole, 182–86
new plan, 187–88

Operation Stella Polaris, 21–11

Orbanes, Joseph, 217

Orbanes, Philip, 217

Osterberg, Lieutenant (Miss Ouachita), 198–99

Parker, George, 128

Parker Brothers, 19, 26, 37, 56
adhesives, 56
critics of Monopoly, 131–34
and disappearance of cellophane, 128–29

European travels, 129–30
final accounting of, 243–60, 257
and forerunner of Monopoly, 62
quick success of Monopoly, 130–31
unawareness of escape aids, 57

Pastime Puzzles, 130

Pat line, 14, 238

Patton, George, 234–35

Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, attack on, 53–54

Pétain, Maréchal, 66

Ping-Pong, 130

Pintér, Janos, 224–26, 254–55

Poelzig, Hans, 119

POWs. See prisoners of war

Prassinos, Mario, 77
prison camps (Stalags), xiii, 116, 151, 190, 232, 263
prisoners of war (POWs)

Allied, 160

American, 116, 154, 214–15, 231–32

British, 115, 154
feeding, 116
former, 232

French, 155

German, 15, 33, 36, 54–55, 115, 167, 181, 207, 217, 240, 244
at Stalag Luft I, 231–33, 243–44
radio communication
breaking into Waddingtons factory, 80–82

Comet line adopting, 87–90
courier messaging handicap, 83–84
and ground lines of communication, 84–86
organizing new lines, 91–92
problems confounding mission of Room 900, 82–84
reluctant adoption of, 84
and situation on ground, 84–85

Radio Corporation of America, 211–12
radio game, 182

Reid, Patrick, 2–5. See also Colditz Castle, escape from

Ritchie Boys, 58–59, 216–18

Rodocanachi, George, 70, 77

Rommel, Erwin, 6

Room 900, 16, 34, 82–85, 166–67, 177, 194, 237

Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, xiv, 213, 252

Rosenberg, Anna, 252

Rosenberg, Julius and Ethel, 250

Royal Air Force (RAF), 73, 82, 162

Russia, 28, 41, 44, 101, 111, 122, 212, 223, 250, 257. See also Soviet Union

Schaffhausen, Switzerland, 8–12

Scharff, Hanns, 151–54, 200, 259

Schloss Colditz. See Colditz Castle, escape from

Serment, Jean, 173–74
sexual assault, 108–9

Sheinwold, Alfred, 132

Shelburne line, 91, 161, 165, 167, 169, 188

Shell Mex House, 29

Sherwood Forest, camp, 186–87
airmen arriving in, 194–96
dealing with America escapers, 188–92
evacuation of, 195–96
radio communication with, 194
seeing Duval about Cole, 192–94

Shorty. See Gordon, Lee Carl

Signal Intelligence Service (SIS), 211

Sims, Philip Hal, 131–34

Singen, Germany, 9–11

SIS. See Signal Intelligence Service

Sladetyk, Silke, 256–57

Smith, James, 73, 135

SOE. See Special Operations Executive

Sorry! (game), 130

Soviet Union, 28, 31, 48, 100–101, 210, 223, 247, 249–51, 254, 257

Spaatz Effect
airfields, 59
arrival of Americans and, 52–57
bombers, 60
components of, 58–63
crew members, 60
fighters, 60
pilots, Spaatz Effect, 60
support personnel, 59–60
training facilities, 60
whatever the hell else, 60–61

Spaatz, Carl “Tooey,” xiv, 36, 49, 52–57
in Algeria, 135–38
and Big Week offensive, 197
and Buna-Werke, 219–26
fate of, 254

Special Operations Executive (SOE), 35, 83, 162–63, 177–80, 182, 196, 256

Speer, Albert, 221–22

Spies: The Rise and Fall of the KGB in America (Vassiliev), 254

Stalag Luft I, 122, 125, 206
fleeing from, 189, 229–31
food mission paying off at, 230–31

Hubert “Hub” Zemke arriving at, 227–29
last days of, 227–33
living conditions at, 229

POWs after escaping, 231–33

POWs as national treasure, 243–44
published accounts of escape attempts, 244–45

Red Cross packages and, 227
reviewing conditions inside, 115
scrubbing at, 231
shipping prisoners to, 206–7

Stalag Luft IV, 18, 201, 204–5

Stalag VII-A, 118, 154–55, 157, 164–66, 177, 192

Stalin, Josefph, 41, 43, 49, 112, 132, 133, 211, 223, 249, 250–51, 252, 253, 254

Stettinius, Edward, Jr., 213

Stimson, Henry, 54

Strasbourg, France, 50–51, 75, 97, 103, 106–7, 116, 126, 135, 148, 160, 168, 174, 205, 235, 246

Swan Hydro, 31

Tante Go, 194

Tiddlywinks, 130

Tito, Josip, 252

Toldze, Giorgi, 43–44, 49–50, 63, 132–33

Top Hat. See Cole, Harold

Trading with the Enemy Act, 51

Truman, Harry, 249

Ulm, Germany, 6–10, 157

United States, 20, 42, 50, 213, 222, 238, 254, 258–59

December 7, 1941, attack on, 53–54
enemy soldiers in, 214–16

Finland gaining common purpose with, 212
and Geneva Convention, 116

Monopoly being sold in, 129
race against the clock, 55–56

USS Hornet, 137

Vassiliev, Alexander, 254

VED, initials, 43–44

Verloop, Cornelis, 78

Verona Project, 249–50, 253

Virtanen, Esa, 121–23, 126, 212

Virtanen, Kari, 121–23

Vistula River, 222
von Zedtwitz, Waldemar, 112, 250
and cryptic “art of the bid,” 42
decoding Monopoly message, 45–47
fate of, 255–57
and Parker Brothers, 131–34
promoting contract bridge, 40–42
temperament of, 41–42
and traitors in White House, 46–50
and VED telegram, 43–45

Voormann, Klaus, 120–21

WAAC. See Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps

Waddingtons, 19, 24, 27, 29–31, 52, 56, 81, 195

War Production Board, 128

Warenghem, Suzanne
and capture of Cole, 146–48

Cole mesmerizing, 140–41
first appearance of, 139–40
leaving behind, 141–42
proposal to, 143–44

Watson, Norman, 17
altering Monopoly game board, 26–27, 29–31, 33
and Harold Cole, 22–25
and deeds of conspirators, 26–39
discussing new escape aid, 80–82
learning about Cole, 37–39
learning purpose of loaded board game, 33–35
meeting Clayton-Hutton, 31–35
meeting Crockatt, 35–37
playing Monopoly for first time, 19–20
and Spaatz Effect, 52–57
speaking with MI-5, 20–22

Wehrmacht, 22, 44, 65–66, 73, 76, 101, 106, 116, 118, 129, 179, 188, 193, 206, 215, 221, 223–24

Weiler ter Meer, 119

Welles, Sumner, 249

Westland Lysander (Lizzie), 82–84

White, Harry Dexter, 253

White House, traitors in, 46–50, 253–54

Whittinghill, George, 144–45, 192

Winfrey, Robley, 54–57

Winter War, 101

Wizard of Oz, The (film), 80

Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC), 62

World War II, 244

Big Week offensive, 197–200
final accounting, 243–60
finale in France, 234–41

Finnish code breakers in, 210–18

Spaatz and Buna-Werke, 219–26

Stalag Luft 1, 227–33

Zemke, Hubert “Hub,” 227–30

Zurich, Switzerland, 118, 124–25

Zyklon B, pesticide, 98

Photo Section

Major Airey Neave (1916–1979), the first British POW to successfully escape aided by items from a loaded Monopoly game.

Courtesy of Victor Watson II

Norman Watson (1903–1969), the managing director of the John Waddington Company. His firm secretly loaded Monopoly games with escape aids provided by MI-9.

Courtesy of Victor Watson II

Brigadier General Norman Crockett (1894–1956), the operational commander of Britain’s MI-9, whose mission was to help its POWs and downed airmen escape and return to freedom.

Royal Army

Christopher Clayton-Hudson (1893–1965), the eccentric genius who conceived of the scheme to load Monopoly games with escape aids and provide maps and evasion kits to airmen for use if shot down.

Courtesy of Victor Watson II

Ian Garrow (1908–1976), the British Army lieutenant who organized the Garrow escape line to help British servicemen trapped in France; arranged for escapee Airey Neave to reach Spain.

Helen Long

Pat O’Leary/Albert Guérisse (1911–1989), the Belgian physician who succeeded Ian Garrow after Garrow’s arrest. The escape line was renamed after his nom de guerre, “Pat O’Leary,” until his own arrest.

Unknown street photographer in Marseille

Harold “Paul” Cole (1906–1946), England’s most notorious traitor in World War II. Preferred the Top Hat token when playing Monopoly.

US Army Crime Records Center

Hans Josef Kieffer (1900–1947), a major in the SD intelligence section of the dreaded SS. Cole’s handler in Paris.

German Schutzstaffel

Colonel Claude Dansay (1876–1947), the operational commander of MI-6, England’s foreign spying agency. Recruited Harold Cole; thwarted MI-9; opposed other intelligence services. They came to revile him.

MI-6

Allen Dulles (1893–1969), the director of operations for the OSS in Switzerland during World War II and the first director of its successor organization, the CIA.

US National Archives

Andrée “Dédée” de Jongh (1916–2007), a former nurse and an artist who organized and led the Belgium-based Comet escape line until her arrest. Honored by four nations after the war.

Buckingham Palace

Elvire de Greef (1897–1991) sheltered Comet line evaders at her home in southern France and helped get them across the Spanish border.

Comet line archives

Waldemar von Zedtwitz (1896–1984), a lifelong games expert and contract bridge genius, devised the Monopoly Code for Ely Culbertson. He shunned the limelight.

Courtesy of Waldemar von Zedtwitz.

Ely Culbertson (1891–1955) was the face of contract bridge in the 1930s. A childhood friend of a future NKVD agent in Moscow, he relished publicity.

Courtesy of Waldemar von Zedtwitz

Robley E. Winfrey (1899–1993), the operational commander of the “escape factory” (MIS-X at Fort Hunt, Virginia), devised the means to load Monopoly games without involving the game’s US maker, Parker Brothers.

Lloyd Shoemaker collection

Philip Harold “Hal” Sims (1886–1949), a contract bridge rival of Waldemar von Zedtwitz and Ely Culbertson. The unkempt “Bridge Walrus” had connections useful to them in Washington, DC.

Courtesy of Waldemar von Zedtwitz

Benoîte “Nori” Jean (1918–?), a helper on the Comet line and then the Shelburne line, also ran a mission for the OSS. Known as the “young lady of the Monopoly game.”

Courtesy of Waldemar von Zedtwitz

Thérèse Bonney (1895–1978), a photographer and publicist who studied at the Sorbonne. A friend of the Jean family, she covered the Finno-Russian War and ran missions to Finland for the OSS.

US passport photo

General Carl A. Spaatz (1891–1974), the commander of US Air Forces in Europe. Briefed by MI-9 and shown how Monopoly games were loaded, he became the inspiration behind the similar organization, MIS-X, located outside Washington, DC.

US Army Air Force

Hermann Goering (1893–1946), the commander of the Luftwaffe. For much of the war, he was responsible for staffing German camps that imprisoned Allied airmen.

German Luftwaffe

Lee “Shorty” Gordon (1922–2006), a staff sergeant (actually a private) who, a year after capture, became the United States’ first successful escapee, aided by items smuggled inside a Monopoly game.

US Army Air Force

Captain Thomas Carr, (1916–?), Gordon’s escape mate. Commissioned into the Royal Air Force, he then became a highly trained SOE (sabotage) agent. Hunted Harold Cole. His name may be a nom de guerre.

Courtesy of Waldemar von Zedtwitz

Lucien A. Dumais (1904–1987), a Royal Canadian officer and leader of the Shelburne escape line for MI-9.

French Resistance identity photograph

Raymond Labrosse (1921–1988), a partner of Lucien Dumais and the Shelburne line’s chief wireless operator.

French Resistance identity photograph

Hubert “Hub” Zemke (1914–1994), the most famous of all American fighter group leaders. After being captured, he took command of the nine thousand POWs inside Stalag Luft I and arranged their liberation.

German Luftwaffe

Hanns Scharff (1907–1992), Germany’s leading interrogator of captured Allied airmen, employed gentle persuasion. After the war, he became an acclaimed mosaic artist in the United States.

German Luftwaffe

Harry Hopkins (1890–1946), “the traveling president” for FDR, ran the Lend-Lease program and was consistently helpful to the Soviet Union. He may have been Joseph Stalin’s “Agent 19.”

US National Archives

Laurence Duggan (1905–1948), an economist who served as FDR’s undersecretary of state for the Latin American Division. He became a Soviet spy and passed secret information to Joseph Stalin. May have been “Agent 19.”

US National Archives

Ralph Henry Baer (1922–2014), a technical sergeant and a “Ritchie Boy.” Initially an interpreter at MIS-Y, he transferred to England before D-Day. Gathered German weapons and found radio parts inside a cribbage board. Invented the video game in 1967.

Courtesy of Ralph Baer

Harold Lawrence Klem (1923–1999), a B-17 radio operator. Technical Sergeant Klem was wounded, captured, interrogated, and eventually imprisoned at Stalag Luft I. There he became aware of the Monopoly deception.

Courtesy of Mitchell and Stephane Klem

Philip Orbanes Sr. (1915–1995), the father of the author, shown here modeling a German officer’s hat in Florence, Italy. After serving in the 12th Air Force under Carl Spaatz, he was a postwar guard of German POWs in the Po River valley in Italy.

Philip E. Orbanes

John Katsaros (1923–2021), a B-17 air crew evader who was helped across France and to safety over the Pyrenees by the Burgundy line.

Anna Orbanes

Oflag IV-C. Airey Neave escaped from here.

Uncredited

Waddington’s factory. Monopoly games were “doctored” in its subbasement.

Courtesy of Victor Watson II

Aerial (Luftwaffe) view of the Waddington factory.

Courtesy of Victor Watson II

There were more than one hundred principal stalags in Germany during the war.

US Army image

Stock image, enhanced by the author

World Data Bank II (public domain)

Escapees and evaders had to cross these peaks to reach Spain.

Philip E. Orbanes

IG Farben Headquarters, Frankfurt. After the war, the Supreme Allied Command occupied this building.

US Army Air Force

IG Farben complex, Monowice, Poland. Aerial photo of the Buna Werke.

US Army Air Force reconnaissance photo

Bassingbourn Airfield. Base of Hal Klem’s bomb group.

Army Air Force

Plan of Stalag Luft I. Klem and Zemke were imprisoned here.

Stock image

POW camps inside the United States. There were more than seven hundred POW camps, both large and small.

US Army image

Site of branch POW camp at Dias Creek, New Jersey. The row of cherry trees was planted by the German POWs in 1945.

Donna Orbanes

The location of the fence and corner wooden watchtower.

Donna Orbanes

Monopoly X game board reconstruction, closed. Reconstructed by Michael Pietruska and the author.

Philip E. Orbanes

Monopoly X game board reconstruction, open. Reconstructed by Michael Pietruska and the author.

Philip E. Orbanes

Monopoly X game board reconstruction, revealed. Reconstructed by Michael Pietruska and the author.

Philip E. Orbanes

Monopoly X game board reconstruction, containing items. Reconstructed by Michael Pietruska and the author.

Philip E. Orbanes

Prewar metal Monopoly game tokens, 1935–1942.

Philip E. Orbanes

Wartime wooden Monopoly game tokens, 1942–1945.

Philip E. Orbanes

Cardboard/wooden Monopoly game tokens, 1940–1945.

Philip E. Orbanes

Prewar square Monopoly game tokens, 1935–1945.

Philip E. Orbanes

The B-17 Miss Ouachita. Harold Klem’s B-17 after crash landing.

German Luftwaffe, augmented by the author

The B-17 Miss Ouachita.

German Luftwaffe, augmented by the author

The B-17 Miss Ouachita crew positions.

US Army image

The B-17 Miss Ouachita radio compartment.

German Luftwaffe, augmented by the author

Lysander aircraft.

Royal Air Force, enhanced by the author

Former POWs at Colditz: Powell (left) and Yule (right) posing with the escape map and the British 1941 version of the Monopoly game used to smuggle escape aids to British POWs.

Courtesy of Victor Watson II

US wartime ads for Monopoly. The US maker of Monopoly never knew that copies of its famous game were being doctored to hide items intended to help POWs escape.

Courtesy of the Strong Museum of Play

A checkerboard containing documents, a map section hidden inside a playing card, and a radio inside a cribbage board. Red Cross parcels were never used to hide escape aids

Courtesy of Victor Watson II

Red Cross food parcels being packed for shipment to POW camps in Germany.

Red Cross stock image

About the Author

PHILIP E. ORBANES is an American game designer, author, and former president of Winning Moves Games. Prior to founding Winning Moves Games, he worked as a senior vice president for research and development at Parker Brothers. He is considered the foremost expert on the history of Monopoly, having written several books about the game, including Monopoly: The World's Most Famous Game—and How It Got That Way. He lives in Massachusetts.

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Also by Philip E. Orbanes

Tortured Cardboard

Monopoly, Money, and You

Monopoly: The World’s Most Famous Game

The Game Makers

The Monopoly Companion

Rook in a Book

Copyright

Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.

The Monopoly name and character, as well as the distinctive elements of the board and playing pieces, are trademarks of Hasbro Inc. for its property trading game and game equipment. © 1935, 2025 Hasbro. Used with permission.

MONOPOLY X. Copyright © 2025 by Philip E. Orbanes. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Cover design by Joanne O’Neill

Cover photographs from the US National Archives (Allen Dulles); courtesy of Victor Watson II (Major Airey Neave); courtesy of Waldemar von Zedtwitz (Benoîte “Nori” Jean); © Popperfoto/Getty Images (bomber); © Getty Images; © Alamy Stock Photo

Chapter opener illustrations by Alexis Seabrook

Title page car courtesy of Shutterstock / Hub Design

Title map is in the public domain, courtesy of the British Library, Maps CC.5.a.422

FIRST EDITION

Digital Edition JULY 2025 ISBN: 978-0-06-342515-6

Version 05232025

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-342513-2

About the Publisher

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Contents

1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Dedication
4. Epigraph
5. Contents
6. Preface
7. Chapter 1. Escape from Colditz
8. Chapter 2. The Monopoly Man
9. Chapter 3. The Deeds of Conspirators
10. Chapter 4. The Americans Join the Game

11. Chapter 5. The Spaatz Effect and the Birth of Monopoly X

12. Chapter 6. The Top Hat: “Get Out of Jail Free”

13. Chapter 7. “That’s Too Wonderful to Be True”

14. Chapter 8. Benoîte, la Mademoiselle de la Monopoly

15. Chapter 9. Nori

16. Chapter 10. Baltic

17. Chapter 11. Monopoly and the Brothers Parker

18. Chapter 12. The Top Hat: “For Services Rendered”

19. Chapter 13. The Racecar and the Racecar

20. Chapter 14. Love and Treason

21. Chapter 15. The Cole Mission and the Operation

22. Chapter 16. The Baltic Radioman

23. Chapter 17. Fingernails, Finns, and the Fatherland

24. Chapter 18. Spaatz and the Buna-Werke

25. Chapter 19. The Last Days of Stalag Luft I

26. Chapter 20. Finale in France
27. Epilogue: The Final Accounting
28. Acknowledgments
29. Bibliography
30. Index
31. Photo Section
32. About the Author
33. Also by Philip E. Orbanes
34. Copyright
35. About the Publisher

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter 1. Escape from Colditz

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