I am often asked if I have served various places around the world, and how many languages I spoke. However, maybe on this occasion, it was good that I didn’t know one word of French. Had I known, I may not be here today.

We arrived at the Gar du Nord station in Paris on New Year’s Eve, 1952. Considering how long ago it was, it feels as fresh today as it was then.

Special Agent Christides said I was invited to one of the Inspector’s homes for New Year’s Eve Celebration and could I attend, and I said, “Of course I will.” It seemed like a splendid way to wrap up a successful operation.

Christides picked me up late in the afternoon at my hotel and he drove the Citroen outside of Paris to a beautiful big old farmhouse in the countryside. The trip took a few hours, and we stopped at a little inn to fortify ourselves against the cold. I think we arrived about 2100 in the evening.

There was a very large group at the house, which was furnished in rustic old furniture. The Inspector who owned the place- Richard?- came up and started speaking to me in perfectly serviceable English and had a pitcher in his hand. I thought was fruit juice until he poured me a drink. I don’t think my eyes got straight the rest of the evening. Typical French, when we were working with them they would only speak French, but when it was pleasure or something like this, it was surprising how well most of them spoke English.

After a wonderful New Year’s Eve dinner, and finally about 3:00 a.m., I told Christides, “I have to get back to the hotel and get my goods, I have an 0800 departure from the MATS terminal to go back to Washington.”

He looked at me owlishly and we gathered our coats to bundle up for the journey on the dark country roads to the bright lights of Paris.

As I stepped out on the top step of the upper floor of the farmhouse, my feet slipped and I fell (it had nothing to do with the Brandy, as it had been snowing) all the way down the stone stairs and landed flat on my back.

I was sufficiently lubricated that I felt fine, as though nothing was wrong. Christides sobered up well enough to keep us on the road, and dawn was coming up as we got downtown. I checked out of the hotel and was dropped at the MATS terminal in time to make the prop transport for the flight back to Washington.

After about three hours in flight I started feeling what it was like when the fruit juice effect ran out and I began to have stabbing pain in my chest and back, and presently it radiated throughout my body.

When we arrived back in Washington, I was met by two agents from the District office who had been waiting for me. I told them my problem.

They took me to the Navy Yard. Sure enough, I had three cracked ribs and they wound enough tape around me that I thought it would cause a shortage in the dispensary.

The following day I went in to the Pentagon and briefed Admiral Espe and several other officers, about what had happened and gave him the letter with the kudos from Christides and the Surete’ on the successful operation.

The DNI thanked me for a job well done, and I made the rounds of the other offices that had an interest. I briefed Bill Abbott, who recognized that Naval Intelligence required a Human Intelligence component, which had been allowed to atrophy since the end of the war. Bill sat me down and for the next two days and supervised and edited my report.

It was pretty much the way you see it above, but if you were wondering about my personal life, I will tell it to you this way.

The next time I went to Paris I had a meeting with some of the old gang. I saw Christides, and he unwrapped the last riddle from the operation against the Corsicans.

“Monsieur Duval,” he explained it to me, “Did you realize why we kept asking you whether a sailor of French descent knew any French?”

“No, I wondered about it at the time. Did you think ONI was keeping secrets from you?”

“Met non, Monsieur.” He laughed. “Of course we trust you implicitly. But the reason is that each time the Corsicans set you up with those lovely ladies there was a simple purpose. When a beautiful woman whispers sweet nothings in your ear late at night and you react to what she says in French, they would have known you were a fake. You would have never woken up the next morning. They would have been sure you were a Surete’ insert, and then they would have killed you.”

I had to think about that for a while. Sometimes I guess ignorance is bliss.

It was good to hear that a few months after the Nice project started, the printing plant in Marseilles was raided. In addition to many arrests a massive amount of United States counterfeit currency was confiscated. It had been the money machine for a political party in France that I will not name.

The Surete’ had given me a sheet of $10, $20 and $50 U.S. notes, marked counterfeit, suitable for framing. I took it back to London and made the mistake of showing it off.

It was immediately confiscated by a Senior Officer, who explained haughtily that “an enlisted man should not have something like this in his possession.” Welll, I bristled at that, but what can you do?

During the years after that when I was stationed in London, even though NATO had moved out of Paris I never had any problem finding out what I was looking for in France. My friends at Suete’ were amis for life.

It all comes down to working the street and developing contacts, no matter if you are working criminal, counterintelligence or HUMINT. It is not about just sitting behind a desk and shuffling reports.”

So ends Big Smoke’s official report of operations conducted long ago. Working the street was something that Tom Duval did very well indeed. With all his enlisted time he was able to retire at twenty years as a Lieutenant Commander. It was just in time for something else, something really important that was much more than an active duty 04 could handle.

But maybe a highly placed Navy civilian could.  More on what Big Smoke did not talk about tomorrow.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com