The Leatherneck Resistance: A Secret World War II OSS Mission

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Dunham House loomed out of the English countryside that November evening in 1943, a dark shape in a dark setting. Marine Platoon Sergeant Jack Risler stepped up to the heavy front door, knocked and watched it swing open to reveal a colleague, Major Bruce Cheever, in Marine-issue trousers and shirt, a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. Framed by a massive fireplace, Cheever pulled a cord dangling next to it, summoning an aide to take their drink orders. “Welcome, we’ve been expecting you,” he told the small group of men before him.

The air of mystery was fitting given the mission Risler was about to undertake, even if Cheever’s welcome seemed like something straight out of a B movie. Risler and seven other Marine paratroopers had arrived in England that night to report for duty with the Office of Strategic Services, the wartime precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency. The OSS was involved in a series of clandestine missions in support of resistance movements in occupied Europe, and Cheever had recruited the eight men to serve as instructors at a newly created British-American parachute school that was a key part of the effort.

“Would you like to do something different?” was howCheever had broached the topic with Risler earlier that year, when both men were parachute instructors at New River (now Camp Lejeune), N.C. “Never volunteer,” Risler knew the old saw went, but he thought: What the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes sir,” he replied, wondering what he had volunteered for. As time went by, Risler would learn just how different “something different” could be: as different as being a Marine in Europe, in a war where most of the Corps battles were taking place in the Pacific; and as different as being one of the few leather­neck paratroopers to actually be airdropped into combat — a rare occurrence during World War II.

By July 1944, Risler had been training Special Operations agents for about eight months. Most of the agents were French, although nearly every European nationality was represented at one time or another. The students — men and women — were known as “Joes” or “Josephines,” since no one used their real names. Everyone wore a uniform, even civilians. The training, all condensed into one action-packed week, consisted of five or six jumps using planes from the nearby British airfield RAF Ringway and a drop zone at Tatton Park, a Cheshire estate with extensive grounds.

Following one typically busy week that July, Risler and two American compatriots were able to wrangle a 72-hour pass to the big city. Wartime London, with its blackouts and nightly air raids, was not exactly a tourist Mecca — but then again, it offered liberty-bound Marines a refreshing alternative to hand-to-hand combat in the garden. The men were near Marble Arch, in Hyde Park, when a familiar face came unexpectedly into view. “What are you guys doing here?” Marine Major Peter Ortiz wanted to know.

Tall, movie-star handsome, with an Oxford accent, Ortiz would have cut a remarkable figure under any circumstance. Moreover, there was his larger-than-life reputation to contend with. Ortiz had been a student of Risler’s at New River. Educated in France, he had begun his military service as a 19-year-old member of the French Foreign Legion, had fought the Germans early in the war, been wounded, captured, escaped and made his way to the United States. Ortiz enlisted in the Corps after recuperating from his wounds and, upon graduation from Parris Island, was commissioned in August 1942. Fluent in five languages, he was quickly recognized and recruited by the OSS.

Ortiz had recently returned from a successful OSS mission to France code-named “Union.” Its purpose was to contact, organize and arm groups of the Free French Resistance fighters called maquisards, or the Maquis, in the southeastern region of France known as the Haute Savoie. The Maquis was a vital part of the defense against the Germans, and it was important that its forces be strengthened before the impending Normandy invasion in June 1944. Parachuting into France on a moonless night in January 1944, Ortiz found the local freedom fighters willing — but terribly underequipped. Ortiz also conducted hit-and-run raids on enemy supply centers and developed particular notoriety for his expertise in stealing German staff cars, which he boldly drove back to his hideaways.

As one story making the rounds went, a civilian-dressed Ortiz had been in a nightclub in Lyons one fateful night as several German officers were letting off steam. One began damning President Franklin D. Roosevelt and then the United States — and ended the tirade by damning the U.S. Marine Corps. Ortiz quietly left, put on his uniform, donned a raincoat and returned. He ordered a round of drinks and, when they were served, threw off his raincoat and stood before the Germans brandishing a .45 automatic.

“A toast,” Ortiz declared, standing tall in full greens and decorations, “to the president of the United States!” He ordered another round and made the Germans drink a toast to the United States, and then to the Marine Corps. After the Germans drained their glasses, Ortiz backed out of the nightclub, his pistol covering the astonished hosts, and disappeared into the night.

In July 1944, Ortiz was looking for volunteers to return with him to France. “Want to do something exciting?” was how he put it to the three men standing before him in Hyde Park. Where have I heard this before? thought Risler.

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Tags: 20th - 21st Century, Airborne Operations, Historical Conflicts, World War II

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