Finally, completely surrounded by an overwhelming force, Ortiz decided to surrender in order to save the villagers. He probably knew that he and his men, as members of an OSS team, would likely be executed. During a lull in the firing, he shouted a surrender proposal in German. The enemy commander agreed to his terms to spare the village. Ortiz then called his men to attention, reminded them that they were Marines and to give the enemy only their name, rank and serial number. Risler could see that the short speech had impressed the Germans — but that they were somewhat upset when they realized the surrendering force consisted of only three men. They thought they had captured a battalion.

The men — now including Arcelin, who had been captured in a nearby orchard — were taken to Ger­man headquarters for interrogation. Ortiz told them to claim they were paratroopers from the landings in Normandy — they wore U.S. Army–type jackets — because Adolf Hitler had issued orders to execute all OSS agents who were caught. It was not an idle threat. Risler remembered a junior officer who stalked by and pointed a pistol at them. “Kaput!” he exclaimed.

For several weeks the four men were transported to various locations, finally arriving on September 29 at Marlag/Milag Nord, a permanent camp for naval POWs outside the German city of Bremen. Although prisoners considered it one of the best-run camps in Germany, the Union II team members were thrown into solitary confinement there, with the men interrogated three or four times a day by an officer of the Kriegsmarine. Risler thought the officer looked a lot like Hermann Göring; they had the same beefy build. At first the interrogator was friendly, but he soon showed his true colors when the Marines refused to “cut a record for the folks back home” — well aware that any German invitation to send a message home was likely a propaganda ploy. A fellow prisoner, a U.S. Navy officer, got word to the International Red Cross of the Marines’ treatment, and in November 1944 the men were taken out of solitary confinement and transferred back to the facility’s main camp.

Most of the inmates at the camp were British sailors and Royal Marines who had been captured during commando raids, such as the one on the French port of Dieppe in August 1942. Relationships among the two nationalities were excellent — bound by their common dislike of their guards. Some of the British prisoners had created a homemade radio, which was kept in a Red Cross plywood box hidden under the floor beneath one of their bunks. The prisoners used it to listen to the BBC’s daily broadcast at 2100 hours, and one of them would then verbally deliver the latest news to the others. The Germans suspected there was a radio somewhere in the camp but never found it despite detailed searches.

The prisoners outdid themselves in devising dirty tricks to play on their captors. One particularly nasty prank had the prisoners chuckling for months. Several men bargained 200 cigarettes for a bottle of cognac that had already been opened. They told the guard they wanted to make certain it hadn’t been watered down. The German fell for it and gave them the bottle, which they took into the barracks and emptied into a container. Then they urinated in the bottle, sealed it and gave it back, saying the price was too high. Risler took some satisfaction from imagining the surprise of the next German guard to come across that bottle.

On April 10, 1945, the Allies were advancing into the area near the camp, and the Germans decided to evacuate the prisoners ahead of any would-be rescuers. Risler, Bodnar, Arcelin and a Navy gunner’s mate, Charles Mulchy, devised a plan to be left behind. With the help of a fellow prisoner, they cut a section from the wooden floorboards of a small storage building and hid in the crawl space. An accomplice then sprinkled pepper over their hideout to throw off the German guard dogs’ sensitive noses. The space was only about a foot high, not allowing the men to change position. But the uncomfortable gamble paid off, and they weren’t discovered.

About 10 days after the Germans had evacuated the other prisoners, a familiar face unexpectedly reappeared in camp. It was Ortiz. He had been housed in a separate part of the camp, along with other officers, and Risler had assumed he was long gone with the other prisoners. As it turned out, the column of departing men had come under attack from RAF Super­marine Spitfires, and Ortiz and three other prisoners had escaped. Bad water and a lack of food had left them sick and weak, how­ever. They returned to the vicinity of the camp, conducted reconnaissance, and finding it virtually under the control of the prisoners, decided to take their chances with the camp again.

Less than a week later, German tanks retreated from the area. The following morning, April 28, 1945, the prisoners awoke to an unusual calm. Then a welcome sound gently parted the morning quiet: the unforgettable skirling of bagpipes. A piper, sitting on the turret of a Sherman tank, grandly announced the arrival of the 1st Scots Armored Division — and freedom.

Ever game, Ortiz volunteered himself and the rest of the Union II team to join them for the fight. The request was respectfully declined. Instead, the men were flown to Brussels and then to Paris for V-E Day. Risler thought with wry amusement that the uniforms they wore on the Champs d’Elysées that day would have made a drill instructor sob: Marine overseas caps, black shirts, tie, Army olive drab pants and paratrooper jump boots. The team was given 30 days’ leave after returning to the States and then ordered to report to the West Coast. When the war ended, they were training for a mission in French Indochina.

Risler, Bodnar and La Salle were awarded the Silver Star for the Union II mission, while Ortiz received a second Navy Cross. While their exploits are little known in the United States, they haven’t been forgotten in France. In 1984 the team was invited back to France for the 40th anniversary of its mission, and in 1994, for the mission’s 50th anniversary. Ortiz, ill with the cancer that would take his life in 1988, was unable to attend. Only Risler and Bodnar were able to make it both times. In tribute, they were wined, dined and honored by former members of the Resistance — their comrades in arms.