He landed just past the lake. By instinct, he rolled to the nearest concealing rock and dragged in his parachute. As he set off down the hill in deep snow, he remembered the dispatcher's gibe. By the time the Corsican patriots found him, Robin was floundering in a snowdrift.
As they approached he heard the click of a gun being changed from ‘safe’ to ‘fire’ position. He flung himself back behind a rock.
‘Hey there,’ he yelled in French. ‘I’m American.’
‘Come out and put your hands on your head.’
‘Hey, what is it with you guys? Rocca knows about me.’
‘Never heard of him.’ They sounded a little more doubtful this time.
Robin scrambled out with his hands on his head.
There were three rough-looking men, unshaven and shabbily dressed in black corduroy with very old rifles aimed at him. On closer examination he confirmed that one held a French 1892 M-16 service rifle and the other an old English Lee-Enfield. He couldn’t believe it. ‘You guys been raiding a museum?’ he asked.
He was grabbed by one of them and pushed aside with unnecessary force. No sense of humour, he thought. He could make short work of the three of them, armed or not, but what was the point? He was here to make friends, wasn’t he?
There was a good deal of arguing in the local dialect. Robin couldn’t understand a word, so instead he looked around at the endless snowy peaks stretching out into the cold, moonlit sky. Below was a black void. Far away a tiny cluster of lights bravely flickered in the darkness.
Eventually they turned to him. ‘They say you are a Boche pretending to be American,’ the leader said triumphantly. ‘Can you prove who you are?’
‘Not right now… unless you call Xavier Rocca.’
They tied his hands behind his back and shoved him roughly down the mountainside.
‘Hey now! Wait a minute!’
‘Shut up!’ Their leader, Leca, a short, stooped man with arms as long as a baboon’s, shoved him forward with the butt of his rifle. Robin struggled down an icy slope, cursing all the way.
Shortly afterward another group came straggling up in the snow. They were led by an imposing figure of a man, who towered head and shoulders above the rest. Robin had been shown a photograph of Xavier Rocca, but with the scarf around his head and a heavy coat muffling his figure, it was impossible to figure out if this was the right person.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Captain Robin Moore,’ Robin said. ‘And it’s goddamn difficult to walk through snow with your hands tied behind your back.’
‘So what is the password?’
‘I don’t know. What d’you think this is? Boy Scouts’ Day? Fuck the password and go fuck yourselves.’
‘Yes, he is American,’ their leader said genially. ‘I know an American when I see one. I was there before the war. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Xavier Rocca. Untie him at once. Welcome to Corsica, Captain Moore.’
Chapter 31
An hour later Robin was sitting in Rocca’s front room. He was in a village called Taita, which was not on any of the maps he had been given. He was drinking a rough, homemade brandy with the toughest-looking bunch of thugs he’d ever seen assembled together. Mean! he thought. Real mean! Best keep on the right side of these bastards.
Xavier Rocca was dressed in a black corduroy suit, with a wide red cummerbund around his waist, and a red cravat. In the dim lamplight he seemed larger than life. Robin reckoned he weighed two hundred and forty pounds, all solid muscle. He was a remarkable-looking man. Robin had surreptitiously compared him to the photograph he’d been given, but the black-and-white likeness gave no indication of the startling colour in his face: the black curly hair, the glacial blue eyes, and bushy black moustache, which was carefully groomed. His mouth was unusually wide, his teeth large and white. When he smiled he looked kindly, but at other times his face revealed an animal like ferocity that was disconcerting. He would make a formidable enemy, Robin thought.
In Corsica, Xavier’s word was obviously law. He was a born leader, too, Robin could see, but not one who would suffer discipline easily, unless it was self-imposed. If Corsica was full of men like Rocca, he could well understand the Allies’ problem.
In spite of Robin’s friendly grin and flamboyant good humour, he was sensitive to the point of clairvoyance. He could almost smell the Corsican’s distrust and resentment. Bad enough that the Allies had sent one of their own men — but to send an American was tantamount to an insult.
That night Rocca’s living room was full to overflowing with his comrades. The drinking went on for hours. Robin was introduced to the Rocca-led partisans. He tried to memorize their names while making his own private assessment, searching for their strengths and their weaknesses. He was especially impressed with Paul Barnard, a shepherd; Pierre Castelli, son of the local shoe maker; Angelo Serra, a stonemason from Bastia, and Michel Rocca, Xavier’s son.
Robin was surprised at the contrast between Rocca and his son. In spite of Michel’s effeminate looks and his obvious liaison with Angelo, Robin sensed an underlying steellike resolve. Angelo Serra was a tough and dangerous man who could be trusted only because he hated the invaders to the exclusion of any other emotion. Barnard was the quiet stoic whose word would be honoured. Pierre was quick and clever and a close friend of Michel’s.
Shortly afterward, Antoine Romanetti came in and introduced himself. He was a tall, blond, blue-eyed shepherd. Despite his vocation, he was extraordinarily well read, Robin soon discovered. He wanted to discuss the war news and the political wrangling behind the scenes. Robin sensed that Romanetti was an independent thinker who would go his own way and accept discipline with difficulty. There was no doubting his intelligence or his integrity. He seemed to have no great loyalty to Rocca, either. Robin singled him out as a man he could trust.
When the Corsicans had put away enough liquor to down an army, the Rocca women and neighbours brought in bdwls of mutton soup, thick with meat and dumplings, plates of cheeses and olives, and mountains of vegetables.
Robin groaned inwardly at the prospect of another large meal. He was doing his best to look enthusiastic when he almost dropped his plate with astonishment. The woman who was approaching him, carrying a bowl of olives, was so voluptuous it hurt. He jumped to his feet and tried to conceal his reaction to her, but he could only stare silently, totally absorbed by her presence. She was an incredible beauty. Her appeal, however, lay in her underlying sensuality. Here was the ripe fruit of womanhood left too long on the tree, pleading to be picked.
Who was she? She was so young. Too young a custodian for all this incredible loveliness. Robin seemed to be standing at the mouth of a long tunnel where she was alone at the other end. For a few moments nothing else existed for him. He knew at once that this was the woman he wanted. To hell with the Corsicans and their taboos. His eyes said as much as he took the bowl of olives from her hand.
She flushed. For a moment her eyes wavered. Then she regained her courage and smiled straight at him. ‘Captain Moore, my name is Sybilia Rocca. I am also a member of the Resistance. I operate a radio transmitter. I’m sorry I was not here to welcome you when you arrived. To tell the truth, I was waiting at the right place, but you were not. Papa and Michel went to fetch you, but I decided not to brave those snowdrifts. Hardly a hero’s welcome. I’m sorry.’
Her voice was low and cultured; her French was flawless. So this was the relative Major Hartman had mentioned; not just a relative, but Xavier’s daughter. How did that old bastard spawn a lovely girl like this?
She switched to precise, English: ‘We’re so grateful for your help, Captain Moore.’ Robin’s astonishment was too obvious for good manners. He tried to pull himself together. Suddenly he became aware of Rocca’s angry gaze, so he turned away with murmured thanks.
Sybilia rushed back to the kitchen and tried to compose herself. She had never seen anyone quite as appealing as Captain Robin Moore. But was he handsome? No, not really
; his nose was too broad and looked as if it had been broken. A lovely nose just the same, she thought. His eyes were deep blue. They seemed to hold a special message just for her.
‘Tough-looking man,’ she heard Carlotta whisper to Maria distastefully.
How wrong she was. He wasn’t like that at all. He was the most sympathetic man she had ever seen. Someone you could trust, she was sure, someone who cared. There was humour there, too, and compassion. She did not know what prompted her to run up to her room and burst into tears. ‘Why?’ she kept murmuring. ‘Why? Why did you have to come here? Of all places?’
Captain Moore obviously thought she was Xavier’s daughter. Well, she would have to show him that she was not. And quickly, too. Everyone had noticed his interest in her.
To Robin, the sight of Sybilia bringing her baby to say goodnight to its father was like a dagger in his gut. So she was married to Michel. What a waste! He grieved for that sad, lovely, girl. When she left shortly afterward, the room seemed strangely empty.
That night Robin slept on a comfortable goose-down mattress in Xavier’s home. It was the last comfortable night for many weeks. At dawn he left with Rocca to tour the various Resistance groups. He wanted to improve communications and cooperation between the leaders. He found fierce, rough squads of men who only had one common aim and that was killing the invaders. They were short of weapons and training, but there was no lack of determination.
It was strangely archaic travelling around the island on foot and by mule. There were few roads, but dropping several dozen motorbikes might ease communications somewhat. This would be his first request to headquarters, he decided. Ideally they should operate under one leader with mutually planned strategy. Xavier Rocca was their man, but listening to him, Robin realized that he had no strategy. He lacked soldiering or any technical training. He was, plain and simply, a politician. It was totally impracticable to expect Rocca to control more than his Taitan squad. Robin wondered if he could control the men through Rocca. Ostensibly he would be maintaining liaison between the groups, but in fact he would be leading them, using Rocca’s name. He reckoned it was worth a try. At least he must instill some sense of discipline. Perhaps with Rocca’s help he could get their wholehearted cooperation. As for holding them back, you could as well tell the wind to stop blowing or the tides to hold off for the duration of the war.
Chapter 32
Armed with a master key, Sybilia wheeled her trolley from one hotel bedroom to the next. Her daily task of scanning the waste baskets had not yet yielded any information, but she had overheard a number of plans, which she had relayed to Captain Robin Moore.
It was three months since Robin had taken charge of liaison of the Resistance groups. In the face of Rocca’s antagonism, he was winning their grudging respect. He never sent men on a dangerous mission without leading them himself. He slept out in the bush in all weathers. He was even polite and grateful when the villagers invited him for a meal. Yet in spite of his gentle manners and warmth, he was expert in unarmed combat and sabotage, which he taught with great enthusiasm. He was a superb shot, too, and he had shown that he could match the Corsicans at horse riding and hunting.
Sybilia knew what a difficult position Robin was in. She would have liked to warn him of the pitfalls of Corsican infighting, but he seemed to avoid her as much as he could, even when they were both in Taita.
With his rugged good looks and warm, humorous eyes, he was becoming every woman’s hero as well. Sybilia adored him and worked all hours to demonstrate her usefulness. She did not succeed. Did he dislike her? she wondered. Or was it just that he did not trust her? Surely he could see how necessary she was. She could not understand why he badgered Xavier and Michel to send her back to Taita, forcibly if necessary. It was out of the question, of course. The Maquisards needed her. No one else had her grasp of languages. Well, what did it matter? she told herself daily. She had been recruited by the Free French, and she had a job to do. All the same, she was surprised and then hurt by his attitude.
Major Ernst Krag, commander of the German garrison in Corsica, had taken over half of the Hotel Bastia. Ostensibly his reason was that it afforded a superb clifftop view over the harbour and parts of the main city centre. Members of the Resistance had gone to considerable lengths to research Major Krag’s background. They had noted that Krag’s rapid rise to his present position had more to do with his Nazi affiliations and relatives than with his skill as a soldier. He was both flamboyant and selfish, despised by his fellow officers, feared by his subordinates. His looks were exemplary in his Teutonic world: blue eyes, ash-blond hair, pink complexion. But behind the groomed exterior lurked an emotional cripple. Krag was a casualty of the eastern front. This post in Corsica was his compensation for three toes lost from frost bite and a long spell in hospital after a nervous breakdown.
Krag was a gourmet. Knowing his tastes, the Resistance had acquired a three-star chef — a man who in peacetime had run a superb restaurant in Cannes — and they had ensconced him in the hotel’s kitchen. It was only a matter of days before the major and his staff operated exclusively from the hotel. Already Krag paid only cursory visits to the old building in the main square originally commandeered for his headquarters.
In prewar days the hotel had prided itself on its first-class recitals of chamber music. The concert room, which took up the entire northern wing of the first floor, had been converted into operational headquarters. Here Krag had his desk and his maps of North Africa and Europe, covered with flags and arrows, all of which were superfluous. He had nothing more important to do than supervise the occupation of a relatively unimportant island.
The Resistance had converted a small room above the concert hall into an additional linen cupboard. Behind the shelves, piled high with sheets, towels, and tablecloths, was a concealed space just large enough for Sybilia to sit at a table. With the help of an amplifier laid into the ceiling of the room below, connected to headphones, she listened in on Krag’s conversations.
She was leaning over a bed smoothing the bedspread when Jean Martoli, headwaiter and Resistance member, harried in. He jerked his thumb toward the floor below. Sybilia wheeled her trolley out.
She had only seen Major Ernst Krag in passing, but she knew his voice well along with those of every one of his staff. She had not yet caught a glimpse of Captain Dino Renucci, head of the Italian secret police, but he, too, called on Major Krag daily. Sybilia could recognize his soft, insidious voice.
She hurried to the cupboard, locked the door behind her, and grabbed her earphones. Renucci was annoyed. She could tell that from his tone of voice, which had become a hiss that whined into the headphones and stung her ears. Krag was lecturing him because Louis Poli, a Resistance leader from the southern part of the island, had managed to hang himself in his cell, thereby cheating his interrogators. Krag was furious.
After this they discussed the strengths of the various coastal garrison towns. Krag spent a great deal of time discussing the necessity of rationing supplies until their next supply ship arrived. The inability of his troops to conquer the interior, so that they could live off the island’s farm produce, was a constant annoyance to Krag.
After an hour Sybilia thought she would faint from lack of air. The Resistance had given no thought to ventilation when they’d constructed her small space. Now it was too late. She dreaded the coming summer months.
Shortly afterward she heard Krag’s chief of staff, Captain Otto Weinrauch, come into the room. Suddenly she forgot her cramped conditions in her eagerness to hear their conversation.
An hour later, clad in her peasant black, a scarf pulled tightly over her face, Sybilia hurried out of the servant’s entrance of the hotel. Taking her bicycle, she pedalled to her flat, which was only ten minutes away. It was a lovely March evening. Fluffy clouds, tinged with red hung over the misty horizon. The sea was covered with a pearl-grey mist that had crept into the streets, blurring the outlines of boats and houses. Sybilia had no time to w
aste gazing at scenery. She flung her bicycle against the wall and raced upstairs to her apartment.
Her radio transmitter was concealed behind the false back of the wardrobe. Captain Moore had warned her of the danger of keeping it in her home, but she had not yet been able to find another suitable hiding place. Five minutes later she was sending out her message in Morse code.
A shipload of armaments will arrive in Bastia on the steamer Dunkerque, at noon on Wednesday 7 April. Apart from the standard Mauser rifles, there will be Schmeisser MP-40 submachine guns, MG-34 belt-fed heavy machine guns, and several dozen mortars. The cargo will be transferred to waiting trucks for transportation across the island to Saint Florent and other west coast garrisons where resupply is urgently needed.
Then Sybilia stowed away her radio transmitter and hurried back to the hotel. She spent the next few hours scrubbing bathrooms and making beds. She hummed to herself as she worked. Now Captain Robin Moore would see how useful she was.
Chapter 33
From bitter experience, Robin had learned to distrust much of the intelligence he received. If an armoured car and a truck moved into a town, invariably he was told it was a battalion. Two half-tracks made a Panzer regiment. But Sybilia had a habit of being accurate, he’d learned. So he thanked God he’d taken the necessary steps to cope with the manpower he would need. He had Rocca and his squad of twenty men, to which he had added Castelli’s communist buddies, numbering fifty in all. Rocca had exploded when he heard about the communists being included in the raid. They’d had a bitter fight in the mountain chalet that served as their headquarters, and Robin had eventually pulled rank on Rocca, overruling his objections.
Rocca’s anger was not just a matter of self-vindication, Romanetti pointed out to Robin as they made their way toward Poggio. By pushing Castelli’s squad into the limelight, Moore was striking at the foundation of the island’s clan loyalties, on which the delicate balance of Corsican democracy rested.
The Corsican Woman Page 17