The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  ‘Oh, spare me the lecture,’ Robin said impatiently. ‘My job is to help you guys win the war. The best trained fighters are the communists. They’re experts in sabotage and guerrilla warfare, and I need their skills.’

  The mountain pass that cut through the island, was a winding, uneven ledge, chipped out of sheer granite slopes, falling to a swiftly flowing river in a chasm fifty yards below. The road crossed several rivers, chief of which were at Mori and at Poggio. Set about five miles apart, each river could only be crossed over ancient stone bridges. Robin had chosen the curving treacherous road between the bridges for his ambush.

  In the past three months, the resistance troops had used most of their explosives blowing bridges around Bastia. They had no bazookas or mortars, but Robin still thought that they had enough dynamite to make the bridges impassable, thus trapping the German troops in a narrow gorge.

  He placed himself, with ten of his men, around the Poggio bridge. The others were hidden among trees and rocks on either side of the road. Castelli’s squad had stayed at the Mori bridge to blow it when the convoy had passed. Then they would move along the forest, on the north side of the road, to attack through the trees. The success of the mission depended upon split-second timing.

  There was a charcoal burner’s cottage near the base of the forest. Romanetti had told the old man who lived there to get lost rapidly. Robin was always surprised by his contradictions. On the one hand, he did not like any living creature to be hurt. Yet when it came to killing the enemy, he was ruthless and exacting.

  ‘Almost here,’ Romanetti said, his voice unnaturally calm. A minute later the convoy could be heard nearing the second bridge. The shepherd took his position behind a nearby rock.

  Within minutes the enemy trucks rounded the last curve. At the sight of three motorcyclists in the lead, Robin’s stomach lurched with excitement. He needed those bikes badly. He. sent three good riflemen to a vantage point beyond the bridge. Then he yelled to Romanetti to let the bikes through before he blew the charge. After that there was nothing left but the agonizing wait.

  Minutes later an ear-shattering explosion rocked the ground. The first bridge at Mori had buckled. Simultaneously the convoy came round the last bend below them.

  Goddamnit, it was too early! The leading bikes and half-tracks were not yet on the second bridge. The enemy driver braked sharply when he heard the explosion. Behind him, the convoy slowly ground to a halt. The silence was eerie. Then two infantrymen climbed down from the half-track and began to inspect the bridge.

  Blow it, Robin prayed. Do it now, for God's sake. Blow the goddamn bridge and get the hell out of there.

  Romanetti hesitated. Robin knew why. If he took the bridge now, they would miss the chance to destroy the half-track and a dozen Boche. It was all or nothing. That was Corsicans for you. Robin sweated it out as the soldiers leaned over the rails and stared toward the shepherd. Too late! They must have seen him, for he was only half-hidden in the shadow of the cottage.

  Miraculously, they signalled to the drivers of the convoy to proceed, and the vehicles advanced toward the bridge. The half-track moved onto it. Then a cloud of dust rose in the air as the charges ignited, followed shortly afterward by the rumble of the explosion. In slow motion Robin watched stones flying through the air. The half-track tumbled into the river and burst into flames. On the other side, the motorcyclists braked and scrambled toward the ditch.

  The smoke was choking as the Maquisards let rip with their Schmeisser submachine guns. The enemy troops scattered for cover among the boulders and trees and returned the fire. Everything seemed to be in confusion now. The air was shattered with smoke and dust; visibility was down to a few yards, and the noise was intense.

  Impossible to see which of us is winning. And where the hell is CastellVs team?

  German drivers further down the convoy were trying to turn their cumbersome vehicles in the narrow road. They seemed to be unaware that they were trapped between two blown bridges. In the confusion, several more Germans were shot. Others took cover among the trees along the mountainside and fired from relative safety.

  Seeing that some of the Germans might escape, Rocca gave a yell and climbed up the bank into the road.

  ‘Get back. Take cover,’ Robin yelled, but no one listened.

  The Maquisards raced after him. Completely disregarding orders, they swarmed up the rocky slopes, following Rocca’s lead. Some dived behind the trucks. Others simply stood in the road firing into the ditches. Robin saw one man clamber onto a truck and fire down from his vantage position until he was shot.

  At last Castelli’s squad put in an appearance, racing down through the trees from the opposite side of the road.

  ‘What the hell kept those bastards?’ Robin yelled to Romanetti.

  Robin had chosen this spot in the hope that the trees and the high peaks on either side would conceal most of the smoke from Bastia. Nevertheless, time was short. Half an hour at the outside, he reckoned. The Germans would race reinforcements to the scene. The blown bridge would not hold them up for long. He swore as the first ammunition truck in the convoy exploded with an ear-splitting din. Miraculously, it was the only one to blow.

  Peering toward the mountain crest, Robin saw a long line of mules coming toward the river. To his dismay, he realized that most of them were led by women. Clad in black, scarves over their heads, they came on, ignoring the battle. Was it fifty? Or a hundred? They collected their dead and wounded, loaded the ammunition onto the pack mules, and disappeared.

  Twenty minutes later it was over. The last of the mules were disappearing into the forest. Only the Germans were left, and most of them were dead or wounded.

  Robin and Romanetti went from truck to truck, laying their charges. Without roads the trucks were of no use to the Resistance. Eventually Robin took the remaining motorbike. With the shepherd riding pillion, they returned to their camp.

  Rocca was looking pleased when they reached headquarters. This made Robin furious.

  ‘An excellent manoeuvre,’ Rocca said, handing Robin a glass of brandy. ‘We can congratulate ourselves.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Robin said cuttingly, pushing the glass aside. ‘To my mind it was a disaster. Your men don’t understand the simplest principles of crossing ground under fire. Nor do they care. What’s more, neither do you. What’s so fantastic about three good men dead and twenty-four wounded?’

  Rocca’s eyes narrowed, his lips drawn back in an ugly grimace. Robin was too angry to notice.

  ‘It’s back to school for everyone, and that includes you, Rocca. I saw you standing in the middle of the road mowing down the Boche in the ditches. What did you think they were firing at you?… dummy bullets? You looked like a fucking cowboy.’

  ‘Corsicans don’t count the cost when there’s a battle to be won,’ Rocca said stiffly. ‘My men are not cowards.’

  ‘Sure they’re not. They’re brave and loyal boys. As such, they’re valuable. Too valuable to be sacrificed for nine trucks of small arms.’

  ‘We needed the arms.’

  ‘We needed those men.’

  Now they were both shouting. Romanetti came in and stood by the doorway, watching curiously. They ignored him.

  ‘What inspired those crazy idiots to leap into the road and stand on trucks while they’re being shot at? Some sort of death wish? What’s wrong with you guys?’

  ‘My men were following my example. That’s natural.’

  ‘You won’t be setting any more examples. Not until you learn to look after your squad. I’m taking charge from now on. At least until I’ve drilled some common sense into you. You may be one hell of a politician, but you know very little about fighting. Bravery is only a part of the qualities needed.

  Robin refused to join in the celebrations. He went to visit the wounded in Taita. The village doctor was doing his best under trying conditions, but he was short of drugs and he only had the midwife to help him. Before midnight another man had died.


  Those goddamn crazy Corsicans! Robin sighed. There was only one thing that counted to them — their honour. Honour caused them to advance in a hail of machine-gun bullets; honour prompted the women to bring out their month’s food supply to give the Maquisards one good supper. Sadly, Sybilia’s honour would keep her at her post long after her cover was blown. Her crazy code would cause her death, and that was something Robin wanted to avoid at all costs. He was still thinking about her when he fell asleep.

  Chapter 34

  Major Ernst Krag’s first knowledge of the destruction of the convoy came with the arrival of the grim-faced Italian police chief, Dino Renucci. He could only report that he had found tyre tracks beyond the bridge. It was assumed that the three riders had been killed and their bikes captured.

  There was a leak, Krag insisted angrily to Renucci, and not from the German side. Only four men had had advance knowledge of the arms convoy: one was dead; one was his assistant, Lieutenant Hans Bleicher; and the other was Krag’s immediate superior in the German High Command on the mainland. It was well known that Italians were fraternizing with the pro-Italian populace. No doubt there were spies. The Germans had no intelligence forces on the island, Krag reminded Renucci. It was up to him to find those responsible for the leak. Renucci insisted he must interrogate the entire staff of the Hotel Bastia. Krag agreed, on condition the hotel’s services would not be interrupted.

  Major Krag was not satisfied. He ordered reprisals on local peasants and landowners within a ten-mile radius of the attack.

  This was all carefully recorded by Sybilia, who felt sick with fright. She hurried home to broadcast the news.

  All night local peasants heard the roar of vehicles searching for tracks through the woods and saw the river lit up by flares. Later the cyclists’ bodies were discovered in a ditch, minus their uniforms.

  By now most of the locals had been evacuated, but two farmers who had refused to leave their farms were shot in full view of their families. The charcoal burner did not return to his cottage. The Germans had to content themselves with burning it down. As a reprisal for the ambush, five citizens of Poggio were shot in the square. This, too, was relayed to Robin by Sybilia the following evening.

  Another broadcast finished. Sybilia pushed her radio receiver into its suitcase, fitting it into the false back of her wardrobe, replaced the wallpaper, and waited for the dreaded footsteps.

  It was her turn to be interrogated by Renucci. She knew because she had listened in on his daily reports to Krag.

  It was a long, exhausting wait. Every instinct urged her to flee, but she could not do that. Not if she wanted to continue working at the hotel. She must sit and act out the role of the ignorant peasant girl. Sybilia forced herself to undress and put on her nightgown. She had to appear as if this were a normal night, or they would suspect her. But she did not sleep. Instead she gazed at the black rectangle of night through the window and longed for morning. Eventually, when the sky turned a pale, translucent rose, she heard them coming.

  There were four men, and they were obviously secret police with their well-cut civilian suits, and arrogant manners. They poked around her flat in a desultory fashion, opened a few drawers, rifled through the wardrobe. They allowed her to dress. Then they walked her to the car. She sat in stony silence during the ride to headquarters in the central square, where she waited for over an hour in a draughty, gloomy passage, fearing the worst.

  I'm like a bird glued to a branch here. I can't get away. If anyone betrays me to save themselves, I'm trapped. What a fool I've been. If I ever get out of here, I'll go straight back to Taita.

  When she was pushed into the office, a stranger confronted her. The moment he began to speak she recognized Dino Renucci’s voice. Her feeling of dread grew stronger.

  Renucci was tall for an Italian — over six feet, weighing well over two hundred pounds. He had quick, restless movements, even when he was sitting behind his desk. His massive head was thrust forward while his hard brown eyes flickered alternately over her face and her body. He had a high forehead, and he was bald, giving his skull a curiously naked appearance in contrast with his thick black eyebrows. There was a suggestion of coarseness in his nose and a touch of cruelty in his grim, fleshy lips. Sybilia did not have to act intimidated. That was exactly how she felt.

  He turned to the file, reading with concentration, frowning now and then, tapping his fingers. Sybilia gazed at his face, unable to tear her eyes away.

  ‘You are Sybilia Rocca?’ He asked the question in German and then Italian.

  What am I supposed to do? After all, I can recognize my own name, can’t I?’

  ‘Yes. I understand. You were asking my name? Yes? It is Madame Sybilia Rocca,’ she replied loudly in the dialect, nodding her head as if anxious to make him understand.

  ‘My men noticed that your apartment is exceptionally clean and well furnished for a humble chambermaid,’ he said in Italian.

  ‘Please, could you speak my language? If not, I speak only a little French. If you speak slowly, I will understand you,’ she whispered. Her fear and dread were now terrible. She struggled to control her expression.

  Why did I try to bluff this man? I should have fled into the maquis. Those terrible eyes. They seem to look right through you.

  He repeated his sentence in French, and on impulse Sybilia decided that a show of rebellion might stand her in good stead.

  ‘There is nothing humble about my job,’ she said sourly. ‘Jobs are hard to come by, and I earn an honest living. As for the sculpture and the decor in my flat, it was done by my husband, Michel, who was a stonemason before you invaded our island. He is serving with the Free French in Algeria.’ She could not meet his eyes; instead she looked at her hands.

  Ohy God, what have I said? Now he'll go back and search my rooms more carefully, and he'll find the radio. I'm lost. Any minute now they're going to drag me down to their terrible interrogation cells in the basement. I won't escape. I'll die there.

  There was a very long silence while he studied her. ‘Exquisite,’ he said quickly in Italian. ‘Quite exquisite, and courageous, too. I shall continue this interrogation personally from time to time. In the meantime, let her go.’

  She was so relieved she almost stood up.

  God protect me! I nearly gave myself away.

  ‘You may go,’ his assistant said in the dialect.

  From his accent Sybilia knew he was Corsican and that he came from the south, near Ajaccia. ‘Traitor,’ she said. She spat at him as she hurried out, knowing that this was in keeping with the image she had tried to project. It would be only a matter of time before Renucci came knocking on her door, but she would deal with that problem when it occurred.

  Outside, a car was waiting to take her and two other maids to the hotel. Evidently Krag was not keen to suffer too much inconvenience over the interrogation. She was not even late. As for returning to Taita, what nonsense! She’d been a momentary coward. She would forget all about that now, and work all the harder.

  If you discounted the dead and wounded and those killed in the German reprisals, the capture of nine trucks full of small arms and ammunition was still significant, or so Robin thought at first.

  Then Rocca waylaid him at headquarters. ‘This is what happens when they send boys to do a man’s job,’ he said contemptuously to Romanetti. He turned to Robin. ‘My men gave their lives for something they believed in. We needed those armaments desperately. Now, because of you, they lost their lives for nothing. Less than nothing. After the war those guns will be turned on us. Castelli and his communist friends have stolen over half of the arms. You let them walk off with it all — right under your nose. What sort of a fool are you? Why don’t you piss off back to America?’

  Robin watched Rocca sit down and light his pipe. His face was paler than usual. He’d lost weight in the mountains. His eyes seemed more slanting, his smile more sinister. He looked pleased with himself rather than distressed. That annoyed Robin.
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  ‘You fucking Boy Scout,’ Xavier went on. ‘We got less than half of what we fought for. You should have put guards on the mules.’

  ‘No. You should have seen to that,’ Robin retorted. ‘You know the people here. You knew what to expect. Now get off your backside. Take your squad and retrieve every box.’

  ‘Captain Moore, you’re making a mistake in speaking to me like this.’ Rocca fingered his knife.

  Robin stepped forward and leaned over him. ‘I’ve got you sized up, Rocca. You won’t knife me in full view of all your men. That wouldn’t be a politically viable act, would it? A dark night is more your style. Well, I’m telling you now, I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Robin made an effort to pull himself together. ‘Now listen to me, Rocca. Those men dying didn’t win the battle. We’d have won anyway, even if they’d stayed under cover. Why don’t you start getting smart? Think up some strategy to recover those armaments.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Rocca said. ‘By now they’ve got the arms so well hidden we’d never find them. They could be anywhere in Corsica.’

  ‘Then guard what’s left,’ Robin snarled.

  Rocca was right, of course. There was little point in stirring up strife between the Resistance groups. They’d never recover the arms anyway.

  Robin felt vaguely uneasy as he stormed out of the chalet. He was destroying Rocca. He didn’t want to. It was not an intentional act on his part, but like all very proud men, Rocca was vulnerable.

  ‘To hell with him and his crazy pride,’ he muttered, and tried to dismiss the matter from his mind.

  Robin settled down to a boring period of trying to train and control the Maquisards. The best way, he discovered, was to keep them busy and active. This prevented them from turning on each other. He worked out an ambitious and ruthless campaign against all the coastal garrisons. He sold this plan to Rocca, who accepted it reluctantly. It involved attacking trains and convoys, rail links and roads. Hardly a day went past without some casualty for the invaders somewhere.