The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  When they were sitting down awkwardly, side by side, he put his thumb and finger under her chin and tilted her face toward him. Then he smiled. It was a slow smile that began with the crinkling of his eyes and spread slowly to his cheeks: an intimate smile that enfolded her like a warm blanket. Then he reached out and touched her hair, smoothing it back from her face.

  ‘Last night I made a fool of myself,’ he said. ‘I drank too much. Foolish! I hardly ever do, but I felt relaxed in your kitchen. It reminded me of home. Hope I didn’t make trouble for you -I mean with Michel.’

  Michel couldn’t care less. He spent the night in Angelo’s arms. How she longed to say those words, but that would be disloyal. Instead she shook her head, feeling tongue-tied.

  ‘Sybilia, listen to me. I need a radio operator at headquarters. I have to keep in touch with the leaders of the Resistance. I don’t speak the dialect.’

  ‘There are plenty of men who do. Besides, who would listen to Major Krag’s conversations?’

  She was teasing him. ‘Anyone but you,’ he said sulkily.

  Her eyes veered away from him. She was not able to look him straight in the eyes for long. It was too intimate. Glancing anywhere but at Robin, she noticed that the sun was gone. How quickly the weather could change in the mountains in April. The mist was rolling down the mountain flanks like spirals of smoke.

  ‘I like my job,’ she lied.

  ‘You’re so obstinate,’ he said, almost losing his temper.

  ‘Do you know what they do to women spies? Sybilia, you’re not going back.’

  She shuddered.

  ‘You’re cold.’

  ‘It’s just because the sun’s gone.’

  What a nerve. Why is he so sure of himself? Does he always get his own way with women? Do they sink into his arms and agree to anything he says?

  ‘Captain Moore, you cannot tell me what to do. You have no right to try. If my husband and father-in-law feel that the risks are justified, then it is my duty to go.’

  ‘Don’t you have any rights or feelings?’

  ‘I want to help win the war.’

  ‘The war will be won with or without you,’ he said. Suddenly, unbelievably, his arm moved around her shoulders.

  ‘You’re cold. I want to warm you,’ he explained.

  ‘There’s a raincoat in Pierre’s basket,’ she said stiffly.

  Why don't I stand up and walk home? What's wrong with me? I should feel insulted, but I don't, and I can't bear to go.

  He fetched the raincoat and put it around both of them.

  At that moment nothing else existed for Sybilia but her immediate sensations: the smell of Robin’s skin, his breath on her cheeks, and the delicious warmth of his thigh pressed against hers. She longed to reach out and touch him. The intimacy of the shared raincoat was the most exciting experience of her life.

  ‘Must I spell it out for you?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘You’re a liability, because you’re too lovely. The Boche and the Macaronis will be after you just because of your looks. They’ll be like wasps around a honey jar. You won’t be able to get rid of them. Eventually you’ll drop your cover.’

  ‘I can look after myself. Believe me, Captain Moore, you underestimate me.’

  ‘Robin,’ he said.

  ‘All right. Robin!’ Just saying his name lowered her defences. ‘I want to be needed. I have to do something worthwhile. My work is all I have.’ She smiled sadly. ‘You’ll never understand my situation.’

  She looked so wretched. All his resolve melted. ‘I need you,’ he muttered. ‘And I do understand. Really I do. I care for you more than I should, Sybilia. The moment I saw you, I realized that you were my sort of girl. When I found out that you were married to Michel, I, well… I can’t explain how I felt. Sort of cheated.

  ‘My feelings for you are not going to cause you any trouble. I just want you to know, that’s all.’ He pressed his fingers into her shoulder. ‘The last thing I want to do is be a pest. So, in the future, if I seem to be avoiding you, you’ll know why.’

  ‘Oh, Robin,’ she gasped. ‘Well, the truth is I feel just as you do. But it’s too late. Oh, Robin, I want to explain how it is with Michel and me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain. I’ve watched Michel with Angelo, and with you.’

  They sensed that there was nothing else to say. Silence was enough. Words would only get in the way. They sat close together, her hand in his.

  Eventually they had to leave. Side by side they walked through the trees and parted at the edge of the forest.

  ‘We’ll never be able to be together like this again,’ she said.

  He caught hold of her and kissed her. They clung to each other for a long time.

  ‘We both know how we feel,’ Robin said. ‘We care for each other. That’s enough.’

  As he watched her hurry away, he wondered if she would return to Bastia or stay in the mountains with his troops. Sybilia had a mind of her own. Nothing he could say or do would influence her in the least. He knew that.

  Chapter 38

  Sybilia was spending most of her life in the dark, airless cupboard. No one else spoke German well enough to share the work with her. Her face grew pale and haggard, her eyes seemed larger and more luminous, she was draining away her youth. Sometimes at night she would dream of being normal: of sunlight and laughter, a family who loved her and who stayed with her, a man to hug her. In the morning she would experience a physical pang of fear in her guts as reality dawned. It was not so much a fear of the war or of being caught. It was a dread of the cupboard, of living and growing old there. It was as if she had been deprived of life.

  She would dress and leave earlier than necessary in order to cycle out of the town and around the hedgerows, admire the trees and the sky. Then off to that miserable cupboard for the day. Today, as she crouched in the dark, she could picture them exactly: Major Ernst Krag, a man of curious contrasts with his fanatic’s eyes, his red gourmet’s face, and his butcher’s hands. Then there was his assistant: Lieutenant Hans Bleicher, a paler, slighter version of Krag, but perhaps more deadly.

  As she listened to a low mumble of voices, the slurp of swallowed coffee, the crunch of buttered scones, she felt nauseated. She had a headache, and her back was breaking. They should have remembered her need for fresh air when they’d created this miserable cupboard, she thought. But she would never complain. No, not for anything. She wanted to play her part in winning this war.

  Krag was in unusually high spirits, she noticed. He was teasing Bleicher about his latest conquest. Bleicher did not like being teased, she knew from his mumbled replies. Sybilia felt vaguely uneasy.

  Why is Krag in such a good mood? He should be tense, shouldn't he? The scheduled arms convoy is due to leave this afternoon. At this moment the ship is being unloaded. So why is he laughing?

  The sergeant on guard announced the arrival of Captain Dino Renucci. As she listened to a long preamble of area reports and Krag’s instructions concerning the arms shipment, she was more conscious of her headache and her urge to stretch her legs than anything else.

  Renucci left at last. After a short silence Krag laughed heartily. ‘This time, Hans… this time we’ve got them. Only you and I will know. Even you don’t know yet. More to the point: Renucci doesn’t know.

  ‘Now, listen. The men are on standby for a special exercise. I’m putting you in charge. Don’t fail me, Hans. Here’s the plan… ’

  Sybilia listened for a long time. She felt limp with shock. She must go, at once, without making a sound. What time was it? Ten A.M. Somehow she must leave early and warn Robin. At that moment all was forgotten — the war, the arms, the Resistance, she was only aware of her fear for the safety of Captain Robin Moore.

  Half an hour later she was pedalling slowly through cobbled streets. ‘Mustn't look anxious. Mustn't hurry,' she whispered to herself.

  It seemed hours before she reached home, locked the door, and dragged out her heavy suitcase.


  She could not raise Robin. The station was closed down.

  Oh, God. What am I going to do?

  She burst into tears of frustration. Crying won’t help anyone, she lectured herself. She began again. An hour later she heard an answering signal and almost burst into tears of relief. It was Rocca, she deciphered. Robin was already at the Poggio bridge planning the attack, but he’d probably return later. The rest were putting the gear together. If it was urgent, he could send a messenger by motorbike.

  She tapped out her message: Advise Captain Moore that the convoy to Saint Florent via Poggio bridge is a trap. Two hundred infantry will be concealed in trucks. It is an ambush intended to wipe out the Resistance. The real shipment will be sent to Saint Florent via Cap Corse. Confirm that you understand and will inform Moore immediately.

  The reply was in the affirmative.

  Sybilia leaned back. After a while she allowed herself a small smile. When she tried to stand up, she found she was shaking from delayed shock. Her legs had turned to rubber, but after a cup of coffee she felt sufficiently recovered to return to the hotel.

  Fate had shown him exactly how to deal with his two bete noires, but there were complications, chiefly Michel Nevertheless, Rocca grinned at this sudden stroke of luck. It was so perfect. Just perfect! He would wipe out Moore and Angelo in one lucky move. But what to do about Michel? His son must be prevented from going to Poggio. At the same time, he must never suspect that anything was wrong.

  A number of possibilities flashed through Rocca’s mind as he stood outside the camp, staring over the valley toward Bastia and the coast. As if on cue, his son called from the trees. Rocca saw Moore leading his squad back to camp.

  Yes, he decided. Robin Moore was his enemy. He had proved that several times, and now he would be dealt with like an enemy. Once Rocca had made up his mind, there was no point in wasting more time.

  Michel looked ferociously healthy. The war suited him. He collapsed on the ground and began to open tins of corned beef. Inspiration struck Rocca in a flash. It was so easy. Fate was dealing him all the aces.

  ‘London called,’ Rocca said loudly to no one in particular. ‘There’s to be a parachute drop tonight: explosives, they said. Usual place. They want flares lit at eighteen hundred hours. After that Sybilia called. A small part of the expected arms shipment — one truck load of ammunition, she thinks — is being sent to the German garrison at Macinaggio. That’s in the north,’ he added for Robin’s benefit.

  Robin frowned. Rocca was displaying that particular, wolflike smile which he did not trust. It made him feel uneasy. Why should there be a drop now, after all these months of waiting? The Corsican Resistance was not one of the Allies’ priorities, he knew. Would Sybilia break her routine of evening calls in order to tell him of one diverted truck? Yes, he decided. Knowing how short of arms they were, she would. All the same, something was wrong.

  Rocca sat back and enjoyed his lunch while Robin began to fall into the trap. There was no other choice for him. Michel would supervise the parachute drop. Romanetti would assist him. Xavier would take some of the men to raid the Cap Corse supply truck. Robin would take the rest to Poggio and ambush the supply convoy as planned.

  ‘We’d better get organized fast,’ Moore said.

  Sitting on the tree trunk, Rocca smoked his pipe and sipped his coffee. The mist was gathering around the mountains crests and drifting down toward them. Soon the damp air crystallized into dewdrops on his hair and moustache. It was going to get thicker. Luck was on his side today, there was no denying it. By midnight he’d be back in control of the Resistance, and Michel would be burying Angelo.

  He leaned back and contemplated Corsica. He saw its destiny stretching through time, past and future. Corsica was threatened. Not only its island beauty, but a whole way of life was on the very lip of destruction. It would take strong, determined men to fend off the degenerate cultures that had taken hold of the world. The West with their commercialism, degradable packaging and degradable morals; the East with their contempt of man and his ultimate freedom and dignity. Well, let them go their own ways, but God protect Corsica from both sides.

  In a heavily armed, armoured car and gun-mounted half-track, Lieutenant Bleicher’s reconnaissance group ate cherries and sausages sent over from Marseilles. They were parked in a concealed forest path, some hundred yards west of the Poggio bridge. Bleicher sat beside his driver with a Sten gun between his knees, souvenir of an Allied container drop captured by his men. It was a tradition that on antiterrorist sweeps they kept what they found. While any Allied officer would have willingly thrown away his Sten in exchange for the much superior German Schmeisser, it pleased Bleicher to carry a captured weapon.

  Far behind, along the route from Bastia, winding at ten kilometres an hour, came the trucks filled with infantrymen armed with mortars, machine guns, and grenades. Behind them came the engineer squads. They would repair the bridges destroyed by the terrorists. Bleicher had orders to annihilate the Resistance, but to bring at least one of them back alive for questioning.

  The convoy breasted the crest of the mountain pass near San Sarsorio and saw the road wind away until it reached the Corbaia River. It was a perilous route, bordered on one side by steep rocky mountains and on the other by a precipitous cliff falling to the river. Here and there lay rusted wrecks of civilian vehicles from prewar days. The convoy moved up the winding road into the mountains. It was dense country, ideal for ambushes or sniping. The men were tense and silent as they clung to the supports in their trucks.

  Chapter 39

  Unaware of Major Krag’s ambush or Sybilia’s warning, Robin lay in tall grass less than thirty feet from the bridge that spanned the swiftly flowing river. After a pleasantly warm spring day, the evening was remarkably cool and damp. It was so lovely, he thought. The sun had set, the midges were swarming over the riverbanks, birds were singing in the forest above them. The Maquisards were out of sight behind rocks on either side of the road, and Robin was thankful for these few moments of peace. Then he heard a faint rumbling in the distance. Ominous and unmistakable, it shattered his reverie. Enemy trucks were approaching. They would soon be here.

  Robin could not ignore his sense of unease. Major Krag was not a careless soldier. It seemed out of character for him to send the armaments along the same road where his last convoy had been destroyed. This route was ideal for guerrilla ambushes. With the many curves and bends between precipitous cliffs, visibility was minimal. There was ample cover for Resistance fighters behind the large boulders that littered both sides of the river. A hundred yards above the river were thick forests that covered the mountainside almost to the peaks, providing ideal protection for a quick getaway.

  Robin checked his watch again. In precisely ten minutes, if all went well, the first shots would be fired, and the bridge would be blown. His men had the road covered from both sides. The enemy would be below, visible and at a distinct disadvantage in this narrow gorge. Nevertheless Robin tightened his lips, feeling tense and impatient. Was it a trap?

  Turning to Angelo, he said: ‘Jerry is going to come looking for us. We don’t have the element of surprise this time, and they aren’t going to give up so easily, either.’

  ‘We’ll take care of them.’ If he felt scared or apprehensive, Angelo gave no sign of it. ‘She’s all set to blow,’ he said, indicating the bridge. Angelo was a superb saboteur. He knew explosives expertly, and he employed a certain creativity in his tactics that Robin admired.

  An hour earlier he and Robin had been up to their waists in swiftly flowing icy water, clinging to the stones to prevent themselves from slipping on the smooth, treacherous river bottom. They had taped the sticks of gelignite beneath the stone supports of the bridge, and the detonators had been thrust inside the explosives. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

  I wonder if these hotheads will remember my lessons and retreat if I give the signal? I'm becoming increasingly uneasy. I'm almost certain this is some kind of trap.
At the same time, Sybilia's never been wrong yet.

  Thinking about Sybilia gave Robin a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if they’d caught her? What if they’d forced her to set a trap for the Resistance? What wouldn’t they have done to her to make her do that? She was a brave girl.

  I've no reason to think these things. It's just a hunch that something's wrong. I normally back my hunches, but in this case I have to consider the men. They need the arms. They wouldn't think well of a leader who pulled them out for no good reason.

  In the distance the rumbling approached, not more than a quarter of a mile away now. Robin felt the normally reassuring weight of the pistol in his pocket, touched the cold, hard steel and found that it brought little comfort. His mouth was dry, his stomach churning. But why am I like this tonight? I've never been this scared.

  He turned to Pinelli. ‘Something stinks here. Pass the word. Tell the men to be ready for the signal for instant retreat.’

  Michel hung around camp, worrying. He tried to convince himself that he was being a fool. He had been on the point of confiding in Romanetti a dozen times. What was it that had been so strange about his father’s attitude? His glibness?

  Why had he been content to chase after an unimportant truck and miss the main battle? There were too many inconsistencies.

  Oh, shit! Vm being ridiculous. Can’t I stop worrying?

  As the evening wore on, Michel’s doubts became unbearable. He fidgeted and paced up and down. Then he frowned and rubbed a hand through his hair. Was he being a fool?

  Romanetti watched him with a strange expression on his face. Finally the shepherd said: ‘Why don’t you face the truth, Michel. Your father’s up to something. You know it, and I know it. He was too pleased with himself. He always grumbles when Moore takes control. He’s never accepted an order so meekly.’