Romanetti was right, of course. Leaving him to supervise the parachute drop… although Michel doubted there was any drop planned for a night like this… he raced for his motorbike.
The quickest route down to Poggio was an old goat’s track that the Maquisards used in emergencies. Though far from ideal, it was viable. Michel set off.
For Robin, the last few minutes of waiting seemed to take forever. Above the thunder of wheels on the bumpy road, he thought he heard a motorbike approaching from Poggio. He felt regretful, hoping that whoever it was would have the sense to turn back. It was almost dark, but light enough to see the first two trucks of the awesome convoy swing round the bend.
An ambush!
The trucks were bristling with heavily armed troops. They were springing over the sides, taking up positions. The first truck swung round to straddle the road, revealing the Schwerfer mortars pointing straight at the mountain.
Robin whistled. Three shrill blasts in quick succession for rapid retreat.
‘Back! Get Back! It’s an ambush. Fast retreat,’ he called.
There was no possibility of any armaments and, therefore, no point in fighting. Angelo hung back, determined to blow the bridge. Robin saw him fling himself on the exploder.
The Germans screeched to a halt. Helmeted infantrymen spilled out, racing for the cover of trees and rocks, working swiftly around to outflank the Resistance. They were trying to cut off their retreat. They would not cross the river easily. As the first men raced toward the bridge, Robin yelled at Angelo to get back.
At that moment Michel careened around the curve of the road. Even in the dim twilight, Robin recognized his uniform and bike. He watched in anguish as the bike was thrown back by the blast. The bridge flew apart. The first German infantrymen were tossed into the air and fell slowly into the river with the debris. Robin saw Michel fall against the side of the road, hitting his head. The numbing explosion followed a split second later.
By now the entire convoy was rolling into view. Six trucks of infantrymen; several MG-34 machine guns; two panzers armed with 20-mm cannon. For the next few seconds there was complete confusion everywhere. Men were running in all directions. Guns were stuttering from the trucks and armoured cars. The first two Germans were crossing the river, holding their guns above their heads. The pistol in Robin’s hand barked twice as he raced to the bank. Both men threw up their arms and tumbled into the water. The others pulled back.
The Maquisards took cover and began creeping toward the relative safety of the trees. They were almost there when the first mortar shells exploded in the forest. Robin ran along the bank, searching for cover. At last, among the debris of the bridge, he crawled across the river and up the slope toward Michel. Then a burst of machine-gun fire lashed from the right. A squad of Germans moved up from the forest on the Poggio side of the bridge. They must have been hiding there all day, Robin realized ruefully. He saw two of them pick up Michel and carry him away carefully. So Michel was alive, and they wanted him for questioning.
Robin threw himself down, cushioning his fall with his left arm. Pain throbbed from his elbow as he lay winded. The machine-gun fire scissored back and forth through the darkness, only inches above his prone body. He decided to stay where he was for the time being.
It was soon dark. Still he waited, hoping for a chance to rescue Michel. Looking across the bank, he saw a slight movement and swore as he realized that not all his men had obeyed his order to retreat. Suddenly brilliant light focused on the ground where they lay. He saw Angelo and Cesari leap up and run, saw them throw up their arms, and heard the soggy thuds as they hit the ground and lay still. He felt guilty and angry. He should have followed his hunch. Then they wouldn’t have died. Guilt brought the taste of bile into his mouth. He saw Barnard crawling forward on his hands and knees, desperate to reach the darkness of the trees. How many more were left behind?
Moistening his lips, Robin yelled at Barnard not to be such a bloody fool — that he’d never make it. But the warning shout was too late, for the orange flare of an exploding grenade erupted, and Barnard’s body was flung into the air. At the same time, the truck where Michel lay took off toward Poggio. There was no chance to rescue him now.
Breathing jerkily, Robin slithered along the riverbank, clambered onto a rock, and took aim at the searchlight with his submachine gun. He seemed to be standing in a hail of bullets. A moment later darkness flooded the hillside. Robin plunged into the river, raking the Germans with his Sten gun to draw their fire.
Miraculously he reached the other side, but the forest was ablaze from the mortars, which had ignited the bracken. As he charged into the smoke an explosion rocked the earth under his feet, and Robin blacked out.
Chapter 40
The forest was burning. Robin lay on the ground and watched the flames flickering around the trees. Amazing how the fire had spread so quickly. Or was it? He felt confused. It had been pitch dark a short while ago, but now the moon was overhead. Then he remembered the ear-splitting crash next to him.
I've been lying here… unconscious… maybe for hours… Where are the others?… Why the hell did they leave me here? I was about to be roasted… maybe that's what brought me round. Or am I in hell?
He didn’t really believe that, but God knew it was hot enough. The pines were crackling, their sap boiling and spitting, the smoke was choking him. He stifled a cough. As his mind cleared, he became aware of the need to get out fast and keep quiet.
How long? Dear God, how long?
He pushed himself up and bumped his head against the rock. Soon he realized that he had fallen down the hillside and landed in a cleft in the rocks. That had saved his life.
He crawled out. ‘Must hurry, must hurry,’ he muttered as he forced himself to keep moving uphill. He had lost three men — Angelo, Barnard, Cesari — maybe more. He hoped the rest had escaped in the dark.
It took Robin an hour to reach the top of the mountain. By then his hands and feet were burning from pushing his way through smouldering bracken. His lungs were so full of smoke, he could hardly breathe. All he could smell was burning skin and hair; he wondered how badly hurt he was. He passed out once, but not for long. Halfway up he remembered Michel being taken alive. Then he remembered the reason for his frantic hurry.
Sybilia!
The Boche would have thrown Michel straight into shock treatment. That was their normal procedure. They knew they had to extract information out of him before the Resistance could move their positions or their supplies. They had to know who was spying on them. They knew there was a leak. Why else had they set the trap? Robin knew that it was only a matter of time before they uncovered Sybilia’s role. When they did, she was as good as dead. Worse than dead, he decided. Thinking about Sybilia made him ill again.
It was a long, agonizing climb to the bushes where his motorbike was hidden. He passed a mountain stream and blundered into it, pausing to plunge his head into the cool water. He seemed to have no hair or eyebrows left, he noticed, running his hands over his skull. But he could see. That was the main thing, although he still felt strangely divorced from reality, as if encased in a cocoon of thick glass.
He reached the mountain crest and, looking back, saw that the road was deserted. The Germans had returned to Bastia. God, what time was it? How long had he been lying there? His watch had been smashed when he was knocked out. He began to pray that he would be in time.
Two hours later the throbbing in his head was like hammer blows from the vibration of the motorbike. When he moved his neck he felt pain all the way down his back. He had no idea whether or not he had been burned, but now was not the time to worry about it.
At last he reached the outskirts of Bastia. He hid the motorbike in the shrubs behind the wall of a scrap-iron yard. He had to creep through Bastia by foot because of the curfew. He began jogging, keeping to the shadows. The streets were deserted, except for Italian guards who had orders to shoot on sight. They stood around in groups for safety.
Robin had made a point of knowing Sybilia’s address and roughly where she lived. He had never been to Bastia before. Several times he took the wrong road. When at last he reached the old fishermen’s quarter, he half expected to find the police out in force; but it was quiet. Everyone was sleeping. Presumably Michel was still holding out, and Robin blessed him for that.
There was a guard at the end of the road. He could see the glow of his cigarette. It was too risky to try knocking at the door, but he could break into the ground-floor window without much trouble.
A few seconds later he was standing in the front parlour, gagging at the smell of garbage and fish. Was this how she lived? No one heard him creeping up the stairs. He reached the top floor and knocked. Was it a trap? Had they taken Sybilia? Were they waiting inside for the Resistance to come for her? His hand tightened on his pistol.
Then he heard Sybilia’s voice calling. He felt faint with gratitude.
Thank God! Thank God! he prayed. ‘Quiet,’ he whispered. ‘It’s Robin. Let me in quickly.’
When she saw him, she started to scream but clamped her hand hard over her mouth. ‘Oh, dear God. Your face, what’s happened to you?’ she murmured.
‘Come,’ he said, trying to ignore her breasts thrusting against the thin fabric of her nightdress. ‘Get moving. At once,’ he said roughly. ‘Grab a coat if you must, but come now. Your cover’s blown. There’s no time.’
‘You’re burned,’ she stammered.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he snarled.
‘The radio?’
‘It makes no difference. Not any more. Come on.’
‘And them?’ She gestured toward the Gafforis downstairs.
‘Warn them if you must. You’ve got half a minute. Then we’re leaving — if I have to knock you out, I will.’
He waited impatiently while she took a coat. She hurried downstairs and tapped at the door of the Gafforis. The whispering went on until he pushed her out of the door and down the steps.
They stood on the porch, listening. There was no sign or sound of the enemy approaching. The guards were still lounging against a lamppost, smoking and cracking jokes, as they crept around the corner. At last they reached the motorbike on the outskirts of Bastia.
‘Hang on tightly,’ he muttered. The worst was kicking the engine to life. The noise was enough to wake the district. If the bike didn’t start, they were lost, Robin knew. It did, on the second kick, and they roared northward into the country, bypassing the main mountain road out of Bastia.
With Sybilia directing him, they twisted up old gravel tracks, hardly wide enough for mules, into the maquis, until they reached the ruins of a Genoese tower and an old church nearby. They were far beyond occupied territory, according to Sybilia.
Robin braked. He could hardly drag himself off the motorbike. He was shaking and sweating, and he felt dizzy. He ducked his head into the fountain several times. Then he sat beside Sybilia on a stone bench. For a while he tried to pull himself together. Then he gave in to the nausea that had been surging up for hours. He heaved into the bushes, choking and swearing at his own weakness. After a while he realized that Sybilia was supporting his shoulders. He felt as weak as a baby.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said, pushing her away.
‘Let’s sit on the steps until you feel better.’ She half led, half supported him across the courtyard.
For a while neither spoke as they watched the sky turn pearl grey. The morning mists rose up from nowhere like phantoms, forming a landscape of conical shapes over the sea and the mountain slopes below.
Suddenly Robin pulled Sybilia against him. He nestled his face in her hair. ‘I was so afraid.’
His hand moved around the back of her neck. His fingers tightened as his mouth moved softly over hers.
Then he remembered Michel and drew back.
She was unwilling to let him go. She twined her fingers around his neck and pulled him toward her.
‘Sybilia,’ he said softly, pushing her away. ‘Not now. We have to talk. I have bad news. It’s about Michel.’
She looked horrified. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Angelo’s dead. Michel’s been captured. That’s why you had to get out. Michel must have come to warn us about the ambush. He arrived just as we blew the bridge.’ He explained to her exactly how it had happened.
‘No, please… don’t cry, Sybilia,’ he said. He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘The darnedest thing was, I liked Michel. I thought he was a great guy. A hell of a good guy to work with, even though he’s your husband.’
‘Stop it. It’s your fault,’ she said bitterly. ‘You should never have gone to Poggio after I warned you about the trap. What for? You had no right to risk the men’s lives.’
‘You warned me?’ He looked at her strangely. ‘Who took the message?’
‘Rocca.’ She broke off. Then she shuddered. ‘Poor, poor Michel. And Maria… ’ She began to cry again. ‘What will they do to Michel?’ she wanted to know.
They’ll persuade him to talk by any means. They want to know how we got the information about their shipments and all the other details you've been giving us. They want to know where our headquarters are, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, but what will they do to him?’ she persisted.
He shrugged, evading her question.
‘Michel won’t tell them anything. I promise you that,’ she said fiercely.
‘With this type of torture,’ Robin began, ‘no one expects a man to keep quiet indefinitely. That would be impossible. One merely asks for time. A night or, better still, twenty-four hours. That’s enough. Just time to save the rest. If Michel’s holds out that long, he’ll be a hero… Hell! We must get back. Taita must be evacuated. The Germans might bomb the village. Our supplies must be moved, particularly the arms depot. There’s too much to do and not enough time.’
‘It’s unnecessary to worry,’ she said calmly.
‘Syb, Syb… You don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t know. I don’t want you to know.’
‘He won’t tell them anything.’ There was a touch of pride in her voice.
‘You love him?’
‘I trust him. He’s too proud to give in.’
‘Let’s hope so, Syb. Let’s hope so. Now let’s go. We’re running out of time.’
What the hell got into me — sitting here for so long? I must have been concussed, but now I'm feeling a bit better. Jesus! I should be court-martialled for this. We must get back and shift those armaments. Syb, I can't tell you this now, because it's all wrong — wrong time, wrong place — but I'm going to marry you. Whatever obstacles you and your family throw in my path. I’m going to overcome them. One of these days I’ll tell you that. Later, perhaps, when this is all over.
Within eight hours Robin had Sybilia and the Taitan women and children evacuated into the mountains. The arms were transferred to a new hiding place. His headquarters and radio transmitter were moved to another summer hut, higher in the mountains.
One week passed, then another. They heard from an informer inside the Italian headquarters that Michel was still alive.
Days later-Robin went looking for Sybilia to tell her this. He found her with the villagers in their temporary camp in the mountains. For a few brief minutes they forgot the war as they walked along the mountainside holding hands. It did not take them long to piece together the story of Rocca’s treachery. His attempt to keep his son out of danger had backfired.
‘He will never forgive himself,’ Sybilia said.
‘Why did he do it?’ Robin asked. ‘I can understand his motives in wanting to wipe out Angelo, but to destroy a squad of good men, just for a personal vendetta.’
‘You don’t understand us,’ she said. ‘You undermined his position. You humiliated Rocca by taking over. You condoned Angelo’s behaviour by making him your friend. You were wrong. You ran the Resistance as only a foreigner could. You had no idea of the politics or the unde
rcurrents, the rivalry and the clan hierarchies.’
Robin left shortly afterward and raced back to headquarters. He mused over Sybilia’s lecture all the way. Perhaps Vve been at fault. Xavier Rocca is a murderous bastard, but he is the head of the most powerful clan in the district. Perhaps I should have tried harder to control the Resistance by proxy. Yes. In future, Rocca shall have all the glory. Ill work through him again. Just so long as that arrogant bastard doesn’t try to interfere with my strategy.
After two weeks Michel was transferred to German headquarters so that Major Krag could take charge of the interrogation. Robin became obsessed with Michel’s extraordinary heroism in keeping silent for so long.
Chapter 41
It was pitch dark. Michel lay somewhere in the bowels of the earth, a place so deep that not even a glimmer of light showed. He could hear water dripping and smell the dank stench of mildewed walls and his own excrement. There was nothing else except his pain. Existence had become a torment, but in spite of his agony, and his total degradation, he was still alive. He clung to that desperately. Each additional second that he lived was a triumph.
At first he had hoped they would release him eventually. Now that he knew them better, he realized it was a vain hope. Then he had prayed to be rescued, although without much conviction. Michel was an atheist. To him the dogma of his parents’ faith was indivisible from the other mores and traditions he had always been intent on discarding.
Sybilia would be praying. He knew that. Father Andrews would be holding prayer meetings and lighting candles for him. Probably all Taita was praying, so his own insincere mumbles were unlikely to make much difference either way.
Eventually he must have dozed or lapsed into unconsciousness, although it seemed that he was still awake.
He was a white bird, larger than a dove. More translucent than white, shining as if in sunlight. He simply flew out of his battered body, through the cell walls to the prison yard. Then he thought to himself: how simple. How gloriously, marvellously, miraculously simple! Why didn't I do that before? I could have done that long ago. Looking around, he saw a crowd of people, mainly women in black. They were kneeling on the cobbles around a large notice pinned to the wall. Without reading itf he knew that it had to do with his execution. He thought: Who cares? They can only execute a corpse. I'm here, not there.
The Corsican Woman Page 21