The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

By the following afternoon, the Germans had not attempted to penetrate this route. Castelli, whose men were strung out along the first two miles of the road, was sending in regular reports to Sybilia by radio. However, the Germans had spread over vast stretches of the flat coastal plains, which were mainly uninhabited.

  Later that evening, Sybilia hurried out of the communications chalet looking pale. Castelli had reported that an armoured unit from the Ninetieth Panzer Division was moving out of the dty toward the south: tanks, armoured cars, mortars, mobile artillery, and five hundred crack infantrymen.

  Robin summoned his men from their camps in the lonely hills. They took up their positions and waited. Within a few hours the sound of explosions further back along the mountain road told them that the Germans had swung inland toward Ponte Leccia. Castelli had begun his lightning attacks on the Germans.

  Would he obey orders? Robin could trust Castelli’s men to fight to the death, but today their brief was to throw up inferior roadblocks along the route, engage the enemy halfheartedly, and retreat shortly afterward. The Maquisards were acting as decoys. TTiey had to give the Germans the impression of inferior strength and halfhearted combat. It was hoped that the enemy would press on confidently, without too much care for their defensive positions.

  Sybilia reported that the Boche were firing eight or ten rounds every half hour, just to keep the guerrillas off balance. Most of the time they had nothing concrete to attack, so their shells kept pounding along the entire mountain ridge, just above the treeline. Casualties were mounting, but the real battle had not yet begun.

  At four A.M. Sybilia received a message from Leca: The giraffe has a long neck.

  Good! The Germans were pressing on, diluting their strength as they stretched along the narrow track in places hardly wide enough for a tank to pass.

  Robin and his men had dug their trenches two nights ago in a number of places. Now they moved into position for stage one of his plan.

  As the sun rose, their lookout on the mountain crest reported that the enemy was in sight. First came the heavily armed armoured cars and gun-mounted half-tracks of the reconnaissance group. Behind were towed artillery, the infantry, the assault gun battalion, and the flack units, followed by the tank battalion. Behind that were the engineers.

  The tanks were moving far more slowly than the lighter elements, halting every two hours to rest and make running repairs. Consequently the further the convoy progressed, the bigger the space between the different groups. As the sun rose the maintenance crews were kept busy, for the pins connecting the tracks kept snapping on the rough, rocky roads.

  Having met only minor resistance from Castelli’s and Leca’s decoy squads, the enemy rolled westward toward Ponte Leccia. By the third day they were spread over ten kilometres of rough, winding mountain road.

  For Robin the days and nights had been a tense, sleepless wait. His squad had dug down to four and a half feet, then tunnelled under the ground for extra safety. They were spread out around a ridge that would give some cover when the firepower came.

  At exactly eight A.M. on the morning of 14 September, the entire mountainside began to tremble and rumble as the first armoured trucks appeared round the bend in the road below. The French group let off a round of machine-gun fire into the first armoured car. Its commander cartwheeled into the road and lay prone, while the truck skidded and went off the road, plunging into the gorge.

  The barrage began. It lasted all day, the worst Robin had ever experienced. Shells were bursting everywhere. They were hitting the top of the ridge and powdering the forest below. Everything the Germans could muster was being hurled up at them, including rockets and mortars. Shells were landing with ear-shattering explosions, showering them all with earth and stones. Something jagged and heavy crashed into Robin’s trench without hurting anyone, which seemed a miracle. When, that night, Robin crawled out to see if the Germans were advancing into the mountain slopes, a line of white-hot tracer whistled through the darkness over his head and smashed the trees to his right. The bark was being hammered off the trees as he staggered out of the trench.

  The Germans had wasted no time in mounting an attack into the guerrillas’ positions. A line of men with rifles was moving forward, with cover from mounted machine guns behind them. Robin aimed and shot one of the gunners, saw him slump over the side of the vehicles. The enemy kept moving up.

  Where the hell was Leca’s group? The plan was that they should move up along the ridge, parallel with the German advance but hidden behind the trees, followed by Castelli’s men, so that both squads could attack the German positions from the other side of the gorge. Robin and his squad kept firing, but the Germans kept advancing. They’d be overrun shortly, he knew. Suddenly a series of short, sharp bursts came from the other side of the road. Leca had arrived. The gunner in the third truck lurched forward and hung grotesquely as the driver crashed over the edge of the chasm.

  Everything was in confusion as the Germans raced for cover among boulders on either side of the road. Caught in a deadly hail of crossfire from both sides of the gorge, from men in well-prepared positions, their predicament was grim and becoming worse. Blazing trucks offered them no protection, for they were blocking the road and preventing the rest from passing or turning back. One of the trucks must have been carrying cans of petrol, for it continued to explode.

  Leca’s team was firing steadily now. They were cutting down the enemy as they ran and slid on slippery slopes. The Free French were shooting rapidly and with deadly accuracy. So was Castelli’s group, further back.

  Nevertheless, the wave of infantry kept advancing. They were only two hundred metres below Robin’s position now and racing up quickly in squad formation. The machine guns were cutting into their ranks, but they kept coming. Suddenly a tall figure leapt into the trees toward the first Maquisard. Robin catapulted himself forward without thinking. His shoulder hit the German in the thigh, and they went down together in a heap. The German threw up his hands and tried to lock them around Robin’s throat, his fingers squeezing. Robin felt the pain in his neck and a pounding roar in his ears as he began to pass out. Then Susinni’s rifle butt smashed in the soldier’s skull.

  Suddenly they were fighting hand to hand with the first wave of infantrymen. Robin saw Ambrosini and S.usinni fighting back to back. He shot one of the Germans, but too late for Susinni, who slumped to the ground.

  At last the Maquisards’ machine guns were getting the upper hand. The German lines were wavering. Their mortars were pounding the mountains from further back in the convoy, but the shells were landing too high to do them any good, and eventually they ceased, perhaps fearing that they would catch their own men.

  Unable to break through the machine-gun lines, the first wave of enemy infantry began retreating. Some soldiers carried the wounded as they moved toward the road, leaving a dozen dead German infantry lying among the trees.

  Again and again that day they tried to wipe out the guerrilla positions, but each time the Corsicans managed to repel the attackers, although Robin had heavy casualties. Down on the road, the Germans had dug in on either side and were operating their guns from positions of relative safety behind boulders.

  For the time being it was a stalemate. As Robin gave the signal to retreat, he caught sight of Father Andrews hurrying from bunker to bunker, organizing stretchers and medical supplies and saying prayers over the dead. Robin and his men were exhausted, but most of them had reached their second line of bunkers further along the road.

  By now the advance armoured lookouts of the enemy division had discovered the next bridge over the swiftly flowing Goto River. Just beyond it was a deserted village, which appeared to provide ideal cover for all the Germans’ advance units. They were moving in.

  By nightfall more than three hundred German infantrymen had taken cover in the ruins of the village and in the rocky mountain ledges on either side of the gorge. Further back, their division was camped along the road and well guarded. As their last
tank slithered around a curve and parked by the hillside, Robin’s mouth and throat felt oddly dry. Would his plan work?

  During the night there was plenty of small-arms firing from the Maquisards. The men were keyed up and feeling nervous. They had strict orders to hit and run — something no Corsican liked to do — but they had to keep the Boche pinned down as long as possible and then be out of the area well before dawn.

  Dawn came at last, and it was glorious. Blackbirds were singing with joy as the first rays penetrated the forest. At exactly five A.M. the birds stopped singing. An ear-splitting explosion ushered in Stage Two of Robin’s plan.

  One whole section of the cliff rose slowly into the air and toppled down. Then all hell broke loose. As the marines set off more of their charges in the mountains, hundreds of tons of debris fell down the mountainside, half damming the gorge and destroying the bridge. The engineers were doing a fine job, Robin thought as the ground rocked under his feet. It felt as if an earthquake were hitting the area. The ground churned and vibrated. Explosion after explosion brought vast sections of the mountainside rolling down on the village and the armoured column as far back as Casamozzle. At the same time, four vital bridges were blown. Robin knew that the German division was now split into isolated, trapped pockets of men.

  This was the signal for the Maquisards to attack. They no longer held back but gave the Boche all they were capable of giving. Soon their positions were throbbing to the pounding of shells as the Germans fought back desperately.

  Robin’s machine guns kept firing. Then the artillery began. Every gun Robin had at his disposal was plastering enemy positions.

  By noon those Germans who were still alive were battened down in the cellars of the ruined houses, where they knew they could stay for days, if necessary, until reinforcements arrived.

  Unbelievably, in spite of the chaos of the half-buried village, German infantry were spotted moving off the road and heading for the trees. Further east along the road, Robin could hear machine guns firing and the dull thud of mortar shells being dispatched. The Germans were trapped and they knew it, but they were still fighting. In the long run they could only sit and wait to be picked off by the expert Corsican riflemen.

  Castelli’s group was catching hell with all the firing going on up the bend, Robin noticed. Machine guns and mortars were going full blast. Then rifles started to pop. It seemed that the Germans were trying to fight their way through the mountains there. If so, they’d have a sad task ahead, he thought. Castelli’s mob fought like demons. He decided to send up some of the Free French, who had been doing a good job of keeping the infantry pinned down in the cellars.

  Just after noon the German planes moved in. Two formations of Junkers, Ju-88s and Ju-87 Stukas, flew just above the level of the highest ridge, like hawks looking for their prey. All they could see in the hell below them was their own division, trapped, half-buried and still fighting. The planes began to strafe the trees, but they could not see their targets. After a while they began on the village. Then, as if realizing their mistake, they turned and headed back to Bastia.

  Fourteen hundred hours! It was time for Stage Three. Robin gave the signal, and his squad loaded up with grenades and went on foot into the village to await the bulldozers.

  Five bulldozers, heavily guarded by Marquisards and driven by US Marine engineers, should now be approaching along the undamaged road from Ponte Leccia. These were part of the loot left behind by the departing Italian forces. They were late. Robin cursed as he signalled for the attack on the village to be stepped up.

  At last he heard them lumbering round the last bend. As they came into view he saw the drivers had put up the blades as shields in front of them. He saw Leca and his team walking beside them, guns ready for action. They crossed the road into the village without any trouble, although there was some shooting from the ridge and the trees, where a few Germans had managed to survive.

  As they approached the village they headed for a wall that looked pretty stable, but after repeated batterings it crumpled and became a ruin like the others.

  Robin joined the groups around the bulldozers. Then they moved from cellar to cellar. As they passed, he pulled the pin on two grenades and dropped them in. The explosion was ear-splitting, and shortly afterward the cellars were filled with rubble. Slowly the sniper fire and machine guns were stilled, and by dusk the village was merely a graveyard.

  Just before nightfall the news came up the line that the Boche were in full-scale retreat wherever they could move. Their engineers were trying to clear the roads and mend the bridges.

  For four more days Robin’s guerrillas harassed the retreating enemy. The Germans retaliated with repeated sorties into the forests. Casualties mounted on both sides, but by the last day of September the road from Bastia into the interior was clear and there was no possibility that the enemy would try again. Robin dispersed his men, sending most of them to help other groups or to attack the west coast garrisons. Sybilia was receiving success stories from all areas of the Resistance. It was obvious that the German bid to penetrate and occupy the interior of the island had failed totally.

  Chapter 50

  Young Susinni, together with the last few Maquisards to have fallen in battle, were to be given a hero’s funeral in Bastia that morning. They would represent all those who had died in the Resistance. Robin had agreed to go. Afterward there would be a speech by General Charles de Gaulle, followed by a formal celebration at the Hotel Bastia.

  Robin resented this intrusion into his private time. The war here was over, and he wanted to be alone with Sybilia. But that was not to be.

  He was wearing a suit donated by one of the Taitan widows. It was bright blue with exaggerated shoulder pads and a nipped-in waist. He felt conspicuous and silly in it. Rocca, however, was dressed in black. He was wearing a suit that looked both new and tailor-made. His hair was carefully cut, and his moustache was trimmed. He was an awesome figure of a man, and he made everyone else look seedy. Robin didn’t mind being ragged by the marines, but he wanted to look good in Sybilia’s eyes.

  He emerged from the long, emotional funeral service into a glorious morning of brilliant sunshine and deep shadows. Leaving the cemetery with Rocca, while Sybilia trailed behind, Robin saw a flashy German car parked along the road. It was gaudily painted with the Corsican emblem of the Moor's head on one side and an enormous Tricolour on the other. His old team was jam-packed inside, all of them red-faced and yelling with delight. Now that they looked so clean, he noticed for the first time how dirty their teeth were.

  Everywhere he went there were cries of ‘Long live the wolf; long live Captain Robin!’ The wolf was grinning ferociously.

  ‘We’re a bit early for the speech,’ Robin pointed out. ‘Let’s wait over there, out of sight. This fuss embarrasses the hell out of me.’

  There was a chestnut grove beside a small, formal park. Three benches were placed in the shade. They sat awkwardly together.

  ‘What are you going to do now, Captain Moore?’ Rocca asked, icily polite.

  ‘First of all there’s a war to be finished. Corsica is free, but the rest of Europe is not. I reckon it will be another year at least. Maybe longer. Then I shouldn’t be surprised if it takes me another year to get out of the army. I’ll collect my back pay and use it to start farming — or maybe an engineering business. I’ll see what turns up. As a matter of fact,’ he said, trying to sound casual, ‘I’m coming back here.’

  ‘That would be a mistake, Captain Moore. There’s nothing here for you. One should never go back. Home is best for everyone.’

  Robin grimaced with annoyance. He saw Sybilia gesturing at him impatiently. She was trying to tell him to keep quiet. He understood her message. Their plans had nothing to do with Rocca.

  He began to sneak glances at his watch. They only had this one day left together, and it was passing. Why couldn’t they snatch a few minutes alone? Robin understood Rocca’s polite but heavy-handed chaperoning. The wartim
e laxity of their traditional code was suddenly at an abrupt end. Sybilia was no longer his assistant, she was Rocca’s daughter-in-law, a part of his household. Godamnit, he thought anxiously. I must get her alone. I have to talk to her. Yet what else was there to say? He had said it all one way or the other.

  How sad she looked. She seemed to be settling into herself, as if he had already left. She looked vacant, as she gazed off into the distance, a wistful expression on her face, her hands folded into her lap. She was shrinking into stillness, like a small, furry animal seeking to hide from the hazards of winter. He watched her surreptitiously. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and her lips were quivering. She looked very girlish in her powder-blue dress with its white collar and cuffs. Something from her school days, she had told him that morning. He’d send her something as soon as he could. All his male protectiveness was aroused. He shivered and longed to hold her. He felt his hackles rising, the blood hammering through his veins. He was so impatient to be back. He wanted to grab her and take her away, build a home, four stout walls erected fair and square around her — all of which was so impossible. Instead, he would leave his love clinging to her like a warm coat.

  Rocca closed his eyes and began nodding in the hot sun. Robin leaned forward and poked his finger into the gravel. Let's get out of here, he wrote. I'll meet you by the clock. An idea was forming. A crazy idea. He’d do it.

  ‘It’s time for de Gaulle’s speech,’ Rocca said, waking abruptly sometime later. He grimaced with annoyance when he saw he was alone.

  He sauntered over to the main square and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. General de Gaulle had flown in earlier that morning, less than twenty-four hours after the last German had left Corsican soil.

  ‘Patriotic Corsica has displayed traditional courage in achieving her liberation; this is an example for the rest of the nation,’ the general told the crowd amid the cheers and clapping.

  The afternoon passed too quickly. Robin had orders to embark with the marines at six o’clock that evening and return to England for further briefing. They had only half an hour left when he and Sybilia arrived at the airport.