The Corsican (3 page)

The colonel stared in disbelief. “And what's that?” he asked.

“I'll expect to be paid for my services,” Sartene said. “Not in money, colonel.” He paused to smile again. “I trust the French franc has lost its value of late. What I want, in writing of course, is the right to emigrate from France after the war, to the French colony of my choice. And,” he added, raising his hand again, “I want this permission to extend to my wife and the family of my son, Jean.”

“That's all?” the colonel asked, watching as Sartene nodded. “And where are your family and your son's family now?”

“They live in an
insignificant
Corsican village,” Sartene said.

The colonel sighed, then stared at the floor, shaking his head. He looked up. “And you?” he asked Auguste.

“I would accept the same offer, my colonel. And I'd like it to include my brother, Benito.”

“And where is he?”

“He is the guest of another French resort in Bastia.”

“Agreed,” the colonel said. “Although I must tell you honestly that it's doubtful you'll live long enough to collect your payment.” He paused, smiling to himself at the madness of it all, then continued. “I understand your bitterness and your belief that you're being used. I can only say that it's not easy for me to ask for your help. Unfortunately there's no choice.”

He was struggling now for some degree of dignity. Quickly, he opened a drawer in the writing table and removed a large rolled map and spread it on the table. “You will select your men from among those presently here,” he said, speaking with clipped authority. “You may also recruit people in the countryside as you choose. Weapons and supplies are something you will have to procure for yourselves, I'm afraid.” He jabbed his finger at the map. “You will establish a base of operations near Mount Ventoux. The nearest town of any size is Carpentras, and you will find men there loyal to France. You will have papers identifying yourselves to them, as well as your initial area of operation, which will extend west from Mount Ventoux to the Rhone, from Avignon in the south to Montélimar in the north. Are there any questions?”

“Yes, colonel,” Auguste said. “What's your name?”

The colonel flushed. “Martin,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Auguste smiled. “I want to remember the name of the one Frenchman who wanted to let me out of prison, instead of put me in one.”

Chapter 2

The base camp was in a dense pine forest at the two-thousand-foot level of Mount Ventoux. It was autumn, and already the fast approach of winter could be felt. From the summit, four thousand feet above them, the snow had already begun to move down the mountain. Auguste sat across a campfire from Sartene, hugging himself against the cold. He could see the frustration in his friend's face; his fists were clenched and he was flexing his thumbs. It was a nervous habit he had developed in recent months.

“Soon we'll need wanner clothing for the men, Buonaparte,” he said.

Sartene nodded, then looked to his left, watching the approach of a stocky dark-haired young man in his late twenties, slightly older than his own son. “I'll ask Francesco to arrange it,” he said.

Francesco Canterina squatted in front of the fire. Despite the chill in the air the sleeves of his sweater were pulled up above his elbows, exposing his heavily muscled forearms. His handsome face seemed impassive beneath a black beret, tufts of wavy black hair protruding from its sides, the dark, cruel eyes detracting from otherwise pleasant features. A cigarette dangled loosely in the corner of his mouth. Almost mechanically, he produced a long, slender knife, tested the blade with his thumb, then began sharpening it against a whetstone. He seemed about to speak when Sartene broke the silence.

“You know the Vichy military warehouse in Avignon?” Sartene asked.

Francesco nodded. “The one along the river,” he said.

“We'll need warmer clothing soon,” Sartene said. “Shipments should have arrived there. I'd like you to take four men and see if you can appropriate enough for us.”

“How many men do we have now?” Francesco asked.

“Fifty-three.” Sartene watched him sharpen the knife. He was good with a knife and he treated it with the reverence of a craftsman.

“I'll try to get more. So we can equip any new men who join us,” Francesco said.

Sartene stared into the fire. “If you can,” he said, thinking of how few men had joined them in the past month. “If not, we'll do the same as with the weapons. Allow the dead to provide for the living.”

Francesco paused as if deciding how to continue. “I was just about to tell you,” he said. “Word has come from Carpentras. Troops from the Boche garrison at Montélimar executed twenty this morning. Many were old men. Others were only children.”

“Did the pigs give a reason?” Auguste asked.

“Payment for our last raid,” Francesco said. “I'm told they placed a notice on each of the bodies before they withdrew.”

“How is it with those who are left?” Sartene asked.

Francesco drew heavily on the cigarette, then threw the butt into the fire. “It's mostly women who are left now. Mothers and grandmothers and small babies. They just wish everyone would leave. The Boches, Vichy, even us.”

Sartene ran a hand along his face. He was clean-shaven now, and his sharp angular features were more visible, adding to the fierceness of his eyes. “Pick your men, Francesco,” he said. “You should leave now.”

He watched the fire as Francesco moved off to a group of men seated beneath a large pine. Each wore the wide-brimmed, cowboy-styled hat common to the region of Provence. Several moments passed before Sartene looked up again at Auguste. They had been in the mountains only a few months, but already he had learned to hate the senselessness of the killing. He seemed tired and older. “Let's take some men to Carpentras and help the women bury their dead,” he said.

“The Vichy will have troops there,” Auguste said, “guarding that little pig of a mayor.”

“The troops can dig the graves,” Sartene said. “And when they finish they can dig their own as well.” He withdrew a letter from his pocket and held it out before him.

“I received this yesterday,” he told Auguste, his voice shaking like his hand. “It's from my son. He sent it through the underground a month ago. His wife has borne him a son. Another child for the Boches and the Vichy to butcher.”

“What have they called him?” Auguste asked.

“Pierre,” Sartene said. “They named him Pierre in honor of my adopted father.”

The bodies had been left in the town square, flesh ripped by machine-gun fire, blood already coagulated in dark, sticky pools. Sartene stood in front of the body of a young boy. He had been no more than seven and had stood at chest height to the men on either side of him. The left side of his face no longer existed. It had been replaced by a gaping black hole filled with dried blood. Sartene's hand shook as he stood over the child.

At the opposite end of the square, across from the bodies, a small fat man dressed in a formal coat stood with the nine surviving members of the Vichy contingent. The fat man was trembling as he glanced at the ragged armed men who surrounded them.

Sartene stared across the bodies at the mayor and his remaining bodyguards. From his right a slender gray-haired priest approached. He was dressed in a simple black soutane, and he too seemed frightened. Sartene looked at him briefly, then down at the bodies again.

“Have you given them absolution?” He asked the question without looking at the priest.

“Yes, I have,” the priest said. “I only wish now to beg you …”

Sartene cut him off, ignoring him as he spoke to Auguste. “Have our men take the bodies to the cemetery, so the Vichy can begin digging the graves. I don't want them to touch the bodies of these people.” He turned back to the priest. “The church linens. We'll need them for shrouds,” he said.

“The church?” the priest said, his jaw trembling. “Certainly bed-linens from their homes can be used. The church linens and the candles are the only things the Germans haven't taken.”

“The families have given enough already, priest,” Sartene said. He turned back to Auguste. “Send some men to the church to collect what's needed.” He studied the priest again. The fear that had filled his face was now mixed with confusion.

“I think God will approve, priest. Now get your breviary. You'll have final prayers to say for these others soon.” He motioned his head toward the mayor and the nine Vichy soldiers.

“There must be no more killing,” the priest said. “I beg you in God's name.”

Sartene's mouth tightened. His voice, as always, was soft. “Tell me, priest. Did you rush out and tell that to the Boches? Or did you hide under your bed until they left?”

“This is wrong,” the priest said, his voice convulsed. “It only makes you the same as those you fight.” The priest's voice trembled, unsure of the reaction his words would produce.

Sartene exhaled heavily. “Sometimes there isn't a choice between good and bad. Sometimes there's only a choice between horrors. Now get your damned breviary.”

F
RANCE,
M
ARCH
1944

It was spring and the melting snow had swollen the mountain stream, and at regular intervals rivulets broke off and ran their own course until they formed shallow pools amid the wide patches of wild flowers that covered each area of level ground. From one such area Sartene and his men watched a German column move along the road fifty yards below. To the right of the column was the river, to the left the steep rock-strewn foothills of the mountain. The troops were moving toward Italy to strengthen the Nazi forces that had replaced Mussolini's army and were now struggling to stave off the Allied advance. At the head of the column two heavy tanks led the convoy, and two hundred yards to the north two more tanks could be seen bringing up the rear. In between, assorted troop carriers and ammunition and supply trucks, trailing field artillery, made up the long line of march.

It had been almost four years now since Sartene and his men had taken to the mountains, and again spring had come bringing its new life amid the endless killing. Across the river the pastel blossoms of orchards could be seen, and everywhere there were flowers showing through the new growth, and the trees on the mountain swayed gently with the pale green of new leaves. The only sounds intruding on the day were the tanks and the trucks and the men singing in the troop carriers.

Sartene looked to his left, then back to his right. Far off in each direction, large camouflaged piles of stacked tree trunks could be seen perched at the edge of rock shelves that stood above the road. He nodded to Auguste, who was stretched out beside him, then stared at the troops moving along the road as Auguste raised his rifle to his shoulder.

A soldier in a troop carrier directly below was picked up and thrown forward as the report of Auguste's rifle echoed across the river. To the south and the north a great rumbling came as the denuded trees crashed toward the road, dragging rocks and dirt with them, blocking each route of escape. Then the mortar and machine-gun fire; the roar of the bazookas disabling the tanks and the screams of men dying as they scrambled from the trucks.

The Germans fought from behind the trucks, firing blindly at the spits of fire that flashed above them. To the right and left others assaulted the steep rocky slopes, firing their weapons as they ran, then dying before they advanced more than ten yards from the road. The explosions came in fiery orange bursts, followed by billowing black smoke as the ammunition trucks burst into hot shards of steel. The troops retreated toward the river, screaming in panic as the first of the mines that had been placed there sent bodies hurtling into the air. Those who survived then turned and ran back to the road, where the automatic-weapon and mortar fire poured down, chewing everything in its path.

The fighting lasted for twenty minutes, and then it was quiet and the spring air was filled with the smell of cordite and blood and burning flesh. Sartene moved down the hill, slipping on the loose rocks, righting himself, then sliding again. On the road the moans of the wounded could be heard amid the sounds of the flames, and there was the occasional shot of a partisan rifle ending individual torment.

He walked through the killing ground without speaking. Auguste was a few steps behind, his eyes searching the bodies for any sign of life. At the edge of the road where the high grass dipped down to the river, a German soldier lay on his side. His eyes were staring wildly at his hands, his gray-white face showing the final horror of his young life. The twisted bundle of gray intestines protruded between his fingers as he fought to keep them within the gaping hole in his belly. Tears streamed down the boy's face, and his jaw and lips trembled uncontrollably. He looked up at Sartene, and his body began to shudder. A gagging sound rose from his throat as he tried to speak, followed by a reddish-green mixture of blood and bile. Auguste withdrew a German P-38 from a holster and shattered the boy's forehead.

Sartene stared across the river to the orchards. “Another child, Auguste.” He looked up at the black smoke blotting out the bright morning sky. “I wonder how many more children we'll have to kill.”

“Too many,” Auguste said. “Unless we're unlucky and they kill us first.”

They walked back through the forest on the layer of pine needles that stretched out before them like a soft brown carpet. The smell of the fighting was gone now, replaced by the sweet scent of the trees and the sound of the birds; the only memory of the fighting was the sight of the men marching ahead, carrying the captured weapons.

They moved five miles through the gently rising forest before they reached the camp and were able to rest. Sartene slid to the ground, allowing his body to fall back against a large boulder. Others in the camp began preparing a meal, but he could not bring himself to think of food.