A Lion in Waiting

By HW Coyle

While serving as an observer with the British Expeditionary Force in 1940, Ian Wylie survives a massacre of prisoners. In its aftermath, he resolves to find a way of sitting out the rest of the war, safe from both the Germans and his responsibilities. At first, he finds sanctuary on a small farm owned by a teacher, Andrea Morel, who harbours him until an incident leaves her no choice but to send Ian away. With no wish to return to England and the war, Ian assumes the identity of Andrea’s sister, Diane Lambert, and accepts an offer to teach at a Catholic girls' school in Normandy. His efforts to turn his back on the war are frustrated by a local businessman who enlists Ian’s aid in passing intelligence on German activities in Normandy to the Allies as well as by a group of schoolgirls who take it upon themselves to fight for the liberation of France.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TransGender Publishing (imprint of Castle Carrington Publishing)
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781990096112

Book preview

Prologue

England, November 1939

The sight of his father making his way along the station’s crowded platform caused Ian Wylie’s heart to sink. He had been hoping to avoid the inevitable scene his father’s presence was sure to cause. A member of the peerage, who was also a brigadier assigned to the General Staff, tended to do that whenever they popped up unexpectedly amongst a gathering of soldiers. It was bad enough that the officers and men of Ian’s field artillery battalion already considered him something of an odd fish without his Lordship showing up like this. It wouldn’t be long before both his battery commander and battalion commander shoved their way along the crowded platform to where he was standing in order to present themselves to Lord Wylie, heaping empty platitudes and praise upon Ian that were as false as their smiles. Bracing himself, the only thing Ian could take comfort in was the fact that his mother wasn’t there to make an intolerable situation even worse.

Like Moses parting the waves, people stepped aside as Lord Wylie advanced toward his son. Even from a distance, he could tell by Ian’s expression that this was something he wasn’t looking forward to either. The two had never enjoyed anything approaching a congenial relationship. How could it have been otherwise? As a peer and a decorated professional soldier, Lord Wylie had both a family tradition and a reputation to maintain, one his son had thus far shown little interest in upholding. That Ian had been an only child was only one of the cruel jokes nature had played on him. The other curse Ian had labored under, the one that made him an easy mark during his formative years and an unlikely candidate to follow in his footsteps, was a physical presentation that was anything but manly. Whereas Lord Wylie was the epitome of what an officer was expected to look and behave like, his son came across as something of a poof. On more occasions than he cared to remember, this sad state of affairs had caused Lord Wylie a great deal of embarrassment, such as the day when the colonel of his former regiment rejected Ian because, in the words of the regiment’s commanding officer, it would be detrimental to the regiment if it became known that we were accepting that sort. Without having to ask the colonel to explain, ‘That sort,’ meant effeminate young men. Not even his son’s command of French and German or his own reputation were enough to overcome a handicap that had bedeviled Ian his entire life.

When the two were but a few feet apart, Lord Wylie stopped. Not knowing what else to do, the son came to attention and saluted. Rather than bringing a smile to his face, it took every bit of Lord Wylie’s self-control to keep from frowning as he regarded the boy. Even in full kit, at five foot seven and weighting not much more than nine stones, Ian was, at best, a pitiful specimen. Were those the only factors that came into play, his Lordship was convinced his son would have been able to manage to fit in. It was those damnable delicate features he had inherited from his mother that made that all but impossible. Coupled with big brown eyes and the complexion of a twelve-year-old, everyone who met Ian for the first time inevitably assumed the lad was a homosexual.

Ian didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know what was going through his father’s mind. Sensing his salute wasn’t about to be returned, he slowly brought his hand back down to his side and assumed a relaxed position of parade rest as he waited for his father to address him. Upon seeing this, Lord Wylie cleared his throat.

I’m rather surprised your mother’s not here, he stated as he made something of a show of looking about.

We said our farewells last night, Ian replied without a hint of sadness. She said she’s had her fill of seeing men going off to war for one lifetime.

Yes, I expect so Lord Wylie muttered sadly. Your mother never was much for long, teary-eyed goodbyes.

Was she always so cold during the last war whenever you were off to the front? Ian asked out of the blue.

Looking back at his son, Lord Wylie sighed.

No, not always, at least not in 1914 when everyone thought the war would be over in a few weeks. It wasn’t until after Loos in 1915, when I was wounded for the first time that things changed. I don’t know if your mother ever mentioned this to you, but I was offered a staff position in the War Office, one that would have kept me out of the line. I turned it down, of course.

Of course, Ian repeated offhandedly, causing his father to wince.

Yes, well, your mother was well along with you when I decided to go back to France and rejoin the regiment instead.

Pausing, Lord Wylie turned his head off to one side, blinking as if trying to keep his son from seeing the moisture forming in the corners of his eyes.

At the Somme, I was posted as missing in action for over a week. Though she never told me as much, I’ve always suspected the stress of not knowing whether I was alive or not was what brought on her labor before she was due. Things were never quite the same between us after that, he concluded making no effort to hide the sadness he still felt.

For the first time in a long time, Ian felt sorry for his father. He was about to say something when his battalion commander, trailed by his battery commander made their appearance. In the twinkling of an eye, Lord Wylie managed to regain his composure and revert to the form with which Ian was more familiar. Perhaps when this war was over, things would be different, the son thought as he watched his battalion commander introduce himself. Maybe when he returned from France, after he’d proven himself, he would be able to sit down and actually hold a conversation with his father as an equal. Just what they’d talk about was a good question since Ian knew telling his father the truth about himself, no matter how well he did in France, was something he could never do.

There was, of course, a chance he wouldn’t need to deal with that problem. War, after all, changed people. The writings of Siegfried Sasson and Wilfred Owens made that abundantly clear. Both men’s poetry spoke of an inevitable rebirth, an acute awareness of a person’s true nature that only a trial by fire was capable of waking. Whether he’d be able to live with what he discovered about himself was a good question, one he was not at all sure he wished to have answered. As he stood aside, while his battalion commander did his best to impress his father, Ian reminded himself that there was also a better than fair chance that he wouldn’t come back, sparing him the need to bare his soul to a man in whose shadow he had grown up. Wilfred Owens, after all, never had to deal with the physiological carnage war left in its wake: sometimes leaving Ian to wonder if he had been the luckier of the war poets he so revered.

Part 1

Farewell to All That

May 1940 - June 1940

Chapter One

Northern France, May 1940

Taking care not to spill a single drop of the hot tea that he was carrying, Sergeant Albert Johnson slowly made his way back to where his lieutenant was still asleep. Eighteen days ago, he would have never even considered doing such a thing. Johnson was a professional soldier, not a sniveling batman for a Lord’s runt of a son. It had taken but a single day of brutal fighting along the Dyle River in Belgium to convince him he had been wrong about Lieutenant Wylie. Far from being the Nancy every NCO in the battalion took him to be, the young wisp of an officer turned out to be a crackerjack observer: one who not only had a knack for putting rounds on target, first time, every time, but one who was cool under fire when everyone else around him was on the verge of panic.

Even more impressive had been his performance during the BEF’s¹ long retreat out of Belgium back toward the Channel. On more than one occasion, the lieutenant’s ability to keep the Germans at bay was the only thing that saved the units they were supporting from being overrun. This had been especially true on the previous day when they’d found themselves facing tanks for the first time. Undaunted, Lieutenant Wylie had slowly walked their own barrage back toward their position until it was so close Johnson could hear the shrapnel from their own incoming rounds zinging overhead. Yet, throughout that ordeal, the Lieutenant had kept at his post, exposed to enemy fire as he calmly called in adjustments as coolly as if he were on maneuvers. That performance had earned both Johnson and his lieutenant a personal congratulation from their battalion commander and the promise of a medal. Oddly enough, even though this was the first time Johnson remembered ever hearing the battalion commander praise his lieutenant for anything, Wylie greeted his sudden change in fortunes as if it were unimportant. Instead of being buoyed by the platitudes being heaped upon him, the young officer merely listened to what the battalion commander had to say before asking in a very offhanded manner, Will there be anything else, Sir? When the befuddled colonel shook his head, Lieutenant Wylie gave his superior a proper salute, turned about, and wandered off to the barn they were using as billets. There, he wrapped himself up in a blanket before dropping off to sleep on a bed of moldy straw.

Squatting down next to where his lieutenant was sleeping, Johnson took a moment to study him. Despite what he’d witnessed for himself, the sergeant of artillery still could not help but wonder how someone who looked like Lieutenant Wylie could ever manage to secure a commission. To say he was out of place among soldiers was something of an understatement. But a soldier he was. There was no doubt about that now. Nor was there any doubt in Johnson’s mind that it was time to rouse the poor lad from his well-earned sleep. Any thought of touching his lieutenant in order to wake him was discounted out of hand. After two weeks of vicious combat during the day and long, tedious marches at night everyone was a bit jumpy, especially when being roused from a sound sleep.

Time to crack on, Sir, Johnson called out softly. The sun’s up and I expect Jerry will be paying us a visit soon.

Opening his eyes, Ian needed a moment to collect his thoughts. He’d not slept in the same place more than once in over a week. When he mentioned this to his sergeant as he took the proffered cup of tea from him, the sergeant smiled.

"It seems like that’s about to change soon enough. Word is the battalion’s going to be pulled back to a place called Dunkirk where they’ll be shipping us back home. With luck, we’ll be back at Larkhill by the end of the week.

After taking a sip, Ian looked up at his sergeant, amazed how NCOs always seemed to know what was going on long before any of the officers in the unit did.

Are you sure about that, Sergeant? Ian asked in an effort to see just how much the man really knew.

Well, Sir, like the sergeant major told me last night, there’s little point in keepin’ us here seeing as how we’re out of shells. Seems you used up the last of them yesterday. Didn’t they tell you?

Ian chuckled. What do I know. I’m just an officer.

Easing back onto his bum, Johnson joined his officer in enjoying a good chuckle and their tea before asking him a question that was on the minds of every man in the section.

Do you suppose they’ll bundle us up once we’re in England and send us back to France?

Hesitating, Ian took a sip of tea. He already knew the answer. After heaping praise on him for his performance to date, his colonel had taken Ian aside where he informed him things were going rather badly for the French, which meant it was also going badly for the BEF.

It seems the Germans have managed to push aside the French Second Army and outflank the Maginot Line, all but wiping out the entire French Ninth Army in the process. They’ve also taken Calais and Boulogne, his battalion commander informed him, making no effort to hide his concern. At the moment Jerry’s doing his damnedest to wrap around behind us, which is why we’ve been retreating toward the last Channel port we hold.

Having grown up around the military, Ian knew that without proper port facilities like those in Calais and Boulogne, as well as time, it would be impossible to evacuate the battalion’s guns or vehicles. With things deteriorating as rapidly as they were, it was questionable whether they’d be able to get the men off. And even if they did, there was no point in sending the battalion back to France without guns, vehicles, or shells. He also knew enough about the sad state of affairs back home regarding production of war material. It would be months before factories in Britain would be able to replace whatever they left behind. By then, the Germans could very well be in England. Having managed to gobble up Norway right under the noses of the Royal Navy and brush aside the French Army as if it were nothing, it seemed as if the Germans were capable of just about anything.

Naturally, Ian didn’t share any of this with his sergeant. Instead, he simply shook his head.

I expect someone will tell us what’s what when they feel we have a need to know. Until then, the only thing left for us to do is see to it that our lads are ready for whatever it is they’ve got waiting for us at Dunkirk.

~

Ian never made it to Dunkirk. As the column they were traveling with was approaching a town, it ran into a cluster of German tanks supporting the Leibstandarde, Adolf Hitler SS Infantry Regiment. The ensuing confrontation was very muddled and quite one-sided. With nothing but small arms, most of the British artillerymen at the head of the column simply gave up. When the drivers at the end of the column saw what was going on up ahead, they did their best to turn their trucks around and flee, resulting in a mad scramble that accomplished little more than blocking the road and preventing their own escape. Many of those who were stuck in the middle, like Ian and Johnson simply bailed out of their vehicle and made a dash for freedom across a field. Their efforts to escape were cut short by an MG 34 that drove them to ground, keeping them pinned until a squad of Waffen SS, taking their time, wandered out to collect them up as if they were schoolboys who’d been caught trying to evade their headmaster.

In the wake of this disaster, Ian found he was more embarrassed at being captured than anything else. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t imagine his father meekly marching into a field where he and Sergeant Johnson joined a group of about eighty soldiers of the Royal Warwick Regiment. Just how a man like his father would have avoided being taken prisoner was something Ian couldn’t quite figure out, which was why he concluded that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to live up to the expectations of others, especially those of his father.

In a bid to cheer up his officer, Johnson sidled up next to him and whispered that he had nothing about which to be ashamed.

You’ve done everything that’s been asked of you, Sir. In the past week, you’ve managed to give Jerry more than a few bloody noses. I expect if more people had done half as much as you, none of us here would be in this spot.

Looking over at his sergeant, Ian was tempted to remind the man simply doing one’s duty was not good enough when your father was a member of the peerage and a brigadier. To have done so would have served no useful purpose. Instead, Ian managed to muster up something of a smile. He was about to tell Johnson how much he appreciated his kind words when he noticed an SS corporal who had been guarding them arguing with his lieutenant. Though he could only catch bits and pieces of their exchange, it was enough to send a chill down Ian’s spine. He was prevented from warning Johnson by other guards who began to hustle the gaggle of prisoners off across the field in which they’d been standing. With threats, curses, and rifle butts, the Germans herded the British prisoners through another field and toward a barn. Throughout this ordeal, Ian nervously glanced to his left and right, frantically weighing his chances of escaping as they went.

Upon reaching the barn, all the prisoners were crammed into it until there was barely enough room to stand. Through gaps between the boards that made up the walls of the barn, Ian could see Germans outside milling about. At the door of the barn, an infantry captain belonging to the Royal Warwick Regiment had turned on one of the Germans, complaining that there was not enough room in the barn for those of his men who were wounded to lie down.

Totally unmoved by that officer’s argument, the German yelled back in fluent English, Yellow Englishman, there will be plenty of room where you are going.

With that, the angry German, along with several of his comrades, began lobbing stick grenades into the crowded barn.

What happened next was, for Ian, nothing more than a jumble of snapshot images and deafening sounds. Instinctively, a pair of NCOs from the Royal Warwick threw themselves on some of the grenades. Their efforts to save their fellow soldiers were, however, in vain. There were simply too many grenades and too much confusion as men began to panic, pushing, shoving, and screaming for all they were worth. Sergeant Johnson, who managed to keep his wits about him stunned Ian when he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck while sweeping his feet out from under him with one of his own legs. Unable to maintain his balance, Ian fell to the ground. Once down, the sergeant of artillery threw himself on top of his young lieutenant, smothering him like a blanket as the grenades went off all about them.

~

Just how long he lay pinned under Sergeant Johnson’s lifeless body was impossible for Ian to determine. Nor could he tell with any degree of certainly how badly he was wounded. The screams of men about to die and the deafening sounds of explosions, gunfire, and pleas of the dying were gone. In their place were a deafening silence, the sickly-sweet smell of fresh blood, and the stench of loose bowels that mingled with the odor of damp, moldy hay.

Calling upon all his strength, the young officer of artillery managed to roll his sergeant’s corpse off of him. Planting both hands under him into the pools of congealed blood he’d been laying in, Ian pushed himself up off the floor and onto his haunches. It was night, he realized, which proved to be a blessing, for it kept him from having to behold the horror that surrounded him. He didn’t need to see it, though. His own blood-soaked uniform reeked of death. In a vain effort to rid himself of it, Ian took to ripping at his own clothing. When that effort proved futile, he turned toward the door, crawling and clawing his away to freedom over the bodies of the dead as the most basic of all animalistic urge took hold—survival. He no longer thought of himself as an officer or considered the corpse beneath him as being human. He no longer thought of anything except an opportunity to run, a chance to escape the nightmare his life had become. Nothing else mattered. Driven by instincts alone, Ian Wylie emerged from a manmade hell and staggered off into darkness.

Chapter Two

Northern France, June 1940

Before entering the farmhouse that had belonged to her husband’s family for generations, Andrea Morel slipped off the muddy shoes she wore whenever she was tending to the two cows, seven pigs, and dozen or so chickens for which she was responsible. That they had all managed to survive the ebb and flow of battle was something of a miracle. Whether any of the poor animals would endure the way she cared for them much longer would require another, the exhausted woman mused as she slowly made her way over to a chair before collapsing into it.

Andrea was an educated woman, one who’d been brought up by educated parents who had taught her and her sister from an early age that the greatest sin in life was to waste their God-given talents. While she understood farmers like her husband were important, teachers were also critical to a cultured and civilized people. The classroom was where she belonged, Andrea reminded herself as she studied her calloused hands. Her calling in life was awaking young minds to their potential, not chasing chickens about the barnyard, or raking cow manure out of stalls. The only reason she even bothered with the filthy creatures that were now her only companions was her husband. Had she not loved him as much as she did and was she not determined to make sure the farm he had left the previous September was still thriving when he returned, she would have accepted a standing offer of a position at a well-respected boarding school for girls in the Department of Manche months ago. But, like her parents and everyone else in the Lambert family, she was stubborn and driven to succeed, no matter what. Those who knew Doctor and Madame Lambert liked to joke that there was far too much Irish blood in both of them, compliments of ancestors who had fled Ireland with the Wild Geese in order to stay true to their faith. So, it came as no surprise to anyone that both of their daughters were just as strong-willed and accomplished as they were. Above all, Andrea was fiercely patriotic. She had a duty to both her husband and France to carry on in the face of adversity, just as her Irish ancestors had done.

The sound of a muted babbling drifting down from the floor above reminded Andrea of her newest charge, an English soldier she’d found in the barn. She made no effort to rush up to his side to see what he was saying. There was no need. She had already done all she could as far as his wounds were concerned. The faint muttering that she could hear were not cries of pain or calls for assistance. Rather, they were nothing more than another nonsensical rant, a string of words being spewed by a tormented mind. Of course, considering the condition in which the Englishman had been when she’d discovered him, such ramblings were to be expected. How could things have been otherwise? She had found him curled up in a tight little ball in the corner of a cow stall one morning, half-naked and covered in dried blood. That was eight days ago. Since then, he had been drifting between periods of semi-consciousness, during which he’d mutter incoherently to himself, and a deep, coma-like sleep. What would she do, she wondered as she lifted her eyes as if she were trying to peer through the ceiling above her head to where the Englishman lay resting in her bed if her husband came back from the war like that? What would she do if he didn’t come back at all?

The answers to such questions would have to wait, she concluded as she rose from the chair on which she’d been resting. There was bread to bake and soap to make. Whether she’d be able to get the Englishman to accept some nourishment today was a good question. He couldn’t go much longer without food. Andrea knew if things did not improve soon, she would have little choice but to turn him over to the Germans. At least with them he’d have a chance.

~

With a suddenness that caused him to gasp, Ian Wylie was awake and sitting bolt upright. The panic that gripped him quickly passed, only to be replaced by an uncontrollable shaking and dizziness. This was quickly followed by a sudden realization that he was no longer in the barn where the Germans had murdered the men with whom he had been.

In double-quick time, an avalanche of disjointed images and recollections cascaded through his mind even as his eyes darted about the room in which he now found himself. Had he imagined it all? he found himself wondering as he struggled to reconcile that horrific memory with his current situation. Had it all been but a dream? Or was this one?

Reaching up with his right hand, Ian’s fingers came to rest upon a bandage wrapped about his head that also covered his right ear. Slowly, he worked his fingers around the edge of the bandage, pressing ever so gently as he did so, until his efforts were rewarded with a sharp pain, telling him he’d found the wound. This wasn’t a dream. Nor had the incident in the barn been one either. Though injured, he was alive, but that was all he knew.

One by one, his senses began to supply his befuddled brain with random bits of information. The smell of bread baking, the lowing of a cow drifting through an open window, and the exquisite feeling of clean sheets told Ian not only was all of this real, but, for the moment, he was safe. Just what had transpired between the time that his sergeant had pushed him to the floor of a barn crowded with his fellow countrymen and now was very much a mystery, one into which Ian was in no rush to delve. There would be time to sort such things out later, the young officer of artillery told himself as he eased back down onto the pillow and closed his eyes. Whether he would ever be able to solve that mystery was an excellent question. Not that it made any difference.

There was one thing Ian was sure of as he drifted back to sleep. His war was over. He had no doubt of that. No matter what anyone said or thought of him, he was finished with the Army and his foolish efforts to live up to a reputation and a way of life for which nature had done little to prepare him. Sergeant Johnson had been right. He’d done his duty for King and Country. Let some other silly sod take over from him, someone who was better suited for such things. Someone like his father.

~

The sensation of something warm dribbling down the side of his head caused Ian to instinctively bring his hand up to push it aside, startling Andrea and causing her to pull back.

Oh, my God, she exclaimed in French as the Englishmen opened his eyes. I thought you were asleep, she continued, this time in English.

Ian took a moment to focus on the image of the handsome woman in her late twenties who was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.

Sorry, Ian replied in French. I did not mean to surprise you like that.

A smile lit Andrea’s face.

You speak French, she stated in English, making no effort to conceal the pleasure this discovery brought to her.

And you English, Ian shot back in French, betraying a hint of a Parisian accent.

Shall we speak French? Or would you prefer English? Andrea asked, easily going from one language to the other in midsentence.

Since I appear to be in your home, I think French would be more appropriate.

Andrea hesitated a moment before answering. When she did, her smile was replaced by a frown.

Yes. Given how things are, I think that would be best.

Both the woman’s expression and the tenor of her response told Ian all he needed to know.

The Germans. Are they here? he asked in French.

No, Monsieur. They were here a few days ago, before I found you, but only to search for soldiers and wine.

When she saw the panic in the Englishman’s face, Andrea sought to allay his concern. Reaching out with her right hand, she placed it on Ian’s forearm.

You’ve no need to worry. Most of the Germans have gone south. With all the confusion and uncertainty that they’ve left in their wake, I doubt if anyone will be coming back here. This is a small farm that no one ever bothers with, even in the best times.

Ever so slowly, Ian relaxed.

The war, what’s happening? How long have I been here? he muttered as the French woman finished cleaning the gash on the side of his head and the cut on his ear.

Sensing the Englishman was still not totally with it and not wishing to tell him the BEF had fled France, something that still angered her, Andrea forced herself to smile.

We can talk of such things later. First, let me redress this wound. Then, if you are feeling up to it, I will fix you something to eat.

Sensing that the French woman was holding grim tidings back from him but in no mood to pursue the matter any further at the moment, Ian returned her smile.

Yes, of course. Thank you. By the way, my name is Ian, Ian Wylie, he added as he looked up at the French woman.

Andrea Morel.

I would like to thank you and your husband for taking me in.

Andrea did not bother telling the Englishman that her husband was away in the Army. There would be plenty of time to tell him everything after he’d had something to eat and was more alert. After all, neither of them was going anywhere any time soon. At least she wasn’t, Andrea thought to herself as she once more found herself struggling to suppress the anger that she felt over the way the English had deserted her country.

~

The two of them eventually did talk that evening. Andrea, starved for human companionship, did most of it. While Ian ate his first meal in days, she rambled on, telling him about herself, her family, and, eventually, her husband, a reservist who was currently manning the Ouvrage Rochonvillers, a fortress that was part of the Maginot Line near Thionville.

I’ve not heard of him since the Germans attacked, she lamented. I expect he is still well. According to the news, the Germans have failed to break the Maginot Line. So, I have hope, both for René and for France.

Unable to bring himself to inform the French woman that the Maginot Line no longer mattered now that the German armies had managed to outflank it, Ian made appropriately sympathetic noises, content for the moment to let her do all the talking.

Eventually, Ian’s curiosity over the fate of the Allied armies the Germans had pinned against the English Channel got the better of him. Screwing up his courage, he asked her what had happened to them. To his astonishment, Andrea informed him the entire BEF and thousands of French soldiers had been evacuated back to England.

The cowardly Belgian King surrendered on the 28th without telling anyone, Andrea stated making no effort to hide the disgust she felt over his betrayal. I do not know how many French soldiers who went into Belgium were saved, but I am sure all the English were.

Upon hearing this, Ian’s heart sank. The idea that so many of his fellow countrymen had been able to accomplish something at which he had failed so badly once more reminded him that no matter how hard he tried, he would never measure up to the expectations his lineage demanded of him. Rather than making his way to the coast as so many others had and being withdrawn back to England where they were free to soldier on, he was sitting in German-occupied France in a woman’s dressing gown, drinking coffee.

Upon seeing the effect