Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (20 page)

He shook hands with the colonel, who, as the door swung shut behind William, was already leafing intently through the sheaf of papers on his desk, head filled with schemes and machinations, working in quiet intensity as though William had never been there at all.

~

Jack’s eyes had widened with the exciting news. He suddenly seemed to enliven; re-energised, galvanised, not a trace of any fear or concern for the personal danger that would be an all-engulfing feature of their chosen life. William had been surprised; his own stomach had churned knots since his slightly dizzy exit back into the windy gales of London, which thankfully had slowed to a manageable breeze as he passed the great square once more, Nelson’s Column overhead, the great admiral standing proud above Whitehall.

The flickering fire-light that lit the pub played shadows across their faces, three quiet figures hunched in the corner table. Great patriotic symbols were hung variously around the dark walls; other marks of the great detective of Arthur Conan Doyle were visible, in homage to an institution of the land. Such ostentation was apparent everywhere, driven by the fear of change and the inevitability of further war, and likely defeat.

William spoke quickly and calmly, in a low, urgent tone not unlike the colonel’s own as he laid out the grim task to his friends.

“This goes beyond anything we did, including village attacks,” Jack noted.

Mary nodded, glumly. “I prefer to meet the enemy.”

“This is meeting the enemy,” William hissed, suddenly animated. “But it’s intelligent. We can’t just charge a whole army of fascists. Krauts, Iti’s, Franco cunts, probably frogs…” his voice trailed off wearily, numbed by the enormity of their duty.

“Alan would,” Mary smiled.

Jack and William both caught her eye, in disgruntled surprise, but then let the ghost of a chuckle play over their lips, realising the intent.

They’d all faced danger before. Fighting in uncertain trench warfare, the blood-curdling terror of village battles, the uneasy treachery of the Barcelona May Days and its palpable ceasefires that none dared to trust; the three young men had learned to grow accustomed to the strains and fear of conflict situations, and with the maleficience of civil war, Mary had accepted the modus vivendi of a life in combat, conflicting as it did with her humanist upbringing. But as partisans? They were civilians engaged in acts of war.

And with a racial subversive in their midst, and the notorious barbarity of the Gestapo, William’s fears were completely justified.

But Jack’s eyes lit up wide.

“This is it,” he hissed suddenly, lightly tapping the wooden tabletop they sat at in his great excitement. The enormity of it sank in; Jack had been contemplating a somewhat redundant resistance, as they all had – this task, sanctioned from the shadows of the system, gave them the platform and the means to make a difference before any end.

It was almost indecent, William thought, happily anticipating a coming enemy with the martial zeal of a Viking. Saxon blood, he thought wryly. Hitler would approve.

“It’s not a cause for bloody champagne, now is it?” the Scot snapped, berating his friend. “Pack it in man.”

Jack shrugged, grinning and unrepentent. “We can make a difference. We’re not lying down for the scum.”

William made no response, and instead turned to glance at Mary. His dark-haired lover did not meet his eyes. Strange, he mused, the excitement of his dear friend in the face of almost certain death, compared to perhaps the most dedicated anti-fascist in their midst; his beautiful, vivacious, feisty girl, whose wooden expression betrayed nothing. It unnerved him; his creature of passion, silent and portentous.

Simon lit up a Woodbine, his eighth of the evening, and set himself down at the desk in agitation. Fidgeting compulsively, he tried to write as quickly as he could, putting little thought to the torrent of simple words. To
flow
.

“Dear Diary.

I’ve been invited to cover a soiree of the well-to-do types at the Savoy. They made me sign an official secrets act of sorts to be involved, but only thirty journalists or so are to be involved. By all accounts, indeed judging from their behaviour alone, this is a big one.

He paused. How could he properly convey the dread and apprehension? No words could do justice to the low sensation at the pit of his stomach. So, then, he decided for honest description. If anyone ever reads this, Simon thought,
and they think I’m too expository and bland, to hell with them
. He dipped his quill in the vat of ink, attached the Woodbine to his little gold cigarette holder, and continued writing.

I cannot capably describe the awful sensation of waiting in dull dread for some bizarre or ugly occurrence, the next drastic change that further advances the fascist system and makes democracy, its idiosyncrasies and silly failings and charming ideals, seem yet more distant.

They’re hush-hush about all this caper. Cannot really say any more, nor dramatise this entry as yet. No doubt it will be some self-gratifying little SS thug promoting victory in some internecine power struggle; an SS viceroy in England for Hitler, the Wehrmacht side-lined, Brauchitsch an insignificant desk jockey. Won’t that be quite wonderful? The only way I can look them in the eye and smile is in knowing that there will be an alternate version of this news printed outside the conventional press soon enough. I have my pride. I’m no gunman or soldier, but I’m helping to build the resistance in my own way.

He paused. Too self-glorifying. Simon rose, and stared himself in the great mirror self-critically. Lethargy had put weight on his belly and face before the war, but while he knew he could avoid the constraints of rationing with the best of them, his conscience didn’t allow it, and as a result he had slimmed back down. His cheeks though, looked pale and gaunt. His eyes were lined, and small purple bags puffed under them. At 22, the young journalist had been baby-faced, leapfrogging older and wiser heads through a mixture of family connections and his own considerable talents of the quill, quietly resented by his peers. But at 27, he looked like man well into his thirties. Flecks of grey streaked his sleek hair.

He dressed, wearily donning his best, and only, three piece suit; an ostentatious combination of formal black morning coat, matching waistcoat fitted in the tighter, snug style that the Americans still favoured, and some cashmere striped trousers of charcoal grey; bought in a fit of youthful exuberance, with money from his first three wages when finally earning serious, adult pay at the paper, aged 23. Completing the ensemble was a grey tie and white dress shirt, black felt top hat, and a wrist watch that had been his father’s. His mother appeared at the open bedroom door, rapping it lightly.

“Simon dear? There’s a man here for you. It’s time you went to your thing.”

Her son, viewing his new appearance sombrely, turned to her. “It is,” he agreed sombrely. “
Tempus fugit
.”

~

No equipment was necessary, the invite – or was it a summons – had said. Only his presence was required. Transport had been provided for; Simon surmised – correctly – that the German agency responsible for this (
whoever it is
, he wondered) had allocated the petrol and the cars. He rode in a large, sleek Bentley.

“Hello,” Simon said loudly, projecting false confidence.

The man that drove him had ushered him into the back of the car silently, and ignored the subsequent greeting. His face was taut. Strong-jawed, sporting stubble, and large; the forbidding figure wore a Fedora and a long, double-breasted, belt-tied beige trench coat over a suit and tie, and had responded to neither “hello,” nor “so, tonight should be fun…” and then finally “are you a sauerkraut, or real person?”

Eventually, Simon gave up trying to bait him. The man was as distant as the North Pole, and twice as cold. The man could probably freeze molten lava with his tongue.

On reaching the Savoy, he saw that both the perimeter around the hotel and a stretch along the riverside gardens path of the Strand down towards the Embankment were lined with all black figures holding sub-machine guns slung across their chests.
Awful
, he thought.
With Big Ben and Parliament a stone’s throw down the river, in
sight
. Just down the Strand there at the Embankment Gardens is where Charles Dickens worked in a glue factory, as a boy. What would
he
think about the SS flanking the Thames
?

With quiet horror, Simon realised that his driver must be a Gestapo agent; at the very least, some kind of shadowy figure in the Himmler-Heydrich police system. The thought appalled him.

They pulled up at the river entrance next to the Embankment, and the silent agent purred away. As Simon peered out to the river, taking in his surroundings in the surreal atmosphere, a slow procession of Rolls Royces and Bentleys stopped in the same spot by the riverside entrance to disgorge passengers, all well-dressed in the extreme. They all filed in to the great hotel, where none other than Simon seemed to blanch at the sight of SS sentries lining corridors, motionless, standing sentinel outside the great suites. They all filed in twos and threes up to the River room. Simon took a spot by the windows, and stood gazing out to the black water, lit by Embankment street lamps. Minutes later, he was startled out of his reverie:

“I say, aren’t you that young journalist fellow? You covered the races in ’38?”

An old man with a particularly enormous moustache clad in a flamboyant three piece suit came up on him suddenly. There was no escape. Simon was forced to converse, that is, to share awkward small talk with the old gentleman and several of his acquaintances that joined them. One was a lord, one a business tycoon of some sort – he left it unsaid – another was a banker (“of some renown, wouldn’t you know”) and lastly, a man he didn’t recognise that appeared to represent the BUF, with a similarly aristocratic air.
Oswald couldn’t make it, or wasn’t invited
, Simon thought darkly. He held his tongue with patience, which was made harder when the talk came around to the Germans.

“Well, I always said the Parliament would have its day. Democracy turned out to be a damp squib, what with all the problems facing Europe today. Look at Spain – by Jove, what a
dreadful
business. Thank heavens the little general crushed those communist swine. Burning churches, shooting priests; good heavens, would you
credit it
!”

“Unbelievable!”

“Quite.”

“Well, fascism creates a stable and
strong
country, wouldn’t you know, and of
course
, led by the people of its
blood
… none of the subversive
decadence
or
unstable
elements, strikes, crimi
nality
and what have you. As long as people obey, the world works rather perfectly wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh a new order in the world, for sure. Once the whole nasty business is tied up and hostilities are officially over…”

“I must say,
your lot
do seem to have the right i
dea
, those who took point in Italy and Germany… fascist countries
are
rather ideal to work with. They’re a
damned
sound investment, wouldn’t you know? Stable,
strong
economies…”

“I say, chaps,” the journalist broke in, his body tensed. “Do tell me what your thoughts are when it comes to
life unworthy of life
?”

Silence, first in surprise and then tinged with disdain, and the pervasive negative energy of contempt.

“Yeah,” the writer resumed, coldly. “I’ve got to go
what thing there like
yeah
…” and muttering incoherently, he extricated himself from the men who now stared daggers through him. He snorted, uncaring, and walked away before he felt inclined to attack one of them. Perhaps all of them.

Lighting a cigarette without asking permission – having noted that no one else smoked in the banqueting rooms – the journalist resumed his scenic spot by the window, sucking in cigarette smoke as would a prisoner on death row. Eyes tracing the London skyline, he hoped that tonight would not continue in such an excruciatingly painful manner. Several minutes later, a neat, unctuous little man with oily slicked-back hair called the waiting group into the Lancaster Ballroom. They filed in, in the same dribs and drabs to a table and chair arrangement facing the stage, behind which stood eight SS guards, framed by a huge banner lined with ornate swirls and somewhat obscenely decorated with the swastika and the Union Jack. It was a startling image; stark, a brutal visage. The seated men sat directly beneath it, adding an element of choreography to the grim charade. And as Simon was ushered towards one of the tables closest to the stage, the reason for the evening and everything surrounding it became apparent. Suddenly, the reason for all the security surrounding the Savoy was crystal clear. Sat in front of him was Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring.

A hot summer sun beat down on the Berghof, its light glinting off the polished exterior of the house that sat proudly overlooking Berchtesgaden on the Obersalzburg peaks of Bavaria. An orange ball lit up the surrounding green mountain slopes with brilliance, contrasting sharply against the clear blue of the endless sky, a medley of colours accompanied by a serenading by birdsong. Air so fresh it hurt the lungs swirled in a light breeze, and the smell of the summer grass was fresh and clean. It was a place of apotheosis; a high castle of fairytales from which all-powerful man could be an Olympian God.

The black Mercedes purred past the ranks of saluting
Reichsicherheitdienst
men, clad in SS grey, and rolled up the curving drive to the base of the stairs. There an honour guard met them. The organisation of police and internment across a cowed Europe was known as ‘The Black Angels’, and present on the mountaintop of Gods were the two blackest angels of them all.

Heinrich Himmler and Reinhard Heydrich strode up the steps, past two saluting guards at its base.

“Back at the Eagle’s Nest, Reichsführer,” Heydrich purred quietly, as they marched up the steps. He was looking out to the great ravine past the Berghof plot. “Do you think the Führer loves the beautiful nature, or is more fascinated with the great abysses?”