Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (34 page)

“Or for Saxon English to fight Aryan Germans,” von Leeb observed.

Every officer at the table murmured assent, even those with fiercely anti-National Socialist views. Much like the Party command, the largely aristocratic General Staff could not understand England’s war against Germany either. Not with communist Slavs to the east.

Every one of them, that is, except for von Brauchitsch.

Now, the military commander took point. “Discussions are ongoing between Berlin and the Scottish fascists. We will send someone from Mosley’s lot to help things along if there’s no one in Edinburgh capable enough. As for Wales, no resistance whatsoever outside the major towns. They will get the same deal. And as per Führer Directive no.32 for England, we are to leave Northern Ireland alone. The Irish can deal with their own affairs. Right? Good. On to less troublesome matters; public opinion. Generalleutnant Kritzinger?”

The stern Kritzinger spoke with militaristic Prussian austerity. “As per Dr Goebbels’ orders, the Hearts and Minds campaign is ongoing. Public forums are being arranged; we’re using educated English speakers for the task.”
He checked the sheaf of notes neatly set before him on the great mahogany table.
“Men of said calibre also encouraged to drink in public houses and integrate with the working class male population.”

“Good,” von Brauchitsch said, somewhat unenthusiastically. “Of course, use your most educated and diplomat junior officers to lead these public relations exercises, with the pick of any enlisted men with a good grasp of English and a good head. Try and keep any loose cannons out of that line of work. We need them to be on their best behaviour; God knows, once the Gestapo leadership gets here there will be incidents and rumours that could turn this whole place back into an explosive cinder keg and ruin the Führer’s plans. No army excesses; no SS behaviour. This isn’t the east. Anyone in the rank and file stepping too far out of line gets sent to Poland or the north of Norway, got it?”

“Yes, Herr Generalfeldmarschall,” all the Germans barring Halder intoned. They hid their amusement; the commander’s own instructions prior to Sealion had instructed the Wehrmacht to forcibly deport all males between the ages of 17-45, unless there were ‘extraordinary circumstances’ involved. And now, not only had suppression and security matters in the civilian zones been handed over to Heydrich, but the Führer had decreed that he, the military, the Wehrmacht, were responsible for the fostering of good relations between the populace and Germany. And Hitler wanted an England agreeable to the Reich, embraced into the fold with Italy, Vichy France and Spain. No wonder von Brauchitsch was miserable.

Not foreseeing political developments, he had submitted a proposal for mass-deportations of males for enforced labour. Just his luck that for once, the extreme option was not the one Hitler appreciated. And the most extreme paladin of all, Heydrich, now held sway.

Walther von Brauchitsch now tried to endorse such gentle occupational policy with genuine magnanimity, and as his grim tone and reference suggested, the Field Marshal truly had experienced a change of heart.

“Good. Let’s ensure the good work is maintained in improving the relationship between the Reich and Great Britain.” He snorted, openly. “It will be more important than ever for the Army to create a good impression and maintain the stability of the country, now that Himmler, Heydrich and the killing squads are en route.”

No one contradicted him to observe that the Security Police of all SS branches had been in Britain for all the weeks they had been there. The imminent arrival of a Reich Protector nicknamed
The Blond Beast
could only herald change. To what extent, and the form it took, the Army High Command could only imagine.

~

At Hyde Park corner, the crowd continued to grow as Wehrmacht armoured wagons drove around central London, from the City through Covent Garden and Soho, up to Bloomsbury, Camden and Regents Park, down through Mayfair and beyond; braying through loudspeakers and extolling the populace with papers to legitimately access the central district to make their way there. There had been several radio announcements from Joyce asking Londoners to ‘participate’. Similar booths were being set up across the capital’s non-central districts; nine others in London, and several each in the northern population centres, where they were held outside Town Halls or suitable civic buildings.

Oberleutnant Sebastian Koller was finishing his smooth, polished opening speech extolling ‘The Great Friendship Between Nations’, and the German desire to improve productivity in Britain and restore pre-war living standards and levels of efficiency. The Hyde Park crowd murmured amongst themselves as he neared his conclusion. There was no applause, but many exchanged surprised glances of approval.

“And of course, if you have any questions at all, please do not hesitate to ask,” he smiled. “You there, in the white coat! What is your question?”

“When will rationing be lifted? The woman demanded, to scattered cheers. Sebastian’s smile only widened, his white teeth glinting in the autumn sun.

“Rationing will be lifted
very
shortly, I can assure you. The military high command has met to determine the transition, and both the governments of Berlin and London are working to bring about an end to rationing in both countries…” he paused, letting it sink in, before raising his hand to quell the rising torrent of questions that burst at him. “Just to clear up the issue of rationing… let me assure you it is no different in Berlin and Hamburg than here in England. Scotland cannot be compared as there is nowhere quite so cold in the Reich.”

A small rumble of laughter erupted from some in the crowd. Others maintained stony expressions, glowering as the German public relations exercise continued with blatant ingratiation.

“But I assure you, there is no reason for rationing to continue for very long, as the situation stabilises and of course, as soon as productivity shifts from military focus to civilian life! It is not required any longer, and regarding the transport of foodstuffs by sea, remember that neither Germany nor Britain will be attacking the food they bring in for us!”

The man stood next to the woman in the white coat who had asked about rationing frowned as more people were won round to the affable German. He bore a visible facial scar, and was shabbily attired, haggard and slow of speech. He was the prototype of a man who had seen more than he should have in the Great War.

“When will the curfew be lifted?” he barked, suddenly animated, which cut through the crowd’s laughter and catcalls.

Sebastian sought him out in the crowd, and fixed a stare onto the bedraggled man. He did not speak; the enlisted soldier sat uncomfortably next to him on the raised platform answered the shabby man. “The curfew is only a temporary measure, it will be lifted as soon as Berlin is satisfied things are stable here.”

“And when will that be?” another voice called.

Sebastian took point again. “We must wait for the high command to decide. Of course, we would like the curfew lifted too, we would like to spend our nights in a more relaxed manner! But when stability and peace is assured, the curfew will vanish. For now…” he raised his arms wide, in an exaggerated parody of apology. “Sorry, it is out of my hands!”

“My cousin was hung!” A cockney man suddenly screamed.

“Oh?” Sebastian replied pleasantly, into the silence. “Where, when and why?”

“They said he was hoarding food illegally, and resisting. You’re fucking liars!”

A shocked murmur passed through the assembled, and those who had been somewhat mollified by the public relations exercise filtered away. Sebastian Koller was utterly unfazed by the confrontation, however, and in his most infuriatingly polite voice, responded to the angered East Ender.

“Yes. Several men in the – I have to assume, you are the East End of London, yes?” He beamed, as though delighted with himself for his cultural awareness. Several titters broke out. “…
Were
indeed hung, but those men fought with the soldiers who sought to apprehend them. Surely,” he grinned, holding the gaze of his antagonist, “… innocent men would not fire weapons on the policing forces? Those men were lucky to survive the gun fight. As for subsequent justice, well…”

Sebastian stood up, raising his arms out wide with his palms raised upwards.

“Military courts punished acts of resistance, which firing gunshots most certainly is. I am not to blame for this. But that is over. We are all working towards a future; a strong economy, a strong Empire –”

“Ours, or yours,” the cockney interrupted yet again. Sebastian stifled his irritation.

“Both!” he cried. “The British Empire is untouched! Germany dominates European politics, Britain rules the waves. This is what is needed for a strong future. Economy, food, jobs. The Saxon people must work together!”

Failing to suppress a grin of triumph, Sebastian basked in his position for a moment longer, before slowly sinking back into his seat, and accepting the subsequently non-confrontational lines of inquiry from other members of the public. The disgruntled cockney left, snarling at the watching crowd. Sebastian began to talk of trade agreements, and once more reiterated the impending abolition of rationing.

As the hours passed, the enlisted German soldier sank further into his seat, thoroughly bored with the tedious affair, and he was eventually replaced by a junior non-commissioned officer. Sebastian Koller, meanwhile, became more and more animate as the hours passed, periodically repeating his opening speech with relish to the freshly assembling crowds that trickled through, replacing the mixed bag of those departing; the appeased and the sceptics alike.

More sun. It shone without much warmth, but nevertheless glowing in the twilight of the autumnal peak. This was
Führer Weather
, Goebbels assured the people listening to his now once-weekly broadcasts over the radio; a surprisingly high number of listeners tuned in, more out of a misplaced fear that it would be a crime not to than simple curiosity. In unusual circumstances, all people adapt remarkably quick.

“The Reichsmarschall,” Lord Haw Haw solemnly broadcast over what was now the most listened to broadcast in Western Europe, “wishes to proclaim to the people of Great Britain that it is a beautiful time to be alive if you are English or German.”

Joyce relayed some token friendly statements from the Reichsmarschall about hunting game and enjoying the woods and forests, and a Blake quote about ‘England’s Green & Pleasant Land’. With the attack on ‘asphalt culture’ so fresh in the memory, and Goebbels’ other choice derisions and condemnations, it was clear where Göring’s cheery message was aimed.

An English cartoonist who’d characterised Göring as a hugely fat, ugly Viking caricature wielding a spear in a 1934 cartoon had quietly disappeared. Göring the rotund Viking was depicted next to a demonic Hitler, who was breathing steam and holding a smoking gun, glowering at what were supposed to be a group of disgraced SA leaders. The Night of the Long Knives had been satirised across Europe and America, but this depiction was by far the most famous. The rumour mill whispered and spread its web of tales across an occupied city with more clandestine fervour than one in peace time, it seemed. Unconfirmed reports of a group of trench-coated men wearing hats that covered their faces leading the artist to his car in the dead of night were supplied as a titbit of information, though none could tell if the Reichsmarschall had truly demanded the man be punished, or if he’d simply slipped underground. That had happened a lot, too, and German bureaucratic efficiency did not often stretch to generosity with information regarding just who had escaped and who’d been seized.

Meanwhile, international tensions were being soothed from Berlin, as a reportedly terrified Stalin – “a tiny rabbit mesmerised by a snake,” was said to be Goebbels’ reiteration of his earlier sneering comment, as word trickled down from German soldiers to collaborating women and thence, the rest of the British populace – was removing more than twenty army divisions from the proximity of the Soviet/German border along occupied Poland and East Prussia, for fear of the ‘provocation’ that would serve as a pretext for unleashing the blitzkrieg. Already, jokes were springing up about ‘the oncoming war’ – one in particular was circulating in London:

A jerry Field Marshal informs a colonel that the showdown with Russia is coming, but that Mussolini’s Italy is ready to declare war.

‘We must keep 10 divisions ready to counter, in that case Herr General’, the Colonel said.

‘No, he is on our side again,’ the General says. They share a deeply concerned look.

‘Well, in that case we need 20 divisions.’

Jokes were still being made in the occupied zone about Mussolini, the focus of ridicule having switched from Hitler’s imitations of Il Duce to the obvious shift in power between the two; now, the unique, theatrical characteristics of the founder of fascism and his opportunistic sycophancy to the Führer who’d once idolised him were subjected to mockery, but the banter rang hollow. Quips made about Germans and Hitler were followed by what had already been called ‘The German look’ in the Reich since 1933; that brief, fearful glance to ensure you weren’t being overheard by an informer or law enforcer, or even some young zealot from the Hitler Youth, the generation of children programmed to believe that even familial bonds were subordinate to Party loyalty. War propaganda such as ‘carless talk costs lives’ had never been so grimly apt.

~

Again, it had not been a good day on Tottenham Court Road for Maisie; another one in which the hours passed by slowly, the custom a mix of irritating, rude or timid, and most of all, her own restlessness. Much to her chagrin, she had found herself thinking about the German boy in uniform, idle thoughts wandering to him from unrelated sights and sounds. She had no smell yet with which to distinguish him, no odour to waft into her nostrils apart from Dunhill cigarettes.
British
cigarettes. Maisie was no fool; she was well-aware that she shared her brother’s impulsivity, and had launched into past dalliances with little in the way of concern for the consequences. She was ruled equally by cerebral and emotion thoughts; luckily, this had saved her from the grief of choosing the wrong lovers, with the sharp intelligence and decisiveness to sever all ties instead of becoming bogged down into the neurotic, undignified push-pull of a cruel breakup. For such a warm, loving person she’d done it quite clinically, as would a doctor operating to save a patient by cutting away the cancerous body part with a clean stroke; her mother had marvelled quietly at her poise and will.