Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (41 page)

“Gentlemen, I spoke to each platoon separately, but I shared the same sentiments to each. My instructions were clear. This is not imprisonment per se, simply a temporary measure before the next order of the Greater Reich and the British Empire in Europe and the world is made clear. In the meantime, there are to be no escapes.
None
. Was this not clearly expressed? Yet these men… unlawfully, without permission, and against my
explicit
orders and those of the SS and the Führer himself… they left St George no.5, in a regrettable attempt to flee SS hospitality. This is a severe breach of the
clearly
–
defined
–
rules
…”

The silence that greeted this was ugly; tension palpable. Those few who doubted the sincerity of SS denials of ‘no prisoners taken’ orders were dismayed. For the captured escapees’ part, most were resigned to their fate. Resistance had, in any case, been beaten out of them.

Wolf continued, with the same awful calm. “I was explicit in my wishes. In lieu of a suitable British commanding officer for the companies as a whole, Sergeant Stanley Hitchman; as NCO and the platoon leader of some of these men, what do you suggest I do?”

Stanley was taken aback. “Well, I say… ah, the best course of action in this particular case…”

“Answer the question, Sergeant.” Wolf was blunt.

“There will be no further escape attempts, Major. You have my word of honour on that,” came Stanley’s firm reply. He’d recognised the hopelessness of appealing, but the SS man clearly despised indecision; one of the new breed of clear-thinking militarised Germans whose paths were laid out so clear. Mercy was weakness. Pity was treachery.
Your honour is loyalty
.

“I understand. So in this predicament, you are requesting leniency on my part towards these captured transgressors, Sergeant Hitchman?”

“I am, Major.”

“Then I must shoot
you
, as leader, if you are responsible for their lives and actions?”

Hitchman’s eyes grew wide, as the cold, steely statement from Major Wolf sank in. To his credit, Stanley mastered his reaction, though a slight panicked dissent was voiced in the ranks. The German voice that screamed at them to be quiet came from Hoffman.

Wolf’s eyes never left Stanley’s face. Not yet thirty, the major possessed an almost demonic confidence and will that shook Stanley to his core, just as wholly and terribly as did the death sentence those pitiless blue eyes had pronounced, boring into him.

“If you are fully responsible for these men and their criminal actions, you are to be shot, yes?”

The level, even tone only added callousness to the dire threat.

“Major…” Stanley began weakly, faltering; stuttering the lost, half-formed words as noise. He knew it was hopeless. Wolf, for his part, was horribly calm and clear.

“As platoon leader, you are
responsible
for your men. Either I take it upon myself to shoot them all for
desertion
, dereliction of
duty
and breaching the rules of both the British Expeditionary Force and the Waffen-SS… or…” and Wolf smiled an awful, cold smile, “I will shoot
you
to penalise this transgression.”

Wolf was entirely still. Tommy, from the second row, was afforded a ten o’clock view of the man’s face, and despite himself, he was awed by the spectacle. Wolf betrayed not a single twitch or muscle spasm, despite the electricity crackling in the air from the terrible drama of the moment.

Stanley, too, was awed. His tormentor’s merciless blue eyes and his utterly controlled poise had an almost elemental power.

It was another sunny day, and the Sarge felt the sun’s heat on his face. It calmed him. Unlike so many Englishmen, he would not die in the rain. And unlike so many millions in the last war, he would not die in the mud.

In for a penny, in for a pound I say
, Stanley thought. He straightened up, sticking his chin and chest back out, like the proud British officer he’d been entitled to be.

“So be it,
Sturmbannführer
Volf
.”

Tommy’s mouth hung open. With the sergeant’s defiance came mockery. The tone was obvious, the pronunciation blatant. Silence hung in the air like filthy smog, lingering in the evil atmosphere of that fine, clear day.

“Spare the men,” Stanley called, proudly. “I shall take full responsibility for their brave but misguided actions. If the German Reich wishes to punish a British soldier for that, let it be me.”

Wolf held his gaze, searching for any semblance of fear or disingenuity and then, as though satisfied, the SS officer smiled, beckoning the British soldier over to the front, to stand before the row of the thirteen would-be escapees. The Sergeant obliged and marched as proudly as he had spoken, betraying not a quiver of fear. He nodded to the captives before turning to face the rest of the company; his boys, and a combined seven hundred other British soldiers of the empire.

“Be calm, men,” he called out, his voice steady. “Rather one life than twelve, of course. I will go out with a smile on my face, doing my
duty
. For King and Country. Godspeed, lads.”

Hitchman clicked his heels, and the men saluted him, some with tears streaming down their cheeks. James Wilkinson’s face was bunched up. Tommy and Brian wept quietly. They all put three fingers to their temples, to a man.

Stanley saluted them back.

Major Wolf, still smiling, raised his Mauser to the spot between the Sergeant’s eyes. Stanley tried to smile, his trembling lips pinching together, and he looked up to the glowing sun as the major pulled the trigger.

Click
.

A spontaneous yell erupted from the men, and then silence. The only sound came from Stanley, whose brave façade had been destroyed by the trigger click, his power instantly gone, as though an electric light switch had been flicked. The greying Norfolk soldier’s face had bunched together and his whole body seized up entirely as the Mauser mechanism noise echoed through the silence. The gun was empty.

Major Wolf nodded approvingly to the British sergeant, whose face was turning red from not breathing. Finally he gasped, and sucked in some fresh, clean air, sinking to his knees, wheezing, at last betrayed by his body, having maintained control of it to the point of an expected death that never came. The men looked at him in horror, totally shocked by the scene, before relief flooded through them like a warm electric current. He was alive. James, though, felt a rush of hatred towards the smug, intolerable officer that held command of the camp. Looking at Major Wolf, James imagined sending a bullet of his own through the icy, chiselled features; smashing through the angular, strong jaw, tearing through flesh and coming to rest in the pulsing grey matter of a brain that lacked something human.

Wolf was gazing at Hitchman with a mixture of admiration and amusement. Some sense alerted him to the hatred he elicited, and he turned to meet James’ gaze instantly, without so much as seeking him out. The Yorkshireman detected a slight wink, before Wolf turned sharply and surveyed the stricken Hitchman again. Never before had he hated a man with such intensity as he did Wolf; as Stanley gasped on the dusty ground, James envisioned cold-blooded murder with relish. Stanley had lived through two years in the trenches as an enlisted man. Shell shock had ended as many lives as sniper’s bullets for Stanley’s generation. And here he was, all these years later, hyperventilating after the cruellest shock imaginable.

Major Wolf turned to the ranks, spinning the pistol around his right index finger like the parody of a western cowboy. The movie star face and those piercing eyes betrayed nothing. He holstered the impotent weapon, thoroughly unruffled, his composure astonishing. Through drying tears that had given way to enormous relief, Tommy could not help but retain a grudging admiration for the SS Sturmbannführer. His was an unchallengeable power, and a rare forcefulness. Major Jochen Wolf’s gravitas was undeniable.

“You are lucky to have such a brave platoon leader,” Wolf began pleasantly. “He’s worth much, much more than Sergeant-Major, or some other NCO rank. More like Stanley Hitchman, and you gentlemen would have undoubtedly lasted more than four weeks against us, even with our Ardennes surprise.” His eyes twinkled. Most seemed too relieved to fully take on board his speech.

He resumed it less congenially; a trace of steel unmistakeable in his tone. “The next time there is a breach of the rules, I
will
personally shoot everyone involved, him, and anyone else in the platoon in question. There will be no speeches, no gestures, no warnings and noo empty guns; no chance for the bravest and best of you to show your honour like the sergeant just did, in such
admirable
style, like a true British gentleman. I hope that is fully understood;
crystal clear
, as you English say. Do like the other companies in similar camps, and follow the rules here. I am mortified that in camp no.5 alone there has been a breach of this severity. There will
not
be again. In time, all will become clear and bullets will not be wasted on brothers of Aryan blood – as the Reichsführer-SS Himmler and SS-Obergruppenführer Heydrich are so fond of telling us, our bullets are better served elsewhere. Please don’t make me regretfully waste them on you, and the brave Sergeant Hitchman.”

Turning one final time to the kneeling, dazed Hitchman, Wolf offered his hand. Stanley had stopped gasping, and magnanimously took the proffered arm of the man he’d fully expected to end his life not fifty seconds before, recovering his poise and rising to his feet. The older German clapped him warmly on either shoulder, grasping him in brotherhood, as though holding him upright.

“You are worth more than an NCO,
Sarge
. Much more. If you were an SS man I’d promote you to junior officer rank on the spot. Sturm…bannführer…
Volf
will hereby refer to you as Untersturmführer Hitchman. When Britain is truly threatened by external enemies,
real
enemies, alien civilisations that long for her demise, and
you
are compelled to defend her, I assure you it will be as a Lieutenant at the least.”

At this, Wolf reached over with his right arm, thrice patting the discombobulated soldier on his shoulder before turning to walk away; his trademark brisk march taking him out of the barracks area, followed by the aide that was still holding the major’s great leather coat, hurrying in his wake.

“Naomi? Are you
decent
?”

The young Jewess chuckled at the falsity of his affected tone, and responded in kind.

“One is quite very well decent,
wouldn’t you know
dear.”

“Jolly good, jolly good,” he cried, clunking down the wooden steps to his room.

Paul marched straight over to the sofas, and deposited himself into the most comfortable place with gusto. He went to pick up his weathered paperback copy of Dumas’
The Count of Monte Cristo
, and then thought better of it; caught between decisions he dithered, hands fidgeting as he settled restlessly in the seat. Finally looking over at Naomi, he saw she wore a weary, if amused look on tired, puffy features that betrayed that she was freshly awoken from sleep.

“Hello, Paul.”

“Aye, afternoon. Some sleeping pattern you’re keepin’.”

“Don’t nag,” she implored.

“All
right
. Anyway…” Paul picked up Dumas absentmindedly, lightly tapping the book against his knees. “I’ve ’ad an idea. Instead of being a half-hearted bloody night-scribe, with half a mind on eighteen unfinished novels stuck in desk drawers… I’m writing something now. A
serious
one.”

She held his gaze, encouraging him to elaborate.

“I’m g’na write about how we beat the Nazis.”

“How’s that work, then?” She asked, confused. Lighting up a cigarette, he tossed her the packet, and grinned.

“I make it bloody
up
. Anyway, I’ll tell you more in the pub. Hold that fag for now; get up, do what you need to do and then come for a pint before they close for dinner.”

Pubs in England shut for several hours mid-afternoon, for a lunch break of sorts, before reopening three hours later in time for those who were finishing work shifts. It was an unquestioned system.

“Give me five,” she told him, leaping out of bed.

He waited upstairs for her to get ready. She quickly washed with a wet flannel, hurriedly dried with a towel, tied a headscarf around her thick, flowing dark locks of hair and threw on her favourite long, red dress. Sliding into her green coat, fastened with buttons and a belt, she was upstairs in four minutes flat; a figure of gravitas, utterly transformed. Paul looked up from his book and whistled, softly.

“Bloody hell, Naomi.”

“Fast, eh?” She winked at him.

“I don’t mean that…” he nodded at her dress, and looked her up and down.

“What?”

Paul chuckled. “Nothing, lass. You just… well, you scrub up well for a pint at dinnertime.”

She grinned at him. “That’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever said to me. What a
gentleman
.”

Smirking, he opened the door with a mock-gesture for her to go through it.

“Opens doors, helps old ladies across the street – the works, dear girl,”
he told her solemnly, feigning a pompous air. She curtseyed.

“
Mon cher, thou art indeed
a
gentle
man and a scholar.”

That made him snort, almost without mirth. “Don’t speak that frog language. That’s the same mouth you kiss your mother with.”

Easily matching his snort in volume, she scoffed at him as they exited the house, strolling out into a day pricked by stabs of that quintessential northern English sunlight that, while occasionally bright, lacks warmth and can be entirely redundant with regards to clothing requirements. It illuminated the parklands, an open area ringed with trees that served as a dividing line between the city centre and the northern districts of Leeds; aesthetic in the aftermath of autumn’s effect on the trees. It was the final period in which most British people actually enjoyed their homeland for some months to come, barring Christmas. As he glanced around, taking in the visual scope of their environment, Paul mused that many months down the line, the onset of spring was unlikely to stir the soul, optimism facing extinction as it was.