Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (16 page)

And – unthinkable as it was – how many had turned against their own friends and family?

The idiot would be back, Maisie realised. And he’d return meaner, more cocksure and a more dangerous enemy.

She returned to the counter, choosing a familiar book without so much as a browse through her pile of potentially subversive materials, to while away the remaining hour of a quiet day reading Arthur Conan Doyle’s
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Even though she’d left cigarettes behind in her teen years – an old, furtive rebellion of yesteryear – Maisie was strongly considering opening a packet of Dunhill’s or Chesterfields and lighting up a fag, just for a leisurely, calming smoke, to mortify any Nazis or British fascists who might walk in and see her poisoning
the life-giving vessel of Aryan blood
… when a tinkle of the doorbell signalled the glass-panelled door swinging open, and two German soldiers stepped in.

They looked earnest, she thought. Still, don’t discount some capricious act of arrogance or cruelty. Not from this lot.

The taller of the two approached, glancing left and right as though to ensure they were alone. This was odd. Germans who wanted behind-the-counter goods didn’t pay attention to whoever else was in the shop – not those in uniform, anyway. They paid no heed to queues. In any event, with so many of the British fighting men or those of age absent for various reasons, there was little perceived threat anyway in the more established occupational zones.

“Hallo,” he said. His voice was slightly singsong; distinctive, though she did not know what accent it was. No doubt they’d all come to be versed in the intricacies of German nuances soon enough, she thought tartly. She smiled pleasantly in response, with a level of cool sardonicism that an outsider to the British Isles would likely miss.

The young soldier smiled a little wryly, as though he correctly surmised her coolness to him.

“May I have some Chester…
nein
, ah… perhaps, I should like to have some Dunhill cigarettes please?”

The tone was over-exaggerated, a level of careful precision in his elocution that no average Londoner would ever employ. Nor most of the country, come to that.

She turned, eyes sliding to the shelf behind her and she retrieved them for the young soldier. His friend stepped outside to wait for him, a small tinkle announcing his exit. Maisie serenely tossed a packet of Dunhill on the counter, which seemed to amuse him.

“I have never tried British cigarettes before,” he said pleasantly.

“It’s a filthy habit, it will kill you,” she returned coolly.

“I suppose you are right. At least this death would be my choice, however…”

“Choose wisely then.”

He laughed at that; neat white teeth in a wide, smiling mouth, the corners of which were slightly upturned in his dimpled cheeks.

He was, she noted with annoyance, a handsome lad. Perhaps three-to-five years younger than she, possibly still a teenager. Blond hair cropped at the sides, the longer strands of his fringe swept across an unwrinkled forehead and strong, angular face with pronounced cheekbones and jaw. His eyes were the pale grey-blue of Hitler himself; one of Nazi Germany’s supermen, the new breed of master race.

“Ja, I will try. Perhaps some Lucky Strikes if you have any, or…” his slightly singsong voice trailed off. They both knew that with shortages of American cigarettes and roughly two thirds of the available pre-war imported goods, that one must consult the black market to satisfy their needs. Even with the post-Churchill usurping government’s capitulation, and the black day of Wehrmacht troops marching through London, many of the parasitic scavengers and opportunists had remained in the shadows. Even previously respectful citizens had turned to the black market for income to help support their families.

“Afraid not today, Hermann.”

He laughed again, widely, utterly unfazed by her cheek. “‘Fritz’ would be the German way, fraulein. Like your ‘John Smith’. As soldiers, you are Tommy and I am Jerry.”

“Well, enjoy your Dunhills, Fritz. Say hello to the other Jerries.”

“I shall,” he smiled, stifling laughter. “I am billeted nearby here, now. When it’s time to make my next choice of death, I shall see you again. Auf wiedersehen, fraulein.”

One last smile, which split into a toothy grin as the young soldier tipped his cap, turning away to the door. Maisie didn’t utter a goodbye, but instead looked down with an effort of will that was not inconsiderable, and somewhat flustered, the London lass reopened her book. To her chagrin, it took her a minute or two to properly refocus on the prose of Conan Doyle.

I shall.
So proper in his English. Such
quaint
language, the berk. It was
laughable
, really… what did he hope to achieve what that ridiculous attempt to be polite? With his singsong voice, eyes paler than a ghost the colour of Caribbean sea and his stupid dimples…

Maisie slammed her book down, crossly. She grabbed a packet of cigarettes herself and lit one, billowing smoke as her eyes filmed with thought.

Outside, the young soldier inspected the reddish, regal looking packet and its ‘Dunhill Superior Cigarettes inscription’ with interest, before tearing the seal open in haste and producing a fag each for himself and for his fellow
obersoldat
Johan. Even now, he mused, with wars and invasions and privations, rationing, curfews and whatever else, the international corporations continued to make their profits. Cigarettes and whiskey would always sell. The fat cats’ profits would still flow like a river. Goebbels at his most hysterically socialist was right about that much, at least, even if he no longer said it, with his master Hitler and superior Göring embracing investment in the Reich from foreign big business, and relying on oil and iron ore agreements. And with the industrial conglomerate of the
Hermann Göring Werke
, and numerous corporate power plays and mergers, the Reichsmarschall himself was a major player in the business world now in addition to dual roles of almost unsurpassed authority in both the political and military realms.

“British?” Johan queried in their native tongue. There was doubt in his voice.

“Don’t be a German snob, you nationalist swine,” he chided. Snorting, Johan lit them both. There was little danger in such remarks; the two men knew each other well, and there were large sections of the Wehrmacht that held no love for the Nazis, even those who supported the expansionist policy. Both had shared many conversations regarding the transparency of post-Versailles military glorification that had permeated everyday German life for two decades.

The young, blond soldier looked around with interest, surveying a hesitant blue sky specked with clouds and grey streaks of water droplets and vapour. “It’s not too bad, today.”

“We’re not supposed to smoke until we’re off duty, anyway,” Johan reminded him, accentuating his East Prussian manner in mock-haughtiness. “Duty to the Fatherland comes first. The Führer is a teetotal non-smoker, don’t you know.”

“We can’t smoke because Fat Hermann orders it?” he asked coyly, puffing away at his Dunhill and grinning. “He breaks every law Hitler ever made.”

“The Reichsmarschall–”

“Fat Hermann’s Luftwaffe adjutant is a Jew. That’s a breach of the race laws.”

“
Reichsmarschall
Fat Hermann to you, obersoldat. Don’t you forget it.”

“How could I forget Prime Minister, Reichstag President, Master of German Forestry, Nazi police founder & Marshal
Kummerspeck
of the Greater Reich?”

Johan chuckled; smoke billowing out through his mouth. “How you avoided Dachau I have no idea.”

A typical East Prussian soldier, though enlisted, Johan shared the consensus opinion of the officers about the ‘Bohemian Corporal’ and his paladins. He was twenty-four, but had already developed the Prussian military manner, cloaked though it was in knowing humour.

“Just in case you ever do get sent down,” Johan added, “you might as well tell me about those old friends of yours who disappeared. God, it’s not like you are the only one in that regard.”

“Another time,” came the sober reply.

Johan recognised something in his tone, and did not press the matter.

The strolled on southwards to the end of Tottenham Court Road, and rounded the corner on to New Oxford Street, which was a busier hub of life. Two women aged around ten years older than they approached on the pavement, and both soldiers gave them a cheery greeting.

“Don’t you leer at me, you Jerry bastard!” one of them snarled.

They marched past, scowls etched into their faces. Both soldiers halted, caught by surprise, and turned to watch incredulously as the women stomped away.

The two women put a safe distance between themselves and the Germans before speaking again.

“Can’t stand the bloody sight of the bastards,” Nancy spat with feeling.

“Same, Nance. Just glad they’re not crawling all over the East End.”

Which Goebbels had promised they would. Which had scared, and then confused them. Which they left unspoken.

“Every time I see the filth I start thinking ‘you could have killed Tommy’.”

Her friend tutted sympathetically. “Don’t be daft, Nancy. Tommy aint dead.”

“I must say,” Sergeant Stanley finally relented under Tommy’s insistent pressure, “we have indeed fallen on our feet here, chaps.”

“Yes!” Tommy cried. He slammed his card deck on the round little table in front of him. “I knew you’d come round. It’s all right.”

James, sat on the barracks steps behind them, snorted loudly; a derisive explosion of phlegm and scorn.

“Bloody fan
tastic
. Tables, chairs, get to play cards, smoke cigarettes freely, drink beers and learn German. You’ll be bloody Seig Heil’ing next you twat.”

Tommy reddened. Had that particular assessment come from anyone other than one of the handful of men present, he would have leapt to action and torn chunks out of them. Even so, he struggled to maintain his composure. The cockney and James had a shared bond of mockery and humorous northern-southern antipathy, at any rate. But the Yorkshireman had touched a nerve. Brian stood between them, just in case. Tommy’s face bunched, running through a gamut of emotions. James stared at him blandly.

“Watch what you’re saying,” Tommy blurted finally. “You’re from fackin’ Leeds anyway, what do you hairy, incestuous slags know about anything?”

“Bradford. Borders’ to the west.”

“Oh my days,” the cockney mirthlessly chuckled, his jaw clenched. “You are without doubt the biggest berk I ’ave ever ’ad the misfortune to do bird with in my life.”

“So you’ve done porridge before? Typical of an Artful Dodger, chimney sweeping, pie-and-mash bubonic plague-carrying cockney criminal–”

“
Fuck
off!”

Stanley intervened, amidst general amusement. Brian informed James that he was ‘a belligerent northern bastard,’ and he agreed happily, lighting a cigarette and finally lapsing into an congenial silence.

“I’m just saying,” Tommy pressed on, “it’s
all right
. They’re not what we thought they were. No beatings, starvation, threats. The guards are all right. This
camp
is all right.”

James didn’t answer, lighting a Woodbine instead and looking up to the sky. It was a dull day, more akin to England than France; the sun a small orange disc in a sea of grey and white wisps, ominous swirls of an ugly atmosphere. He sucked in the smoke with gusto, exhaled, and then snorted again without looking at his friends.

Tommy scowled at him. It
had
been all right.

Weeks had passed now, and after a fairly stiff first day, the following days were a succession of surprises.

~

The first had perhaps been most significant, given how quickly into their internment it had happened. They group had been sat in the very same place – five in chairs around one of the small tables that had been plonked down by chuckling Germans outside their platoon’s huts – Tommy, Brian, the Sarge, James Fletcher and another fellow from the ‘Stanley’s Boys’ platoon, big Dave. James Wilkinson sat smoking and brooding on the top step, then as now; it soon become his natural state. Wincing periodically as it stung, Brian was sat discomfited, hunched forwards with his injured leg stretched out straight before him on a wooden crate.

“You’re definitely a raspberry ripple, mate,” Tommy had told him. “Chances are you’ll never walk properly again.”

“Good,” grunted James, without looking. “You southerners walk like you’re carrying carpets. It’s like you spent too long watching apes at the Regent’s Park zoo. Makes me beat my chest just
watching
you.”

Sighs from the men, anticipating the inevitable; Tommy turned, leaning towards the stocky northerner with his hands outstretched. “Oi – flat cap. Listen, son. Seriously now…
please
… think about it… one of your main
stereotypes
is a man removing his shirt to fight,
while chanting the name of your county
…” the men broke into loud sniggers; one began parodying the territorially proud, shirtless northern man, and the laughter increased threefold. Brian slapped his knees, hooting as James let out a reluctant grin. Tommy couldn’t contain his smirk as he resumed. “Cavemen, us? What about, ‘
you can always tell a Yorkshireman… but you can’t tell him much
’…”

Laughter pealed out amidst scattered claps and slapped thighs; James himself grudgingly smiled, even as his counterpart tried to embark on a roll of momentum.

“Yorkshire’s most exotic attraction was a shop that sold
foreign food
…” the laughter got hysterical, “… and it shut down after a week because a Leeds local
didn’t like that foreign muck
, so he took his shirt off, chanted
Yorkshire, Yorkshire
for ten minutes, told everyone he’s
not eating that fucking crap I tell thee
, and then torched the place. That northern geezer had a punch-up that night… in an empty room, by himself. Cockneys carrying carpets?
We
play Billy Big Bollocks? Coming from you! Don’t you talk about giving it the big ’un, you daft melt…”