Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (38 page)

It was evening; his appointed time of reflection. Having completed all professional work, and private dissidence for the public eye alike, he set about recording his private thoughts in the leather journal for posterity, hoping that this work would be seen by future eyes; those seeking to understand.

Dear Diary,

Is it narcissistic madness to aspire to become the Samuel Pepys of this age? It is not entirely self-serving, I assure you – assuming ‘you’, whoever you may be, will one day read this work, should it survive, and that your heart is pure.

Future generations need to understand the madness of this time.

Yesterday, I strolled through Hyde Park, and it was truly joyous to see some of my leaflets scattered about. Some from Eric, some from myself. German soldiers were making manacled prisoners collect them. From the averted eyes and occasional glances, even smirks, I know that many of the people I passed in the park have been reading my materials. I was thrilled, and it would be dishonest and unbecoming to pretend otherwise.

I am likely a doomed man. How long can this be maintained? Perhaps, more so than Pepys, I am more likely to become… the Chartist printer they hung in the mid-1800s… or William Carter. Or perhaps even a William Tyndale, if I actually achieve anyway significant with this malarkey, beyond a two-finger salute and a few raspberries blown at the krauts.

I should not call them krauts. The term is almost fond. It thoroughly – and unfairly – diminishes the overwhelming menace and evil of their actions. Theirs is an apotheosis I struggle to contemplate; a tyrannical idea of the supremacy of blood and race over people and individual lives, which may yet choke the world with its own innards. Such scientific racism is so malevolently wicked, the old postwar German concept of ‘life unworthy of life’ has been allowed to re-enter the public consciousness, immunised and dulled as Europe has become to the awful brutality of National Socialist theory, and the violence of putting it into practice.

The leaders of this movement are almost godlike. Human lives are a shabby irrelevance in contrast with their great Movement of Blood and Race, which shall shape history, or so they tell us, while destroying the past. Immortality beckons, to them; a standard empathy for human suffering is beneath their wild thinking from on high. Hitler is a psychotic; his paladins soothe and stir the passions of his soul, and the more coldly rational amongst them manage to transform his visions into actions that provide them with enormous power over life and death.
It makes sense that Nietzsche is held aloft as one of their philosophical masters. Why would he not be; the breaker from Schopenhauer, the man to whom life was a Darwinian struggle within oneself as well as externally; true victory being to conquer oneself and abandon the abstract; the concept of God, and the quixotic notions of morality and justice… it is their own path. They have used blood and race as the conduit to bind their mindless masses as a people, while they themselves broke from traditional values to become Gods.

To some extent, these people represent the Napoleon, or the Emperor or the Pharaohs of human history dating back as far as was recorded. Their sense of right and true ends with the threat of an equal, or one of similar power, and then destruction or assimilation supercedes any notion of decency. Their benevolence can only stretch as far as kindness to underlings, and at that, only those of acceptable, similar blood. To rise against them was our crime; the mere suggestion that an opposing sentiment or way of life could be as worthy or more worthy than theirs was our ultimate sin in their eyes. But now, to us, the implication is clear; the Gods have spared us. They have shown mercy, and history will record their greatness.

But this is not theirs alone. This Nietzschean value is the same of all great men throughout history. The human herd is destined to be led by psychotic dreamers and morally questionable shysters; evidently, this breed of superman is the only type of person capable of seizing power, driven as they are by insatiable hunger; alas, our contemporary times further prove it. The age of the omnipotent ruler is far from over; Emperor, Pharaoh, Führer.

Simon paused. The cigarette had burned out, and on seeing its ash, he was grateful for the smoking jacket. He replaced it, choosing what looked like a Turkish cigarette from the wooden box – those poor people, reliant on black market smokes of tea and God knows what else – and, vaguely pondering how unfair was his position in comparison, continued to write.

You cannot imagine the disgust with which the prior paragraph was written.

Here is an insight into the machine minds of such a system, and its marshals:

Out of sheer curiosity, I went to Speakers Corner, to see if any still dared use its privilege afforded as per the civil rights of an Englishman; that to
speak
, and speak freely. To my disbelief, it was. A small crowd of good-natured hecklers were gathered around a scruffy cockney lad of about 19. The young man was giving mock-Hitler speeches, twisting them for comedy; two fingers pointing in the air, screaming, frothing at the mouth. He was really good, truth be told.

“English… English people… listen up…” he cried.

“…Only when the people of England and Germany rise up, and unshackle themselves from the rationing, will unlimited sausage and sauerkraut be available to the Aryan peoples… the Jews have destroyed our sausage making capabilities, but only a people with
cultural creativity
maintain
true
cultural performance. We will rise up, and a new order of sausage making will emerge triumphant from the ruins of the old world – any person or group opposing our people and the historic making of sausage can do so quite calmly, for they have never even for one single hour been on the battlefield! But our sausages will prevail! England Awake!”

Two Wehrmacht soldiers were laughing at him openly from a distance. Almost hysterically, in fact, which certainly added to the moment. And then the car pulled up; armed SS got out, with the blank collar tab. Everyone knows what that means now. Heydrich’s shadow army – SD/Gestapo. The boy tried to run, and was brought down with coshes and hauled away, still yelling. I doubt the man will see Christmas.

Despite incidents of this nature, the Germans are playing a clever game. Most of this seems to be from the army. It’s a sort of velvet fascism.

Simon paused.
Velvet fascism
. That is a good one. He made note of it, for the next leaflets and pamphlets. A good warning for the people only too inclined to believe the best, to harbour optimism for this future.

The Jerries staged public talking shops. Junior officers and enlisted men took up the brunt of it. I expected political language, euphemisms and veiled threats. Instead, we got reassurances and a promise that rationing is not long for this world. They boxed clever. Some beastly, abhorrent, smug little snake oil salesman called Sebastian was speaking at the one I saw, in Hyde Park; by all accounts he carried on for hours. There was no end to him, the man went on like blood gushing from an opened vein, an air raid couldn’t have stopped him… the man was a protégé of Goebbels himself; wasted in a Wehrmacht tunic.

Curfew; also soon-to-end, or so they say. Rationing to be entirely lifted; equal as in Berlin, and indeed, slightly better than was in Britain.

But meanwhile, they have killed democracy, executed dissidents and conducted shadowy, clandestine police operations in the thick of night; obscured by the fogs of war and the mindless optimism of the masses. If this diary survives; let the menace of the time be remembered.

Sinking back into his chair, Simon sighed. Optimism was something he begrudged in every living soul he saw. Placing the silver holder in the right-breast pocket of the smoking jacket, he pulled out the calabash, and having emptied tobacco into it, began to puff away, thoughtfully, basking in his private sanctuary of comfort.

Bormann’s quiet rise had interested Heydrich. While Hess remained Deputy to the Führer, his Chief of Staff Bormann was the power leading the Party brownshirts and bureaucrats, as well as partly living in a house above the Berghof in the Obersalzburg complex that he’d designed, and more recently, sliding effortlessly from
de facto
Party leader into the simultaneous role of Hitler’s secretary. Bormann built the mountaintop complex; Bormann made the Führer rich from stamp royalties; Bormann, not Hess, never left the Führer’s side, during long, idle days on the mountain. While Goebbels ran Berlin and the national propaganda, Göring’s legendary energy waned as his waist widened and morphine addiction increased; Bormann, meanwhile, was by the Führer’s side. With Göring and Goebbels long established in their roles, only Himmler and Heydrich had seized as much tangible power since Hitler’s appointment as Chancellor as had the sly, fleshy, brutal Bormann. Heydrich had recognised his machinations for what they were, almost admiringly. It amazed him that the Göring who’d once been so politically ruthless was now content to sit idly by at Karinhall, wildly enjoying the trappings of power while a Bormann existed in the shadows – or rather, in the glaring spotlight, in Heydrich’s eyes – quietly manoeuvring himself into position by virtue of never leaving the Führer’s side. Göring the recluse; Prime Minister, Reichsmarschall and all his other titles and accolades aside, even beyond being the chosen successor; Heydrich still couldn’t understand the fat man’s withdrawal. That sort of inactivity at the heart of power was an anathema to the Reich Security Chief.

So he’d put his SD to work. On the outbreak of war, Heydrich switched jurisdiction of Codename “Brown” to Gestapo agents; incredibly, as luck would have it, one of whom was conducting an affair with a close confidant of Martin Bormann’s wife. Gerda Bormann visited this friend, often in tears, showing visible signs of abuse and outpouring her marital misery. The Reich’s Security Police chief was delighted. By the spring of 1940, when he had collected sufficient material to strike, Heydrich made his move. Unannounced, he payed Herr Bormann a visit at the Party Chancellery in Munich, also known as the Brown House; heart of the National Socialist movement and home to its hardliners. Bormann, ‘The Brown Eminence’, had stayed on alone an extra day on urgent business before joining his Führer at Obersalzburg, a rare separation. Heydrich, tipped off and as calculating as ever, had quickly seized his chance.

This was the heartland of the Party, and it was from here that Heydrich had planned his and Himmler’s own rise, simultaneously intriguing
against
and being indispensable
to
Hermann Göring in Berlin; castrating the rival SA before wresting away Göring’s control of the German criminal and political police, known as the Kripo and Gestapo.

Bormann was a different beast.

Unlike Göring – who simply thought little of Himmler, to whom he’d entrusted his Gestapo, the operational control of which was promptly handed to Heydrich – Bormann had never been inclined to use Heydrich to weaken the SS chief’s position, or to dispose of some other rival in the Party, police or army. He had passed the law that granted total jurisdiction as the Party’s intelligence service to Heydrich’s SD, but officially in the name of Hess, as his Chief of Staff. No, Bormann had not yet moved on Himmler, despite marginalising his own chief the Deputy-Führer, and given his proximity to Hitler, had not yet called on the services of General Heydrich.

Heydrich had needed the leverage of intelligence. As ever, it had worked.
Knowledge is power
, he thought wryly, remembering Bormann squirm.

Heydrich had been warmly welcomed, and ushered in to the Führer’s office; a move which was telling in itself. Göring and Himmler had offices here that the Reich Security Chief could use, but he chose not to, preferring the conjoined SD and Gestapo headquarters in Berlin. But Bormann commandeered the old man’s office, which none but ‘dear Bormann’ would have been willing to do – Speer was intimate but lacked the seniority in rank; Göring, SS chief Himmler and Reich Chancellery head Lammers all lacked the ability to view Hitler as a mortal man. Heydrich would put his dirty boots up on the desk, when it was his, and invite compliant Bavarian girls to join him in his working hours. He found the possibility Bormann was sending out a message by his chosen workspace quite humorous.

Heydrich entered the great wooden room with a powerful stride.

“Heil Hitler! Greetings,
Sicherheitsleiter
,
Gruppenführer der SS und polizei
.” Bormann had stood, at least. Had he remained seated behind his desk, the Reich security chief would have twisted the knife with even more malice. Interesting, thought Heydrich. Although he was
de facto
a general and leader of the criminal and political police forces, he held no such legal title as that used by Bormann.

“Heil Hitler, Reichsleiter.” Heydrich sat down without waiting to be asked.

After some token small talk regarding the situation in France and victory, impending operations against England and the SS role, without further ado Heydrich pushed on with the purpose of his visit.

“Yes, England. That is most definitely something you can help me with, Herr Reichsleiter. With the planned military administrations being a possible curtailment of SS and Party policy in the occupied areas, as they were in Poland – no doubt our goals are aligned on this most important matter.”

Bormann’s face remained cool, which Heydrich quietly admired. “Indeed, Gruppenführer, a smooth path to achieving goals would be most expedient. Perhaps I can speak to the Führer about this matter of security and stability? Or arrange a meeting for the Reichsführer-SS?”

Aha
. Heydrich smiled inwardly. That was crude of Bormann. Reinhard Heydrich was not one to be marginalised behind the inner circle; particularly as he’d been instrumental in helping Himmler achieve that lofty status, not to mention a history of tearing others down from equal heights.

He did not dally. “No. As director of Einsatzgruppen and the Security Police operations of the Reich and territories, I want immunity from army interference and a clear hand to deal quickly and effectively with the problems faced in Britain.”