Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (52 page)

“Yes, they invaded Poland,” Hoffman stormed. “For no reason. With a stupid pact with us that means–”

But he stopped himself. He would not insult the Führer’s decisions, even if he had allied with Russia. It was all part of the plan. Everybody knew that they would have the final showdown with the Judeo-Bolsheviks, if not next year, then the one after it.

“Yes,” he said with greater calm. “But they had no reason to fight Poland. We lost soil and blood. We had German people cut off from the Fatherland, we had East Prussia separated, we lost land that had millions of German people still living there, persecuted by the Polish populace.”

“Yeah,” said James, hardly caring. “And the Jewish communists who run Russia that you’ve been chelping about are your allies. You’ll say owt, you lot.”

He glanced up, before returning to his book. “Goethe. He was a good German. Interesting stuff, this, about selling your soul…”

Hoffman scowled, and turned away, ignoring him.

“Regardless of what that
dumkopf
thinks…” he said crossly, thumbing a gesture back towards James Wilkinson, who snorted scornfully. Hoffman sneered back, and then resumed, “They must be stopped at all costs. They are in Lithuania, Latvia, they attacked Finland for no reason, they have troops across the Baltics and Poland… they already border Germany with East Prussia from Lithuania and the Polish separation boundary; they have massive deployments facing the countries they
haven’t
invaded yet…”

He shook his head, shuddering with very real revulsion. The English watched him, considering his words.

“Can you imagine what a peasant army with tanks and bombs would do? They are crushing East Poland, purging intellectuals. Millions die in their own country for no reason. In Spain they were burning churches, executing priests. Truly disgusting…” Hoffman grimaced. “Germany is not alone. Other countries see the danger. I only hope that the Wehrmacht, SS and countries allied in the struggle are ready before the Soviet armies are…”

Sucking his cigarette thoughtfully, he lapsed into silence, imagining millions of Russian soldiers pouring into East Prussia and German-occupied Poland, heading straight for Berlin and the vulnerable heart of the Reich. Three hundred Soviet divisions, swarming into Europe like the Vandals; iconoclastic destruction and slaughter to follow.

The door at the end of the long corridor in the main building was open, and Stanley Hitchman was ushered as far as it before Major Wolf strode out from around his desk to greet the man he had held a gun to just a few short hours before.

“Sergeant Hitchman, how wonderful you have come, sir.”

“Major,” Stanley said, rather stiffly.

Jochen Wolf smiled, something of the wolf still in his handsome, hard face, and he politely gestured towards the large and comfortable sofa that lined one side of the spacious room. Hitchman sat in it, and Wolf took an armchair that faced it, on the other side of a glass table, and at the same eye level as his guest. He had relaxed his usually impeccable SS dress attire; the tunic was
unbuttoned, sans medals, and a
fter refusing twice, Hitchman finally relented to the major’s insistent offer of coffee. He was privately glad when it came.
Real
, milky coffee with quality beans, not the ersatz typical in wartime, for civilians and soldiers alike. These were real beans. The aroma alone delighted him, and he openly inhaled the rising whiffs of vapour with naked relish.

“Enjoy, Sergeant,” Wolf smiled. “You have most certainly earned that drink.”

Major Wolf was quite unhesitant, as well as unrepentant, regarding broaching the topic of the incident of the day. Hitchman privately admired his enormous confidence and ease; the unnatural poise with which he carried himself, exuding gravitas. Even in military circles, the man had tremendous dash.

“Thank you, Herr Major,” he replied, observing the German title.

Wolf frowned slightly, and then smiled. “That is Wehrmacht, my good man. In the SS we don’t use the traditional ‘Herr’, just rank titles. You will find the SS is the new, less pretentious army of the
new
Germany. The aristocratic East Prussians and cold fish officer corps that make up the Wehrmacht will one day cease to exist as we know it…” he scrutinised Stanley for a moment, and then smiled. “The SS will absorb them. But each man will have to prove himself, as a defender of Saxon, and
European
culture itself…”

Stanley digested this information quietly. He was sure the Wehrmacht High Command would have something to say about that. Not to mention Party members to whom the SS leadership was abhorrent. Would, and could, anyone under Adolf Hitler be truly happy if Heinrich Himmler were granted that much authority?

The earlier incident prevented Stanley from speaking his mind. He had resolved to keep any inflammatory opinions and observations to himself during the long walk to Wolf’s office.

“Are you all right,” Wolf pressed, affecting concern.

“Well I must say,” Stanley began tentatively, ignoring the query and smacking his lips, “it’s one hell of a bloody brew you have here, Major. Where on
earth
did you
find
this coffee?”

The major waved his hand, dismissively. “I’ll secure you a batch of beans. Feel free to share with your men, as I suspect you would choose to in any case. Obviously you are very much a – what do you say,
team player
? Today proved that beyond a doubt.”

Hitchman looked at him curiously. Wolf grinned.

“You are a good man, Untersturmführer Hitchman. I shall call you that now; consider yourself informally promoted, it translates as a lieutenant, second class. Though there is nothing second class about your sense of duty. You know…” and Major Wolf rose from his seat, waving Hitchman back down as he started to get up too. “Relax, Untersturmführer, sit.
Duty
and kinship with those of your blood is exactly what National Socialism is all about. And I choose to honour you, Lieutenant, with a lofty promotion, albeit honorary, because more so than some Prussian clown pining for the Kaiser or Frederick the Great, or one of your own posh Sandhurst types and
stiff-upper lip
King and Country
gentlemen, YOU embody the true officer.”

The major stood behind his chair, planting both hands on top of it and gazing with admiration at the thoroughly nonplussed Stanley Hitchman.

“You are an educated man, which is good. But though you speak like one such person, you are not a posh, plutocratic type, or you would not have offered yourself as the sacrifice.
You
are a soldier, a
warrior
, as well as an educated man. You are like me.”

“I am an educated man,” Stanley conceded. “That much is true.”

“And you have a kinship with your men? A sense of
honour
and duty. You fight for what – not for the King, not
you
… for British culture? Western civilisation?”

Frowning, Stanley considered. “You could very well say that, Major, yes. I love my country.”

“And western civilisation?” the Major pressed, a slight frown adding small lines to the smooth skin of his younger forehead.

“As opposed
to
?”

Wolf shrugged carelessly. “Militant Islamic regimes and Sharia law. The Japanese Emperor and his military government. Soviet communism under Stalin. Siberian labour camps and collectivisation. Other civilisations, with different systems and different peoples…”

“Yes.”

SS-Major Wolf sat back down, an expression of concern playing across his features.

“Then why, Herr Hitchman, would you fight against Germany? Is there not a close kinship between our countries? Your own King and royal family are part German, are they not? Or at least for the most part? Did not Germanic Saxon blood take root on the Britannic isle? Did our tribes not intermingle? Is our white, northern European racial blood type not the same? Are we not the bulwark of the greatest civilisation the world has ever known – from the literature and philosophy of Shakespeare, Goethe, Nietzsche, Smith, Kant, Marlowe… with Kant excepted, perhaps.” He smiled. “In science, music…”

“Genocidal imperialism,” Stanley observed, and instantly regretted it.

“Genocidal?”

“Mass-murder. Murderous. Destructive.”

Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be flippant. An educated man should be more aware than all others regarding the greatness of our civilisation. Do you not agree? Do you not love it? Why would you fight
Germany
?”

Hitchman was thoroughly confused. “I suppose so, yes. And I cannot answer you.”

“Be honest,” Wolf snapped, firmly.

“I… well, we thought it was right. We appeased you at Munich, and you continued attacking, killing, conquering. Hitler – you – were aggressive. Rhineland, Sudetenland, Prague, Poland – where would it end?”

Wolf smiled. “From a warrior of the world’s largest empire, this hypocrisy is invalid. And after Versailles, after French-Algerian occupation of our main industrial area and the degradations and punishment exacted, and the land stolen from us, the chaos and instability inflicted on us… no,
Stanley
.”

“Your invasion of Poland was a lie, and a fabrication,” Stanley retorted, a little sharper himself now. In the slightly sweet-smelling room, Wolf again smiled his infuriating little grin, eyes narrowing pleasantly, like an avuncular figure with a tolerant twinkle in his eye for an amusing nephew.

“You obeyed orders because we invaded Poland.”

“Yes.”

“Did the barbarian Russians not invade, also? They are not a western civilisation. They are communists, and millions upon millions of people have died under their system.”

“Well…” Stanley began hesitantly, taken aback, “I ah… Major Wolf, I really would not care to comment on that particular development, if that’s quite all right sir.” Hitchman’s tone was unmistakeably disapproving.

Wolf grinned again. “Relax, Stanley, if I may call you Stanley. This is not an interrogation. I have the deepest respect for you as an
officer
, which in my eyes you most certainly are.”

Stanley sank back further into his seat, purposefully relaxing his gait. Wolf nodded.

“Good. Now I would like to speak to you on military matters.”

Wolf rounded the chair, and once more sank into its comfort. Hitchman watched him recline in it, and cast a lingering look around the office. There were the portraits of Hitler and Göring, but beyond that the walls were bare. Yet the items and furniture displayed a certain taste on the part of the major. A fine silver cigarette case was on the desk, sat next to an expensive looking pen and notepad. An adjacent desk sat with a typewriter upon it, in perfect condition, and various ornaments; one a carved elephant hung with some kind of lapis lazuli decoration. Wolf’s medals lay on his desk, immaculately clean and polished. Lastly, but by no means least unusual, on the glass table for couch that Stanley sat on was a copy of Aldous Huxley’s
Brave New World
, in English.

All in all, the rather odd room was a fitting den for this strange major of a feared paramilitary armed force.

“Interesting book choice,” Stanley noted. “I read Huxley.”

“And what are your thoughts on the Brave New World of his imagination?” Wolf asked. “Did it
appal
you, or
excite
you?”

Stanley frowned. “It disturbed me.”

At that, Wolf began laughing heartily, slapping his knees. It was not done in an unkind, nor malicious manner to Stanley’s eyes and ears, which made it all the more confusing. The man seemed genuinely tickled.

“Oh, Sergeant,” he chuckled. “To think you are disturbed by it. That is most incredible to me.”

“I can’t for the
life of me
see why, coming from a soldier of a totalitarian state like yourself, sir,” Stanley said stiffly, abandoning his usual politness and cross at being a source of amusement to the obscenely relaxed major, who was more than a decade younger than he at the least. But at that, Wolf’s smile faded, and his eyes narrowed.

“I can see why you would mistakenly think that, Sergeant-major. You are quite possibly thinking that a man such as myself would be disheartened, perhaps
angered
by a provocative work such as this, detailing the complete subjugation of the human individuality and creative spirit. A world in which the desires of the individual are all provided, of docility and lifeless, passive peace. Is that apt?”

Stanley shuffled in his seat. “That did indeed cross my mind.”

“You are also,” Wolf continued, a trace of the grin returning as he thumbed a cigarette into his thumb and offered one to Stanley, “… considering if my possession of this book contravenes the blacklist of literature my country deems subversive? If it betrays some dissident leaning of the SS Sturmbannführer you see before you… the educated man who speaks such elegant English?”

Stanley said nothing. Wolf’s grin once more split his face.

“My dear Untersturmführer, it’s incredible to me that you abhor the
Brave New World
because frankly, you
live
in it.”

Wisps of cigarette smoke swirled in lingering clouds between them, and beats of silence passed.

“Stanley, your world was, is, and will be, the
Brave New World
. It is inevitable. You are still an imperial power, but you have debrutalised. You have gone soft. The corporate monsters, the plutocrats, the financial kingpins, whatever you want to call them – the Führer and his paladins tend to rely on the catch-all labels of ‘Jews’ and ‘Freemasons’ and the like – they are as dominant as they ever have been. Soon, the rampant consumerism of America will be matched shop for shop, street for street in London. Luxury items will corrupt the youth. Drugs, entertainment and an endless sea of indulgence will numb the mind. Banal trivialities will destroy the creative drive of a people. The people will stop challenging, and questioning the leadership and social values; they will lose their will. You will implode in your own softness.”

He leaned forwards again, pointing with his cigarette clenched between the same index and middle finger.

“You think
Brave New World
applies to
my
world? That is not so, Herr Hitchman. Say what you will about Hitler, Göring, Goebbels – National Socialist Germany is
hard
. It is strong. It
is
a brave new world, with no irony on the adjective – incidentally, the book is not a forbidden pleasure, though I believe Obergruppenführer Hangman Heydrich would very much like to offer Mr Huxley his warm hospitality; oh, to be a fly-on-the-wall in
that
room.”