Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (4 page)

The SD commando doused the bodies in petrol, and left them burning; a small convoy of cross-marked trucks rolling away into the distance, one long smoke plume at their back rising from the blackened ground, twirling and merging into the grey morning clouds.

PART I

The sun rose weakly over northern France.

James looked up through bleary eyes, as he stepped heavily into the pale light, blinking dumbly and yawning. “Fitting,” he said dryly, in the laconic Yorkshire style.

“For what?” asked Tommy, similarly dishevelled as he shuffled out of the barrack huts and out to the asphalt parade ground, rubbing sleep from his gummy eyes. Neither cared much for keeping silence. They hardly felt bound by military discipline. The Yorkshireman glanced at him, and with furrowed brows, nodded towards the stony-faced SS officers stood silently watching their approach, clad in their sleek Hugo Boss uniforms.

“For this new start. New dawn, new day,” James observed, deadpan. “And this is SS hospitality, which should be interesting.”

Tommy followed his gaze, and scowled. The SS, standing out like sore thumbs in the backdrop of the characterless forested area and the ramshackle little camp it enclosed, looked every inch the merciless supermen they’d been propagandised as on both sides of the war; grim, imposing figures. Brian, limping along behind Tommy, noted with interest that while the Death’s Head skull and crossbones was visible on peaked caps, their SS jailors had the usual lightning runes on their collar tabs, like the Waffen-SS, and not the skull and bones of the infamous
Totenkopf
camp guards of Himmler’s notorious internment system. The uniforms were field grey, double-breasted both above and below the belt and seemed to be cut from the thick
feldgrau
wool of the army. They wore the same jackets as panzer commanders.
Military dress
. Some bore medals.

“Look at them. They’re fucking robots,” Tommy whispered. Grumbling, James agreed with the sentiment.

“Twats.”

“
Look
at this lot. They’re a bunch of dustbin lids! Fresh out of school, seven foot tall and carved out of stone. They don’t even look human.” Tommy shook his head in disgust, and loudly spat a green blob of phlegm into the dust at his feet. “I can’t believe I’m ’ere doing bird in a kraut prison camp, stuck with a Yorkshire bastard like you to boot.”

James churlishly grinned at that. “What will I do without my whippet and wife to beat?”

“Die, hopefully,” he snorted.

Still fixated on the SS guards, James barely blinked. “You Artful Dodgers are all the same. Eighty years since Charles Dickens and cockneys are still a bunch of uncivilised thieves.”

“What would you know about civilisation, you northern monkey?”

“Quite a bit, you little chimney sweep. London;
rats, syphilis, Fagin the Jew and the plague epidemic
.”

“That’s enough, Private Wilkinson. Silence in the ranks!” Sergeant Stanley called back to him. “Men, move out! Three ranks of eight! Step to, look lively!”

His heart was in it – the Suffolk voice as stern as its refined tones could allow it to be – but the words were jumbled. Lieutenant Smith was dead; bombed in the anarchy following the collapse of the southern front and the BEF’s forced retreat along the River Senne to maintain a straight defensive line with the French, and as such, the leaderless platoon fell to the Sergeant. The ranks, though, had been decimated; Stanley’s boys numbered a mere twenty-four from the original sixty that had landed in France with the rest of the British Expeditionary Force.

The entire company filed out, and Tommy and James shared a look of cynical apprehension. They’d arrived the prior night in transit trucks, and had been sent straight into their respective barrack huts. Now, lined up for parade, it was apparent that the company only had one hundred men, all in all, less than half its original number. None voiced what they were feeling. Tommy bit his lip.

One of the watching SS men stepped forwards, an officer; good looking, tall and blond. He seemed to be in his mid-20s.
SS prototype
, James thought.
One of Hitler’s own supermen
. The grim embodiment of Aryan masculinity in a brave new Europe.

The officer began calling names out; a coarse, rasping tone belying his handsome, boyish visage. Roll call began, as the German ran through his list of names, the first of which were familiar to the group that laughingly called themselves ‘Stanley’s Boys’.

“Marshall, Brian, Private!” The German barked.

Brian winced. His own name had never before disturbed him, or sounded so unpleasant as it did then; verbally ejaculated in such guttural fashion.

“Here.”

“Rawlinson, Thomas, Private!

“Here,” Thomas Rawlinson called back.

“Wilkinson, James, Private!”

Expressionless, James remained deadpan for a split second; long enough to make the German look up inquisitively, his brows furrowed, cold blue eyes roving the ranks.

“’ere’,” he finally intoned, deadpan, with all the considerable reserves of contempt and pokerfaced scorn that only an unimpressed Yorkshireman could muster. Tommy smirked, glancing round in amusement. The men let out a small titter; quiet laughter rumbling through the ranks as James yawned loudly.

“Watson, Thomas – private!” The German barked louder.

“I’m still here, Jerry,” he sneered, drawling his cockney, and this time the laughter rippled loudly throughout the rank and file. Even the Sergeant snorted, before fixing his expression and staring dead ahead, pokerfaced. This time, the German officer definitely scowled.

“Fletcher, James – Private!”

“Here,” the other James in the platoon called out.

“Burdon, Michael, Private!”

“Here.”

“Clifford, Andrew, Private!”

“Here.”

“Hitchman, Stanley, Platoon Sergeant!”

“Here,
present and correct
!”

The British soldiers sniggered, with the men of other platoons mistaking Stanley’s public schoolboy properness for mockery. It was not the norm for such an educated man of culture to join the enlisted ranks of the army. Tommy, Brian, both James’ and a few of the others smiled indulgently. Stanley would be stiff upper-lipped for the entirety of their internment, they knew. A gentleman.
Show the enemy what civility looks like. Kill them with kindness
.

One by one, the names of each of the hundred or so remaining men from the four platoons were called out, and the new company was deemed all present and correct. The German lieutenant fell back into line with a handful of enlisted SS, but no dismissal was called. An early breeze whipped them, the sun’s pale light proving inadequate as a counterbalance and they shivered, listening to the oddly stifled trilling of birds from the trees. Apprehension lapsing into boredom, the soldiers continued to stand to attention on the makeshift parade ground of what were, clearly, either hastily constructed or disused French military barracks.

Finally, just as the men started to get restless, the gates that separated the barrack huts area from the long building on the other side of the fenced camp creaked open, with a loud metallic groan, and through them walked an SS officer.

There could be no doubt that this man was in charge. He exuded a primal gravitas, radiating authority. The black-clad figure wore a long leather trench-coat, under which his uniform looked crisp, sleek and new. Though field grey, its thread was silvery, unlike the woollen military style Waffen-SS jackets worn by the others, and the right collar tab bore the trademark lightning runes. His uniform, from the smooth, creaseless tunic, to the black coat, to the gleaming knee-length jackboots, shining as they clip-clopped across the gravel, was
perfect
.

Striding powerfully towards the massed men, he did not so much as glance at them, marching confidently until he reached a point of equidistance between the British soldiers at either end of the ranks. And then, with supreme assurance the man turned, imperious. Expressionless.

“Good day to you, soldiers of Great Britain and the Empire.”

That raised eyebrows. The tone was commanding, yet vaguely friendly, as though stentorian yet tempered with a smile. The proud face, with its pronounced jaw and cheekbones, however, remained cool.

“I am Commandant SS Sturmbannführer Jochen Wolf. The rank is roughly equivalent to major in your armed services. You may call me Major Wolf.”

Brian stole a quick glance to his left at Tommy and James. While the Yorkshireman was impassive, listening indifferently to the SS major’s peculiarly precise little introduction, the cockney’s contempt was visible, etched across his sneering, upturned lips, and the hostile challenge that flashed in his eyes.

“You are my charge,” the major continued smoothly. His English was impeccable, even cultured, with a delicate edge to its rhythm and syntax. “If you are wondering why it is that you are…
guests
, shall we say… of the SS and not the Wehrmacht, rest assured that it is no reason to panic. You are not hostages. These were French military reserve barracks. This is not a hostile situation as far as I see it, nor from the perspective of Reichsführer-SS Himmler and the Führer himself. This is a time of great change. There no longer exists, in the practical sense, a state of war between our two Aryan, Germanic, white European nations.
One
Great War was enough, thankfully this time it ended quickly before too many good men were lost in a pointless struggle.”

The speech was met with silence, and no small degree of shock.
Where is he going with this
, Stanley wondered. Talk of hostilities being over… and beyond that, just to
talk
? And to address them with such a bizarre, candid entreaty; to view them with something other than enmity? This isn’t common practise for prisoners-of-war. And that particular jurisdiction – the custody of captured troops – most definitely falls to the army. Not a paramilitary, regardless of how entrenched it is in the national social structure.

SS-Major Jochen Wolf let his gaze wander across the ranks of proud, defeated and thoroughly confused soldiers. Undaunted, they stared back through narrowed, quizzical eyes at the handsome young SS officer, bedecked as he was in war service medals that were pinned to his impeccable uniform. Momentarily, he cast a lingering gaze around the men in his charge, and then resumed his introduction. “We are in Aincourt, near to Versailles.”

“Ironic, eh,” James Wilkinson muttered from the second row. But despite the sharp intake of breath from his fellow platoon members, the major merely continued his speech.

“This camp will be known as St George no.5. Your platoons are being reorganised into three groups, and as a company you will remain together. You will enjoy hot water & regular meals. Improvements will be made to the toilet facilities currently in place here. We Germans will assist you in this. And now let me clarify the relationship between our peoples, who share a common blood. I must make mention again – you are
not
hostages of the SS. There will be an opportunity for education here, in history, culture, geography, and language –
German
, of course. All the men here speak the English language to a considerable degree. You have the chance to learn here, to leave this camp as improved versions of yourselves.”

At this, Tommy gave an indistinct snort. The major’s eyes identified him at once. Smiling pleasantly, he almost murmured, “No noise or interruptions as I speak, please. The penalty for not extending me the same courtesy and respect I show you is severe.”

This was met by silence. Major Wolf’s smile melted away, replaced by what was known in the SS as ‘the cold face’.

“None of this is compulsory; in fact, nothing is, beyond roll call once a week, and the washing system. You can laze around as you will, as shirkers if you so wish. With no privileges, and all the free time you could wish for. Or, you can learn, and grow. As military men, you will continue to wear your uniforms proudly, though spare shirts and trousers will be given to you also. Rest assured, any clothing given to you will be stripped of SS or German insignia before being presented to you, and will not be identifiable as German military field gear.

Lastly…” and though he smiled, the major’s voice took on a steely tone. “There are to be absolutely no escape attempts
whatsoever
. Infringements on this rule will result in punishment. I should not have to tell you what that means. Please… bear in mind the advantages of being in our care. Use this camp to your advantage.”

There was no response, and he nodded, as if pleased. “Sergeant Hitchman?!”

The Sarge stood to. “Sergeant Stanley Hitchman, Fourth–” he began, but was abruptly cut off.

“Sergeant
major
, as Platoon Leader and
de facto
company head, do you have any questions?

The Suffolk man bristled visibly, his chest fractionally rising.

“As you mention it, I most certainly do, Major Wolf,” he began, indignantly. “
I
do not personally have any family left, but these men want to speak to their loved ones back home. All the fellows you see before you have families, parents, wives, children… they don’t know if they’re alive or dead. It would be a most grievous outrage, Sir, not to mention a barbaric desecration of the honourable code of war, if the families of brave soldiers were not allowed to contact their loved ones serving in France!”

There were some murmurings of assent from the assembled. Tommy even gave several open claps of support. Stanley opened his mouth to silence him, but stopped himself. He was deeply touched.

To Stanley’s consternation, however, the major merely smiled.

“
I
understand your plight.
Trust
me, in time you will be able to send and receive mail and your families will be in regular contact. This internment is simply a temporary measure while the creation of the new form of the British body politic takes place. Our countries will of course have to diplomatically square away the unfortunate differences brought on by German reclamation of stolen territories to reintegrate our people back into the Fatherland, which were unlawfully signed away to Poland quite nearby in these forests, and of course, the criminal conduct of your government in not only declaring war on the Reich, but commissioning war crimes on German troops, breaching the Geneva Convention in several deeply disturbing ways…”