Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK!

by Daniel S. Fletcher

  “No call for that at all, young man, no call for it.”

  “What you goin’ off on one for, you great big pillock?”

  “Hey ’ey ’ey, pack it in, will you?”

  “Fuck off Jerry!”

  Faced with open dissent from the disgruntled and irate Yorkshiremen, many of whom had approached to voice their anger, the oversized young German hesitated. His comrade, a shorter, squat man with dark hair, felt his own surprise dissipate quicker; raising his palms outwardly in a peaceful gesture, he offered some token placatory words. Smooth as his performance was, the appeasing words of conciliation seemed at odds with the menacing scowl of his fellow soldier, who glowered around him at the furious faces, looking as though he wanted to brutalise them all for the verbal dissent. His squat comrade let tensions wane, and then warned everybody in earshot that while they did not want any trouble, rules must be obeyed, and regrettably, that even mild resistance to basic laws could only lead to conflict. Everyone, he said, has to choose correctly, and play by the rules. Breaching that would only lead to self-inflicted trouble.

  Having said his piece and diffused the tensions somewhat, skilfully employing a combination of veiled threats and ingratiation, the soldier swifly moved on, followed by his taller kameraden. He, though, left with one last lingering glower at the little stall man, who had been violently sick in the meantime, wriggling in discomfort as he emptied his stomach, and then rolling onto his back, sucking in pained lungfuls of air as he gasped through the pain. Several rushed forwards to check on him. The man was helped to his feet, and taken away to clean himself up in the market toilets. The noise of excitement quickly faded. In less than half a minute, it was as though nothing had happened at all.

  They weren’t used to being stood up to, Naomi realised, still stood in the market centre reflecting. And obviously to them, Leeds is not Warsaw… or Jerusalem. But blood or not, they are conquerors. How long will they respond with reason and appeasement?

  Slightly shaken, the young Jewess bought some fresh bread and two ounces of cheese, her full week’s allowance. “Not cricket eh? Jerry bastards. Takin’ bloody liberties, they are,” the stall seller said to her as she paid for the food, referring to the German soldier’s conduct with the little fellow who had the unfortunate nose.

  “No,” she agreed. “It’s out of order. Hopefully that’s the worst of it.”

  But in her heart of hearts, she doubted it. The fear was manageable, but it still remained, beneath the surface, intruding her thoughts in moments of peace.

  Boarding the tram, she nibbled tentatively, willing herself not to finish the luxury before even reaching home. The stares of other passengers helped in this; sensing their open hostility, Naomi wondered if it was due to their hunger, rather than some breach of etiquette she had made in ignorance. Food had become a sensitive issue; astonishingly for the people at the heart of a global empire. The hated rationing was still in effect. Well-to-do types had aroused anger by continuing to eat at the designated restaurants that were exempt from rationing, and the privilege of immunity was soon withdrawn; ironically, in a move meant to placate the people, the Germans reintroduced the exemption system only weeks later, in an early decree.

  Self-conscious under scrutiny due to a prevailing shyness, the young lady quickly stashed the food down by her feet and out of sight, watching the tenements and terraced streets of East Leeds flash by in a blur of grey and green until they reached Harehills. Her parents were not in. Naomi set off on the long walk home towards Chapeltown, where the largest Jewish community in not only Leeds, but Yorkshire entire could be found, ever-flourishing right up until the day lightning runes flew on flagpoles above British police stations. SS de jure spelled more than the end of that, as the liberal spectrum entire was ruthlessly eradicated from British society, but there was nowhere in England that the Schwarze Korps were feared and loathed with more bitterness than in the persecuted ranks of the Jewish community.

  Enjoying the stroll past red brick terraces and eventually the park; Naomi took her time, feeling the wind whip her hair as it blew with a gentle coolness, and then gushed faster at intervals, wafting strongly as she walked through its trajectory. Inside her flat, she settled down with some bread and half the cheese ration, and began to read her copy of The Protocols.

  It sickened her.

  Twenty-four protocols…

  “Three: Methods of Conquest,” she murmured to herself in disbelief. “Four: Materialism Replaces Religion… Despotism and Modern Progress… Takeover technique… World Wide Wars… The Totalitarian State… Control Of All Press… Ruthless Suppression… Attacks on Religion… Brainwashing… Financial Programme… Loans and Credit… unbelievable…”

  Prior to the Nazis, she’d been faintly amused by the concept of the Protocols. With a regime that wholly sponsored nationwide anti-Semitic persecution within its own borders now holding sway in Britain, Naomi felt her blood run cold as she read through the chilling warrant for that said-same persecution; the forged imprint of the global conspiracy of her people. The justification for all violence committed against them as ‘self-defence’ – the implied protection of a saintly world from the menace of their corrupting perversions.

  The end of her world.

  ~

  She suddenly missed her parents.

  When Naomi’s father, apoplectic with anger, threw a predictably ad hominem tantrum at her for joining the Auxiliary Fire Service, Naomi had moved out with as much dignity as she could muster, and found a small flat further north above a shop; still close enough to be part of the family, and ironically enough, closer to the main body of the Jewish community than her parents. Her father quickly made the peace, which she warmly and magnanimously accepted, but she chose not to move back. A young woman in the flush of early adulthood, Naomi was enthused, and with a combination of excitement and fear, succumbed to the national fervour of unity and resistance; doing her part for, if not the war, which she disagreed with as she did all wars, then the people at least, and finding a fantastic solidarity with her fellow AFS members. To feel such a bond can be a powerful thing. Naomi shared their pain as the men in their ranks were labelled ‘War-dodgers’, with such little action domestically for the first nine months of hostilities, and then their grief at the culmination of what amounted to the only bloody but brief action in its entirety, which ended with the complete collapse of the BEF in France.

  Despite her induction into the AFS, Naomi had been deeply disappointed to find herself in no position to actually put out a fire. She did, however, surprise a few of her male colleagues with her driving which, by consensus, saw her reach the scenes of the fires just as quickly as would they. Doubling up as a fire watcher whenever a shift ran spare was seen as less glamorous, too, waiting with binoculars on the long, cold nights, but she found it inexplicably thrilling.

  Such thrills seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, Naomi found herself wanting her mother.

  Pulling herself back into the present, the young teacher finished the last of her cheese and lit a cigarette, finally steeling herself to properly acquaint herself with the hated text. Even in being prepared for its prejudice, opening the text still made Naomi’s flesh creep.

  Methods of Conquest, Doctrine III: “There remains a small space to cross and the whole long path we have trodden is ready now to close its cycle of the Symbolic Snake, by which we symbolise our people. When this ring closes, all the States of Europe will be locked in its coil as in a powerful vice…”

  Naomi spoke the paragraph aloud. She shook her head, wearily, before reading on, underlining the more pertinent, pernicious parts.

  In order to incite seekers after power to a misuse of power we have set all forces in opposition one to another, breaking up their liberal tendencies towards independence. To this end we have stirred up every form of enterprise, we have armed all parties, we have set up authority as a target for every ambition. Of States we have made gladiatorial arenas where a lot of confused issues contend ...
A little more, and disorders and bankruptcy will be universal... Babblers, inexhaustible, have turned into oratorical contests the sittings of Parliament and Administrative Boards. Bold journalists and unscrupulous pamphleteers daily fall upon executive officials. Abuses of power will put the final touch in preparing all institutions for their overthrow and everything will fly skyward under the blows of the maddened mob… The GOYIM have lost the habit of thinking unless prompted by the suggestions of our specialists…

  Naomi blanched at the capitalisation of ‘Goyim’. Pausing to hydrate with some water, she composed herself and read on:

  … The word "freedom" brings out the communities of men to fight against every kind of force, against every kind of authority even against God and the laws of nature. For this reason we, when we come into our kingdom, shall have to erase this word from the lexicon of life as implying a principle of brute force which turns mobs into bloodthirsty beasts…

  Naomi shook her head again, slowly. The dark locks cascaded down over her eyes, and she shook her head a third time, like an impetuous horse, before continuing to underline key parts. She had only thus far read through Protocol III, out of twenty-four.

  Glancing through the financial protocols on loans, credit and gold, she was merely bemused. Hatred of the financial elites was easily understood; were Jews not under the thumb of the same economic system of slavery as were gentiles? Did Jews alone hold the keys to the financial palace? Were the majority of the world’s Jews privy to the machinations of the richest Israelites, whomever and wherever they may be? Was she responsible for the Court Jews of prior centuries, or the bankers of this one? Were not the right-wing governments and Churches fully cooperative with the financial institutions?

  Naomi snorted. These protocols were an irritant. But a dangerous, pernicious irritant.

  Protocol VII, though, thoroughly disturbed her, and shook her to the core. Even more so than XI and XI, Totalitarian State and Control of All Press, the seventh, Worldwide Wars was the warrant for persecution.

  Most malicious of all; beyond economic and political conspiracy, the seventh Protocol blamed all gentile wars specifically on the machinations of her people.

  Throughout all Europe… we must create ferments, discords and hostility. By our intrigues we shall tangle up all the threads which we have stretched into the cabinets of all States by means of the political, by economic treaties, or loan obligations. In order to succeed in this we must use great cunning and penetration during negotiations and agreements, but, as regards what is called the ‘official language,’ we shall keep to the opposite tactics and assume the mask of honesty and complacency. In this way the peoples and governments of the GOYIM, whom we have taught to look only at the outside whatever we present to their notice, will still continue to accept us as the benefactors and saviours of the human race.

  “Life unworthy of life,” she noted, sombrely.

  The Protocols in effect bolstered the current German theories of scientific racism and lent justification –superficial and contrived as it was – to the gradual process of enacting the continental exclusion of her people from the chain of heredity. Acceptance of these texts as truth was tantamount to conspiring to de-humanise a race.

  Jews conspired to enslave the world; ergo, Jewish life was life unworthy of life.

  Naomi remembered an incident from her childhood.

  “Get out of here you Jew,” the eleven-year-old boy had screamed at her, his mouth contorting nastily with the words as he pushed her away from the children’s park.

  “What have I done?” the eight-year-old asked, bewildered.

  “You’re a fucking Jew! Fuck off or I’ll smack you!”

  She tottered away, thoroughly puzzled, and strolled off towards the distant swings at the other, nearby playground. Before she got there, halfway across the adjoining grass, a fist slammed hard into the back of her head, its thudding impact momentarily blurring her vision while sending her undeveloped, childlike body flying forward into the grass. She blocked the fall on instinct, but the blow itself had depleted her senses, and she lay confused and stricken for several seconds.

  Trying to collecting her wits, Naomi prepared to stand back up, silently waiting for the dizziness to subside. Before she could manage it, the boy leaned down to spit in her face. The huge gobbet of mucus ran down her nose and mouth; she spluttered and coughed as some entered her oral cavity, momentarily shocked. Seconds later, her senses returned and tears started flowing freely; hot on her wet face as she cried in painful shame and degradation.

  Snarling, her attacker showed no pity.

  “Get out of here, Jew scum. This park isn’t for you.”

  The boy was eleven; as Naomi realised later, he didn’t know why he hated her, or even what a Jew was. He just knew, with a surefire certainty in his cocksure confidence of his arrogant, eleven-year-old mind, that a Jew was bad, and she was a Jew, ergo she was scum and he hated her.

  As a young adult, Naomi became a teacher to help inspire children; to aid the creativity and channelled passions of their fertile minds. Now, the kids would read these Protocols; that 11yr old boy would be joined by an army of thousands, countless thousands, even millions. How long until the twisted poison of language could scar purity, and forever pervert the children of Britain into a hateful, vengeful, violent clique of racists?

  Jewish life was life unworthy of life.

  How could she have ever ignored and belittled this work? So maleficient was its content, to perniciously penetrate the conscious fears of all European nations – and presumably the rest of the world – to transcend cultural differences, and encompass all facets of cultural decay and parasitic operation to insidiously affect the thinking of – and thence bind together – all peoples of Britain, America and Europe to the modern form of anti-Semitism and scientific racial loathing. From the medieval beliefs of sacrifice and well-poisoning to this modern resurrection of ancient fears, with its sinister new ambition and devilish upgrade in scale; Naomi realised with trepidation that once more, her people truly had been chosen.

  Maisie had the cheerful disposition of a girl who’d been blessed with an intelligent sibling, a loving mother and enough combined personality and looks to never be short of friends or popularity. That disposition had been sorely tested just ten minutes prior, with the visit to her shop on Tottenham Court Road from a gang of swaggering Blackshirts; BUF party members, old guard, enjoying their newfound hero status with its legal license to be loutish.

  “Here we go,” she murmured to herself as the doorbell tinkled.

  The fascists strolled in, glancing contemptuously at the modestly dressed young lady tending the shop. The youngest lad amongst them had a swarthy face, what looked like severe vitamin D deficiency and the kind of greasy, hook-nosed gargoyle visage that could have leapt off the pages of Der Stürmer to rape an Aryan child. He looked every inch the Jewish Demon that Hitler’s government wished to implant in the nightmares of every Aryan child in the Reich. The man’s face alone, sat perched on top of a skinny frame with its long torso and contrastingly short limbs, made her wonder exactly what master race it was that the Germans spoke of.

  “Heil Hitler,” the runt in lead sneered at her. She responded by scowling.

  Maisie had quickly found that it was these types who were more liable to be the loud, zealous defenders of Reich racial policy; slithering little imbeciles with slack jaws and Slavic features. The tall Wehrmacht soldiers on patrol merely looked wary, or bored; even resentful that after having their hatreds directed against ‘world Jewry’ for seven years that they instead had to fight, and then stand guard over, fellow Saxons; stuck in the ugly, grey-skied chilly environ of England when they could all be slaughtering Russian Jews in the east, or drinking champagne in the sunlit summer of Paris. As for the BUF muscle – including the three big ones that sauntered into the shop with the young man – they were now Britain’s SA.

  “Heil Hitler,” the second of the two shaven-headed mountain-sized lu
mps grunted at her, without saluting.

  “My name’s not Hitler,” she replied flatly, with a wan smile.

  The strategically-shaved silverback gorilla was about to retort, the loose skin of his huge face bunching up angrily, when his friend who resembled the runt of the litter quickly interjected to complete the self-glorifying tale that he’d been in the process of droning through as they entered the shop.

  “… wha’ a lit’wl fackin’ kike. Where he belongs, the fackin’ floor like a snake. Next time I’ll make him lick the road, clean the street with his tongue the cunt. He was trembling in his fackin’ boots wasn’e? Eh, ’e was fackin’ shiverin’…”

  The dark-haired man spoke with an exaggerated cockney; the overeager drawl and self-conscious bite into each pronunciation betrayed him as a mockney of the highest order. His act was transparent; posturing with the pathetically eager air of a schoolboy whom had attached himself to the biggest bullies on the playground, just being in proximity to him made Maisie nauseous. His desperation to please, or to flaunt, gave rise to a slight shrillness and rising intonation in his voice, which was universally viewed as an incredibly unappealing trait on the English side of the Atlantic. Like most forms of mockney, it would have been a slow, sneering drawl but for his obviously ingratiating intent; eagerness lending haste to his foul stream of verbal incontinence.

  “Good to see the filth show us the proper respect, these days…” he declared, drawling his leer, “not lookin’ d’aan their noses at us. You could be anything in the old days, as long as you had a bit of bees an’ ’oney… queer, rent boy, Jew, commie… not now, o’ course!”

  “Not now,” one of his goons intoned dumbly.

  “Thanks be to God, for Adolf Hitler,” the runt smirked with relish, playing with a coin between his fingers. Maisie had only ever seen one person do this before as habit, and the man had been a thief from Bermondsey, openly proud of his sleight of hand.

  Surreptitiously ogling the shopgirl, the undersized runt of the fascist’s drew nearer, until Maisie was awarded a close-up view, to her regret. The man’s unappealing visage was only heightened at close range. His pockmarked cheeks were slightly flushed with red, like a child left outside for too long in winter, or a drunk whose blood vessels had mutinied in the face of excessive alcohol consumption and committed mass-hari kiri. Sporting a lined forehead, heavy bags under his watery eyes and a crooked nose, she realised with surprise that the man whom she’d thought was an arrogant, slimy teenage boy must be well into his forties. His oily skin was weatherbeaten, flecked with scar tissue and dotted with small, almost imperceptible spots. Maisie mused that she could have played braille with the blackheads on the crooked spire of his bent, off-centre nose. All in all, the man was a gargoyle.