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…”
“Yeah that’s interesting and funny,” he muttered quickly and quietly, before booming: “For a twat. Aye, I will. Cockneys,” he declared unhurriedly, loudly, in the typical Yorkshire style, “… are the only people who practice swearing at the mirror. And you talk in rhyming slang…” James shook his head in genuine disbelief. “How much in love with the sound of your own voice can you buggers get? And it stemmed from a covert criminal code, which you accept with pride. Cockneys are nutters.”
“You aren’t fully evolved.”
The reaction was instant. “Whoah…” he cried, turning round in a sudden burst of animation. “You can speak to people in Yorkshire you’ve never met, pal, and engage in conversation. Try that in London; only rapists and street-crawlers do it, and the odd fruity pervert like Jack the Ripper and your uncles…” they locked eyes, and Tommy laughed, unable to hold it in. The pokerfaced chain-smoker continued, exaggerating his accent for effect:
“The Great Fire was Biblical; a modern Gomorrah. Sodomites flock there. You have rapists, rent boys, murderers and plague-infested rats running around London, and they’re the only ones who enjoy it. You pay too much for beer that you can’t even drink. Yorkshire is green. Fresh. Beautiful. Your lot hang, draw and quarter people and hang their dismembered body parts on the Tower. We swim in clean country lakes; you have a river of poisonous pisswater running through your shitty concrete nightmare, build a bunch of crap buildings around it and expect me to be impressed. Unevolved? All right, Dodger. You lot are fruity.”
“And you are the only person who’s sarcastic in his sleep. You sleep talk at night, and I hear you arguing with yourself. Yorkshiremen have the largest county, and the smallest gene pool. You sound like a slow Glaswegian with mongolism that’s been hit with a brick…” and he mock-bowed at the cheers. “Your people are like the Scots, but more aggressive, uglier and with the generosity squeezed out of ’em. You’re a bunch of inbred ginger beers who bother sheep. Button it, will you?”
Beats of silence passed, before James concluded the argument in his chuntering, methodical style, as they all knew he would. “Oh aye? Is that right, lad? Let’s get down to brass tacks, here. You sound like a gay Australian who can’t surf, can’t swim and swapped the beach for a rat-infested concrete hellhole full of plague and rapists. You’re a cockney named Jack; named after a rapist cannibal who ate prostitutes and dead cats. Your people… cockneys actually have a phrase for unemployment and petty crime, ducking and diving, bobbin’ and weavin’, and you all do it and admit it. And I’m unevolved? Well… there were no Great Fires of Bastard Yorkshire, was there, eh? Even God hates cockneys. Now shut it, gloyt.”
Sharing an amused glance with Brian, Tommy of the East End let his friend’s mocking finale pass unanswered, silently thanking some unspecified person or deity or energy – he wasn’t sure – for James’ survival in May. The stubborn, bloodyminded, chuntering monkey could end up saving his sanity in the camp. That made him worth his weight in gold.
As they’d reclined at ease, enjoying what they later came to realise was the rare sound of birdsong, the camp medic had approached. Accompanying him was Lieutenant Hoffman, and another German trooper of the SS.
Every man save for Stanley mumbled “Heil!” in unison, and then a medley of German sounding noises followed by ‘Führer’, to mock the SS rank. ‘Oberlebbenhoffer… BadenBadenjerryführer’, from James Fletcher, the longest and most obvious wind-up. They waited on baited breath for a response. Hoffman, though, merely raised his eyebrows and even seemed to smirk. He doesn’t look angry, Tommy thought. There’s a turn up.
“Private Marshall, Brian?” Hoffman had asked. His voice was far less harsh than it had been during roll call. Nevertheless, the question was met with silence.
“Private Marshall, I am led to believe you have a leg injury fr
om battle?” he asked, glancing thrice at the obviously-injured Brian as he looked around at the English men.
Tommy piped up. “Don’t say anything; let him guess who it is.”
The men chuckled, their initial recalcitrance gone. Hoffman looked at him, and his own face split into a grin.
“My guess is you,” he smiled, pointing at the stricken-looking Brian. “How is the leg?”
Brian pretended to examine it. “Still there!”
This time Hoffman laughed; the chuckles of the English died in their own throats.
“Do you mind if the medic has a look?”
“Not at all,” Brian replied in surprise. “Help yourself mate.”
The medic, sporting a walrus-like moustache and a freckled face, did not resemble the typical SS man. Nevertheless, he sported the Hugo Boss feldgrau. After a minute’s worth of examination, he spoke, in a voice that seemed altogether too high pitched for his large frame and half-crazed appearance.
“Well it seems to be healing very well. I have brought you some new bandage and gauze. I also have a little bit of surgical spirit for cleaning the wound, and not drinking!”
“Drinking?” Tommy piped up again. “Drink surgical spirit! What do you think we are, Scottish?”
Everyone laughed at this; the SS lieutenant loudest of all. The medic briskly walked away, both sides of his walrus moustache visibly bobbing up and down as he heartily cackled all the way to the creaking gate.
Hoffman had stayed chatting for ten minutes longer. He offered them German cigarettes, which were surprisingly good, and assured them that as the British Expeditionary Force-SS liaison officer, he would ensure he found a football, and even explicitly promised goals to be built on the flat, grassy area inside the fence, directly situated behind their barracks.
When he’d left, Tommy stood up and turned to the others, astonishment etched across his features.
“Did you bloody see that?!”
They looked at him in alarm. Had they missed something?
“That Jerry laughed at my jokes!”
James turned to him sourly from the step. “And?”
“I didn’t think they had a sense of humour!”
“You miss the point,” the Yorkshireman replied dryly, his eyes narrowed.
But Brian commented, “Lads, we might have fallen on our feet with this camp. Things are looking all right.”
James spat on the ground in response, drawing snorts of laughter from his boyish namesake James Fletcher. Tommy ignored them both. Their name alone was starting to grind his gears. James, Jackboot, Jerry.
Though, he conceded, the latter one had proved to be a turn-up for the books. Idle conversations with Jerry… and regarding the krauts in this camp, they were an undeniably friendly bunch. Hell, they’re bloody soft!
“Let’s just see how things settle…” he decided aloud.
Predictably, it was James that replied. Scratching the prickly four-day stubble growth on his chin, the northerner queried his hopeful friend.
“But what will we see, Tommy lad? In what way will it ‘settle’… they’ll continue to treat us with courtesy, on this weird ‘We Are All Blood Brothers’ kick that Hitler’s on–”
“Hitler said that long before they beat us, old chap,” Stanley observed, pitching up after a long silence. “In his book, in tens of speeches, in public appeals. Not that the wider public were told.”
“What?” James retorted, incredulous. Stanley held his hands aloft.
“Avoid the easy temptation of judgement, old bean. Forget me; it was purely observation. Fact. Beyond the semantics, though, the point being is that their attitude and the spiel that the Hoffman kid and that commandant are coming out with is nothing new… said with all respect, old chap,” the gentlemanly Sergeant added.
Opening his mouth to speak, James caught himself and considered, finally nodding. “OK. Fair point. We fit their racist views. But either way, there’s something amiss.”
The higher voice of James Fletcher piped up in agreement, voicing his own concern with German intent. The men discussed the issue for some minutes, and Tommy and Brian were almost certain they detected a note of nervous tension in James voice, underlying the gruff, deadpan Yorkshire tones. The prospect appalled them. As they scrutinised him, after sharing a knowing glance of acknowledgement, James was impeded by the huge gust of wind, nixing his valiant efforts as he tried in vain to light his cigarette. His hand raised slightly, ready to launch the packet of matches into the air. Stopping himself, the steady northerner let frustration overcome him, and he openly cursed. Releasing a string of humourless obscenities, the young Yorkshire lad stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth and snarled:
“Well, I don’t trust them.”
But the others were placated by the medic’s visit, and Hoffman’s seemingly genuine, genial nature. Tommy frowned. He had never been cerebral, tending to live by his emotions; James, on the contrary, his sarcastic foil from the north was reserved and cynical, and generally never betrayed a lack of equilibrium. The man’s emotional control up to now had been extraordinary, holding up in extreme conditions. Even under fire, James had been ice cool, thinking clearly under pressure and helping keep others grounded in the most hellacious moments of sensory assault. Here in the camp, it was somewhat off-putting to see his poise slip now.
“Cheer up mate,” he called over. “Let’s make the best of it.”
There was no response. Tommy rose to his feet and approached, patting his comrade’s strong shoulder and lingering by the steps. James looked up to meet his gaze and nodded, winking. The cockney reached down to take his abandoned cigarette, lighting it for him with his own body shielding the match from the wind, and he knelt to place it in James’ mouth, with a friendly tousle of his increasingly bushy hair.
James seemed cheered somewhat, slapping hands with the cockney before turning to smoke with relish. Tommy watched him for a moment, until James muttered “ginger beer,” the cockney slang for homosexual. Smiling, Tommy turned to the group with hands held high.
“I tell you what though, lads… God bless her, I feel rotten for sayin’ it but the food in here’s a better than my Nancy can knock up!”
At that, they’d all been forced to agree with Tommy, the rather well-to-do Stanley excepted. This was better food than they had either expected in captivity, and for some, the quality German cooking tasted considerably better than the cuisine they were accustomed to at home.
~
Later that week, Hoffman had turned up in their platoon barracks with whiskey, claiming his superiors thought it was merited due to fifty-two men, or roughly half the surviving company entire, attending that week’s camp lectures – nineteen of whom had come from Stanley’s Boys! Hi-fives were exchanged, and the alcohol was gratefully accepted.
The lessons had been thirty minutes of basic German and thirty minutes of recent European history, daily. Three nights later, Hoffman upped the ante – heavenly delight, both James’ had almost cried – the SS man brought beers to the barracks.
“German beers, Bavarian beers…” he said, with a mock-conciliatory tone. “That should be no hardship; even you Tommies have to admit that Germans do beer very well.”
Meeting the scattered jeers and bantering English with open humour, Hoffman stayed with them for twenty minutes, and around half the men felt comfortable enough to lower their inhibitions to drink with an SS officer. Hell, beer was beer.
Tommy approached Hoffman. “How, and why?” He asked curiously, having had James’ suspicions playing on his mind.
The German shrugged. “They made me liaison because of my English, and said I could use beer as a means to cheer you all up and make you happy. I love beer! This means I get to drink on duty, with permission!”
Justifying it as an inherently selfish act was an endearing statement to British ears. Often a cynical people by nature, had Hoffman launched into some spiel or other they would have shut down on him, smilingly drinking his beer while letti
ng him spout unappreciated gibberish. But a man who perverts the course of his professional duties in order to drink? British ‘Tommies’ had to respect it.
With genuine magnanimity, a decently-sized chunk of the group actively welcomed Hoffman into their midst to get drunk. Questions comparing the two countries soon flowed, and common ground was quite easily reached.
James Wilkinson, on the other hand, drank three full flagons’ worth of ale in quick fashion and then, thoroughly contented, he retreated back to his bunk bed at the far end of the room. The Yorkshireman refused Tommy’s entreaties to join him in a toast; instead, lighting a cigarette on his bunk with his face disfigured into a leering scowl, and he began to read his battered old copy of Joyce’s Ulysses, refusing to pay heed to the catcalls for some time before belching loudly. After the beer, James struggled to focus on the strangely worded text of the novel, but he persisted, ignoring the continued merriment only twenty-five metres away. He spoke not a word to Hoffman.
~
The beginning of the fourth week, after several more surprise beer drops and other assorted amenities, Tommy had been sat in the furthest corner of the camp, near the fence and at the edge of the grass. An upturned barrel was the makeshift table, and two logs on either side made it perfect for card games, checkers or chess, all of which the Germans had provided. Tommy though, had been writing, when he heard footsteps approach.
“Hello, Private Watson.”
Lieutenant Hoffman doffed his cap. The thick military wool jacket was gone; Hoffman wore the sleek grey SS tunic as had Major Wolf. An Iron Cross dangled from his left breast. Tommy made no move to stand, but touched his forehead.
“Hello Lieutenant.”
Gone was the gibberish noise for his SS-Obersturmführer rank, Tommy’s own being ‘unterschlieffenkrautführer”. No one felt any inclination to mock Hoffman anymore, after the first days, or indeed, most of the other guards, most of whom had a good grasp of English; even more surprisingly, the German attempts at humour. The aloof, menacing types, on the other hand, all seemed to guard the outer perimeter and the long building adjacent to their barracks where the dining room was located, situated in the other section separated by the inner chain-link fence that split the camp grounds.
Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! Page 13