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

by Daniel S. Fletcher

  Hoffman’s own smile faded again, and the room waited with baited breath. All were unashamedly curious, as though they were about to have an alien descended from Mars explain itself and its species. The excitement at the booze, and Hoffman’s easy manner and language skills had helped greatly obscure the conflict of interests and beliefs. But, as James had never lost sight of, he wore the SS runes.

  “Very well. You feel you must know?” Hoffman asked. James nodded, and a murmur of assent rumbled through the men.

  With the silent room listening intently, SS-Obersturmführer Hoffman quietly began.

  “I am 26. I cannot explain to you what that means as a German. Twenty-six years ago, the Fatherland was embroiled in a Great War on two fronts, against Britain and France to our west, and Russia to the east. Facing the world’s largest empire, the world’s largest army and the world’s largest country, all at once. That was how strong, how great Germany was. My father sired me just before signing up to the army. He told my mother he would either return victorious, or in a box. I never even saw him.”

  A few faces softened at that. There were other orphans in that room from the same war, possibly the same battles, and several men nodded in grudging solidarity. Hoffman continued:

  “My mother took on his job in a Munich armaments factory. She caught jaundice sometime after I was born – likely when I was still breastfeeding. Her health overall was not too good. But she survived the war. My father did not. He died on the Black Day of the German Army. August 8th 1918… five hundred and fifty tanks, two thousand aeroplanes, twenty British Empire divisions, twelve French, one American. All against Germany. We had eight divisions, three hundred aircraft.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “How could the Fatherland fight for four years against the entire world – conquering Russia in the east, facing the British, French and Americans in the west! Overcoming even the Black Day, making advances again weeks later, holding firm on foreign soil, fifty miles from Paris! Only to be stabbed in the back by the coward government, our money flow cut and our country signed away by a Jew as our boys fought in the mud…”

  Total silence, as Hans bitterly recounted his understanding of the Great War and his country’s political situation. His voice had trailed as he gave way to anger. Then his usual composure returned.

  “After the war, shame. Humiliation. I was too young to truly understand, but I remember the confused aftermath five years later, aged 10; the shame and degradation! Hyperinflation. Unemployment, poverty; families losing their life savings overnight. Decadence, prostitutes, filth everywhere. Germany was in terminal decay… infected by sickness, persecuted by the Great War victors and a shell of its former self. We recovered, and then a few years later, the Depression put us right back there…” He shook his head sorrowfully, at the memories. All watched him quietly.

  “Oh, Tommies, you cannot imagine the horror. Banknotes in shopping bags; wheelbarrows filled with money just to buy their children’s milk. Millions of marks for a loaf of bread; people’s savings wiped out and made useless. We were lost, with nowhere to turn… every young son of the Fatherland was in despair. I was on my knees, bleeding to death.”

  Hoffman’s face transformed, and he gave off a manic, reverent glow. His voice grew soft, shaking with scarcely suppressed emotion.

  “But then, I heard a man speak in Munich. A night at the Bürgerbräukeller that will live with us forever… he spoke to me. He understood, and shared my pain. He felt my grief.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes shone. Everyone listened, rapt, and there was not a flicker of movement in the silent barracks as the German resumed his reminiscence:

  “I didn’t even know what the party was. I’d tried the communists, and heard Soviet slogans about the workers revolution. But this man… he understood. He felt it too. All the suffering that the Fatherland was going through, he felt more keenly than anyone. He felt what we all felt, in that beer hall, but he wouldn’t laugh, or joke, or grin and bear it. This man would fight it, purge Germany of its weakness and enemies, and make us strong again. And we all knew that night, that our Führer had been sent from God. It was the hand of Providence, to save Germany, to build a new Reich and free our people from their chains. To free all of Europe, and destroy those that would destry us. For him, we gave our oath, and he delivered us…”

  No one spoke for a long time. Hoffman’s eyes still glowed, as he visibly fought back the tears, and with utter reverence, he held aloft a glass of Scotch, and murmured in a loving croon, “to my Führer. Adolf Hitler.”

  The young Bavarian tipped it back, eyes wet.

  ~

  The next day had been a quieter affair than usual, mostly due to the collective hangover that the other barracks seemed to be sharing with them, all benefactors of similar SS benevolence. There were no classes, and after roll call the men spent the day smoking, relaxing and reading the materials provided – most of which was translated from German newspapers and magazines, literary classics from Goethe and a collection of English novels.

  The routine wore on. Early the next week, the daily lesson was attended by every single man in the Stanley’s Boys barrack. The class encouraged debate and argument, as opposed to school-style droning of ‘facts’ and figures, and many of the soldiers present engaged in the debate. The talking shop focused on the role played by Jewish financiers in the Great War, and ‘The System of Debt Slavery Imposed On The Gentile Peoples’. James was uncomfortable, having had Jewish friends from the Leeds community in Chapeltown and a few scattered around his home base of east Bradford, not to mention a half-Jewish pal from the training school, but some of the others took great interest in the class. Only after an hour had elapsed, when the neat makeshift lecturer in his ceremonial black SS tunic – they were no longer officially used, Hoffman had told them – brought out copies of ‘The Protocols’ for use as a reference point did the men heckle and bray, tiring of the lecture.

  “Next time, gentlemen,” he smiled, completely unfazed.

  They trudged out, barely squinting in the weak late-Autumn sunlight, giving mixed reviews of the session. James overheard some men from the next barrack along, who were not in their original platoon.

  “They have a point though. Bleedin’ Jews, didn’t see any serving with us did we? But my old Ma was working for ’em back home, where they’ll still be, rich as you bloody like!”

  “Ah, bollocks,” his Liverpudlian friend retorted, in his thick, distinct and nasal accent. Typical for a Scouser, the pronunciation was ‘bollixx’, his speech laced with many suffixes and words oddly emphasised at random. The Scouser spat a prodigious blob of green phlegm onto the asphalt. “It’s all a load of bollocks. Bloody bankers this, lawyers that, newspapers the other, they run the world and forced the gentiles into war. Bollocks man. I used to work in a factory with a pair of bleedin’ Jews who barely even knew they were Jews.”

  “They would when they took a piss,” someone else chortled.

  “Who gives a flyin’ fuck about their foreskins though, la?” the Scouser replied, baffled.

  “They made money off t’ rest of us in Wakey, I tell thee that bloody much,” a strong Yorkshire accent loudly chuntered. His belligerence met with several murmurs of approval.

  James sighed. They could all say what they liked, believe what they wanted, but these Nazis in their pretty SS uniforms and their fancy insignia and sinister cap badges could tell him the sky was blue and the grass was green, and something about them still compelled him to argue. No matter how nice they decided to be, there was still something missing there, something essential. Like warmth. A true warmth. However capably communicative they were, underlying it; most of them seemed hard without sentiment.

  They all separated after the meal at dinner – the usual excellent fare, with meat and potatoes – to spent time writing letters, reading and smoking quietly. In the camp, there was an unspoken system that allowed each man his private time, alone with his thoughts. It was a collective conscious will to
coexist as comfortably as possible, with each other as much as The Jerries, and it worked a treat.

  That night, Brian quietly approached James Wilkinson’s bunk, and tapped his foot. The Yorkshireman glanced up, internally debating whether or not to make an issue of his quiet time being disturbed, but affection won out. He put his book down.

  “Go on.”

  Brian said nothing, his expression troubled. James sat up, checking around them. The others were sat around the room chatting in small groups on various bunks, but none were in earshot.

  “Speak up lad. Tell me.”

  Brian whispered, “There’s going to be an escape attempt.”

  “What?”

  Brian spoke hurriedly, as though guilty and wishing to rid himself of a burden. The words came tumbling out, an outpouring of equal enthusiasm and defence:

  “A few of the others were on about it last week the night Hoffman started bleating on about how much he loved Hitler and all that. A few of the boys are convinced that what Wolf said about the ’undred of our lads shot after surrender was bollocks, and they all got done in. Reckon we’re in a camp run by liars and murderers. They’re pretty serious about it. Reckon the towers are no good for getting us if we head over the far corner at the back, over the grass. Barbed wire but a few cuts are no problem. Once we’re over, it’s forest! And… if enough of them do it, I think we should. And I don’t want to leave you, mate.” He collected his breath, as though his burden had been expunged.

  James considered it. He didn’t much care for the situation they were in. On a more pragmatic level, though, he wasn’t sure if a real alternative existed other than riding it out.

  “Thing is, Bri… what’s the alternative mate? Assuming escape was that easy, and this lot are so slack? If the empire was still at war with Adolf we might have a reason to escape and join the fight. But what are we going to do, stumble through the French forests and make for the sea? Where do we go? Even if we got a boat, we couldn’t go home. Jerry’s there. Belgium? Holland? Luxembourg? Or perhaps a border dash to Baden Baden… escape these krauts in Germany itself. That’d throw ’em, eh?” He snorted, scornfully.

  Brian looked thoroughly put out. James regretted his sardonic approach, but knew it would be dangerous to concede the initiative he’d seized with such scorn.

  “We can’t turn anywhere, Bri. Heading south is no good either. Even if we made it, Spain would arrest us and send us back. They’re fascists. And assuming we could make it that far, Italy would be no good either. They bloody invented fascism, the pricks. No mate, every direction, same situation, fascists everywhere. On all sides. Switzerland would be our only bet, and I don’t see how it’s possible.”

  “Why not mate?” Brian asked.

  He tried to be casual, but James detected the desperation in his voice. Brian wanted out; the unrest was getting to him, and all he wanted was for his friend to offer a glimmer of hope for some plan or other, just to validate the possibility of success and thus vindicate the attempt. But James couldn’t. He sighed again.

  “Because from where we are, Bri, it would take weeks to reach the Swiss border. You’re talking about travelling six hundred miles, mate. Limping six hundred, in your case. To its north, both Switzerland and France border Germany, and there’ll be patrols up and down the Rhine. Assuming we managed to head the right way, and actually reach Basel – by which time it will be Nineteen-Forty-Bloody-Eight – it’s a border town, some of it’s in bastard Germany!”

  He looked around, having raised his voice. Satisfied no one had heard, James sat back, and lit a cigarette. The first puff was thoughtful, and then he continued. “They speak German, mate. Kraut soldiers will be everywhere, in a semi-circular ring closing it off. In the event of a border-crossing, army-crossing miracle, and we got inside, Kraut spies would be inside it too. And French, for that matter; this lot have hated Jews longer than the Germans have. They’re already dancing about in swastikas, with a cooperating government, chucking commies into labour camps. Hell, they had camps for commies and lefties before the fucking Krauts got here… everyone who fled Spain got interned by the frogs. And you think we’ll be all right?”

  “So there’s not even a possibility of success?” Brian asked, crestfallen. James wanted to cheer his good-natured friend up, but realised it was kinder to give him the honest truth.

  “There’s more chance o’ Major Wolf coming in here dressed as Charlie Chaplin in a skull cap.”

  Offering him a cigarette to sweeten the bitter facts, James winked at him. “Cheer up. Like Tommy and the Sarge are always bleatin’ on about, could be a lot worse.”

  Brian accepted the smoke. “Suppose so, aye.” He took a few leisurely drags. James could see he was still troubled. After a while he got up, looking vacant.

  “I’ll leave you to it, big lad. Just thought I’d get your opinions. Now I guess I’ve gotta go moderate the rabble, make sure no one is daft enough to bunk off on their own on a six hundred mile circum-bleedin’-navigation eh?”

  He wandered off, and sat down with James Fletcher and several others who, James noticed for the first time, had a plotter’s air about them. James shook his head, and resumed reading, a new cigarette clenched between his lips. “Gormless southern bastards,” he muttered, grumpily.

  ~

  In his room that same night in the officers’ building, Lieutenant Hoffman gazed at his own reflection in the mirror, set into a toilette cabinet in his tiny box of a bathroom. He preferred to shave himself, rather than trust his neck to a barber. His mother, herself half-English, had told him the story of Sweeney Todd when he was a child, the demon barber of Fleet Street, and it somehow stayed with him vividly. He also preferred to shave at night, in the quiet, no rush. Even drunk, as he was now, he had never cut himself. SS Obersturmführer Walther Hoffman used a brush to spread the creamy soap lather across his face, filling each patch of skin carefully, like thickly buttered bread. Methodically, he began to gently scrape his face with the sharpened razor, smoothly removing the sparse stubble.

  He stared at the naked blade.

  “Hold still,” the man – Dietrich? Dieter? – had laughed, cruelly twisting the Jew’s arms up behind his back, making him scream as a bone snapped. Hoffman grabbed his sidelocks, drew his own razor and sliced the plaited locks from his head. The Jew fell, writhing in pain and degradation. Hoffman felt no pity. Pity was weakness for the enemy that made Germany weak. The Jew bled host nations dry. The Führer merely ensured we destroy them before they destroy us.

  This is a war of annihilation against the Judeo-Bolshevik racial and ideological enemy. One day it will be Russia, too. Either we will destroy them, or they will destroy us.

  Walther Hoffman remembered the Jewish Action, entrusted to the fledgling SS Totenkopf division of which he’d been part, drafted voluntarily from the Totenkopfverbände. He signed up in August 1939, with twelve other SS-TV guards from Dachau.

  The wooden houses on the outskirts of Włocławek on the Vistula had already been set ablaze by air raids during the Wehrmacht advance, and the Totenkopf ‘Brandenburg’ outfit had followed in their wake for the clean-up. Hoffman stared at the mirror, seeing only carnage where his own reflection should be.

  “This has been long overdue,” Standartenführer Paul Nostitz said grimly beside him. All the suffering of our people, the parasitic infestation of European nations for a millennium…”

  Włocławek. Despite himself, Walther sometimes saw it in his dreams.

  It had been easy enough to find, simply by following the smoke plumes from the blackened husks of burnt out buildings. The city had not escaped the Luftwaffe – none could. The wrecked debris of human settlement was scattered around in smouldering piles all around, the acrid stench almost suffocating. Frightened civilians were stood here and there, watching the panzer unit pass through the city streets, but by and large the ominous spectacle of a war-ravaged ghost town was more evident.

  The Death’s Head had set up shop, billeted comfortabl
y. Hoffman was an Untersturmführer, pending promotion. Nostitz had read his recommendation with cool approval, and Hoffman had known that to become an SS-Lieutenant proper he must perform well in the initial Jewish actions in Poland. He had to marshal men, and take a leading role directing the vengeance. He’d done it coolly. This is war. They are the enemy. They are Jews. It is them or us.

  He had led by example.

  The convoy rolled through a street on the outskirts that had been relatively untouched by the chaos. The road was paved smooth, not cobbled, and wide, spacious gardens were separated by wicket fences. Each house was detached. Hoffman had sneered, as had every man in each panzer tank, each armoured car, and the troops’ truck. Of course, the Jews would be out of the way. Safe. Secure. Probably sat back earning money from facilitating arms deals and loans to finance the Polish resistance to the Reich.

  Heydrich’s SD had prepared booklets for them. A black list. Names of the doomed. The intellectuals, commissars and Jews of Poland. None were safe. The Jewish elders of the city would be killed as an example. The rest would be ghettoised.

  Hoffman stopped the convoy. This was it.

  Waffen-SS troops poured out of the trucks. They wore the skull and bones on collar and cap; men of the Totenkopf; The Death’s Head Unit, comprising of combat troops from the Totenkopfverbände concentration camp guards. Now their cruelty was turned outwards, to the Reich’s external enemies. From jailors to hunters.

  Hoffman himself marched down the middle of the street. “Two in there,” he barked, pointing to the houses of the damned. “Two in there! That house! And that house!”

  Cradling the sub-machine gun strung around his neck, and drawing his long-nosed Mauser in his left hand for effect, he’d taken one house for himself, feeling the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of battle. The door being cheap and wooden, inexpensive after all. Kicked through with ease. Bursting in to find a terrified Jewish family. Huddled in the corner, two girls and a women crouching. Crying in terror. A father, protecting his daughters. Hoffman stepped forwards and brought the officer’s Mauser down across the little man’s nose, breaking the bone with a sickening crunch.