And now, Wolf had waged war successfully, thrice, and defeated multiple great European nations on the battlefield. Obscured by the fog of war, he could kill with impunity, and he led men to battle. Under Reinhard Heydrich’s unsentimental patronage, he was destined to be a general of the Waffen-SS.
Gazing into the mirror in his bathroom, Jochen Wolf surveyed himself with an uncritical eye, and he felt like a god. He could taste the power that years of dedication, strategy and violence had awarded him, and greater still, that which was yet to come.
“So let me get this straight,” a heated Tommy snapped, blinking in the Prussian summer sun, “… you’re not happy about this but you’re only here because of us? And we’re traitors?”
The cockney shook his head in disbelief, even as James’ mouth opened with typical belligerence.
“Traitors is a tad strong. But yeah, I’m ’ere because o’ you.”
Tommy shook his head exasperatedly, as the Yorkshireman gave the same pokerfaced explanation that he had repeated relentlessly since the day they signed up for Operation Barbarossa; as usual, sans additional details.
Stanley sighed, casting his gaze around the uncertain men who were lounging around the grass, smoking cigarettes to pass the time. They had free reign in the SS complex, or at least, the parts of the academy that enlisted troopers of any race were permitted to enter.
“Well chaps, you can’t very well say we’re not fighting for a cause. Church burning peasants led by a murderous villain who has caused–”
“Led by a murderous villain, like Hitler,” James interjected, snorting derisively.
“A murderous villain who has caused countless millions of deaths,” Stanley continued doggedly, his tone plaintive. “Starvations, secret police–”
“Like the Gestapo.”
“Give it a rest, mate,” Tommy asked him wearily. Surprised by the relative pleasantry, the use of ‘mate’ as opposed to the usual ‘twat’ or other such derogatory insult, James paid heed and abandoned his sardonic scorn, listening quietly to Stanley’s remonstrations.
“Secret police arrests, thousands tortured in the NKVD Moscow HQ every week… collectivisation, killings, minor despots in charge all over the country… no one is safe, not a soul on Russian soil is beyond arrest, and for what, dear chaps?” Stanley gestured to James, bemused. “For absolutely nothing… can you imagine the madness…” he shook his own head in disbelief at the wonder of it. “Look, I tell you, the Soviet regime is beastly. They’ve launched invasions all over the Baltic States and Eastern Europe; they are brutally occupying other countries, and to top it all off they have millions of soldiers massing on the border with… with…”
“Germany,” James said, quietly. Stanley hesitated.
“Ah… yes. With Germany, in what was Poland. You’ve got to admit though, my dear fellow, that Europe is under threat.”
James threw the butt of his cigarette away, and rose to his feet, standing proud before the group of British soldiers. Planting his feet, he knew it would be his last effort to turn the tide and change the inevitable. But, bloodyminded Yorkshireman that he was, James tried one last time:
“Look lads. I’m not gonna deny that Russia’s a worthy enemy. Stalin’s a twat. But we’re fightin’ alongside Germany. Fucking…” and he hissed at them, keeping his voice down, “fucking Germany! Not against the bastards - with ’em! We’ve actually put our names down to go fight alongside the fucking same set o’ bastards we fucking left to go fight in the first place!” Behind James’ line of sight, Tommy rolled his eyes to Brian, who looked down at his feet. “Now… you all reckon Hoffman and the rest of those krauts at St George were all right, but these bastards are occupying us… come on lads…”
James beseeched them, to no avail. Several of the men who had heard his plaintive entreaties several times before simply got up and walked away without a word. James threw his hands up in irritation.
“OK look. You’d rather listen to that half-German prick Tommy whatever-his-name-is than me, that’s fair enough. But I only came along because we stick together, and I thought I could convince some of you to not do it. So look. If any of you lot are ’avin’ doubts about all this bollocks, say it now. We can still back out. But once we’re in Russia, freezing in that snow, it’s a fight to the death.”
The half-German was an English born and bred SS officer named Thomas Cooper, from Hammersmith, London. He’d been mingling with the British lads of all the combined St George camps, and many liked him. But James had overheard him speaking with an English anti-Semite from Grimsby, and Cooper had bragged about capriciously killing Jews during his duty as a concentration camp guard.
Having pleaded his case yet again, James looked around expectantly, but then lost his hope, correctly interpreting the pokerfaced expressions he faced. The silence spoke more eloquently than would any rebuttal and his head dropped, snorting derisively before sinking down on the grass besides Tommy and Brian, who both patted his shoulder sympathetically. Shaking his head, wincing slightly as a flock of birds flew overhead; James withdrew his packet of Dunhill and offered his friends a smoke, before inserting one into his own mouth. He lit it, and exhaled slowly.
“We’re about to fight a war alongside Hitler,” he mused morosely. “I wonder what the history books will say an ’undred years from now.” At that, several others rose to their feet and skipped away, quietly talking amongst themselves in the bright light of the Prussian sun.
~
Several days passed, in which the St. George Battalion mingled with other men of the SS. All were remarkably friendly to the British troops, under the strict orders of Heydrich, but much of the interaction was of so earnest and genuine a nature – perhaps by the shared fear and anticipation of the coming campaign – that the St. George boys could not help but feel their decision to fight was reinforced.
James Wilkinson alone remained aloof. Hoffman summoned him formally, within military parameters so that he could not refuse, even by his own country’s standard of etiquette.
“I wish you were not so upset about this,” he began, immediately abandoning formality.
Hoffman was sat perched on the very same table that Reinhard Heydrich had sat with Jochen Wolf, discussing at length the re-education of the British troops. If the setting, and his instant rejection of formality had wrongfooted the Yorkshireman in any way, Hoffman could not discern it.
James shrugged. “There isn’t much I can do, Walther.”
“Smoke?” the German asked, offering his pack. James nodded, and Hoffman simply dropped the packet on the table between them, carelessly. Scowling slightly, Private Wilkinson lowered himself onto the sun-tarnished wooden seat, and grudgingly helped himself to the pack. Waving aside the SS officer’s lighter, James struck a match, and moments later, with smoke wafting in curled twists over his lips as he gazed skywards, the young soldier looked as though he had already forgotten the German existed.
“We are going to fight Russia, and communism,” Hoffman told him frankly, rudely cutting through James’ cogitations. “Neither of us can change that now. And,” he added, sensing that the Yorkshireman had been on the verge of making one of his trademark dry, sarcastic quips, “… to be honest James, nor would I wish to. I’m glad we’re going to war with the right country and people, this time. I hate Stalin. I hate the Soviet Union. I hate communism, and fear it spreading. I even hate the Russian people… cold bastards.”
James just stared at him.
“Come on…” Hoffman pressed him. “What do you think of Stalin?”
“He’s a twat.”
Hoffman laughed uproariously at that.
“Ho, ho… there are many ways both in your language and mine to describe Comrade Stalin, my friend, but you have a definite style. That, I cannot deny you.”
The Berliner winked at him, good-naturedly. He genuinely liked the truculent northern English soldier, despite the man’s role as an undermining influence in the wider group, ill-disposed as he wa
s towards National Socialism and with – whether genuine or not – a worryingly sympathetic attitude towards Marx. Yet his wit and candour were evident. Hoffman was not sure what it was, but much like Tommy, he found a refreshing honesty in James that overcame the difficulties the man’s attitude posed him.
“So, my friend, the questions I ask of you, you must ask of yourself. And we must find a common answer, as we fight a common enemy.”
James sighed, the resistance all-but beat out of him by the collective acquiescence of the platoon. He could not immediately discern the meaning of Hoffman’s riddle, but he cared too little to try to mentally readjust.
“You are in SS uniform, technically speaking, but it is not of Germany.” Hoffman reached over, tracing his fingers over the sleeve of James’ uniform, as he spoke with an intense earnestness. “You are not in German uniform. You bear the Three Lions of England. You are British soldiers.”
That much was true. The blank SS uniforms were adorned with the lightning runes on the collar patch, but a Three Lions badge had been sewed to the sleeves, and there was no German insignia to be seen. James had inspected his tunic and trousers thrice each, just to be sure.
“What I want to know, James,” Hoffman said, suddenly fixing the Yorkshireman with the full extent of his blue eyes’ power, “… is if I can trust you in the field. And can our comrades trust you.”
James stared back, reverting to his trademark pokerface. “Fuck you.”
To his surprise, Hoffman grinned. “Excellent.”
“What?”
The German laughed, his humour returning. “James, you just spoke to me as you do your best friend in the platoon. You are an awkward character. But I know that when we line up against Stalin, you will be fighting on our side.”
He gazed at him, before letting a semblance of the ice return to his eyes. “But for reference, from now on, I’m afraid it will have to be proper military rank titles, yes? At least, while in uniform and around other SS or Wehrmacht. I am a German officer – they’ll have my balls in a bag if they think I’m letting the standards of excellence slip.”
Having established the boundaries of a new dynamic, Hoffman reverted to an air of affability, and winked at James who, for his part, was thoroughly puzzled by the bizarre SS man and his unpredictable ways. Weighing up the conversation, he could not help feeling the first tinge of amusement, and he winked back at Hoffman, while drawing a huge inhalation of smoke from the cigarette. Together, the two men smoked and watched the setting sun, speaking of happier times at home with loved ones.
~
Days later, the platoon set off, and on the fateful morning of May 18th, under the bright glare of a newly risen sun, the men who called themselves Stanley’s Boys were waited with baited breath, on tenterhooks in the fir forests of East Prussia.
To their east, the border with the Soviet Empire could be seen. They could see a small fence of barbed wire, and no checkpoints, pillboxes or bunkers. Aerial reconnaissance had highlighted the extent to which much of the celebrated border, behind which Soviet forces were supposedly massing, were actually poorly defended, to the point of criminal recklessness.
One hundred German divisions stood ready to pour into the vast, near-limitless expanse of territory that was the Soviet Empire. Thirty other divisions, from Italy, Spain, Vichy France and the combined Axis alliance forces were mobilised to supplement German force. It was said that almost five million men had been gathered to repel the threat of Slavic communism from the gates of Europe; it was the most awesome invasion force ever amassed in the history of warfare.
“The World Will Hold Its Breath,” Hitler proclaimed, and his pronouncement was relayed to the men of the SS at Pretzsch via an exultant Reinhard Heydrich.
None of the men spoke. Their moods varied from terrified, to nervous anticipation, to thrill, dread and even, in Hoffman’s case, excitement. Emotion charged them; the silent, unspoken energies of the moment were felt in each private moment clenched in combat; the bunching of jaws, grinding of teeth, and the restless inability to stand or sit still. War was coming, in all the irreversible ways it assaults the senses, and there was not a man amongst them whose heart did not hammer harder at its approach.
In the distance, the sound of bombardment suddenly cut through the sinister silence of the fir forest, and the men all knew that war had begun.
Tommy sighed; a thrilled shudder of apprehension and excitement shaking his flesh and bones. “Well, this is it boys. Off to make ’istory.”
The fir forest of East Prussia through which they had quietly thronged as one huge mass of humanity had been silent; its green beauty a fairy-tale world at the furthest eastern reaches of Greater Germany, admired in awe by the bulk of the troops, most of whom had never seen it. But the silence was finally over; in the distance, the first artillery was heard, and explosions and cries signalled the beginning of something so catastrophically epic in scale that the suffering to follow could not be quantified or fully comprehended by the mind alone.
As one, they followed the explosions, moving with purpose, driven by their passions and the words which fuelled them, onwards to the battle to destroy their human enemy.
They moved with joy in their hearts and adrenaline coursing through the thick crimson blood in their veins; traversing the beautiful green of land that would soon be scarred by man.
THE END
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Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! Page 53