Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (67 page)

The door was answered by a startlingly young, attractive blonde woman. Her skin was impeccable, but the rings around her pale blue eyes betrayed a stress and grief that Maisie knew all-too-well. Casting a wide-eyed scrutiny over the beautiful skin, Maisie saw Hans’ nose, his eyes and his mouth on the gorgeous face of the gracefully ageing German beauty, and though prepared for the moment, she felt hot tears welling up in her own eyes. The German gazed uncomprehendingly at her visitor, bewildered, before taking in the sight of a sombre Johan who doffed his cap, and with that, understanding hit her. Hostility melted away, and she held out her arms, outstretched and welcoming, as Maisie fell into her embrace, sobbing at the bitterness of their shared grief and the cruelty of human love in this world.

The gigantic, awful gates creaked and groaned as they opened, a harsh metallic sound cutting through the lilting, chirping twitter of birdsong. It was a sound that Naomi had feared she would never hear.

Odilo Globocnik had gone. Overnight, the savage Austrian vanished, leaving for some far-flung adventure or role in Reich territory, far from England’s
green and pleasant land
. Heydrich had appointed another Austrian, some cold-faced psychopath called Goeth who had apparently been serving in Leeds with the SS Security Police to take charge of the camp. Naomi was mortified to think that the same brute who had arrested her could be placed in command of the camp, but before their new overlord could make his presence felt, her entire barracks had been told to gather their possessions in five minutes flat. Fear had gripped them, until the runty, snarling female SS guard finally deigned to inform them that
alas
, they had nothing to worry about.

They were free.

The ragged group were left to their own devices as the outer perimeter gates swung shut, and Naomi turned back to see her SS persecutors slowly walking back into the bowels of the Konzentrationslager. The women – all Jews – held hands, hardly daring to believe that they were truly free, and still wary of being riddled with machine gun fire as they left.
Shot While Attempting To Escape
had been the fate of many men since their internment began, and in particular, the memory of the poor, scared writer who had been openly murdered all those months prior was still burned onto their memories like a scar.

But no gunshots came.

As the camp began to recede into the distance, Naomi turned back one final time, to see the guards in each tower scurrying along; tiny, the size of ants. And right there, in front of the ragged group of malnourished Jewish internees, was the outer checkpoint, beyond which they saw familiar faces and family waiting for them.

Joy flooded their weakened bodies, almost paralysing them. Completely ignoring the surly SS guards at the checkpoint, the twenty women abandoned all care and ran screaming into the arms of their loved ones. Within seconds, the tearful embraces took on a more concerned, tender nature, as the extent of their physical weakness became all-too apparent; the brief physical contact being enough to demonstrate that their bodies had been reduced to skin and bones. But joyful elation overcame worry, and the ecstasy that lit those twenty gaunt, haggard faces had a magical quality of regeneration to it. One of the younger SS guards had to look away, as he noted an unpleasant, all-too human emotional reaction to the touching scene.

Naomi alone held back. Her haunted eyes met Paul’s, and she let him absorb the full visage of her emaciated, skeletal, battered body.

“Let me guess… I’ve got something on my face,” she grinned, her gaunt face suddenly lighting up. She was struggling to contain her emotions.

Paul stared at her, his eyes filmed with hot, burning tears.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.”

His hands flailed, as he failed to verbalise the multitude of thoughts he wished to convey to the broken shell of his lover. She smiled; a genuine gesture of concern. “There is nothing to be sorry about.”

And almost as though the younger man had been imprisoned in the cruel camp, Naomi gently stepped into him and laid a gentle hand on his cheek, whispering sweet words to him as her thin arms wrapped around his body, holding him to her with a maternal tenderness as they sobbed the bittersweet tears of regret and joy.

Major Jochen Wolf entered the office room, halting before the commanding figure that stood expectantly in the centre of it, whose stern scrutiny was silently fixed on the junior officer. Wolf saluted. The man he faced was SS-Oberstgruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich.

“Heil Hitler!” Wolf snapped.

Heydrich cursorily raised his own paw skywards; imitating the Führer’s own straight-wristed version of the salute, as though he, too, was above the usual sacrosanct ritual. He did not verbally respond; the wily Wolf was amused, though equally, impressed by the display of authority shown by this conceited, dangerous man at the height of his powers.

“Excellent work, Wolf. Very well done. Walk with me.”

They marched purposefully through the building, saluted on all sides. To the junior officer’s surprise, Heydrich lit a cigarette upon exiting out into the Prussian sunlight.

“I’m celebrating the fact that jobs are being well done across the board,” Heydrich cheerily informed the inquisitive Wolf. He witheld the answer to the younger man’s silent query, and smirked. “Come, Sturmbannführer.”

And he marched on, forcing Wolf to meet his stride. The major kept pace, his senses alert to the nuances of the capricious Heydrich, trying to second-guess any tricks or tests that the general might throw in his way. Heading out past the parade grounds and to the surrounding grass fields, Heydrich led them to a small table nestled up the slightly rising slope that afforded a good view of the academy grounds. Courteously gesturing Wolf to take a seat, Heydrich reclined at ease, sucking happily at his cigarette with evident enjoyment. It was a Dunhill, Wolf noted, from England.

“Now…” the SS and Police general began. “To begin.”

“I am here to report as you ordered,
Reichsprotektor
und Oberstgrupp
–”

“No, no,” Heydrich interjected breezily. “General will do.”

“Thank you, General,” Wolf purred obsequiously. Heydrich’s smile glinted at him, as their pale blue eyes clashed. The Major resumed: “I am glad my work in the re-education and conscription of a
whole battalion
of British soldiers for the Reich meets with your approval…”

His eyes lingered on Heydrich’s, just long enough for distaste to register through the coolness. Wolf’s own Machiavellian nature was valued by Heydrich, he knew, though he wondered if his age – even younger than the youthful general, at 32 – and his comparative good looks
bothered
the Reichsprotektor. Heydrich hated equals, loathed rivalry and despised losing. They were of similar height, and of similar build, but the general had a slightly androgynous quality to his looks, and even the dash of an occassionally effete, effeminate manner; slightly off-putting even to those who were blissfully unaware of his foibles. Of course, the
slightest
awareness of his professional life was enough to cow even the wildest spirits in Berlin in the general’s presence. But was it enough? Widely considered to be good-looking, Heydrich’s face had strong features but to Wolf, it was somewhat overlong and horsey. The eyes – usually narrowed in suspicion or with the malignant preoccupation of some scheming thought – were slightly too close together, and only on Heydrich’s musical performances did their shine appear to be anything other than a superficial mask over an endless frozen tundra of ice.

Wolf, on the other hand, was classically handsome in any sense of the word, and the almost symmetrical shape of his slim face, with its strong jaw and high cheekbones, was perfectly proportioned. Immaculately clad in his SS regalia, Major Wolf embodied the new German male; the high watermark of Aryan masculinity.

He probably could not care less
, Wolf surmised, correctly.
Heydrich can take what, and who, he wants, whenever he wants. Outside of Eva Braun and Edda Goebbels, there is not a woman in Europe out of bounds to the Blond Beast
.

That man held Wolf’s persistent gaze, and after several seconds, he smiled thinly.

“All right, Wolf. Cut the shit. Your value directly correlates to how well I think you do your job. That is
your life
.” Heydrich dropped the smile, staring daggers through the quiet, watchful Wolf. “Stop sizing me up, Jochen, and never think about doing it again or I’ll make your life so
terrible
you will think it’s a nightmare you can’t wake up from, beyond the limits of your imagination. Regarding your job… you did well.”

Heydrich spared Wolf his death stare, casting his gaze out to the green hills beyond the academy, his mouth billowing smoke. “Your results – almost a 70% success rate – are significantly higher than camps 1-4, and 6-9 alike. One full
battalion
. For propaganda purposes alone, your work will be instrumental in the eventual deployment of multiple British divisions, along with the volunteer units from France and Spain. I am impressed. Make your final report before Barbarossa.”

Their eyes met again, with the hint of a mocking smile playing at Heydrich’s lips and one of genuine amusement at Wolf’s, before the former St. George no.5 camp commandant detailed in full the year-long operation. Much of what was said, the general had already heard, but Wolf knew better than to omit even the smallest details, lest the predator ever have something to use against him. Heydrich listened keenly, occasionally interjecting to demand clarifications, and as the major laid out his findings in as pedantic a manner as he could, the general absorbed all that he heard.

“Outstanding,” Heydrich breathed quietly at the conclusion of his underling’s report. “Truly remarkable…”

Abruptly dismissing Wolf, who departed with an impeccably unctuous air, Heydrich remained where he was, the avid athlete and sportsman permitting himself to smoke cigarettes there on the outdoors table, as he surveyed the grounds of the SS Academy at Pretzsch in excellent humour. Such indulgence was rare, but he felt it was merited. As the afternoon breeze gently drifted across his pale, long face, the Reichsprotektor’s thick lips curved into their trademark cruel, mocking smile. The encounter with a wily, cunning junior officer had bolstered the fabulous mood he had felt since leaving Britain to finalise the plans to launch the Waffen-SS and the
Einsatzgruppen
deep into Russia, alongside the all-conquering Wehrmacht that now bowed to his decrees.

Having masterminded the initial eastern push into Poland with Operation Himmler, Heydrich had actively served in the Luftwaffe, earned the Iron Cross and then employed an historic strategem against the British. Then he’d been named Germany’s viceroy over the occupied nation home of the world’s largest empire. Now, he was a warlord, entrusted with
Generalplan Ost
; measures that would directly affect the lives of seventy million human beings in Soviet territory – most of whom were to be slaughtered – resulting in the complete Germanisation of Polish, Baltic and Russian territories, and forever changing the course of history.

More than ever, Heydrich found that these small moments of private triumph were necessary, as the roaring momentum of his own life careered further and further into the realm of the overwhelming. Even his analytical, devious mind had begun to question the limits, if there were any, on his headlong ascent in an inexorable rise to power.

~

Jochen Wolf, having met with Heydrich, retreated to his quarters, breathing a sigh of relief as he locked the door behind him. He shed the SS tunic and stood to attention in his full-length mirror, staring uncritically at the visage of National Socialist masculinity.

Wolf was an incredibly honest man with himself, and the revelations he produced no longer had the power to shock or surprise him. He was naked under the spotlight of his own introspection. Born into a middle-class family in Hamburg, the younger Joachim ‘Jochen’ Wolf had been too young to enjoy the decadence of the early 20s, but, initially wide-eyed and soon after, fired up into a fledgling, primal state of bloodlust, he had certainly witnessed the pitched battles and violent street brawls between left and right in the years that followed, with a growing excitement and thirst for action.

The Wolf family had literary aspirations for their son, and enrolled him at the Heidelburg University, Germany’s oldest and most prestigious institution for academic study. The boisterous Jochen, however, found his outlet in boxing and wrestling; his martial passions spilled out into street fights and bar brawls when the zest of his bloodlust became too great to contain.

Only in the shattering realisation of his literary limitations, and faced with the reality that he would never be a new Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, was Wolf’s mind liberated from the limitations of his upbringing, now free to be anything he wanted.

Questioning his desires and needs, as all young men do, Wolf began to suspect that only in the abandonment of all he had known, and the willpower to make his mark in the world, would his hunger for vindication be sated. But writing, romantic though Wolf found the notion, was clearly not the means with which the younger Jochen was to accomplish this, as minimal practical experience quickly taught him. Adrenaline, danger and violence moved him, stirring his soul, and in that field alone did his quill produce prose filled with interesting or valid observations. In all else, Jochen’s written musings were uninspired; a mixture of cheap plagiarisms and half-hearted annotations of his own, that neither rang true with anything other than superficial honesty or substance, nor particularly entertained the dispirited Wolf when he perused them at leisure. Subsequently returning to Goethe was dispiriting. Jochen Wolf became listless with apathy; his academic laziness and newfound arrogance combined to disrupt his studies, and the young narcissist would ultimately leave Heidelburg with an average degree. Even that was achieved only through a last ditch, desperate effort in his final term.