Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (7 page)

“You have a point,” Jack conceded dryly.

Mary scowled. “All the preparation, weapons dumps, radio operators sharing information from cell to cell, and then
los fascistas
come here nada, no word at all.”

She tossed her head impatiently, clearing a thick strand of dark hair out of her eye and awarding Jack a view of her profile. Despite himself, he felt the unmistakeable first flush of arousal. The spark of her eyes, the smooth Latin flesh. To a London-raised English boy, hers was a ravishing beauty made terrible by the impossibility of consumation.

Jack turned to his friend. “Look, I didn’t want to ask this but does he… y’know, have any other contacts?”

“You know the score there, old bean.
Total
deniability and compartmentalisation. Arthur doesn’t know anything other than who commissioned him, us, and what he gets told on the radio. And that,” he said bitterly, sipping his pint, “… is bugger all.”

He leaned back, and scratched his chin, as though deep in thought. But as Mary turned to him, William shrugged, as though to avoid raising her hopes. He was as lost as they were.

“How are you two holding up?” Jack asked. He saw little point in further ruminating on their situation. William shook his head sombrely.

“We could be better, my friend. Came down to make a difference, not sit drinking stout quietly in a German city, rubbing shoulders with Jerries.” He scowled. “I still can’t get used to the swastika flag flying over British soil.”

Jack nodded sympathetically. William was the intellectual of the group, but his hatred of fascism was even more deep-rooted and bitter than was his own, and Alan’s. Never much minded to fight for as long as Jack had known him – he’d moved down from Edinburgh to Bloomsbury, London in 1934 as an eighteen-year old, compelled by the area’s literary reputation and proximity to the hub of central London. Jack had taken an instant liking to the studious Scot. William was prone to quick bursts of intensity, as though social norms only repressed his natural state of being – it was as though in taking up arms in 1936 he had renounced his pacifism in some existential war, reluctantly losing some nobler part of himself to pragmatics and the need to fight fire with fire; only to return back to Britain defeated and, in the cruellest of ironies, find himself living under Nazi rule anyway.

“I never thought we’d see the swastika fly over this country,” William continued sadly.

It was a bitter pill for them all to swallow – even having being recruited in the Auxiliary Units. Alan had threatened suicide twice the day the first German troops landed at Dover, and had to be pacified and even sedated.

Mary looked down, and Jack leaned forwards and gave her hands a squeeze. They locked eyes, briefly; no words were needed.

“We’re fine,” she told him softly.

“How’s your Mum?” Jack asked William.

“She’s not too great. Still in hospital, her last letter said, and she’s got the Jerries’ to worry about an’all. She sends her best, anyway.”

Mary poked him playfully, and then turned to the recent arrival. “How’s your sister, Jack?”

“She’s fine,” he replied. “She’s getting on with it, like everyone else.”

He pulled out a small notebook, ripping a piece of blank white paper from it on which he wrote “no recon.” He took out a shilling and some pennies, giving them to William, along with the note.

“Here you go old boy, get the next round in.”

At that, William seemed to raise himself a little bit. But before he could squeeze out of the booth, prodding Mary back several times in kind, a very distinctive voice came sharply through the bar from the public room. The tone was argumentative, and rose higher.

“That’s bloody Alan,” Jack snapped redundantly. “For Christ’s
sake
. I told him the saloon bar. Thick as
bloody
mince…”

Muttering irritably, the Londoner rose smartly and strode through to the public bar, noting Arthur turn at his arrival to shrug helplessly. The man to whom the Geordie accent belonged was clad in a typically buccaneering black leather jacket with fur lining, his hair cut short into a businessman’s neat side parting, as though in conscious irony; the dichotomy of a man stood strained with unreleased tension, green eyes lit by the fire of fury as his voice rose to a scream:

“You’re fuckin’ pathetic, man! Sitting here drinking yourself into oblivion while there’s a
war
and
killin’
out there – you do
realise
there’s a war aye?”

But his red-faced admonitions were for nought. Bill Wilson remained as impassive as ever.

“I am quite well aware of the hostilities, thank you.” Bill said quietly.

The tone was a sort of softened cockney; the vague hint of underlying Bow Bells remained, but had been smoothened into the kind of generic delivery that could have come out of any north London suburb. Somehow, the clear and reasoned elocution didn’t seem synergic with his appearance; bloodshot eyes, a heavy overcoat as weathered as Alan’s own jacket, and several days’ worth of stubble on a haggard, drawn face, not to mention the lingering pungency of the strong tobacco odour that relentlessly followed him. Bill was a tired man, whose age was almost impossible to determine, with the vestiges of a rugged, yet still youthful handsomeness visible, but overwhelmed by the wild facial hair and weatherbeaten skin. Yet for a man suspected of all manner of things, from idiocy to outright lunacy, he rarely betrayed emotion, much less emotional immaturity. Faced with an irate Alan, the fatigued, battered-looking Bill betrayed nothing; no fear, resentment, anger, sadness, bemusement… nothing. The calm response only served to further rile Alan up. Bill’s composure was unsettling. Worse, the man’s slovenly state made his reasoned tone seem exaggerated, which his Geordie tormentor seemed to sense as he visibly bristled, railing even louder than before:

“Then get off your arse and do something constructive you drunken
shite
! You didn’t even put your name down for the reserves or the Local Defence volunteers or the fire service or
anything
, you draft dodging
bastard
!”

In the ensuing silence of the pub, Bill sipped his pint again, thoughtfully. In no obvious hurry to answer, nor concerned at all for his own wellbeing, he scratched the stubble on his chin with one overgrown, blackened fingernail, before raising his eyes to Alan, calmly inquisitive.

“What exactly are
you
doing?”

Jack had seen enough. The reply was maddening for Alan, who recognised and quickly bit down on his dangerous anger as it threatened to boil over into violence. He’d began sneering “if only you bleedin’ well kn…” just as Jack grabbed him from behind, and jostled him away to the threshold. “Alan! That’s enough!”

Steering the incensed Geordie towards the door, Jack looked around at Bill. “Sorry about that,” and to his friend, “let’s go outside and cool off.”

Alan gently removed Jack’s hand that was still clasped on his shoulder, and they walked out together, the anger instantly quelled. With no sun in the darkening sky, the frosty wind bit as they stepped out into the chilly air, both silently noting that such conditions were ideal to speak in. On this uncommonly windy evening, few informants would be inclined to face the chill, with fewer still potential or tangible enemies in proximity capable of hearing much of what was being said in the silent streets.

Despite this, Jack suddenly grabbed the Geordie, and dragged him over to the alleyway next to the pub. He didn’t let go until they were several metres into the shadow, finally allowing himself to let loose with a flurry of recriminations.

“What the hell do you think you’re
playing
at? Were you really about to
tell one of the locals
that you’re doing something to be proud of,
for the war
? When the war is officially over – making scenes in public when we’ve got to
stay anonymous or die
?”

Jack’s face was aghast, but he left it at that, letting the words take effect. Alan knew the risks involved. It was a stressful time for all of them, and his judgement had lapsed.

But no mistakes could be made. Their lives depended on it.

Alan shrugged, unsmiling. “Stupid man, aye, I just got wound up by that old drunk. He gave me a right look up and down when I walked in the place, it fired my blood–”

“–But we can’t afford that, Alan. And I know; only Arthur, John, Bill and a few of the old boys were in there but you know better, mate. Even if things look safe, we can’t afford to take those risks.”

Alan looked at him, silently holding his gaze; rather pointedly, Jack thought, and bit down on his temper.

“Who else was in there, apart from the old fellas, Super and Bill?”

For the first time, Alan looked discomfited. “The pianist.”

“Yes, the pianist, the one I’ve never seen before, sat playing fucking Mozart. How about Wagner?
Ride of the Valkyries
? I hear he’s doing the
Horst Wessel Lied
as a closer.”

Alan scowled. “All
right
, all right. You’ve made your point.”

“That geezer could have played at Göring’s fucking wedding for all you know–”

“I’ve got it man! Howay…” Alan chuntered, still slightly riled up.

Jack continued. “It doesn’t matter how bad things get, or who says what. What matters is what we’ve got to do. Anything out of the ordinary, we get tortured, and hung, or shot. They’ll hang our fucking cobblers from the Tower, mate. This lot will rip our bollocks off and tear us to shreds. That comes with the territory. But to get caught due to mouthing off in the pub? No, mate. I’m not dying for nothing.”

The Geordie held his hand out. It was rather pointed; the familiar mark, where a bullet fired from a fascist’s WWI era pistol had tagged him in a village battle near Aragon, was still evident. He’d saved Jack’s life that day. That man now took it, briefly, but grinned at the gentlemanly gesture, and hugged him.

“Howay man,” Alan snapped loudly, as they separated and walked back towards the pub entrance. He punched Jack’s shoulder without looking at him. “Buy us a pint, you tight southern bastard.”

They strolled back in, towards the counter but Arthur diverted them back into the saloon bar with a nod and a wink. Alan quickly stepped in front of Jack and swaggered in to the saloon, where he was met by a bear hug from William and a few good natured punches from Mary. William sat back down, and pointedly slid a pint across for Alan, who gratefully lowered himself into the booth, for the first time showing a sign of weariness. Jack wondered when he’d last sat down to relax.

“Howay, son. Best greetin’ you could’ve given me!”

They all clinked glasses. Alan caught Mary’s eye. It was a pleasing eye to catch. She beat him to the punch, though, and clasped her hands in entreaty.

“Speak English.
Please
…”

It was a familiar riposte, but they laughed anyway. Such is comradeship and the solidarity of shared struggles in dark times. Alan swigged mightily from his glass, tipping it to Mary and winking at the
Barceloniña
.

“Anything for you, lass. Even if you want me to take you away from this one.” He nodded at William.

The pair raced to answer him; Mary won.

“I tell you so many times now; I love you but
no comprende nada
. You do not speak in a way my brain understands.”

“I tell him that too,” Jack interjected.

Alan affected a grudging acceptance as they chuckled. “Guess I’m out of luck. William, you’ve got them both. To the victor, the spoils.” He raised his glass in salute.

William winked. “You’ve got lovely hair though, pal. Assuming you make it through the next year, you could always get a job in a bank somewhere. Just pretend you’re mute. And Jewish.”

Mary prodded him again, in tolerant disapproval. Alan winked at her.

“
Shalom
, sister.”

“Beso mi culo, mariquita,” she replied, smiling sweetly as the others snickered.

At that, Alan’s jollity gave way. He cleared his throat.

“The next year…”

“So what have you heard?” William urged him, leaning in.

The good mood rapidly evaporated, and a sense of purpose was restored. Alan sighed, emptying his glass with huge gulps, pouring the dark frothy ale down his throat with indecent gusto. Jack slid his own, barely touched pint over to him – anything to hasten the process of news on which they’d all keenly waited.

Alan was a well-connected radical figure; it had been he who’d arranged the Spain travel, he who encouraged the defection from the International Brigade of Communist Party members to the POUM militia, upon meeting Mary in Barcelona; he, or so he claimed, was responsible for their being recruited as Auxiliaries. On the latter point, William knew otherwise but he had no intention of revealing it. Loyal, clever – despite an infuriating lack of tact and diplomacy – and a passionate fighter for the cause; in intrigue and action alike, Alan was worth his weight in gold.

He cleared his throat.

“Not good. German Army all over London –”

“–are they?” William interjected. “Excellent work. I knew you’d know.”

He smirked, flicking his hair out of his eyes, and tipped his glass to Alan before swigging from it. Mary sarcastically applauded, and they silently toasted him, feigning admiration and reverence. The Geordie returned a baleful stare, his bright eyes narrowed crossly.

Jack’s objection died in his throat, and he chuckled. Good spirits were essential in dark times. Morale in all forms was to be cherished.

Alan continued, pokerfaced; “Anyway, with the agreement of William Wallace over here, Wehrmacht is crawling all over London… obviously occupied Whitehall and… everywhere that matters, really.”

“And their operational base?” Jack enquired. “We’ve all heard conflicting reports, most of it pure rumour, and they’re a bloody bureaucratic lot these Jerries. Wehrmacht, SS. SD and Gestapo.”

Alan nodded. “SD were…” but before he finished the sentence, he hesitated, and glanced at Jack, who guessed what he might be about to say. Hurriedly continuing, Alan explained, “… Wehrmacht have jurisdiction, and Hitler named a General von
Brauchitsch
as commander. Nice name, eh? Just some lapdog, but he’s in command of the ongoing battles in the northern zone.”