Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! by Daniel S. Fletcher Page A

prevent war. The word ‘supposed’, all things considered, is evil bollocks.”
    “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