Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! Read Online Free PDF Page A

and James shared a look of cynical apprehension. They’d arrived the prior night in transit trucks, and had been sent straight into their respective barrack huts. Now, lined up for parade, it was apparent that the company only had one hundred men, all in all, less than half its original number. None voiced what they were feeling. Tommy bit his lip.
    One of the watching SS men stepped forwards, an officer; good looking, tall and blond. He seemed to be in his mid-20s. SS prototype , James thought. One of Hitler’s own supermen . The grim embodiment of Aryan masculinity in a brave new Europe.
    The officer began calling names out; a coarse, rasping tone belying his handsome, boyish visage. Roll call began, as the German ran through his list of names, the first of which were familiar to the group that laughingly called themselves ‘Stanley’s Boys’.
    “Marshall, Brian, Private!” The German barked.
    Brian winced. His own name had never before disturbed him, or sounded so unpleasant as it did then; verbally ejaculated in such guttural fashion.
    “Here.”
    “Rawlinson, Thomas, Private!
    “Here,” Thomas Rawlinson called back.
    “Wilkinson, James, Private!”
    Expressionless, James remained deadpan for a split second; long enough to make the German look up inquisitively, his brows furrowed, cold blue eyes roving the ranks.
    “’ere’,” he finally intoned, deadpan, with all the considerable reserves of contempt and pokerfaced scorn that only an unimpressed Yorkshireman could muster. Tommy smirked, glancing round in amusement. The men let out a small titter; quiet laughter rumbling through the ranks as James yawned loudly.
    “Watson, Thomas – private!” The German barked louder.
    “I’m still here, Jerry,” he sneered, drawling his cockney, and this time the laughter rippled loudly throughout the rank and file. Even the Sergeant snorted, before fixing his expression and staring dead ahead, pokerfaced. This time, the German officer definitely scowled.
    “Fletcher, James – Private!”
    “Here,” the other James in the platoon called out.
    “Burdon, Michael, Private!”
    “Here.”
    “Clifford, Andrew, Private!”
    “Here.”
    “Hitchman, Stanley, Platoon Sergeant!”
    “Here, present and correct !”
    The British soldiers sniggered, with the men of other platoons mistaking Stanley’s public schoolboy properness for mockery. It was not the norm for such an educated man of culture to join the enlisted ranks of the army. Tommy, Brian, both James’ and a few of the others smiled indulgently. Stanley would be stiff upper-lipped for the entirety of their internment, they knew. A gentleman. Show the enemy what civility looks like. Kill them with kindness .
    One by one, the names of each of the hundred or so remaining men from the four platoons were called out, and the new company was deemed all present and correct. The German lieutenant fell back into line with a handful of enlisted SS, but no dismissal was called. An early breeze whipped them, the sun’s pale light proving inadequate as a counterbalance and they shivered, listening to the oddly stifled trilling of birds from the trees. Apprehension lapsing into boredom, the soldiers continued to stand to attention on the makeshift parade ground of what were, clearly, either hastily constructed or disused French military barracks.
    Finally, just as the men started to get restless, the gates that separated the barrack huts area from the long building on the other side of the fenced camp creaked open, with a loud metallic groan, and through them walked an SS officer.
    There could be no doubt that this man was in charge. He exuded a primal gravitas, radiating authority. The black-clad figure wore a long leather trench-coat, under which his uniform looked crisp, sleek and new. Though field grey, its thread was silvery, unlike the woollen military style Waffen-SS jackets worn by the others, and the right collar tab bore the trademark lightning runes. His