Nazi

Battalion 202: Operation Solar by Jonathan Doering – Free Extract

by

The Battalion 202 stories by Jonathan Doering have been running in Alt Hist since Issue 4. They give an imaginative view of some of the pressures and reactions to Nazi Occupation had Operation “Sea Lion” been activated successfully in late 1940. “Operation Solar”, the concluding story in the cycle, brings together the narratives of the key characters, centering on the AU plans to attack and liberate the Nazis’ transit prison at Pontefract Castle.

You can purchase a copy of Alt Hist Issue 10 if you want to read the full story.

Battalion 202: Operation Solar by Jonathan Doering

Author’s Note: Battalion 202 has attempted to offer an imaginative view of some of the pressures and reactions to Nazi Occupation that would have been caused had Operation “Sea Lion” been activated successfully in late 1940. “Operation Solar”, the concluding story in the cycle, brings together the narratives of the key characters, centering on the AU plans to attack and liberate the Nazis’ transit prison at Pontefract Castle.

Late December, 1940

A British army officer looks out of the window of his office. Behind him, a young man and woman sit, watching him. Finally, he turns.

“So, what happened?”

Pontefract, 7th December, 1940

It was a couple of hours after the hanging of Father Peter Mackintosh that Tommy slipped back into the Operational Base of Pontefract Auxiliary Unit. Fortunately, the Queen’s Hotel was not overlooked by houses and sat beside one of the town’s three railway lines. Darting into the courtyard at the back, Tommy slipped through a side door and into the basement. His eyes adjusting to the gloom, he made out, behind the beer barrels and wine racks, a makeshift wall with a service door built into it. He looked over his shoulder once more before tapping the security signal: three separate knocks followed by a single one. It had been Chris’s idea – three dots and a dash, the Morse code for “V” for Victory. The door opened and Christopher Greenwood’s face appeared; he turned the muzzle of the silenced sniper rifle to one side when he saw who it was.

“Tommy!”

“Hi, kid, let us in then.”

“How was it?”

“Just get the bloody door locked first.”

They retreated down a short passageway between rough brick walls, marking off certain parts of the basement. They came to a second metal door and gave the same knock. The door was laboriously unlocked and unbolted before a ruddy-complexioned face beneath a thatch of sandy red hair was thrust out. “Welcome back trooper! Come away in.”

They stepped into a small living area: four metres by four, two sets of bunk beds opposite each other against two walls. In the centre stood a table where the AU members ate, discussed, planned, and cleaned and repaired weapons. On the far wall was a disused coal chute, allowing fresh air in. To the left of it stood a small stove, and to the left of that was a worktable with a small box of kitchen utensils on top. Stacked neatly underneath were tins and other provisions. To the right of the chute stood a Belfast sink, and beside that two slop buckets. In both corners on either side of the door were metal lockers holding weapons, first aid equipment, more clothing. As they entered the room, a pale-faced young man who had been sitting on one of the lower bunk beds looked up at them: Lieutenant MacKinnon gestured with his head.

“Steve, take the 303 and stand guard at the outer door, eh?”

Stephen Walsh, a renegade from a recent work round-up, had been brought a week before by Rosie Doyle. MacKinnon had taken him after some negotiation, joking ruefully: “Don’t be sending us too many; we’ve barely got enough space for ourselves here.”

Rosie raised her eyebrows. “Don’t send too many? How are we going to build a Resistance Army like that?”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to spend a day down here. We only get to clear the slop buckets out each night. If we’re lucky.”

She laughed. “Well, you need to get out and about more, don’t you? Little more fresh air.”

MacKinnon had laughed easily enough, but once the door had closed again he’d turned and exchanged glances with both Tommy and Chris, before turning to their new recruit.

“And what the bloody hell can you do?”

Walsh had been a worker at Dunhill’s liquorice factory, so had become the unit’s cook, which was an elastic term, encompassing the role of preparing food, keeping the OB clean, mending clothing and equipment, performing First Aid when required, and so on. He had little military experience, save a few weeks’ preparation with the Home Guard before the invasion, but had settled down well enough. He took the rifle from Chris, nodded and disappeared through the metal door.

MacKinnon set a kettle to boil on the small stove, dropped some tea into a pot and sat down at the table.

“So how was it?”

 

 

When the riot started in the market place and truncheons and fists flew, Tommy, standing towards the back of the crowd, automatically backed away and strolled past the front of St Giles church. His wish was to bear left, back to the Knottingley Road, cross over and make his way directly to the basement of the Queen’s Hotel, where they had managed, through a union friend of his, to set up headquarters. But of course, that would have led any watchful snitch or secret police officer straight to them. Instead he bore right onto Shoemarket, his heart lurching at the realisation that this way would take him past the new Gestapo offices. His steps faltered momentarily, but he forced himself to continue: any sudden change of direction might attract attention, and he had three choices: move in the direction of the OB, take his chances in the market place, or walk to another edge of town and lose himself, and this was the only way of doing that under the circumstances. The hairs on the back of his skull rose slightly as the beautiful library building came into view, like that gorgeous bright white marble mausoleum he had seen when he had been wandering around Barcelona just before he came home with the British Battalion in 1938. He had looked at the shining, ice-white surface of it, then imagined the bones inside and shuddered.

“Just keep walking slowly. It’s just a building.”

He moved on, the electric field of evil sliding over and past him, before another faltering step: half way down the street was a line of trestle tables, with British police officers and German soldiers positioned behind it. Before and behind it, German infantrymen circulated, gently but firmly guiding passers-by over the table in order to have their documents checked. “Just take a moment. Nothing to worry about.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked to the alleyway just beyond the tables. In all likelihood, he would be spotted if he tried to walk down there undetected. And even if he made the alleyway without these personnel seeing him, there could well be another check point or at least an armed soldier waiting out of sight.

“Well, we’ll see how good these papers from Wakefield are.”

Sauntering nonchalantly towards the table, Tommy took in two British uniformed bobbies in blue, a German in field grey, and, improbably, a severe-faced young woman in a German uniform. Her blonde hair was tightly bunched beneath a piss cutter cap, but one or two stray hairs had worked their way loose. Tommy guessed that she was a member of the SS-Helferin Korps, focused on the strands of hair and drifted forwards, and by some miracle—perhaps because he did not protest against having to show his papers—was not intercepted and found himself in front of her. She flicked a glance at him as she shuffled some papers together and lined up her rubber stamp.

“Papers please, mein herr. Identity card, residency permit, work document.”

Tommy had his hand on all of the documents he thought she would want already and brought them out of his jacket pocket as one, handing them over with a grin. “There you go.”

Again, the glassy, disinterested glance, and for a second he regretted choosing to come to this woman. She pulled the corners of her mouth back in a polite smile and took the sheaf from him, turning them the right way round to read them, immediately lifting the top paper up for inspection before looking back at him more closely.

“This is a driving licence. I do not require to see it.”

She said it crisply, like a primary school teacher reprimanding a child for some sloppy spelling, but in for a penny, in for a pound. Tommy took the licence back with another grin, deliberately and brazenly seeking her eyes out and staring into them. “Pardon me. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have given that to you, should I?”

Her eyes flickered for an instant, then her cheeks coloured slightly and she laughed lightly and looked down at the other documents. Tommy allowed himself to laugh in a low voice. “Now that you know that I have a vehicle, perhaps you’ll let me drive you somewhere some time?”

Again, the slight flush and the giggle. She glanced at the name on his papers. “Yes, Herr … Roberts. Perhaps.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy spotted a movement as one of the soldiers became aware of the flirtation and started to move towards him. The woman shifted from side to side and gave him one more look before handing his papers back. “These are in order, mein herr. Thank you for your co-operation.”

Tommy risked one more look, flicking his gaze at the edge of her pupils, smiling broadly and taking the paperwork back.

“Thank you very much. Danke schön.”

She shifted again, and he became aware of her body inside of her uniform. Then there was a poke at his shoulder and the German soldier was there, frowning.

“Ja, ja, danke schön.”

Tommy half-winked at the Helferin before turning to smile at the soldier and walking away. Maintaining an unflustered walking pace, he moved on down the street, turning right in front of the Windmill Inn, then curling round to the left into Finkle Street. His heart was a thumping fist and he kept seeing the rising blush in the woman’s cheeks and the excited look in her eyes as she looked downwards. But then he felt a wave of shame at the very thought of touching one of the enemy, the blush rushing through the whole of his body, before he felt the chill of the December wind, and his sense of ardour cooled. He walked into the cemetery, quickly losing himself amongst the gravestones, working his way back to the corner of the wall, and climbed up and over and into the field beyond.

 

 

MacKinnon drained his tea and nodded approvingly.

“Thinking on your feet. Good.”

Tommy shrugged. “I couldn’t really think of anything else to do.”

“Sounds like you couldn’t think of anything else at all.” They both chuckled at that, with Chris smiling good naturedly enough, although since getting engaged he was even more awkward about all of that than ever. Still, Tommy felt a little easier about his earlier reactions. As MacKinnon refilled their mugs, he asked: “What now, then?”

MacKinnon stopped pouring for a moment and watched him, before continuing to pour: “You’ve taken the temperature of the town, got a feel for what it’s like. What are your thoughts?”

“There’s an anger, but they don’t know how to focus it. The Jerries look well-organised and the local police seem to be hand in glove with them. If they’ve got the local command structures on their side, it’ll be hard to challenge them with such small numbers, other than harrying them the way that we have been doing.”

Christopher spoke up. “But we know what they’re planning to do with the people at the Castle. We’ve got to do something about that.”

MacKinnon looked at Christopher. “I know that your mother’s up there, Chris, but you’ve got to try to stay objective about that.”

“Objective?”

“You know what I mean. Try to stay calm. I promise you we’ll do everything to get as many of them out as we can. But I can’t guarantee that we can get them all out. Or how many that we get out will survive.”

Christopher reddened and opened his mouth, but then trembled slightly and closed it again. MacKinnon pressed on. “Look, of course you want to save your mother and the others. We’ll do what we can. And we’ve made contact with some other groups who are interested in giving us some back up.”

“Which groups?”

“We’ve got the AUs in Leeds South and Wakefield on side, so they’ll co-ordinate actions when we’re ready to go. Make as big a statement as possible, and hopefully draw some soldiers away from here. Or at least distract them.”

“But what about our own numbers? We’ll be overwhelmed if it’s just us.”

“Both units have said they’ll send who they can, but they probably each will manage one or two. They’ve got their own work to do, eh?”

Chris snorted. “That could be six of us, maybe eight. Hardly an army going up against a garrison.”

MacKinnon nodded slowly, rolling his eyes. “Ye-es, so we’ve got to concentrate on other sources of support. That’s one reason why I sent Tommy into town, to try to gauge if there might be stomach for some action.”

Tommy grunted. “I’d say there’s stomach. You might be able to garner six or so men of fighting age … But how to reach them? Then to train and equip them?”

“You’ve got a point, but we’ve got some local contacts now. Tommy, you’ve been able to work your old union contacts like a dream, especially now the TUC has been declared illegal, they understand we’re all in the same boat. And since you’ve linked us up with this Christian group, Chris, we’ve got a line to a lot of other sincere people who want to make a difference.”

Tommy sighed softly. “Yes, that’s true, but half of them are past retirement age. Their hearts are in the right place, and they’ll be champion when it comes to knitting us balaclavas and warm socks. Getting us food, even hiding us, sure. But storming the barricades? The Nazis would cut them down in a second.”

MacKinnon shrugged. “Maybe, but if they want to do their bit, we shouldn’t deny them.”

He caught a glance from Tommy. “For God’s sake, I don’t mean sending old ladies over the top with a rifle, Tom. But we’ve got to accept every offer of help that we get.”

Tommy nodded, but his eyes were dark. “You’re probably right, but it will mean more casualties. More arrests. Reprisals.”

“Aye, maybe. But the more every last single person stands up to what’s going on, the sooner things will change.”

Tommy flicked his eyebrows and his shoulders: there was truth in what had been said and there was no denying it. MacKinnon sipped his tea, watching first one then the other. “Anyway, boys, look on the bright side. This means that you both get to travel again.”

Tommy pulled a face. “Already? I’ve just got back from the clutches of Marlene Dietrich’s ugly sister.”

“This is to meet friends this time, or potential ones, anyway.”

“Oh yeah?”

MacKinnon nodded at Christopher. “Chris, I need you to make contact with the local brethren. Try the Methodist minister first. The Catholics are under more pressure than anyone else right now. Explain what’s happening and see what he says. We’re going to need volunteers for the attack, safe houses for anyone we do get away, medical supplies, food, clothes, you know the score. See what he thinks.”

“Right. If I can’t find him can I—?”

“Go and bother your wee woman? God man, anyone would think you were already married.” MacKinnon shook his head in mock irritation. “Well I can’t deny a man in love can I? But you be back here by the rendezvous time, Chris. That’s important.”

Tommy was watching Christopher. “Is that wise, Sandy? She could be being watched …”

“Some comfort necessary, I’d say. I’d be facing dissension in the ranks if I always said no. But I mean it Chris. Not a second later than the time we agree. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now, Tommy. Our other source of help.”

“Yes? I was wondering.”

MacKinnon nodded again. “You know how they’re keeping Jewish prisoners up there? Well, I’ve been in touch with some Jewish groups who are champing at the bit to help.”

“Great. How many people can they spare?”

“Not sure yet. And anyway, we need to have a meeting, talk things over.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, there are two main groups. The Jewish Defence Committee …”

Something shifted in Tommy’s memory. “Defence Committee? Weren’t there …?”

“Yep, the mouthy bloke at Waterton House.”

Tommy remembered the intelligent young man with sharp, dark eyes. And with a rush of heat, he remembered the man’s sister, with cropped, russet hair. “Yes, I think I remember him.”

MacKinnon snorted. “Aye, bit of a bolshie leftie if you ask me, but you know what they say about your enemy’s enemy.”

“Why send me to speak to him?”

“Why not? You’re a union man, you were in Spain. I understand this guy was out there too.”

“Get away! Which brigade?”

“How the bloody hell should I know? You’ll be able to ask him when you see him. Maybe he’ll have a few snaps from back then, eh? You can reminisce about the good old Republic.” MacKinnon’s tone was gentle enough and Tommy allowed himself a chuckle. The Scot smiled. “Seriously though, I need you to do a wee bit of that, get the measure of him. See if he’s trustworthy, build a few bridges, sort out how many he can muster, whether they’re battle-ready.”

“Right. And how are you going to be entertaining yourself whilst we run messages across the West Riding?”

“I’ll be helping myself to the best malt they’ve got on offer in the bar upstairs.” MacKinnon laughed and looked into his mug. “I’m billeted under a great bloody calendar hotel with a fully-stocked bar and my throat’s as dry as a bloody thistle.” He blew a sigh and set his cup down.

“There’s another Jewish unit. But professional. Made up of guys who actually have army training. Served in regular army outfits, but then when the Invasion came, they volunteered to form stay-behind teams of their own. Winnie agreed, said they’d fight all the more fiercely cause of what Hitler would do to them if he got half a chance. They call themselves the Jewish Brigades, and we’ve got one near Leeds. They’ve said they want to meet up and help, and from where I’m sitting, they’re the bloody cavalry.”

“I’m sure they are. So where do you want me to go?”

MacKinnon opened up an Ordinance Survey map on the table and pointed. “You meet there, in the woods between Pontefract and Ackworth. Chris, you go to the Methodist minister’s house first. He’s expecting you. Steve stays here and holds the fort. Meet back here no later than oh-two hundred hours.”

 

 

Pontefract Castle, 7th December, 22.30 hours

A car came screaming up to the gates in the early afternoon. The prisoners down below in the old Magazine, now nicknamed “Der Kühlschrank”, heard shouting and someone being dragged across the ground above. The door to one of the Nissen huts opened and slammed shut. Periodically since then there have been cries and shouts. Down in the perpetual half-light of her subterranean prison, Doris Greenwood fancies that she can hear familiar voices: particularly of that grubby little police sergeant, Balks. Something has happened, and now something else, something horrible, will happen. Beyond that, she knows nothing. It is strange to reflect that this is the worst thing: the not knowing.

A door slams again. More shouting, blows, then a shout and a sharp report that echoes back and forth above their heads. The sound echoes and reverberates: someone has been shot. In the leaden silence that follows there are more voices, but quieter, almost sheepish.

Then—scraping; a metal shutter far above their heads is thrown open. A voice (Balks’s?)  drifting down: “Someone wants to say hello. You people are going up in the world, or is it that he’s going down?”

As she looks up into the already unfamiliar light, a dark shape is falling towards them. It takes a moment for her to register what has happened. Then it is as if her very being is again wrenched in two directions. There is a part of her that looks at the body hanging in the pool of light thrown down through the service hatch, spinning slightly like a puppet on a string, and factually remarks, “There is a man hanging there.” Another part of her wants to scream.

Above, Sergeant Balks looks with fresh respect at Chief-Inspector Knight.

“I know he was a traitor, sir, but …”

“But what?”

“Well, shooting him …”

“Like you say, Sergeant. The Mayor was a traitor. He had nothing further to tell us. Let him serve as an example to the other prisoners.”

Knight slips his Smith and Webley revolver back into its holster. He will clean it when he has a moment back in his office. Such unpleasant things will, he imagines, be increasingly necessary. He turns to looks at Lieutenant Kürten, who is staring directly at him, and slowly nods his head.

END OF FREE EXTRACT

You can read the rest of this story by purchasing a copy Alt Hist Issue 10.

About the Author

After eight years living in West Yorkshire, Jonathan Doering now lives in Oxford with his wife and son, where he teaches English. His work has also appeared in: Cascando, Sheaf, Silver Carrier, Circus, LitSpeak, Contemporary Review, Alt Hist, Brittle Star, Gold Dust (for which he won a Best Prose Award), The Guardian and The Wolfian; his SF serial “Earworms”, which has recently been running in this last magazine, has been published by the Wolfian Press.

Hitler is Coming by Martin Roy Hill – Free Story Extract

by

What would the United States be like if Hitler won the Second World War? In “Hitler Is Coming” by Martin Roy Hill protagonist Paul Klee is an OSS veteran and police investigator on temporary assignment to the post-war American SS to stop a plot to kill a victorious Adolf Hitler on his first visit to the U.S. From fascist cabbies to corrupt Party gauleiters, Klee wends his way through an America most Americans today never knew once existed.

Visit the page for Alt Hist Issue 6 if you want to order a copy to read more of this and other stories.

Free Extract from Hitler is Coming by Martin Roy Hill

It was a wet, miserable morning when I arrived at SS headquarters. Stepping from the cab, I turned the collar of my leather duster against the mist and tried not to get wet. No one trusted the rain much these days, even though the scientists said it was safe. It was 1946, only two years after the war ended. London and Moscow were still radioactive embers, but New York was starting to rise from its ashes. Nevertheless, even here in Washington, people still worried about radioactive fallout. Everyone had heard the stories.

I had, in fact, just come from New York where I had been following leads in a case of government corruption. Some construction magnate offering bribes to the wrong people—at least they were the wrong people for me. The Party didn’t like it when investigators tried to arrest their members. Oh, they didn’t mind us arresting the small fish, just the big ones. I’d caught the wrong fish. That’s why I was standing outside SS headquarters in DC, staring at the giant swastika on the top of the building that used to be FBI headquarters, dreading what waited for me inside, and cursing the doc who saved my life in Italy three years earlier.

I started toward the main entrance when I saw Bruno Hesse come out the door. Like me, Bruno had been a city cop before the war and we’d worked some cases together. He was a fat, balding little man back then, with a nasty opinion about everything and everyone, especially if you were a Negro or Jew. He wasn’t a very good cop. He liked beating up on anyone smaller than himself, or if he had help, someone bigger. He had been some kind of high ranking officer in the German American Bund, the U.S. equivalent of Hitler’s Brown Shirts, until the Bund was banished back in ‘42. Now he wore a different uniform, a black one with a high-peaked hat and double lightning bolts on his collar. He even sported a silly Himmler moustache and wire-rimmed glasses.

Bruno flipped his hand up in the kind of salute only the highest level Nazis get to use. He waited for me to return the salute, but I didn’t take the bait.

“Paul,” he said, “I was just talking about you with SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Günter. It looks like we may be working together again.”

He looked taller. I wondered if he were wearing lifts.

“My lucky day,” I said. “Where do I find this Oberst—whatever?”

“You may call him Lieutenant Colonel Günter,” Bruno said, with something of a sniff. “He’s taken over J. Edgar’s old office.”

“That helps,” I muttered and walked on into the building.

I’d only been in the FBI building once before the war, and I wasn’t Hoover’s guest. I remembered it as a non-descript building with drab government workers and an occasional photo of FDR hanging on the wall. Now it was a clean, freshly painted maze of hallways and offices occupied by severe, Aryan-looking men and women nattily dressed in Nazi black and death’s head skulls. Where Roosevelt once looked down at you benignly, Hitler now stared down with his messianic glare.

A young corporal stared at my credentials then at me, as if he didn’t trust his eyes. He finally handed my ID back with a haughty frown, and directed me to an office on an upper floor. I found the door and knocked.

“Enter!” someone sounded in crisp, German-tainted English.

SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Hermann Günter sat behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier, and with as much clutter as a flight deck when all its planes are launched. He had a long angular face and hawkish nose, and thin, cruel lips that probably had never known a real smile. He wore a tailored SS uniform blacker than I was feeling just then. On a clothes tree behind him was an ankle length leather great coat, the kind that was becoming the style to wear. Pictures of Hitler and Himmler decorated the walls.

Guys like Bruno Hesse were a dime a dozen these days. This guy Günter was the real thing. A real German, a real Nazi, right down to the accent. You could almost smell the crematorium on him.

“Ah! Herr Klee,” he said in English, rising. “Come in. Come in.”

As he stood, he closed a folder that had my name and SS emblems on it. Seeing your name on an SS folder has a peculiar effect on you, like someone has just shot you in the gut. And I knew too well how that felt.

“Please sit. Sit.”

He directed me to an overly large leather chair, offered me a cigarette which I took, then lit one for himself.

“Forgive me, but Paul Klee…” He said my name slowly, hissing each syllable. “Any relationship to the degenerate Swiss artist Paul Klee?”

I shook my head and said, “I thought he was German.”

Günter regarded me with something like distaste. “Not at all,” he protested. “Quite Swiss. And probably a Jew as well.”

“Just for the record, I’m a lapsed Catholic.”

Günter considered what I said, then waved his cigarette in the air. “Yes,” he said, “so are we all these days.”

Günter returned to his seat and opened my file. “Captain Paul Klee, late of the OSS. Italy, I see. I, too, was stationed in Italy. Imagine, if we had met back then… I would have shot you on the spot.”

“Not if I shot you first,” I said, smiling.

He gave me another of look of Aryan distaste. “Yes,” he finally said. “And now here we are, sharing cigarettes and having a nice chat.”

He referred to the file again. “How long did you work with the Italian resistance, captain?”

“Until one of your Schmeissers rearranged my insides in mid-‘43,” I told him. “And I am no longer a captain.”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you yet,” Günter said, apologizing. “You are being seconded from your National Police to the SS. You will have the honorary title of Hauptsturmfuhrer—captain.”

He flicked an ash, then returned to the interrogation. “Once again, captain. How long were you with the Italian resistance?”

I figured he had the answer in the file so I told him.

“I dropped in by parachute in late ’42, about the same time as Operation Torch in North Africa,” I said. “I operated until the summer of ’43 when I was shot. An Italian doctor who worked with the resistance saved my life. It took me months to recuperate. By the time I did, Italy was pretty much out of the war. I spent the rest of the war on the invalid list.”

I was lying in an evacuation hospital in Naples when the news came that New York was destroyed, followed by London and Moscow. The Krauts launched a single giant A-10 rocket at each city. The A-10 was basically two V-2 rockets stacked one on top of the other. The Krauts only needed one A-10 for each city. Their atomic warheads did the rest. With Churchill and Stalin vaporized, Britain and Russia surrendered within days. Roosevelt held out until the pro-Nazis in Congress forced him to capitulate two weeks later.

Günter didn’t look up from the file. He just grunted and said, “Saved by an Italian resistance doctor. I should have him shot.”

“You already did,” I said.

Günter’s thin lips curled downward, not in sadness, but satisfaction.

“Tell me, captain, did you enjoy New York?”

“Not particularly,” I answered. “Not much to do there with Broadway turned to radioactive dust.”

“Hmm, just so,” he said. “But you did find some way to entertain yourself.”

“I was simply trying to do my job. I wasn’t aware there were two sets of laws, one for Party members and another for everyone else.”

Günter shook his head. “There is only one set of laws, captain. But there are also…” He waved his cigarette in the air again, trying to find the word he was looking for in the smoke. “There are politics, yes? Politics. That has always been true, here in America, as well as in Germany, no?”

“Is that why I’m being—what did you say?—seconded to the SS?” I asked. “To keep a tight rein on me?”

The Kraut pursed his lips in thought, then nodded. “In part,” he said. “You have Major Hesse to thank for suggesting that.”

He stood and walked around the desk, and sat on the edge looking down at me.

“You are being attached so we can make use of your knowledge of partisan operations,” he said. “You will help us ferret out those who still resist the… peace… between Germany and the United States.”

“Resistance?” I said. “I didn’t know there were any resistance fighters in this country. You’ve already arrested all the Commies, not to mention the Jews. Those of us who fought in the war are too tired of fighting to continue. Those who didn’t—well, there was a reason they didn’t. They were either too busy getting draft deferments or they were on your side to start with.” I put my cigarette out and accepted Günter’s offer of another and leaned back in the chair. “Like Major Hesse.”

Günter smiled sardonically and nodded.

“Yes, Major Hesse provided us with good service both before and during the war,” he said, “and he has been well rewarded for his service. So were many others in the Bund.”

“And elsewhere,” I said with distaste. It was discovered after the surrender there were at least twenty members of Congress who were either Nazi sympathizers or paid German agents. “Quislings.”

“That’s a nasty word, captain” Günter said. “Many in Norway regard Minister-President Quisling a national hero and a patriot.” He waved the subject away. “But let us not argue politics. Let us talk about your assignment.” He paused for effect, then looked straight at me before speaking again. “Hitler is coming.”

“Hitler? Here?”

Günter nodded. “The Fuhrer is making his first visit to your country. He will arrive in two weeks to meet with your President Prescott, and to present Herr Ford with another Fatherland honor.”

After the surrender, the Kraut-lovers in Congress had deposed FDR and, with the approval of the Party, appointed Prescott president. Before the war, both Prescott and his father-in-law were big time bankers and fanatics for fascist politics—so much so they helped fund the rise of Hitler and the Nazi Party. Prescott kept right on aiding the Krauts even as our Army was fighting them in North Africa, right up until he got his hands slapped by a government too timid to actually put him in prison for treason.

Henry Ford was an admirer of Hitler as well, and had already received a couple medals from “Der Fuhrer” back in the Thirties. Some of the Panzers that kicked our butts at Kasserine Pass in ’42 were built with the help of American companies like Ford and GM.

“Is Der Fuhrer planning to dance another two-step here like he did in Paris?” I asked.

Günter’s thin lips got even thinner.

“I don’t think so,” he said, dismissing my remark. He reached around the desk, pulled a file from a drawer and handed it to me. “We have reliable intelligence that there will be an attempt to assassinate the Fuhrer during his visit. I want you to make sure it does not happen.”

“Me? Why the hell should I care if Hitler buys the farm? All I ever got from him was a belly full of lead.”

“You care for the same reasons you did in Italy, captain,” Günter said. “Because if anything happens to Hitler, there will be retaliatory executions on an unimaginable level. You supported the resistance in Italy. You know what I mean.”

I nodded. I’d watched from a distance as the SS rounded up entire villages and shot each person in retaliation for partisan attacks. I led many of those attacks, and the knowledge that what I had done was responsible for the murder of hundreds of innocent men, women, even children, had haunted me ever since.

“This time it would be your own people,” the Kraut said slowly, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “And we have much more efficient ways of retaliation, as you witnessed in New York. That’s why you will care about what happens to the Fuhrer.”

He stood up and lit another cigarette. “You were OSS. You worked with partisans. You were also a police officer and know how American criminals work. You’re the perfect man for this assignment.”

I opened the folder and glanced at its content before looking back at Günter.

“It’s in German,” I said. “I don’t speak that much German.”

Günter picked a book off his desk and tossed it in my lap. It was an English-German dictionary.

“Considering the situation,” he said, “I think it’s time you learned.”

END OF FREE EXTRACT
Order Alt Hist Issue 6

Enhanced by Zemanta

Battalion 202: Worm in the Apple by Jonathan Doering – Free Story Extract

by

“Worm in Apple” is the next instalment of Battalion 202 by Jonathan Doering: “For all I know, you’re dirty as well.” Christopher felt his chest flare. “Alright then, if you don’t believe me, shoot me.” A worm enters an apple. It is seeking food, shelter. It is only acting on its nature. But sooner or later the apple will turn rotten. Everything will explode. There is a traitor in Pontefract Auxiliary Unit. A traitor who places his own survival and success in the new Nazi state ahead of everything – even the lives of his comrades….

Visit the page for Alt Hist Issue 6 if you want to order a copy to read more of this and other stories.

Free Extract from Battalion 202: Worm in the Apple by Jonathan Doering

Author’s Note: Battalion 202 is the story of Christopher Greenwood, a young man recruited into an Auxiliary Unit (AU)—an armed resistance “stay behind” team tasked with fighting a successful Nazi invasion. The episode “Into the Darkness” related Greenwood’s orders to assassinate the most senior local police officer, Chief Superintendent Frederickson, to prevent the Nazis from forcing him to reveal intelligence on the local resistance network. “Worm in the Apple” now follows Christopher and his AU colleagues through the initial days of the Occupation…

§

Christopher Greenwood stands trembling, staring at the slumped body of a man on a couch. The standard lamp casts a yellow light onto the man’s face; the rest of the room is in shadow. He is in his late fifties, but looks older: his hair is more white than grey, and he has red splotches on his cheeks and neck. His skin has a raw, boiled look, but the loosened tie and the softened stare make him look vulnerable, a sacrifice ready for the knife. There is a neat, dark hole on his right temple, with a red explosion on the cushion by his left temple, where the bullet  has exited from his head, bringing blood and brain with it.  His lips start to work, first jerkily, then more smoothly, muttering: “Had a good innings.”

Now his dead gaze sharpens and he turns to look into the boy’s face, his lips twisting into a sneer, taunting him over the blare of the music in the background:

“Go on! Shoot me!”

Greenwood raises his rifle, feeling the butt against his shoulder. The man’s gaze becomes more sympathetic and he speaks on, the voice changing now, becoming younger, barely audible over the music. The music’s thrumming is palpable in Greenwood’s temples, a buzzing that increases to such a pitch that he cannot focus on anything else …

“Chris? Are you alright?”

Tommy’s voice bursts in over the gramophone music, and Christopher Greenwood realises that he has been experiencing a flashback to half an hour before, and the operation that they carried out this evening. Then his mind is filled with the splashes of red, and he runs to the edge of the field they are in, knocking earth up in little clouds as he falls to his knees and vomits once more. There is little left to be thrown up from his guts, this time; he retches helplessly, forcing up saliva and black bile, wondering what will happen if he continues in this way. After a second he feels a nudge at his elbow, and sees a canteen of water being proffered by Tommy. He takes it, rinses his mouth and drinks a sip.

“Thanks. I’m better now.” His voice isn’t convincing. There is an exasperated sigh, then the older man kicks earth over the tiny pool of sick.

“Christopher, you need to pull yourself together now. We can’t leave clues all over the place. The Nazis’ll track us. And you need to prepare yourself for when we meet up with the others.”

Greenwood looks far off, into himself, into his memory. He sees the corpse of Chief Superintendent Frederickson, crumpled on his couch. Once again, Tommy’s instruction is in his ear: “Now take the revolver and shoot him in the head.” Once again he sees the sightless eyes, the slack mouth, the hand lying palm upwards. He feels the trigger of the revolver tightening under his finger, hears the spring squeak as he aims the weapon at the dead man’s head.

He shudders slightly, then takes a breath, becomes aware of the earth under his feet, the cold air cutting his lungs.

“I know.”

§

The Eve of the fall of Britain, October 1940, Pontefract AU’s Operational Base….

Cosmin  was on guard when they arrived. Strode, Adamson and Fisher  were waiting inside the OB.

“Welcome back, you two. Report, please.” Strode opened a notebook and uncapped his pen.

Tommy straightened slightly, “As ordered, we entered and secured Chief Superintendent Frederickson’s house. We were expected. After a short interview, Christopher shot him once through the chest and twice through the head. We took some extra provisions from the house and returned here.”

The three of them looked from Tommy to Greenwood. Even Fisher now seemed to show something like respect in the way he watched the youngest member of the AU. Adamson rose and turned to the stove, slowly stirring a cooking pot.

Fisher held his jacket in his lap, and with precise movements sewed a small tear in the sleeve. Snipping the thread, he placed it and the needle in a sewing box before returning his gaze to Chris’s face. Strode motioned with his pen. “I’ll make brief notes.”

Tommy shifted, “No names, though.”

“That goes without saying—as I would have thought would be the proviso that we don’t help ourselves to the property of the public. We’re not looters.”

Tommy reddened. “We hardly looted. I saw that there were some provisions that could be used, and he had made it clear that he didn’t hold any grudges, so I didn’t think he’d mind.”

“That sounds charitable of him.”

“The poor bastard was about to die, wasn’t he? It wasn’t like he was going to take any of it with him.”

Strode eyelids flickered. “Alright, you’ve made your point, Thompson. Now Greenwood, could you please take us through what happened, in your own words?”

Again, Greenwood’s stomach clenched, a hand gripping his innards. They had discussed what he should say, even briefly rehearsed it, although Tommy had said he should do it off the cuff, make it seem more spontaneous. As he drew breath he realised that he only had one chance to convince them. He swallowed on a dry throat.

Look them in the eye. Focus on Strode. He’s Patrol Leader.

“We got there. He was expecting us. He’d been drinking. He told us about how his wife had died and how he’d been destroying files so the Germans wouldn’t get them. Then he turned the music up louder and I shot him in the chest. Then I used his revolver to shoot him in the head. I shot him twice.” He heard his voice slurring slightly.

Strode traced a few words into the ledger. “Why the revolver? Where did that come from?”

“He had it out on the table.”

“But he didn’t threaten you with it?”

“No. It was out on the table, as if…”

“As if what?”

“As if he would have done it himself if we hadn’t arrived.”

“Why two shots to the head?”

“I—don’t know. Got carried away, I think,” he fixed the solicitor’s gaze. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, it just seems a little extreme….”

“Extreme? Extreme? You sent me to kill a police officer tonight. So I did it and I feel bad about it. I threw up I felt so bloody bad…”

“That’s enough, Greenwood.”

As quickly as it had burst in his chest, the hot anger withered like autumn leaves. He felt cold and ashamed again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Strode.”

The solicitor smiled politely. “That’s quite alright, young man. You’ve been through a lot. We know that. Believe me, I understand the… tension you’re feeling right now.” His face clouded for an instant. “But you have proved yourself and you have performed an invaluable job for the AU. Absolutely invaluable. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you think you could manage some rum?”

Greenwood looked from Strode to Adamson, on to Fisher, then finally to Tommy, who was staring at him as closely as the others.

They believe me. I’ve done it.

“Thank you, Mr. Strode, but I’m not sure.”

“He was sick, Mr. Strode,” Tommy put in.

Adamson turned and stirred some stew that was sitting on the stove, ladling it into bowls and passing them round the table. “That’ll be the shock. Here, try some of this.”

The stew was warm and filling, and as he ate, Greenwood felt the clenched fist in his guts ease a little, but then he remembered Tommy’s words as they returned to the OB.

“You’ll need to watch your P’s and Q’s from now on, Chris. You can’t be caught off-guard. Don’t drink too much. Don’t get too cosy with any of them. And don’t unburden yourself to anyone but me. Got that?”

His spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Adamson pointed. “More?”

“Yes, please.”

The farmer filled Greenwood’s bowl again, setting it down and taking his place beside the scribbling solicitor and watchful farm hand. Fisher cleared his throat and spoke.

“We had a firework display and a half at the railway line.”

Greenwood forced a smile and ate more stew. Does he want to impress me?

“Did you?”

“We laid out a load of charges along the line. Take ‘em a while to fix all that.”

“Good.”

Tommy pushed his empty bowl away with no second helping and brought out a tobacco pouch. Strode finished writing his entry, closed his ledger and looked at Greenwood again but said nothing. Suddenly Adamson spoke.

“I killed a bloke at the Somme.”

Are they all going to confess their killings now?

“Did you? Who was he?”

Adamson’s eyes grew glassy. Then he blinked and refocused on Greenwood. “Don’t know. Didn’t ask his name.”

There was a murmur of laughter around the table, not unkind, but Christopher felt as if he had said something gauche. Fisher cut a piece of farmhouse cob and passed it across the table to him. Adamson said, “Enjoy it, there’s not much.”

Greenwood took the bread and dipped it into his bowl. To fill the silence, he asked, “How did you feel?”

“Feel? How did I feel?” Adamson looked at him blankly. The bottom fell out of Greenwood’s stomach. Should I know how he felt? Then Adamson’s  eyes acquired that glassy stare once more and he seemed to stare far off over the young man’s shoulder:

“To be honest, I don’t think I felt very much.”

There was a pause. Strode cleared his throat.

“Have you finished, Greenwood? Good. We’d like you and Fisher to relieve Cosmin.”

END OF FREE EXTRACT
Order Alt Hist Issue 6

Enhanced by Zemanta

Interview with Jonathan Doering, author of Battalion 202

by
 

Jonathan Doering has now contributed three stories from his series about a German invasion of Britain in WW2, so it’s about time we heard a bit more about him. His story Battalion 202: Rotten Parchment Bonds appeared in Alt Hist Issue 5, and the previous stories appeared in Alt Hist Issue 4. Here’s some more from Jonathan.

This is a photo of Monika, Noah and Jonathan on holiday in Germany last summer. Jonathan is the one on the right!
This is a photo of Monika, Noah and Jonathan on holiday in Germany last summer. Jonathan is the one on the right!

Three stories from your series Battalion 202 have now appeared in Alt Hist. Can you tell us what’s next in store for the people of Pontefract?

Unfortunately, things are going to get far worse before they start getting better. The Nazis have been gradually consolidating their power, as they would have done in reality had they successfully landed in Britain. The next story, “The Sheep and the Goats”, again focuses on the local police officer Harold Storey and his growing awareness of the sinister aspects of the Nazi project, and how he reacts to this. The next story that I’m working on now deals again with the local Auxiliary Unit which has a traitor in its midst.

What’s the historical background for your story? Was there really an organisation called Battalion 202?

Yes, there really was an organisation called Battalion 202. In 1941 there was a growing realisation in Britain that Hitler intended to invade Britain. Churchill ordered for a nascent resistance movement to be organised against that possibility, with the umbrella title of ‘The British Resistance Organisation’. The spine of this organisation was to be dozens of Auxiliary Units, teams of between four and eight men who had been trained in clandestine warfare and who were to go to ground as the Nazis swept over Britain. They were actually supposed to focus on sabotage and interference rather than fighting and assassination, but there is little doubt that there would have been a lot of violence, both on their parts and that of the German occupiers. Administratively, they were organised into three battalions: 201 covered Scotland, 202 the North of England, 203 the South of England. AUs were established in Wales, but were not organised under an overarching title as in other parts of Britain. Their uniforms were ordinary Home Guard uniforms, apart from the shoulder patches which identified their Battalions – although the numbers would have been meaningless to anyone not in the know. George Orwell, with his experience of front line warfare in Spain, was involved in training AU volunteers in London. Many of these men served from D-Day onwards in the regular army.

There were also “observers”, civilians who had been trained to gather intelligence which they would then pass on via intermediaries to radio operators. These operators would transmit the intelligence to AUs in the locale, which would then plan attacks. Finally, there were deep-level agents, members of local and national government and the civil service, primed to apparently collaborate with the Nazis, who would also be sending intelligence out to the Resistance and doing what they could to frustrate the Occupation. These people were known as “the other side” and would have walked a daily knife edge as well. Although some members of the AUs have been identified, as far as I know no one in the “the other side” has ever been made known to the public. They would have all been taking appalling risks for their communities and their country, and in researching and writing these stories, I’ve heaved several sighs of relief that history spared us the horror of occupation. So, yes, there was such an organisation, and they really were told that in the event of the Nazis arriving that they could expect to live for fourteen days.

For our readers not familiar with Pontefract, can you tell us a bit more about your home town?

Truth to tell, I’m a bit of an interloper, not being a native of Pontefract. I was born in Stockport and as a child lived just South of Manchester. My father was an engineer, so we moved with his job. When I was eight we went to North Berwick, near Edinburgh, and when I was thirteen we moved to Southport, near Liverpool. Since leaving home and taking my degrees, I’ve lived and worked in Japan, France, Norwich, Oxford, London,… and now Ponte! Pontefract is ace! It’s a market town of about 30,000 inhabitants. Previously it relied heavily on mining, and retains quite a bit of farming. There is still a sweet factory (one of its products is the world-famous liquorice Pontefract Cake). Pontefract is a fairly tightly-knit community which has weathered a lot over the years. Its castle was where Richard II was imprisoned and died, and where Richard III was declared king. It was also besieged during the Civil War by Cromwell’s Roundhead forces (if you look at the town crest that I use on the Resistance newspaper, it includes the town’s motto: Post mortem patris pro filio – Latin for “After the death of the father [Charles I] we are for the son [Charles II]”). It occupies a central position, being fairly central in the island of Britain if you look at the map, as well as central to the North and to Yorkshire, which means that although it was and is relatively small; its strategic significance has led to its involvement in several historical developments. It also meant that I could imagine the Nazis being keen to establish themselves here.

I met my wife whilst I was teaching in North London, which is another lovely place, but my wife prefers to visit London rather than live there, so being a Northerner I started to look for teaching jobs in quieter, leafier climes North of Watford Gap. The job I have now came up, so we moved here. Pontefract is a hard-working, good-humoured place to have fetched up in and I think we’ll be here for quite some time to come.

How did you get into writing?

I think many writers are similar in that they have always felt an urge to write. When I was young (five or so), one of my aunts visited us from Canada. I was already making up little stories in my head and playing around with words, and one day she had me tell her a story, which she wrote down and then read back to me. That sense of pleasure from making up stories stuck with me and I carried on doodling away. In school I wrote Science Fiction stories for fanzines that some friends were printing, and at university got involved in the campus newspapers and magazines, and so on.

What do you do when you’re not writing?

Be with my family, day dream, teach English at a sixth form college, read as much as possible, listen to music (Folk, Jazz and Classical mainly), watch films (just watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid again for the first time in twenty years, and it’s still brilliant!), attend my local Quaker Meeting, dig over our allotment,  go walking….

Are you working on any other short stories or novels at the moment and if so can you tell us a bit more about them?

Beyond Battalion 202, I’m mulling over a story set during the witchcraft trials in Seventeenth Century Scotland, which I first heard about when I was growing up there, so that would be interesting to return to. I’m also thinking over a short comic play about allotment holders, just for a bit of a change! I used to write comic sketches for my friends to act in at school, so it would be good to have another go at that kind of writing. On top of that I’m hoping to write about Quaker communities in Prague and Budapest for the national Quaker magazine, The Friend.

What are your ambitions as a writer?

To keep writing and getting my work read! I enjoy writing short stories and articles, so that’s where a lot of my energy goes. I have an ambition to communicate with other people about the things that I find exciting, interesting and important. If someone enjoys reading something I’ve written, and also gets something useful from it, that’s fantastic. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed developing a series of interlinked short stories in Battalion 202 – it’s been very challenging and rewarding. I hope that people who have read the stories have enjoyed them and are looking forward to more – please do keep reading!

***
If anyone would like to read another of Jonathan’s stories (which is set in the present day and doesn’t deal with WW2 at all, please follow the links below to read ‘Magic Christmas Snowballs’ online, or to purchase a print version of Gold Dust Magazine.
 
 

New Book Review by Seamus Sweeney of Resistance by Owen Sheers

by

Resistance by Owen Sheers is not a new title, but we thought that it would be a good book to review as the subject matter is similar to Jonathan Doering’s ‘Battalion 202’ stories for Alt Hist 4. Both Resistance and ‘Battalion 202’ are about an alternate history where Great Britain was occupied by the Nazis in World War 2 and the resistance to their occupation. (By the way there should be a new Battalion 202 story coming out in Alt Hist 5 at the end of 2012.)

The review of Resistance is by Séamus Sweeney, who wrote Dublin Can be Heaven for Alt Hist 3.

Enhanced by Zemanta

A Games of Lies by Rebecca Cantrell reviewed by Ian Shone

by

A Game of LiesWe have just published a review by Ian Shone of Rebecca Cantrell’s A Game of Lies – it’s an espionage thriller set during the 1936 Berlin Olympics – so quite a timely publication! The plot involves the leaking of Nazi secrets to the British and a murder mystery. Ian thought that it was a very readable thriller.

 

 

Enhanced by Zemanta
%d bloggers like this: