Read Online Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! by Daniel S. Fletcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Daniel S. Fletcher
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Classics, kindle, British, Germany, Nazi, Novel, alternate history, UK, hitler, Fletcher, alternative, fletcher writer, daniel s. fletcher, fletcher author, daniel fletcher, fletcher novel, 5*, jackboot britain
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
