Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! Read Online Free Page A
Author: 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
air.
Then Goeth grinned; a wide mouth full of evil teeth. Beckenbauer imagined them ripping at his throat. Not like a badger from its back, or the darting lunge of an opportunistic snake, but in the style of a big cat, or an angry alpha male of the ape world; a direct attack from the front, like a carnivorous animal. He would overpower by force, every blow and strike thrown with lethal intent. Goeth was more like the vain Achilles than a wily Ulysses. He was a dangerous man. Even the other professional murderers knew it.
“This is not Poland, you foolish pig,” an unblinking Goeth softly said. “Do the job you have been assigned…”
Beckenbauer clicked his heel, straightening up. Goeth sneered, framed in the door by hallway light, and he glanced to his right at the SS stormtroopers who were still holding the dazed arrestee in their grip.
“Bergmann, take the Jewess away,” the Austrian snapped.
One of the other men, a huge, bear-like figure quickly clicked his heel, and with agility that belied his frame, dragged the still-frozen Leodensian woman out of the room, roughly down the stairs and out to the waiting trucks. Still naked, quivering in the cold night air, she was unceremoniously thrown in to the back of the truck like a discarded inanimate object, of which no further use could be made. Her husband scrambled to the small, sad figure and he held her in comfort, weeping bitterly through the whispered, empty reassurances and soothing words. She was motionless; a shivering, foetal ball of flesh, in fugue, robbed of her spirit.
Back in the house, Goeth continued to stare at Beckenbauer with a half-grin, before turning on his heel and walking out. After a pause to recollect his wits, SS-Scharführer Beckenbauer, NCO of Einsatzkommando 2 of Einsatzgruppe Leeds followed his battalion leader, marching out with purpose, cursorily saluting a still-sneering Goeth before clambering up and back into the truck. None of the other men mentioned what had happened in the cul-de-sac, House 7; sat with eyes facing directly ahead, expressionless and their rifles slung warily in a hair-trigger grip. Beckenbaur’s eyes bore into those of the man opposite; neither man averted their gaze. No German spoke. The silence was deafeningly loud.
Thirty seconds later they had left the boundary of the mining town, and drove eastwards and north for ten minutes in the hesitant first light of the northern sky, to a designated field, veering off the main road down a winding mud path to the chosen spot. A crude anti-tank ditch had been dug there, in the shade of a long line of birch trees; the first section of a shallow trench defence built in preparation of the German invasion that they all knew was imminent after the Fall of France.
Those ditches, dug with defence in mind, were now used for an altogether more macabre purpose. Unspoken amongst Germans, it was one of the many whispered rumours shared across cities and townships, concurrent with similar tales of atrocity that varied from factual to fanciful. But of all the fevered talk of death in the shadows, the purported use of what were now commonplace countryside ditches held the most gruesome fascination.
Under Goeth’s baleful gaze and the silent scrutiny of his cold-faced troops, the fourteen adults, and five children aged four, six and ten, were lined against the ditch. Under a cold, grey sky, several of the doomed raised their eyes to the pale morning sun, wincing as though in regret at its underwhelming final appearance to them. Others sobbed, the children cried, but none begged. The fearful confusion of the children made no impression on the Einsatzkommando , calloused as they were to such tasks, and the ill-fated women gently turned the small, tear-streaked faces away from the sight of those hard, cold figures, framed against the morning sky with their guns, pressing them instead into their own bodies with a warm, heartbroken love.
They held each other for comfort, as a signal
Then Goeth grinned; a wide mouth full of evil teeth. Beckenbauer imagined them ripping at his throat. Not like a badger from its back, or the darting lunge of an opportunistic snake, but in the style of a big cat, or an angry alpha male of the ape world; a direct attack from the front, like a carnivorous animal. He would overpower by force, every blow and strike thrown with lethal intent. Goeth was more like the vain Achilles than a wily Ulysses. He was a dangerous man. Even the other professional murderers knew it.
“This is not Poland, you foolish pig,” an unblinking Goeth softly said. “Do the job you have been assigned…”
Beckenbauer clicked his heel, straightening up. Goeth sneered, framed in the door by hallway light, and he glanced to his right at the SS stormtroopers who were still holding the dazed arrestee in their grip.
“Bergmann, take the Jewess away,” the Austrian snapped.
One of the other men, a huge, bear-like figure quickly clicked his heel, and with agility that belied his frame, dragged the still-frozen Leodensian woman out of the room, roughly down the stairs and out to the waiting trucks. Still naked, quivering in the cold night air, she was unceremoniously thrown in to the back of the truck like a discarded inanimate object, of which no further use could be made. Her husband scrambled to the small, sad figure and he held her in comfort, weeping bitterly through the whispered, empty reassurances and soothing words. She was motionless; a shivering, foetal ball of flesh, in fugue, robbed of her spirit.
Back in the house, Goeth continued to stare at Beckenbauer with a half-grin, before turning on his heel and walking out. After a pause to recollect his wits, SS-Scharführer Beckenbauer, NCO of Einsatzkommando 2 of Einsatzgruppe Leeds followed his battalion leader, marching out with purpose, cursorily saluting a still-sneering Goeth before clambering up and back into the truck. None of the other men mentioned what had happened in the cul-de-sac, House 7; sat with eyes facing directly ahead, expressionless and their rifles slung warily in a hair-trigger grip. Beckenbaur’s eyes bore into those of the man opposite; neither man averted their gaze. No German spoke. The silence was deafeningly loud.
Thirty seconds later they had left the boundary of the mining town, and drove eastwards and north for ten minutes in the hesitant first light of the northern sky, to a designated field, veering off the main road down a winding mud path to the chosen spot. A crude anti-tank ditch had been dug there, in the shade of a long line of birch trees; the first section of a shallow trench defence built in preparation of the German invasion that they all knew was imminent after the Fall of France.
Those ditches, dug with defence in mind, were now used for an altogether more macabre purpose. Unspoken amongst Germans, it was one of the many whispered rumours shared across cities and townships, concurrent with similar tales of atrocity that varied from factual to fanciful. But of all the fevered talk of death in the shadows, the purported use of what were now commonplace countryside ditches held the most gruesome fascination.
Under Goeth’s baleful gaze and the silent scrutiny of his cold-faced troops, the fourteen adults, and five children aged four, six and ten, were lined against the ditch. Under a cold, grey sky, several of the doomed raised their eyes to the pale morning sun, wincing as though in regret at its underwhelming final appearance to them. Others sobbed, the children cried, but none begged. The fearful confusion of the children made no impression on the Einsatzkommando , calloused as they were to such tasks, and the ill-fated women gently turned the small, tear-streaked faces away from the sight of those hard, cold figures, framed against the morning sky with their guns, pressing them instead into their own bodies with a warm, heartbroken love.
They held each other for comfort, as a signal
Readers choose
Ridley Pearson
Nora Roberts
Patti Benning
Makenna Jameison
Colleen Coble
Michael Slade
Felicity Heaton
David Drake