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

around.”
    “Why?” He’d inquired, with genuine curiosity.
    “You’re a young man,” she warbled, “a bachelor. You don’t want me cramping your style…”
    Chortling to himself, he’d responded by promptly packing her valuables into a suitcase, deflecting her protestations as he forcibly moved her possessions. It took a considerable time; Simon’s family were well-to-do, and both the houses were filled with trinkets and assorted items of taste and style, nothing chintzy or kitsch; a large assortment of material wealth that had been discerningly collected over time.
    Looking around his large, spacious bedroom almost compulsively, with its thick carpets, ornate rugs and furnishings and gleaming mahogany, the writer tried to settle; dipping the nib of his quill into a small vat of ink, and he set to recording his thoughts; praying, even as he did so, that one day the words could , and would , be read by others. Deciding that having not made a diary entry in weeks, it was best to explain what had happened first and foremost, before chronicling what was happening.
    Perhaps it would survive, perhaps not. How many Samuel Pepys’ had been lost to history? How many chronicles of human drama; from love to fear, suffering and triumph alike, had been swept into the dustbin of time; lost in the annals and archives of humankind’s bloody advancements..
    Cigarette-holder clenched in the corner of his mouth, tasting its smoke on his breath, a pale sun setting through the glass panes to his back and even with something approaching hope; Simon began to write:
    London attracted, with horrible suddenness, an array of leeches, parasites and social scavengers congregating in the symbolic site of national terminal erosion; sucking the spiritual lifeblood out of their injured host in the dying days of The World’s Great Empire. These vultures, skulking; buying knockoff goods sold in desperation; selling weapons and ‘essentials’ to a terrified middle class at extortionate prices; offering safe passage across the Atlantic to Canada or guaranteed escape to Gibraltar, fake American passports, cut-rate stimulant drugs which were so impure and diluted with everything from sodium bicarbonate to the as-yet unrationed salt that there was never enough to have much effect… slinking villains, who were viewed with a mixture of contempt, gratitude and indifference, depending on the constitution of those that observed their trench-coated, solicitous scurryings.
    A tiny minority, no longer fearing the criminal charge of ‘defeatism’ in the wake of Dunkirk, had even sold pocket sized German language handbooks; utterly taboo, though even with a discerning approach to choosing potential buyers, most would still fall victim to particularly vindictive assaults from enraged patriots, and those with family and friends in France. Two died in Liverpool, with an astonishing thirty-seven stab wounds reported on a middle aged male found slashed to pieces in a market. Stabbed and slashed THIRTY-SEVEN times… evidently, Scousers hate Germany. To everyone’s shock; the practice soon migrated from working class areas…
    Everything is in short supply for the average man; vegetables, meat and tempers. Queuing up for goods when the lads fought in France, and especially when the night raids happened, that was fine. All anger was directed outwards, frustration turned to humour.
    ‘Fat Göring should spend a month or two in England’, they’d say. ‘No wonder he wants us so badly. To be able to live in a country whose bread tastes like cardboard, milk like puddle-water with cheese curds or rat turds, and who only get a combined 480g per week of cheese and butter – it will do him the world of good… he’ll look normal again in no time!’
    Or talking about some obvious sign of bomb damage on a building, asking how big the mice must have been to chew an ’ole that size! Or any number of other brilliant examples of the British sensibility in times of