If Britain Had Fallen

By Tony Kane

A dark London night, 1940. Thirteen-year-old Tom sleeps, uninterrupted. Why is it so quiet? Is the Blitz over?

Morning. The wireless brings news of the unthinkable.

Journey with Tom as his life is turned upside down by the brutal Nazi occupation of England. He escapes the clutches of the Gestapo. Only to be embroiled in the resistance movement, propelling him into even great danger.

When Tom meets Jeanie, the pair find themselves at the heart of a plot to foil the invaders, deep beneath London's streets. But how can the two teenagers possibly overcome the might of Hitler's Nazis?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Kane
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781999796211

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER 1940 – BRITAIN WAITS

Tom Dirkin stood on the corner by Beppe’s sweet shop and watched the procession of military lorries pass by on the Brighton Road. It would be a mistake to call them a convoy because they seemed to have lost almost any semblance of military order. Tom found it hard to remember the last time he had seen them but he thought it was about a year ago, when the lorries were heading the other way, for France, to take on the Nazi armies. Then they had been freshly painted in camouflage brown and sap green, the soldiers inside full of confidence and military swagger, whistling at the girls as they passed by.

Now it was different. The men looked exhausted and absorbed in their own worlds. Certainly they did not wish to attract attention to themselves by whistling to passers-by. Their uniforms, which had been smart on the way out, were now caked with mud. Few of them wore hats or helmets or carried rifles. Some had their arms in slings and several heads were covered in bandages. This was the remnant of an army that had escaped from Dunkirk as the German forces had closed around them; an army that had scraped itself off the beaches and into the little ships that had been sent to rescue them.

Tom pushed open the brightly painted door, the bell jangling, to complete his errand.

‘Ten Minors and a gobstopper, please,’ he asked Beppe.

Sucking the gobstopper and clutching the cigarettes for his mother, he turned for home, pleased to escape the sight of defeat and sad-looking soldiers.

Tom cut a slim figure as he hurried home, his dark blond hair catching the weak autumn sunlight. He soon reached his house: number 50 Eggerton Road, Streatham was an Edwardian terrace of reasonable size and condition. Handing the cigarettes and change to his mum, Dorothy, he heard a low whistle from the back garden. This was the secret call used by Tom and his friend Anthony, who lived next door, to summon each other when they wanted a game or a chat. At thirteen, Tom was a year younger than his friend, and shorter at five foot six.

He rushed out to the garden. Anthony’s head with its unruly brown hair had popped up over the low fence that divided the two gardens. His sunny nature complemented Tom’s happy-go-lucky and slightly impetuous personality. He vaulted the fence and joined Tom on his side.

‘Fancy a game of cricket?’ Tom asked.

‘I’m in,’ Anthony agreed. ‘Yesterday I got 61 for one wicket. It’s your turn to bowl.’

In the garden shed Anthony found a tiny bat and a set of miniature stumps. The bat had been made and lovingly varnished by Tom, who was very attached to it. It stood up to some robust treatment from the boys. From his pocket, Tom extracted a ping pong ball.

Miniature cricket was a game the pair played day in, day out, closely modelled on the Ashes series that had been so popular before the war. Anthony was on form and was soon knocking the ball all over the garden. He gave one over-enthusiastic swipe that sent the ball sailing towards the back fence. ‘That’s six and out,’ grumbled Tom as he went to peer into the alley behind. Anthony joined him, noticing that the door of the shed, which adjoined the fence, was open.

‘Maybe it went in here,’ he suggested.

Sure enough, there was the ball, half concealed in a box.

‘How on earth did it get in here?’ Anthony asked. ‘I was sure it went over the fence.’

The two friends clambered over some garden tools into the dingy shed, a favourite hangout for the two. They used it as a shelter on rainy afternoons to read comics or play games but they seldom investigated the darker corners.

They approached the box in which they had spotted the ball and together lifted it out of the shed into the light, revealing its other contents, including some booklets and a set of 78 records.

‘Your dad is something to do with that lot, isn’t he?’ suggested Anthony, pointing to the cover of one of the booklets, which was illustrated with some men engaged in light combat.

‘Yeah,’ replied Tom non-committally. He had been told not to talk about his father’s activities.

Anthony pushed the point: ‘What’s there to be so secretive about? He’s only in the part-time army anyway – he’s not a real soldier.’

‘Well actually,’ protested Tom, ‘he’s a Major and he was so impressive that the Army’s got him involved with setting up the Home Guard – it’s a sort of civilian army – you must have heard of them? If there were to be an invasion he would be in the thick of it.’

Tom felt he had been led into saying far more than he should have but he genuinely didn’t know much about his dad’s work. Perhaps the box’s contents might tell him more. ‘Let’s have a look at this stuff,’ he conceded.

The boys quickly became absorbed in their find, their game of cricket forgotten. The set of 78rpm records seemed be something to do with Home Guard training but it was the damp, fragile booklets that grabbed their immediate attention. They started to leaf through them carefully.

Neither of them noticed Tom’s mum approaching. ‘Boys! You shouldn’t be looking at those!’ She bent to snatch away the leaflets.

‘Sorry, Mum’, mumbled Tom. ‘But I’m old enough to know what Dad does, you know.’

‘Don’t answer back, young man!’ But her expression softened. ‘Come in to the house and have a slice of cake. You can tidy this all up later.’

After a meagre piece of Victoria sponge each, Tom and Anthony retreated back into the garden to discuss the war out of Dot’s earshot.

‘It’s like living in a ghost town round here with all the shops closed. The BBC keeps telling us we are going to win but it doesn’t seem like we will. The Germans have so much more air power and they’ve already swept through France and Poland. What chance do we stand?’

At that moment the two boys heard the distinctive noise of aircraft above them, as if to confirm their fears. They craned their necks to see two Germen Heinkel planes following a Spitfire. The Heinkels seemed to gain on the British plane, which was rolling and diving in a desperate attempt to escape. The pair watched the display of aerobatics as the Heinkel released canon after canon at the fleeing plane. Suddenly the Spitfire burst into flames and began to nosedive. The Heinkel flew in circles and appeared to watch the death throes of the Spitfire as it plummeted earthwards only to disappear behind the London skyline. A spiral of smoke was the only trace of the British fighter left on the horizon as the two enemy planes made off in the direction of Germany.

‘Another one down,’ muttered Tom. ‘I’m going in for my tea. See you tomorrow.’ Anthony nodded, similarly deflated.

Life continued in the usual pattern. Tom’s dad was often gone for days at a time, deeply embroiled in the beginnings of the Home Guard volunteer force, although Tom didn’t get to hear the details. He knew they’d be instrumental in defending vital national interests such as airports, power stations and coastal areas in the event of a Nazi invasion – but just how likely was that? Tom got the sense that he, Anthony – probably most people – didn’t have much grasp on what was truly happening, no matter how much news they listened to.

Indeed, the BBC six o’clock news on the wireless had become the focal point of the day for Tom’s family – along with countless others around the country. Any scrap of news that would give them hope and encourage them to believe things were not as bad as they seemed was digested eagerly. Reports of the ‘Battle of Britain,’ as Churchill had dubbed the air war, were aired continuously. Also broadcast were encouraging reports of RAF victories that didn’t seem to match what was happening in the skies above London day after day, where Heinkels and 101s dominated the air space. Night after night, the city’s anxious residents were woken by the arrival of bombers roaring overhead making for central London or Tilbury docks to the east. Hundreds of enemy planes filled the night sky. For Tom it was exciting to a degree, but he wondered why he didn’t see any changes in the war news. The enemy bombers kept coming despite the increased anti-aircraft activity.

At night time during the raids Tom slept poorly, especially when his father was absent from the house. Somehow he felt more vulnerable when it was just him, his mum and the family dog, Judy, a scruffy but devoted black Scottie-cross. His dressing gown was always kept folded over the chair next to his bed in readiness for a quick dash downstairs should the bombs come too close. There was an alcove under the stairs next to the wall, which everyone deemed the safest place in the house. His mother made a huge bed which they all fitted into, safe and snug, and he would lie there next to her – and his father if he was at home – Judy hustling for an inner position. Tom’s imagination created battles between British and German soldiers fighting in the street while the bombers roared overhead and the ack-ack guns blazed away from the ground at the incoming planes. The raids usually finished by three a.m., when he was able to take Judy back upstairs to his room, to try to regain some kind of broken sleep. The little dog would curl up at his feet, trembling along with Tom at the slightest sound of danger. Shortly after dawn the family would dress and prepare breakfast as if the events of the night had never occurred.

CHAPTER 2

THE INVASION

During the night of Thursday 19th September Tom slept a solid, dreamless sleep. No air raid siren disturbed him. There was no mad dash to the space under the stairs. Peace had apparently descended.

Judy woke him around seven with a stealthy lick. Getting little reaction more than a grunt from Tom, she leapt back off the bed and scampered downstairs to find some breakfast. Languishing a while more under the faded patchwork quilt, Tom half-listened to the comforting sounds of his mother pottering downstairs in the kitchen. Unwilling to break this calm and peaceful state between sleep and full wakefulness, he lay in quiet contentment. Eventually Dot’s soft voice called up the stairs.

‘Breakfast is ready, Tom!’

He dressed quickly in his school uniform, pulling on grey shorts and grey shirt, haphazardly knotting his yellow and blue striped tie which hung at a rather wonky angle, and grabbed his dark blue blazer sporting the St Mark’s yellow crest. Downstairs, his porridge was steaming, sitting ready on the old pine table, the wireless humming in the background.

Dot was bustling about, washing up, seeing to the morning’s other chores and sipping a cup of tea.

‘You look bright today, Tom.’

‘Slept like a log – quite surprised actually. Must’ve been much quieter last night.’

‘Funny you should say that – I thought the same. I wonder–’

Dot broke off suddenly as she became aware that the music on the wireless had stopped, interrupted by a loud, apparently German, voice. Tom put down his spoon to listen too.

‘Attention, attention!’ barked the announcer. ‘Last night the forces of the Wehrmacht army landed in southern England and liberated Great Britain. A curfew is in place and all schools, factories and places of work are closed until further orders but there is no cause for concern. You are advised to stay indoors while our forces complete the liberation of the country. As a sign of surrender you are instructed to hang a white flag out of your window. This will be a sign to our troops that your house is non-hostile and you will be left in peace. Heil Hitler!’

Tom and his mother regarded one other in disbelief, grasping the enormity of the announcement. The domestic calm was shattered.

‘Did he just say liberated Great Britain?’ Tom spluttered. The irony clearly wasn’t lost on his mother, either.

‘I suppose if they call a spade a spade and say occupied, they risk anarchy on the streets.’

‘Do they think we’re that stupid, Mum?’

Silence. Dot couldn’t answer. This was the nightmare scenario she and John had debated but hadn’t truly dared to entertain as a plausible reality.

‘Well, I may as well change out of my uniform – won’t be any school today,’ Tom muttered finally.

He simply couldn’t fathom the news. There had been talk at school all week about the air battles between the RAF and the German air force. His friends had been keeping a score of hits and misses in a sort of unofficial league table. They’d been out in the mornings before school picking up shrapnel that lay in the streets as souvenirs, identifying the remnants of Heinkels and Spitfires, tallying which appeared most often. What’s more, the news on the wireless was usually reassuring, providing encouraging figures of British victories and enemy losses.

So how could it all have gone so badly wrong in such a short space of time? The British were holding their own, weren’t they? The German air force had been losing aircraft at such a rapid rate!

‘That’ll be the reason for no air raid last night, then – that’s why we slept so well.’ Dot’s voice trembled as she spoke, apparently to herself.

Tom sat upright suddenly. ‘Where’s Dad?’ he asked.

‘He left for his Home Guard duties in the early morning,’ replied his mother. ‘Your dad knows how to look after himself,’ she added hastily, seeing Tom’s wide, anxious blue eyes. She began to busy herself clearing away the breakfast detritus and Tom took that as his cue to leave the kitchen, Judy on his heels, her claws clicking on the tiles.

He went upstairs to change out of his uniform. At his bedroom window he looked out to see if any of the neighbours were hanging out white surrender flags yet, following the Germans’ orders. As he watched, sheets began to appear, fluttering in the chilly autumnal wind. The house opposite hung out a pair of white long johns – was that a gesture of veiled defiance? He could see a look of derision on his neighbour’s face as their eyes met across the street. Dot joined him at the window, then went silently to the airing cupboard on the landing and found an old sheet. With Tom’s help, resignedly they fastened it to the sill.

The pair found other household jobs to pass the time as they waited anxiously for more news – and the return of John, Tom’s father. They kept the wireless on in the background and every so often the normal programmes such as Housewife’s Choice and Worker’s Playtime were interrupted with bulletins delivered in German-accented English. It was clear that the Nazi occupiers had taken over the BBC, that most treasured of British institutions – this felt like a huge affront. Mostly the bulletins reiterated the situation, ordering people to remain inside and await further developments – and always ending with a stern ‘Heil Hitler!’

It was during Children’s Hour that the announcement came about the Home Guard. ‘This is the German High Command speaking,’ the voice began. ‘Will all personnel in the Home Guard report to the nearest police station immediately. You are ordered to take all identification papers and any military weapons with you.’

Tom’s heart sank. ‘Will Dad have to go?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dot, as calmly as she could muster. Repeating her earlier assertion, she added: ‘Don’t worry about Dad, he can look after himself.’

The afternoon drifted into evening and there was no sign of John Dirkin. More crowing from the Germans was relayed in yet another broadcast. Almost switching off the wireless then thinking the better of it, Tom recognised the voice of the announcer from that first explosive news bulletin that morning – had it only been ten hours ago? He felt an eternity had passed already. This time the announcer was explaining in detail how the invasion had occurred.

‘Our barges have been lined up on the Belgian and French coasts for some time, waiting for calm weather. After our air force knocked out the RAF, Admiral Raeder created a mine-free channel and seized the English Channel from the British Navy. Army group B has successfully liberated Devon and Cornwall under Field Marshal von Rundstedt. A parachute division of 10,000 has captured Folkestone and Dover. The sixteenth army has taken the area from St Leonards to Folkstone; the army has secured Rottingdean, Brighton and Hastings. What little opposition there was has been wiped out by our superior forces.’

‘How could Churchill have let it happen, Mum?’

Dot simply shook her head.

Round about seven as it was getting dark, Tom slipped out of the back door into the garden and gave the low and tuneless whistle to call his friend Anthony.

Before long Anthony’s face appeared above the garden fence, grinning from ear to ear. ‘You been listening to the wireless?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’

‘That’s one word for it, I suppose. I’m so bored staying inside already,’ said Tom. In a low voice, he added: ‘What say we take a trip up the road tomorrow and see what’s going on?’

‘You’re on. See you tomorrow after breakfast, if my dad lets me. You know what he’s like,’ replied Anthony and disappeared only to reappear moments later, adding, ‘Bring your skates. That can be the reason we’re out if anyone asks.’

CHAPTER 3

THE GESTAPO VISIT

Tom slept fitfully. He could hear more movement outside than was usual: the occasional barked command, the wailing of police sirens. He was also straining to listen for any sign of his father returning home.

Breakfast the next morning was a tense affair, the wireless droning on, the usual programming constantly interrupted by barked instructions. Yet Tom and Dot were equally reluctant to switch it off. What if they missed some crucial news?

‘Is Dad still in bed?’ Tom asked as his mother served up his porridge. A pause.

Not looking at her son, Dot replied, ‘No, he didn’t come in last night. I expect he is busy liaising with the Germans.’

Barely was her sentence finished when a loud knocking at the front door made them both jump, accompanied by frenzied barking from Judy, whose vocal chords were surprisingly powerful for a dog of her small stature. Dot wiped her hands on her apron, pushed bits of stray hair into place and hurried to answer it, pulling the kitchen door shut behind her. What doesn’t she want me to know, wondered Tom. Despite the closed door, he could hear urgent voices in the hall. Two imposing men in black ankle-length overcoats burst in, followed by a small squad of officers in field grey uniforms. Tom went cold as he recognised the badge of the Gestapo. What were the Nazis’ official secret police doing here in his small house in Streatham? It had to be to do with his father.

‘Shut that damned dog up!’ barked one of the non-uniformed officers, making as if to kick Judy hard in her abdomen.

‘Please don’t, she’s just a bit worked up because she doesn’t know you’, said Tom, trying to grab the cowering little dog out of the way of the steel-capped boot.

The officer made a clear attempt to regain some composure. ‘Yes, well, put it in the garden, that’ll be best all round.’

Tom wasn’t stupid. He did as he was told.

The two non-uniformed officers stared around the kitchen, taking in every detail. Tom