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The Companion: Part 53

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Report on the interrogation of prisoners of war carried out by the Special Operations Executive (SOE).

All the interrogations were carried out by Lieutenant Violet Stark, a bio-mechanical synthetic being chosen chiefly for her disease-resistance, endurance and data-recording abilities.  The early phases of the operation were characterised by prisoners in very poor states of health, many showing symptoms of diarrhoea and vomiting.  During most of the interviews, the prisoner was naked.  This was not primarily intended to weaken or humiliate, but to cut down on laundry.  The interrogation area was kept at a temperature between 18 and 24 centigrade.  No artificial stimuli (bright lights, loud noises, beatings) were employed. 

            All the prisoners are male.  The oldest appear to be in their early 30s. 

            In order to carry out the interrogation with the minimum of assumptions, it was decided to interview the prisoners in ascending order of rank.  They were divided according to the colour of their uniform and hence their status within the enemy organisation.  Black uniforms were worn by the members of a group known as the ‘Racial Guardians’, who assumed superiority.  Khaki uniforms were worn by the rest, most or all of whom appear to have been members of a political party which changed its name after their spaceship left earth but before it arrived on Achird-gamma.  It had been called Britain For The British, but became, by order of Richard Spalding, The National Socialist English Workers’ Party.  The prisoners consistently reported that this caused discontent among a handful of men of non-English heritage.  One of these, who happened to be a speaker of the Welsh language, was shot as an example to silence dissent. 

            Most of the interviews with the lower-ranked prisoners revealed next to nothing.  They appear to have been imbued with an ideology characterised by racism, nationalism, the subjugation of women, propensity to violence, and obedience to the party leadership.  However, most of these prisoners seemed to have little or no idea why they travelled 19.4 light years to come to this planet.  The most vivid accounts they gave concerned day-to-day existence on board their ship, which was over-crowded and Spartan (in both the un-luxurious and sexual sense of the word).  The three activities that seemed to fill the time were queuing for food, queuing for the toilet, and cadging illicit vodka. 

            Two senior prisoners were identified for longer and more considered treatment.  They were Paul Brunton and Richard Spalding.  Both of these referred to Richard Spalding as Wolf, though Spalding did not consistently refer to himself in the third person. 

            Brunton is intellectually and politically a zombie under the control of the party of which he is a member.  He claims to be educated to degree level.  Secret observation of his interaction with other prisoners confirms that he is competent to exercise authority over his subordinates, but is utterly subservient towards Spalding.  Brunton seems to have spent most of his time aboard the spaceship acting as Spalding’s scribe, and taking dictation for a book he has written (and claims still to be working on).  This is a work of political philosophy.  Both Brunton and Spalding claim this had grown to about 1,500 pages by the time of the Battle of Hardboard City, most of which were lost in the conflagration.  The following is a quotation from one of the surviving pages.  This is indicative of what survives of the rest of the work.

            And so it is the task of the Political Leadership and most especially of the Leader himself to establish a regime in which the overriding emotions felt by the People are love of the Fatherland and hatred for everything – culturally, geographically and genetically – outside the Fatherland.  The chief manifestations of this love should be the desire to obey, to work and to fight, and an increase in the population.  The manifestation of this hatred should be the ability to absorb and internalise propaganda from the Party leadership and an increased capacity to wage total war. 

            The establishment of this harsh regime begins with the actions of the Leader and the Party leadership in giving direction to the life of the Nation.  It becomes gradually the duty of every good National Socialist to inculcate this both as a principle and as a way of life in both himself and his comrades.  It is the historic task of successive generations and of the Nation as it aspires to true Nationhood to pursue this to the point that it purifies and strengthens the blood of every member of the National Community. 

            Once National Socialism has drawn towards itself all the valuable bloodlines available to the Nation, either from the Nation itself or from racially salvageable fragments of other white-skinned nations, the rest of the global population will rapidly become so racially inferior that they will be unable to carry out any activity beyond mere subsistence or manual labour under direct Aryan supervision.  Under the new, racially purified and invigorated Nationhood, antiquated ideas such as liberalism, feminism and racial equality will become unsupportable, because the degenerated structures within the human brain required to support these polluted doctrines will cease to exist.  Some of my fellow racial theorists have suggested that surgery or drugs might be used to accelerate this process, but it is the author’s view that the establishment of a true National Socialist regime will make this unnecessary.

            In case any reader is still in any doubt, it is of the utmost importance that the agents of the new National Socialist state including the army, the police, and most of the civil service  are fully imbued with the Spirit of National Socialism before they can be called upon fully to carry out the task of subduing and, where necessary, annihilating politically subversive, economically useless, or racially hostile elements.  As the Party Leadership perfects itself in this regard, it is of paramount importance for it to carry the Party membership and the Nation with it. 

            The only time that questions put to Richard Spalding elicited responses longer than a single word was when this document was put in front of him, and he was asked to expand upon it.  What follows is a transcript of the very end of that conversation.  The opening remark is from Spalding.

            ‘You do have a chance to save yourself.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘It isn’t too late.  You have done nothing but carry out the orders of a corrupt and racially mongrel government.  If you help me and my comrades to escape and re-arm, you could be free.  You could even join us, after the necessary political re-education.’

            ‘I don’t think you would want me in your – how shall I put it – movement.’

            ‘But I can see just by looking at you that you are racially salvageable.  You have magnificent white skin.  You don’t have brown eyes.  You seem fit and strong.  You could be an excellent mother of fine, Aryan children.’ 

            The interrogator admits that what she did next, while it did have a genuine motive in seeing how the prisoner would react to having his ideas contradicted, was chosen partly for her own amusement. 

            ‘I don’t have brown eyes?  What do you mean?  Of course I have brown eyes.’ 

            ‘No, I – oh.  Oh.  That is very odd.  I looked at them several times after you came into the room, and I could have sworn you had either grey or blue eyes.  Now I see that they are quite clearly brown.  That is disappointing.’ 

            ‘And I don’t have white skin, either.’

            ‘Don’t be absurd.  Aaaaah!  Aaaaaaaaaah!  What’s happening to you?  What is happening?  Do you have a disease?  Oh, god!  Is it infectious?   Let me out!  Let me out!  I demand that you let me out of here!’

            The interrogator confirms that she reverted to her normal appearance before the next person entered the room.  She also reports that the image she used her bio-mechanics to present to the prisoner was based on a twentieth-century singer called Grace Jones.

Permalink 1 comment (latest comment by Mike Green, Wednesday, 24 Aug 2011, 09:40)
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The Companion: Part 48

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I need to think.  Now that the enemy guns have stopped firing, I need to take a few minutes to concentrate on what to do next.  There is an answer.  The answer will lie in sacrifice and harshness.  The answer will lie in the Triumph of the Will. 

            I have it.  I will tell Brunton to get the men to fall in.  I have some selections to make, and some harsh orders to give.

*

Wolf  has given his instructions.  They were tough to carry out, but that is what National Socialism requires.  If we are to earn our place in history, I am sure that Wolf’s tactic is the best one.

            We seized the advantage of a lull in the battle to get all the men to line up, and we took all their weapons and all their ammunition off them.  We pooled the ammunition according to calibre and then we re-allocated it to picked men, chosen mostly but not entirely from the Racial Guardians.  While we were doing this, we found that a number of the sections had “lost” their machine guns, with no explanation of how this had happened.  Wolf shot a few of these offending section leaders with his automatic pistol.    

            Once we had re-formed and re-armed the sections, we had about 1000 men in teams of 5, all fully armed.  The rest of the men we allowed to take their pick of the assault rifles which remained, and they were each given  three rounds.  A few protested, and were shot on the spot. 

            The fire in the built-up area is making it pretty hot here, and the smell of chlorine is only just bearable.  We are about to advance into the slight depression between the edge of the town and the enemy.  The cover is minimal, but it should be just enough, especially if we get the men to dig in. 

            Wolf  wants the men in three lines, with the line at the rear having the ammunition supply.  He wants the enemy to see the middle and forward lines running out of ammunition.  What the men in these lines do after they have fired their last round is up to them.  They are expendable.  The object of all this is to goad the enemy into mounting a charge towards our position.  If they charge, we will mow them down with machine-gun fire when they are too close to turn back.  The rear line has strict orders to shoot on sight any man who attempts to run away. 

            I wish they would stop that bloody music.  It keeps changing with the fluctuating direction of the wind.  One moment, I can hear bagpipes and drums.  The next, nigger drums.  The nigger drums are the loudest.  It sounds as if there are hundreds of them.  It makes me wonder how many men they have playing instruments instead of bearing arms.  

            Oh, god, I feel sick again.  What the hell did they give us?  We thought we were immune from any sabotage or rebellion because we could immediately take reprisals against the civilian population.  The problem was that we stupidly forgot to lock the civilian population up because we thought they were working for us.  Wolf  is right: cruelty must never let up.  Compassion is mankind’s worst failing.  The moment you show the slightest sign, not just of weakness, but of lack of brutality, people start to disobey you and exploit you.  

            I shudder to think what Wolf  will do to them if he somehow does emerge from this victorious.   

*

I am looking over the parapet by means of a magnifying periscope.  The remains of Hardboard City are burning merrily, with sooty, orange flames leaping ten or fifteen feet into the sky.  It is very difficult to assess how many of the enemy were killed in the bombardment.  It doesn’t look like that many.  They appear to be moving forward in three lines. 

    They aren’t firing, other than very occasionally, which leads me to believe that they are running short of ammunition.

    I wander if we should charge.  Hellfire.  I hate feeling indecisive.    

    Diggle is standing nearby.  He seems apprehensive, as well he might.  There is a ramp that leads up to the parapet. Diggle keeps looking at it.  He is trying to imagine what it would be like if I gave the order. 

  One of the things I like best about my soldiers, men such as Diggle, is that they have no families yet.  No letters to write.

 

How the hell did I get here?  I’m on an alien planet, wearing a military uniform, excess dye from which turns my exposed skin green.  My boots have been polished by an Indian seconded to the Gurkhas who refers to me always as “Your Majesty”, no matter how many times I tell him to call me “Sir” or, better still, “Kelvin”. 

    I can’t see any way out of this situation other than by giving an order which will cause some of my men to be killed.  

    I hardly slept last night but for some reason I don’t feel tired.  I was possessed by a demonic aggression which still seethes within me.  I have not felt as agitated as this since my Oxford entrance exam, which I failed. 

    It looks as if they are running out of ammunition, but it may be a ruse.  We have nothing to lose by waiting.  They aren’t going anywhere.  Most of them will already have diarrhoea.  Why can’t we just sit here and wait for them to sink into their own elimination products.

They are running out of ammunition.  They are sitting ducks.  I want to charge them.  I want to impale them.  We outnumber them.  Most of them have already been poisoned.  They are defenceless.  This has been going on for too long.  We can finish this, here, now.  We can execute every single one of them.  They deserve to die.  The most they can expect is a clean death, which is more than they gave any-one else.  Scum.  That is what they are.  Subhuman filth.  When we win, do we simply shoot the survivors, or do we try them?  The leaders – do we sentence them to death, or do we give them what they really deserve?  Do we take revenge for the atrocities they have committed?  The Assembly would never sanction it.  I wonder if I can force a massacre through under my military authority, before any-one has time to think twice about it.  They are scum.  Scum.  Scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum scum

*

I haven’t the foggiest idea what Kelvin is thinking, but he looks deadly serious.  He keeps fingering the “send” button on his walkie-talkie.  I know what he is going to say.  I just can’t tell how long it will take him to say it.  The next bit, whenever it comes, doesn’t have a fancy name.  It won’t be called Doormat or Mincemeat or anything like that.  It’ll just be the order.  I can’t bring myself to even think it.  But he can.   

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