Lord Haw-Haw: Germany Calling | Last Gasp | 3
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Wondery Plus subscribers can binge entire seasons of British Scandal early and ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Matt, can I have a tenner? No. Why not? What is it to you, like a couple of coffees? Yeah, but you're earning. You've got your own money. You don't need mine. You're just going to spend it on something frivolous. What if you could do something incredible with that £10? What if you could make a real difference to someone's day? What if you gave it to me? But what would you do with it? That £10? £10?

could become an engine for spreading infinite ripples of goodwill throughout the world. What if handing me that £10 note was the start of a revolution, the flap of a butterfly's wing that brings about a hurricane of positivity in an otherwise broken world? Yes, OK, there's a tenner. I mean, that is the most inspired I have felt for ages. I feel like I'm actually part of something that's going to change the world.

Can I ask, what are you going to do with the money? No, you can't. What? It's my money, my business. Cheers. Oh, man, she's done me again. 3rd of January, 1946. Wandsworth Prison. Albert Pierpoint steps out of a black cab into the cold, damp January morning. An icy fog hangs over the grim Victorian prison. He adjusts his trilby against the bitter wind, then reaches for his leather bag.

A large crowd has gathered outside the prison gates. Some hold placards protesting an unjust conviction. Others demand the traitor swings. The smoke from Pierpoint's cigar mingles with the fog as several reporters recognise him. Oi, Pierpoint, how's it feel to hang a traitor? Does the man deserve clemency? Was the trial a sham? Mr Pierpoint, will justice be served today?

He's hanged hundreds of criminals in his career as his Majesty's chief executioner, including the infamous Blackout Ripper. Albert's no stranger to publicity, but this crowd surprises even him.

Hundreds. That is so grim. Yes, Albert Pierpoint is by far the most famous executioner in British history and it's estimated he hung between 435 and 600 people. Christ alive. Or not, as the case may be. Among them were Ruth Ellis, the last woman to be hanged in Britain, George Hay, the acid bath murderer and loads of Nazi war criminals. So this guy was prolific. It does make you wonder...

What gets you into that line of work? Go on, what's your theory? Well, he obviously was fine with killing people, but he thought, you know what, maybe I should go legit.

And I'll offer my services to the Crown and say, look, I'm really good at killing people. Do you want me to kill some of the people that you think should be killed? And then I've basically gone straight, but I still get to scratch the itch. Scratch the itch! So you think it's 400 to 600 legit, and maybe a few more practice runs. Come on. I mean, everyone has to try out new material, don't they, in some way? Oh, my God!

You're going to love what the production team have just told me. It's a family business. No way. His dad and his granddad are executioners. Albert's work experience week must have been brutal. A few minutes later, he steps into the execution chamber. Albert takes in its whitewashed walls, its stark utilitarian bare concrete floor, harsh electric lights. At the centre stands the scaffold.

A wooden platform with a trapdoor, above which hangs a thick metal beam. Albert carefully places his leather bag on a wooden table and methodically removes his implements one by one. Rope, a white hood, his logbook. With practiced efficiency, he marks the rope with chalk. Shadows stretch across the room as he calculates the exact measurements required.

He tests the rope's tension, running his calloused fingers along the thirteen turns of the noose. One for luck, as always. The trapdoor mechanism slides open with well-oiled precision, then closes with a definitive thud. He adjusts his waistcoat, runs a hand over his thinning hair. He knows this hanging must be perfect. He turns as he hears footsteps echo down the corridor. The door swings open. Albert's breath catches.

A man stands in the doorway, bolt upright, no tie, collar open. A crimson scar running across his right cheek. His eyes clear, alert, unafraid. Their gaze locks for an instant. Albert reaches for the white hood but pauses. His executioner's eye catches the pulse beating in the prisoner's neck, rapid, desperate beneath the composed exterior. His hand rests momentarily on the condemned man's shoulder.

A final act of humanity for the voice that terrorized Britain in its darkest hour. With practiced hands, he places the white hood over the man's head, then the noose around his neck. The prison clock begins to strike nine. It's time for Lord Haw-Haw to face his final judgment.

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From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. So, Alice, things are coming to a head for William Joyce, a.k.a. Lord Haw Haw. He's finally getting the type of recognition and power that he's always craved. He's been promoted by Goebbels. He's really been propelled into the power centre of Nazi Germany. And he's now the man in charge of Germany's propaganda efforts into foreign territories. But...

He's also more or less staring down the barrel of a gun. We heard at the end of the last episode that the British now want him dead, and Churchill himself has authorised a hit on him. So it's probably not the sort of threat you'd take lightly, even with the protection of the SS, unfortunately.

Where do you think he goes from here? Well, if what we've just heard is any kind of clue, I would say the gallows. But I'm interested in how he gets there. Words, so far, have been William's superpower. To put it rather lightly, he's got the gift of the gab, hasn't he? He's essentially your...

OG rage-baiting grifter. These people have a phenomenal ability to weaponise words with just the right mix of ideology and vitriol, essentially, and gather a following. So here's where I'm at. I'm wondering how long will he be able to escape the Brits for and...

Slash or, how is he going to use his way with words to talk the noose off his neck? Yes, can you smooth talk your way out of a death sentence? Let's find out if he can. This is episode three, Last Gasp. Nine months earlier, 1st of April 1945, Berlin parade ground, Germany. William narrows his eyes against the lashing rain, takes a glug from his hip flask.

In the past two years, life in Germany has gone from bad to worse. Listeners have abandoned William. Britain's attempted hit on him has forced him underground. He's been unable to focus. And now, to make it worse, Hitler has introduced conscription. His teeth chatter as he tries to stand straighter. The anti-tank grenade launcher heavy in his trembling hands. His lungs burn with each breath. Years of drink taking its toll.

Move, you useless schweinehund! This isn't one of your radio performances. Schweinehund is great. I think we should start using that. I guess it means pig dog? It sounds way worse than it probably is. Because if you were like, you pig. Yeah, what do you call me? Schweinehund. People would go, he's mental, leave it. William's vision tunnels as he staggers forward, slipping in the mud and collapsing into a filthy puddle.

His stomach heaves violently and his finger clenches on the trigger.

The launcher jerks in his hands. The grenade screams across the parade ground, just missing a group of soldiers, before detonating against an ammo shed, which erupts in flames and splintered wood. English saboteur! Spy! He stares up in concern, then horror, as a fist connects with his jaw, sending him sprawling back into the mud. He tastes blood mixing with rain and vomit. He lashes out, catching one attacker in the groin.

"I am William Bloody Joyce. I serve the Reich. I am Lord Haw-Haw." His words fall on deaf ears as another blow catches him in the ribs. He curls into a ball, braces. Just then, a radio message crackles into the air. "Russian tanks are less than 30 kilometers from the..." William feels the ground beneath him heave as an explosion cuts through the parade ground, followed by another and another.

He pulls himself to his feet as he sees buildings crumble in the distance. Clouds of dust and debris rising above the Berlin skyline. Russian artillery, take cover! William stands frozen as another shell falls just a few metres from where he's standing. A terrible clarity hits him. The Reich is finished. And if the Russians are already in Berlin, the British will only be a step behind.

He tears off his Nazi insignia, wipes mud across his face to cover the distinctive scar on his cheek, then makes his decision. He needs to run. He needs to disappear. He needs to reach Denmark, neutral territory, if he can just get to the border.

One week later, Hamburg, Germany. The German war is therefore at an end. After years of intense struggle, we may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing. British Lieutenant Geoffrey Perry honks as his jeep swerves around German POWs. The defeated soldiers trudge in long, ragged lines, heads bowed, shoulders slumped, ghosts in tattered uniforms.

Perry's eyes harden as he pushes past them. But let us not forget for a moment the toil and efforts that lie ahead. Perry skids to a halt outside Military Intelligence HQ, a partially collapsed department store. He checks his watch. His colonel despises poor timekeeping almost as much as Nazi's.

Oh my God, it's the same as you. Yeah, I'm sort of in that wheelhouse. But because I think one inevitably leads to the other. I knew you were going to say that. Inside, Perry slips into the briefing room where 20 officers sit in uncomfortable silence as the colonel looms over a map of northern Germany. Nice of you to join us, Lieutenant Perry. Perry slides in beside Captain Licorice. They caught Himmler in Lunenburg yesterday.

disguised himself as a common soldier with fake papers, shaved his moustache. He even wore an eye patch. Every rat is fleeing the ship, and our job is to ensure they don't escape justice. William watches as the Colonel traces possible escape routes to Switzerland, Spain. And we've just gotten reports of what these bastards have done. Images flash across the wall. Emaciated bodies stacked like firewood. Mountains of shoes. Ovens. Perry's chest tightens.

Somewhere in those piles might be his aunt's shoes, his cousin's glasses, his grandmother's wedding ring. He fled Germany in 1933, reinvented himself as a lieutenant in the British Army, changed his name from Horst Pinscher. Many in his family weren't so lucky. He thinks he might be sick. I hadn't realised he was Jewish. Yes, so he was born a German Jew, his parents fled Germany in the 1930s.

And Perry spent his youth in Buxton before joining the army. So this is very personal to him. I'm trying to imagine seeing those images for the first time because not that many people would actually have seen pictures in black and white. As in, people would have talked about it. It would have been communicated verbally. But to have that projected on the wall must have been so stark. It's so stark now to see those images. You all right, old chap?

He nods stiffly, accepting the cigarette, his hands trembling slightly. We've prepared identification cards. Each of you will be assigned specific targets. Perry takes the deck of playing cards, each with an image of a high-ranking Nazi fugitive. Perry stares at the faces of the men on the cards. Lieutenant Perry, I want you and Licorice to head north, to the Danish border. Lord Haw-Haw has been spotted near Flensburg.

The name hits Perry like a punch in the gut. William Joyce. The voice that called men like him vermin, that celebrated each bombing of London as justice against the so-called Jewish-controlled British Empire. Perry's fingers move through his playing cards until he finds Joyce's card, the Eight of Spades. Joyce's scarred face stares up at him, eyes intense even in the grainy photograph, as he whispers to himself, Germany calling.

Germany calling. He slips the card into his breast pocket. Perry nods. This is about justice. For his family, for his people, for the boy named Horst who had to disappear. Somewhere in the chaos of defeated Germany, William Joyce is trying to escape. And Perry is going to do everything he can to make sure that doesn't happen. 28th of May 1945. Danish-German border.

William's fingers close around a fallen branch. He adds it to the small bundle cradled in his left arm. The evening air carries the scent of pine and damp earth. He's been living in the woods along the Danish border for two weeks. He's determined to keep a low profile until he's sure the British forces have passed through. And for a fleeting moment, he feels something resembling peace. No more microphones. No more carefully rehearsed broadcasts. No expectations. Just the woods.

and the promise of anonymity beyond. He steps over a fallen log, scans the forest floor for kindling. He's about to call it time when he catches a flicker of movement between the trees. He freezes mid-step, the bundle of branches clutched against his chest. His heart hammers against his ribs as two figures materialize from the gathering dusk. He instinctively starts to edge backward into denser foliage, his eyes fixed on the two men.

One holds binoculars, the other studies a map. A dry branch snaps loudly beneath his boot. The shorter officer's head pivots sharply in his direction, his binoculars locked on his position. William forces his face into a relaxed smile, his mind racing. Too late to run now. "Excusez-moi, er... Bonsoir." He mutters something about collecting firewood in broken French, gesturing vaguely towards a patch of fallen trees.

His heart hammers as the two officers exchange words, their voices too low for him to make out. Until the taller officer approaches slowly, deliberately. His face clear now, young, intense. "Your papers, please." His hand hovers near his holster. William's fingers twitch towards his jacket pocket, where his forged identification sits waiting. Wilhelm Hansen, schoolteacher. For a split second, his mind races with alternatives.

Run? Fight? The forest is dense. If he bolts now, could he lose them in the gathering darkness? But it happens in an instant. The officer's pistol rising, gunshots ringing out. White hot pain tears through William. The forest tilts and spins. William's cheek presses against the cool soiled ground. Boots approach through fallen leaves. Voices above him, muffled and distant as if underwater. His vision narrows to pinpricks of light.

It's him. It's Joyce. Lord Haw-Haw. But the words barely register. Darkness rushes in. The cold, earthy dampness of the forest floor hits his cheek and he blacks out. The next day, Downing Street, London. Attorney General Sir Hartley Shawcross struts up Downing Street, briefcase in hand. He's been called to newly elected Labour Prime Minister Clement Attlee's office and he has no idea why.

In truth, he'd much rather still be in his meeting on the upcoming Nuremberg trials. He crosses the black and white checkerboard floor, climbs the curved staircase, straightens his tie. Inside, Atlee sits behind a desk drowning in documents. Rebuilding plans, NHS proposals, economic projections. Sir Hartley, thank you for coming on such short notice. He watches as Atlee reaches into his desk drawer.

throws a collection of photographs on his pile of documents. Shawcross steps forward, takes in the image of a dishevelled-looking man lying prostrate on a wooded floor. William Joyce has been captured. Shawcross freezes, stunned. Lord Haw-Haw? When? Yesterday. Shot while fleeing to Denmark. He'll survive, unfortunately. Shawcross leans forward. But no one knows. Military intelligence is keeping it quiet until we decide our next move.

Shawcross's eyes narrow as Attlee lowers his voice. Here's the thing. The Americans want him for their war crimes tribunal. The Soviets, too. But you don't want that. No, I bloody well don't. Joyce isn't just any traitor. He's the god-awful voice that haunted British airways for six years. Every bombing raid, every setback, he was there, mocking us. Attlee rises to his feet, moves to the window, silhouetted against the London sky and bomb-damaged buildings beyond.

He will be tried here, in Britain, under British law. He is such an unbelievable PR asset at this point, isn't he? Oh, massively. He's a traitor. And of course, all the German war criminals are going to be tried at Nuremberg. This is the Brit. So we want to get him back over here. Effectively, he becomes a lightning rod for people's anger towards the Nazis. Atley's face hardens. I demand justice.

It will be... But Shawcross cuts in. Britain's Nuremberg. Exactly. Can you do it? Shawcross strengthens. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Attlee nods, satisfied. Good. The cabinet expects results. Shawcross stands, energy coursing through him. This isn't just about prosecuting a traitor. This is about reasserting the rule of law after years of chaos. Oh, and one more thing. The press is waiting outside.

They've been told we have a major announcement. I was confident in your answer, Sir Hartley." Shawcross nods. "When do they expect me?" "Now." Shawcross emerges into blinding camera flashes. He takes a deep breath. He knows he's just been handed the case that will either cement his place in legal history or become his professional undoing. Because this isn't just a trial. It's about national catharsis.

Now all he needs to do is make sure William Joyce's life ends with his neck in a noose.

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Nazi scum!

You hear about the sort of prison hierarchy depending on what your crime was. At this point in 1945, could you be a less popular member of the prison community? The noncers were delighted he'd turned up. A glob of spit lands on William's sleeve. He doesn't flinch, keeping his gaze fixed forward. He's bustled into the interview room.

He takes in the sparse surroundings. A bolted down metal table, two uncomfortable chairs, and a small man with thinning hair hunched over a leather briefcase. Pipe smoke creating a hazy cloud that hangs in the stale air. He discreetly wipes the spit from his sleeve before extending his hand. "Gerard Slade, your defense counsel." He studies the unremarkable little man who now holds his life in his hands.

Don't say that out loud, because nobody likes to be regarded as an unremarkable little man, and I say that from experience. It's a no from me, Gerald. Send the next one in. It's nothing personal. It's just that you're an unremarkable little man. I said on the third date. You're being charged with three counts of high treason against the British. Christ, tell me something I don't know. Slade looks up, studying William's face. Yes, well, the broadcasts.

That's what they care about most. And the penalty? Death by hanging. For each count. William feels something crack inside him. The public mood is, uh, unforgiving. As you can imagine, your fellow countrymen feel... William slams his fist on the table. Christ! I wasn't even born in this wretched country! A heavy silence fills the room. Slade's movements slow. His pipe hovers halfway to his mouth. Forgotten.

What did you just say? His lawyer's eyes have narrowed, suddenly alert, like a bloodhound catching a scent. I said I wasn't born here! Slade places his pipe deliberately on the table, his full attention now on William. You are a British passport holder.

Well, yes, but not legally. I forged the papers, lied about my birthplace. So you've never been legally British? I was born American. I am American. I became a naturalised German in 1940. I'm not surprised his lawyer can't keep track. I thought he was Irish. Yeah, he was born in Brooklyn to Irish parents. Then they moved to Ireland where he grew up and then he moved to England when he was 15. Got it.

Slade's thin lips curve into a slight smile. "And the British government is charging you with treason." Slade leans forward, a gleam in his eye. "Mr. Joyce, they can't charge you with treason against Britain if you've never been a British citizen." William's back starts to straighten. His head rises. He can use the rule of law against his enemies. If Britain wants a show trial, he will give them one, and he'll force the establishment into a corner.

A corner that might just be his ticket out of here. I was worried about Slade. He's an old boy, but he's just found a sweet little loophole. Slade just got himself a fourth date. 17th September 1945. The Old Bailey, London. Shawcross pushes through the throng of reporters crowding the court steps. Newspaper vendors hawk special editions with screaming headlines. Radio crews jostle for position.

A long queue snakes around the block. People have waited since dawn. Sir Hartley, will Joyce hang? Is it true Joyce has a tattoo of Hitler's face covering his back? Shawcross ignores them. A court usher hurries to meet him. Sir, they're waiting for you. Full house. He straightens his wig before the usher swings open the heavy oak doors. The courtroom falls silent.

Justice Frederick Tucker clears his throat, his crimson robes catching the light. William Joyce, you stand charged with three counts of high treason against the Crown. Shawcross watches Joyce, studying the scar that runs down his cheek, the arrogant tilt of his chin. How do you plead?

Joyce straightens to his full height. Not guilty. Shawcross adjusts his robes, approaches the evidence table where a gramophone waits. My lord? Members of the jury? He waits until the room falls silent. The Blitz has become a grim reality on your homes and families. The lightning has struck, and in striking has shattered the very foundations of the once mighty British Empire. And I say, good riddance.

Shawcross allows himself a thin smile. He sees a woman in the jury wince before he plays the next recording. Joyce tugs at his collar, stares straight ahead. Germany will live because the people of Germany have in them the secret of life, endurance, will and purpose. And therefore I say to you, it's Labour Deutschland. Heil Hitler.

I mean, we just all grimaced in the studio at you saying that now. So being sat in that room, especially as the news of the concentration camps is pouring out...

I mean, it would just send a shiver down your spine. It would make you feel sick to your core. Yeah, because before when he was spreading his propaganda, the Blitz hadn't happened, so it hadn't really impacted them personally. But once they bombed London, people would have lost their homes, relatives, they'd have seen the destruction. It would be like hearing someone repeat Al-Qaeda propaganda straight after 9-11. It would just be absolutely horrifying.

For six years, this man tormented Britain through blackouts and bombings. He paces deliberately before the jury box. He coerced British POWs to spread disinformation. He sought to instill hatred, division, he pauses, to bring the British state to its knees. He abandoned his country in her hour of need to serve her enemy. Joyce's defence counsel rises abruptly. My lord, I object.

The prosecution asserts facts not in evidence. This presupposes British citizenship. A vein pulses in Shawcross's temple. A Slade approaches the bench with a document. My lord, I... But Slade continues. My lord, I present evidence confirming my client's German citizenship as of September 1940 at the time of these broadcasts. Shawcross strides forward. My lord...

Even if the court accepts this document, which I contest, the accused travelled on a British passport. He wrapped himself in the Union Jack. With that comes the duty of allegiance. Judge Tucker examines the documents. Finally, he looks up. The court will adjourn while I review this evidence. We will reconvene tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock. The media box erupts in chaos. Reporters rush for the doors, desperate to file their stories.

Shawcross's jaw drops, his case suddenly hanging by a thread. As guards move to escort Joyce from the dock, Shawcross catches his gaze across the crowded courtroom. Joyce's face expressionless, except for a slight glint in his eye, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. -Gawling doesn't even cover it, does it? -He needs to speak with his team. He will not be beaten by this. William Joyce is a traitor.

And in that moment, Shawcross realises it's not just Joyce's life that's at stake. If Lord Haw Haw gets off, it will make a mockery of the justice system he loves so much, and he will do anything not to let that happen. The following morning, holding cell, the old Bailey. Williams sits at a small wooden table, diary open before him. His pen hovers over the page. He edits a few lines with sharp strokes.

He's taken to writing down his thoughts, documenting his story. If he gets off, perhaps he can launch a career as a writer. He forgot how much he enjoyed putting pen to paper. The cell door opens abruptly. A guard enters with a tray. "Eat up! I hope you choke on it!" Joyce ignores the food. Instead, he throws his pen down in frustration. The door bangs open again, and Slade enters, accompanied by a guard. "Well?"

Slade's neutral expression reveals nothing. Fuck's sake, I need to know... He sees a smile break out across his lawyer's face. Tucker's dismissing two of the three charges. OK, that is why you need a death penalty for each. I take it back. Yeah, he's lucky. He's only going to get hung once. William feels a lightness fill his body that he hasn't felt in years. And the remaining charge? We'd only ever get two charges dropped, William, for the broadcast you did as a naturalised German.

Joyce closes his diary, slides it into his jacket pocket. But this is a significant victory and a precedent. William stands. His transformation is immediate. Back straight, chin raised. Then let's finish what we started. William follows Slade out through the open door back to the courtroom. The corridor teems with people. Journalists, court officials, spectators. William pauses at the threshold. Two down, one to go.

He steps forward into the crowd, which parts reluctantly before him. At the far end of the corridor, through the press of bodies, he catches a glimpse of Shawcross conferring urgently with his team. Their eyes meet briefly. William allows himself the faintest smile as he walks toward the dock, because it's no longer his back against the ropes. It's Shawcross's, and Slade still has his trump card to play. Minutes later, the old Bailey. Slade shoots a glance towards William in the dock.

as the judge makes his official ruling on the Crown's charges. Having reviewed the evidence presented, the court finds that Charges 2 and 3, relating to broadcasts made after the defendant's naturalisation as a German citizen, cannot stand as treason against the British Crown. These charges are hereby dismissed. Slade watches Shawcross carefully, noting how the prosecutor's shoulders tense. He can almost see the man's case collapsing before his eyes. However...

The first charge, relating to broadcasts made in December 1939, while the defendant was travelling under a British passport, remains. Slade watches as Shawcross gets to his feet. My lord, the Crown will proceed with the remaining charge. Slade rises, takes three measured steps to the centre of the courtroom, and looks directly towards the jewellery box. My lord, members of the jury...

My court has just dismissed two of the three charges on the grounds that William Joyce was a German citizen at the time of the supposed treasonous acts. Slade takes in the silence of the courtroom, every eye upon him. It has been agreed that in order to commit treason against Britain, that person must be a British citizen at the time of the treasonous act. Where is this going, Mr Slade? My lord, I have evidence that William Joyce has never been a British citizen.

Slade lifts William's birth certificate for all to see. This document proves that William Joyce was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1906, an American citizen from birth. A man born an American, who later became a German, cannot commit treason against Britain, a country to which he never legitimately belonged. Oh, Slade, I don't like you, but this performance...

Look at him go! He's having a great gig. He must feel so much taller than he is and so much more remarkable in this moment. He's thinking, if I land this, I think I could get Alice Levine out for a coffee. Maybe even a cocktail. Shorecross rises, his face flushed. My lord, the accused travelled on a British passport. Slade turned slowly, prepared for this exact argument.

A passport fortunately obtained cannot create allegiance where none existed. Shawcross steps forward, his voice rising. Holding a British passport creates obligations to the Crown. Justice Tucker leans forward, his brow furrowed. Extending treason law to non-citizens would create a dangerous precedent with no basis in 800 years of legal history. Shawcross interjects. My lord,

Slade's voice grows stronger, filling every corner of the hushed courtroom.

It would undermine the very foundation of British justice, the rule of law itself. Shawcross retorts, his face twisted in anger. William Joyce accepted the protection of the British crown. He lived in Britain. He married a British woman. He worked in British institutions. He is a former member of the British armed forces. Slades turns to face Shawcross directly.

Is this really how the Attorney General wishes post-war Britain to operate? A nation twisting its own laws to satisfy a public thirst for vengeance? He pauses, allowing his words to sink in. Britain will become a lawless wild west where political expediency trumps justice. His voice drops to a forceful whisper. I ask you, is Britain really no better than that? He returns to the defence table.

A deathly silence fills the room. Justice Tucker raises his hand. This is no longer just about Joyce. It's about the integrity of British law itself. And as Slade looks across at Shawcross's face, he can tell the Attorney General knows it. Ideologically, I'm in no way torn. But in terms of the argument in court...

Slade has a very compelling position. I think the best thing to do if you're Shawcross is say, I get all that, but just this once, your honour. It's a one-time code. You know, like when you want to log into something that you're locked out of. It won't be valid again. Exactly. Do it once, but it doesn't set precedent. He's a Nazi, come on. Come on.

Last year, law and crime brought you the trial that captivated the nation. She's accused of hitting her boyfriend, Boston police officer John O'Keefe, with her car. Karen Reid is arrested and charged with second-degree murder. The six-week trial resulted in anything but resolution. We continue to find ourselves at an impasse.

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William grips the wooden dock as Justice Tucker calls the jury. His heart pounds against his ribs. He studies each juror as they file back into the courtroom, desperate for any hint of uncertainty. Any Nazi sympathisers that might just be swayed by me? No. Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict? The foreman rises, perfectly pressed suit, confident posture. We have. On the charge of high treason,

Do you find the defendant, William Joyce, guilty or not guilty? The courtroom holds its breath. William stands stiffly to attention. He can hear his own breath in the room as the head juror steps forward. We find the defendant guilty. Oh, God, I'm so torn because this guy needs to see justice, but I don't want anybody hanged. Get off the fence, man.

You know deep down that you support the death penalty and your words just proved it. But you're worried you're going to get cancelled. It's not the flavour of the month to say that you're into capital punishment. Honestly, listener, the stuff she comes out with in private. They're falling for it, hook, line and sinker. The word strikes William like a punch to the stomach. He feels his body collapse into itself. The courtroom blurs. Sounds becoming distant. William Joyce.

You have been found guilty of high treason against the Crown. Justice Tucker's voice hardens, each word striking like nails in his coffin. This court has established, beyond any reasonable doubt, that you did assist the enemies of His Majesty's Kingdom, regardless of your claimed birth in America or your later German citizenship.

William remains perfectly still as Tucker continues. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.

William watches, momentarily confused, as Tucker reaches for something on his desk. A small black cloth. The judge solemnly places it upon his wig, and understanding dawns on William's face. The black cap, the ancient symbol of a death sentence, confirming the finality of his fate.

This just feels so surreal. It feels like the 1840s, not the 1940s. In parallel, in culture and society, you've got the NHS about to be born, the welfare state, this idea of looking after society and being protective of Britain's citizens. And then on the other hand, this is the justice system. Yeah, it's mad. You had a transformational Labour government that is, after the war, trying to rebuild the country in a more progressive way.

And yet people were still being hanged by the neck. But it's hard to imagine the anger and the pain at this point. Yeah, the desire for revenge would have been off the scale. People would absolutely want these people to be killed. There are still people now that believe we should have the death penalty and capital punishment. I dare say if you had a referendum tomorrow in the UK about whether we should bring back hanging, I don't know what side you'd be on, but...

But I think people would vote for it to come back. There'll be somebody who listens to this as the first episode they've ever heard just by some fluke and they don't know anything about me. What is the matter with these two? I don't love that woman. Do not like that fascist woman one bit. William purses his lips. He will not give them the satisfaction of seeing him broken. He remains standing to attention as if on parade ground inspection. He gives the judge a low formal bow.

clicking his heel smartly as he straightens. A final gesture of defiance. He holds his head high as he's led from the courtroom. He catches Slade's eye one last time, a slight nod of acknowledgement for the man who defended him according to the law, not the mob. Then he turns away, stepping forward into whatever remains of his life. 3rd of January 1946, Wandsworth Prison.

William sits motionless on the narrow cot in his cell, back straight, hands resting on his knees. Morning light filters through the barred window, casting grid-like shadows across the floor. His finger unconsciously traces the raised line of his scar, from earlobe to lips. The irony doesn't escape him, dying for treason against a country that was never truly his. American by birth, Irish by upbringing, German by choice.

yet condemned for betraying Britain, a nation whose passport he carried through deception. He checks his reflection in the small cracked mirror one last time, adjusts his tie, then removes it. At precisely one minute to nine, the cell door opens. The prison governor stands there, face blank, flanked by guards. William stands without assistance. He counts each step as he walks. One, two, three, four.

15 pacers separate his cell from the execution chamber, each one measured, deliberate. William's heart lurches against his ribs. For the first time, real fear gnaws at his composure. His mouth goes dry. The facade of courage threatens to crumble. He only ever wanted to belong, to have a voice, to serve a country that would value him. Britain had rejected him. Germany had used him. America had forgotten him.

Now he belongs nowhere. He stops at the threshold, momentarily frozen. He feels the executioner's presence before he sees him. Their eyes meet briefly. No hatred, no judgment. Just the mechanical precision of a task to be completed. William feels an unexpected calm wash over him. He positions himself on the mark without being directed. His legs feel like lead, but he forces them to obey.

"Do you have any final words?" William's voice emerges clear and steady. "May the Lord have mercy on my soul." The hood is pulled over his head. William feels the rough hemp of the noose against his neck as it's positioned, tightened. In this final darkness, William stands perfectly still. No trembling, no collapse of dignity. This is how he chooses to leave the world. Not cowering, not broken.

William Joyce was buried within the walls of Wandsworth Prison after his execution in 1946.

In 1976, at the request of his daughter Heather, his remains were exhumed and reinterred in Galway, Ireland. His wife Margaret joined him in the same grave after her death in 1992. Sir Hartley Shawcross went on to serve as Britain's chief prosecutor at the Nuremberg trials. The British legal system was permanently affected by the Joyce case, which established the precedent that holding a passport creates a duty of allegiance to the issuing country.

This principle has influenced subsequent treason and nationality law in the United Kingdom and Commonwealth countries. Most notably, in the 2006 case against radical cleric Abu Hamza al-Masri, prosecutors successfully argued that his British citizenship created a duty of allegiance that made him subject to charges of soliciting murder and inciting racial hatred.

The Joyce precedent continues to shape how British courts approach questions of citizenship, allegiance and national security. Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

In the early hours of December 4th, 2024, CEO Brian Thompson stepped out onto the streets of midtown Manhattan. This assailant pulls out a weapon and starts firing at him. We're talking about the CEO of the biggest private health insurance corporation in the world. And the suspect... He has been identified as Luigi Nicholas Mangione. ...became one of the most divisive figures in modern criminal history. I was targeted...

premeditated and meant to sow terror. I'm Jesse Weber, host of Luigi, produced by Law & Crime and Twist. This is more than a true crime investigation. We explore a uniquely American moment that could change the country forever. He's awoken the people to a true issue.

Finally, maybe this would lead rich and powerful people to acknowledge the barbaric nature of our health care system. Listen to Law and Crime's Luigi exclusively on Wondery Plus. You can join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Spotify or Apple podcasts.

From Wondery and Samistat Audio, this is the third episode in our series, Lord Haw Haw, Germany Calling. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Germany Calling by Mary Kenney

And remember, if you want to get in touch with us with comments or suggestions or ideas for scandals, then you can email us at britishscandal at wondry.com. British Scandal is hosted by me, Matt Ford. And me, Alice Levine. Written by Andy Sheridan. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford.

Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Rich Evans. Our engineer is Jai Williams. For Samizdat, our producer is Redzi Bernard. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producers are Joe Sykes and Dasha Lissitzina. For Wondery, our senior producer is Theodora Leloudis and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Lewis. Wondery.

In the first half of the 20th century, one woman changed adoption in America. What was once associated with the shame of unmarried mothers became not only acceptable but fashionable. But Georgia Tann didn't help families find new homes out of the goodness of her heart. She was stealing babies from happy families and selling them for profit. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show American Scandal. We bring to life some of the biggest controversies in U.S. history. Presidential lies, environmental disasters, corporate fraud.

And in our latest series, a young adoption worker moves to Memphis, Tennessee and becomes one of the most powerful women in the city. By the time her crimes are exposed decades later, she's made a fortune and destroyed hundreds of families along the way. Follow American Scandal on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all episodes ad-free and be the first to binge the newest season only on Wondery+. You can join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. Start your free trial today.

Hey, I'm Mike Corey, the host of Wondery's podcast, Against the Odds. In each episode, we take you to the edge of some of the most incredible adventure and survival stories in history. In our next season, it's 1980, and in the Pacific Northwest, the long, dormant volcano Mount St. Helens is showing signs of life. Scientists warn that a big eruption is coming, but a restricted zone around the mountain is limited by politics.

On May 18th, hikers, loggers, reporters, and researchers are caught in the blast zone as the volcano erupts. They find themselves pummeled by a deadly combination of scorching heat, smothering ash, and massive mudslides. The survivors have to find their way to safety before they succumb to their injuries.

or face another eruption. Follow Against the Odds on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Binge the entire season ad-free right now only on Wondery+. Start your free trial in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify today.