Lord Haw-Haw: Germany Calling | Radio Reich | 2
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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. Right, Matt, you ready? Right, yeah, I've just got to do this, sorry, right. Diary of a CEO? I've never had a firefax and I bet he's never even been a COO.

What are you doing? Oh, it's called propaganda. What you do is you attack your opponents and it demoralises them and then their supporters come over to your side. Yeah, I've heard of propaganda. Don't do that. Oh, no, it works. It's fine. Parenting hell. They don't even have kids. They don't even like kids. They hate your kids. I think you're going to get us sued. If you say it's propaganda instead of lies, honestly, it's a loophole. Off menu. They don't even like good food. They eat out of tins. I've seen them.

Okay, I think I get it now. This actually sounds quite fun. Maybe I'll have a go. Yeah, just pick some big podcasts and slag them off. Okay, okay. The Rest Is History. More like The Rest Is Can I Have a Nap Please? That is so old, that stuff. This is great. Keep going. Okay. Miss Me with Makita, Oliver and Lily Allen. Yeah. No, I don't miss you. I don't even know you. You're warming up. You're warming up. This is great. All right.

This is the one. My dad wrote a porno. Do you even have a dad? Or are you an orphan? Alice, that's horrible. It just made us all sad now. Okay, I'm just going to probably just practice on my own. Yeah. Dawn, May the 4th, 1945. Hamburg. William clutches the leather seat as the Mercedes swerves around another crater.

Through the bullet-scarred rear windscreen, Hamburg burns. A wall of flame and smoke blistering the horizon. "Our contacts in Denmark will get you to Sweden, but we must cross the border by nightfall." "And if the Danes refuse?" William stares at the SS officer in hope, but the man remains silent. Instead, he leans forward and adjusts the military radio. Through the static comes the news.

Berlin has fallen. The Red Army now controls the capital. All units are ordered to... God for damn it! The officer switches off the radio. William's hands shake as he takes another pull from the near-empty bottle of cognac. The car engine whines as they weave through the burnt-out tanks and shattered artillery guns that once defended the city. Columns of broken and bandaged Wehrmacht soldiers clog the road. Men that William once praised as invincible...

The Mercedes skids onto a farm track. William grips the seats as the car bumps along the dirt road. As he peers through the dark haze, he spots something in the distant fog. What the hell is that? He feels his stomach lurch as lights appear and a low guttural rumble starts to fill the air. The officer flings open the car door. British tanks, get out! Run for sea woods!

William almost falls out of the car as he stumbles into the thick, cold mud. He fixes his eyes on the forest ahead. Somewhere beyond those trees lies Denmark, then Sweden, neutral territory, a chance to vanish. But behind him, British voices ring out, voices he once mocked with such confidence. "Lay down your weapons! Surrender! You are now prisoners of war!" William looks back as he stumbles through the mud.

The SS officers raise their guns, stark silhouettes against the burning city. Their pistols bark, once, twice. Then the British rifles answer. Both men jerk like broken puppets and crumple into the mud. William runs, branches whipping his face. His scarf throbs with each gasping breath. The voice that terrorised Britain now rasps desperate prayers as justice closes in.

Germany burns behind him. Denmark lies ahead. And William knows he has to make that border. Because if he doesn't, he's a dead man. Hi, I'm Misha Brown, and I'm the host of Wondery's podcast, The Big Flop. Each episode, comedians join me to chronicle one of the biggest pop culture fails of all time and try to answer the age-old question, who thought this was a good idea? Follow The Big Flop wherever you get your podcasts.

Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions. From covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts. Follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. British Scandal

Alice, I'm not going to ask you whether you're warming to William Joyce. We've been doing this show for four years now. And if there's one thing I can say in your favour, it's that you're not always a fan of Nazis. No, not always, no. But I am interested in what you think is driving William.

An interesting fellow is William. So obviously, if we go way back to the early years, he's Irish, he's an outsider. He's kind of pushed to the fringes. He's got genuine feelings of anger at the state of the country after the huge sacrifices made by ordinary people during World War I. And also, there's something personal about him that we see a lot in British Scandal. He is a small...

inadequate man and he's found this movement he's found a club that gives him a veneer of power yes and at the end of the last episode he's decided to flee to Germany partly because he's lost hope in Britain partly because if he stays he's at risk of arrest and internment so do you think those feelings of inadequacy are going to follow him around or do you think he would just be able to shake them off and find his feet in the fatherland yeah has he done the work has

Has he done the therapy he needs to get over those initial years? I guess it depends whether the Nazis will accept him as one of them. Also, might not seem very important, but is...

Have you seen him work a crowd, baby? He is the greatest fascist showman. Oh boy, he's got the razzmatazz. So this could be quite the few years for him. Although, and I really hope that I'm not providing any spoilers here, we do know that ultimately the Second World War didn't go Hitler's way. Okay, news to some of us. Arguably no point in listening on. But do, because, and I should warn you at the start here,

William gets very impassioned. So impassioned that he ends up with a very sore throat. And I have basically gone method. So apologies for my sore throat. It ends up actually being very helpful. This is episode two, Radio Reich. Five years earlier, September 1939, Berlin. Berlin.

William tugs at his shirt collar as he steps onto the platform at Anhalter Bahnhof train station. He squeezes Margaret's hand in excitement, takes in the Iron Eagle insignia pinned to the soldier's black SS uniforms. His fingers brush the business card in his inner pocket, his sole contact in Berlin's Ministry of Propaganda. Seeing the enormous red, white and black swastika banners festooning the station, William catches his breath.

He's never been more certain of his decision to leave England. He pulls Margaret into the flow of Berliners along Unter den Linden. An hour later, William stands before the Preussenhof restaurant, double-checks the address. He takes in the white cloth tables glowing underneath strung lights. High-ranking party officials and socialites dine al fresco beneath the linden trees, their laughter mixing with the clink of fine crystal.

William scans the crowd for his contact until he spots him at a table tucked away in the corner. He pulls Margaret across the room to a tall, immaculately dressed man with a razor-sharp jawline. Christian Bauer. They'd been friends in London before he'd been kicked out for spying. He extends a hand to William. William, meine Freunde. The man stands to greet Margaret, his lips lingering a moment too long on her hand. And this vision of...

English beauty. William's shoulders relax as he takes a seat. He finally feels like he's arrived. He twists his napkin beneath the table as Bauer lights a cigarette. So, you crazy English man, what are you thinking of doing now that you are in Germany, William? Fascisty things. Yeah, go to a fashbash, make some fash cash. You know, you guys seem to be having a good time. William's top lip prickles with fresh sweat.

He pauses while a waiter pours them wine. "Well, I was rather hoping you'd suggest something." Bauer checks his watch. His smile tightens. "I'm afraid your timing could have been better." He looks over his shoulder, leans in, lowering his voice. "We have hours, not days, before the Führer makes his move. Poland will not submit. France and Britain will not stand idle. War is inevitable.

William feels a nervous thrill course through him. Bauer takes a long sip of his Riesling. When war does come, you will both be interred, of course. Enemy aliens in wartime. What else can we do? William looks at Bauer in confusion as his laughter explodes across the table. Ha ha! Your faces! You're funny! You're so funny, you're English! William smooths his napkin, tries to compose himself, but Bauer continues. Seriously, though.

War is war. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that in the current circumstances, there is no longer anything I can do to help. William feels Margaret's hand nervously finding his under the table. He clears his throat. But the citizenship that was promised, the guarantee to work... Ah, yeah, that was six months ago, William. Things are different now. Bauer glances at his watch again.

Scheisse! Duty calls. Good luck in Berlin. William stares in horror as Bauer stands and disappears into the night. He glances at Margaret, sees his own fears reflected in her face. They can't return to England, certainly not now that they've run. But if he can't prove his worth to the Nazi government, he might well have just traded an English prison cell for a German one.

A week later, Reich Labour Ministry, Berlin. Margaret sits across from an employment clerk. She opens her handbag for a handkerchief, glimpses her final 20 Reichsmarks, before delicately dabbing at her forehead. She needs this job. Williams failed to secure any work or contacts, and if she can't find a government foothold soon, they're at real risk of becoming destitute or worse.

The clerk adjusts her wire-brimmed glasses as she studies Margaret's application, her mouth pinched in disapproval. A British subject expects to work in a Reich ministry with access to internal documents. Margaret's heart sinks. She's seen this expression a hundred times this week. She rises, knowing there's nothing left to say. She storms across the office and pushes open the door. In the lobby, William springs up from his bench as she appears.

How did it go? His hopeful expression crumples as she gives a tiny shake of her head. Across the street, she spies the elegant facade of the Continental Hotel. God, I need a cup of tea. I hope they pack tea bags from home because you know it's going to be a crap cup of tea, no offence. No offence to the Continental Hotel, which has a fantastic reputation, but a cup of tea abroad. She straightens her spine, lifts her chin and marches towards the entrance. William hurries after her.

As they make for the tea room, a familiar voice cuts through the murmur of conversation. Margaret? William? Good heavens! They turn to find Dorothy Eckersley, their eccentric socialite friend from countless BUF gatherings, lounging at a corner table, feeding her dashund bits of cake. Dorothy, how extraordinary to find you here! She looks them up and down.

You both look absolutely exhausted. But there is kindness in Dorothy's eyes. I'm meeting someone. Hans Schirmer from the Foreign Ministry. Cultural affairs. Absolutely vital work. You must join us. Margaret and William glance down at their clothes. They feel dowdy, out of place. Dorothy, we're hardly... I mean, that is... We're not really dressed for... Dorothy's already waving away their protests with her cigarette.

Nonsense! We're at war, darling. Who has time for appearances? She leans closer, cigarette smoke curling between them. Besides, right now Hans is particularly interested in British perspectives. A bald man in an expensive suit approaches their table.

His eyes sharp with interest. Hands, darling, look who I found. The Joyces from our London gatherings. William was absolutely electric at BUF events. Such understanding of the common man. The masses simply adored him. Margaret looks at William. A glint appears in her eye. She leans forward. My husband has a gift. The working class don't just listen. They trust him.

She kicks William under the table, urging him to jump in. Yes, that's right. I know how the British worker thinks. What makes him angry? What makes him doubt his own government? Margaret sees Shermer's eyes narrow, the faintest smile touching the corner of his mouth. The Ministry of Propaganda has been seeking to strengthen its voice in Britain. His hand moves to his jacket pocket, takes out a fountain pen.

The ink bleeds against the white fine linen napkin as he writes, Tomorrow at nine o'clock we may have need for someone with your strengths. As he stands to leave, Margaret glances at William, sees the sparkle back in his eyes. She runs a finger across the napkin, tracing the words written there. This is the foot in the door they've been praying for, and she's going to make damn sure nothing, not even war itself, gets in her way.

The following day, Reich Broadcasting House, Berlin. Williams hit by the thick smoke-filled air as he enters the recording studio. He pushes away thoughts of what will happen if he fails this audition. Instead, tells himself to focus. He catches Margaret's eager expression through the glass. Whenever you're ready, Herr Joyce. Drei, zwei, eins. The red light blinks on.

William opens his mouth, but his throat feels dry. He tries to speak, but the words refuse to come out. My... My fellow Britons...

His voice sounds alien. A child's squeak echoing back through his headphones. Hear the truth about... We've all been there, right, Matt? I mean, every time I public speak, the first sentence is like, well, it's one of those. Make some, like, quick ad-lib joke about something that's just happened. We'll come back to Gary's after this, won't we? Anyway, the nominees for Nurse of the Year. The words swim on the page. Sweat drips onto the script, smearing the ink.

The truth. The truth. The truth. Through the glass, he sees disappointment settling over the control booth. Stop. Stop. This isn't working. But before he can get up, Margaret bursts through the control room door. A bottle of schnapps in her hand like a lifeline. Two quick shots burn down his throat. He closes his eyes, lets the warmth spread.

Margaret whispers in his ear, burn the place down. Show them what happens when they look down their noses at men like you. He feels something shift. The studio melts away and he's back at the BUF rallies. That familiar electricity crackling through his blood. The microphone isn't a threat anymore. It's a weapon. His eyes snap open. He touches his script and reads, Germany calling.

Germany calling. Through the glass, the director sits forward. His interest piqued. Orders his engineer to start recording. The red light flashes on. Tonight, I speak to you from Berlin. To you, the people of Britain.

Not your lords and masters in their London clubs. Not your bankers counting their war profits. I speak to you, the miners, the factory workers, the shop girls, the ones they send to die in their wars while they sip champagne. William feels power unfurling in his chest. Through the glass, the control room is transfixed. They tell you Germany is your enemy, but who is it that keeps your wages low?

Who sends your children to bed hungry? Who lives in luxury while you scratch in the dirt? Look to your masters in Westminster before you point fingers across the channel. Oh, this is eerily familiar to now, isn't it? I mean, it's chilling, but you can also imagine how some people would find that a very rousing, very compelling speech. I just can't believe how there are stock phrases there that are the stock phrases that people use today.

It's incredible, the parallels with people we can think about in the modern era. But also, there's always going to be a section of the population, particularly when a country is going through economic difficulty, that are susceptible to this idea that actually there's something else going on. That hold on a minute, the guy we're being told is bad might actually be all right.

and the people that we think are broadly protecting our interests, maybe they're the real problem. And it's terrifying how effective that sort of messaging continues to be. His voice drops lower, intimate as a lover's whisper. I know you. I am you. And by the time I'm finished, all of Britain will know the truth. The red light blinks off. Silence floods the studio. William realises his hands have stopped shaking.

The control room erupts. He sees the director making an excited animated phone call. William looks at Margaret through the glass, her smile fierce with pride. He won't waste this chance. Not now he's found his voice. It's time to show these Germans exactly what William Joyce can do. Six months later, Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Berlin.

Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels stands before his radio monitors, jaw tight. We shall fight them on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields and in the streets. Churchill's voice fills his marble office. His leg throbs in its caliper as Churchill's speech gains in power. He slams his fist on the table. He'd promised British resolve would crumble after Dunkirk.

But Churchill's election is regalvanising morale across the Channel, and the Führer isn't happy. Switch stations! I can't bear to hear this man's voice any longer! We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. Goebbels' knuckles whiten around his cane. Verdammt! We shall go on to the end. We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength.

Change it again! The wine glass shatters against the marble wall before he realises he's thrown it. Then a different voice cuts through the static. Low, melodious, intimate, unlike anything he's heard before. And what does Churchill offer you? Grand words, empty speeches. The junior officer reaches for the dial. Wait!

While your children go hungry, while your homes burn, he stands in Parliament playing the British Bulldog. He talks of fighting on the beaches, but it's not his sons who'll die there. Who is this? The new Englishman, Herr Minister. William Joyce. They'll send you to die for their empire.

Your children will starve for their pride. And Churchill, he'll finish his brandy, light another cigar and write speeches about your noble sacrifice. Goebbels glances at the grandfather clock, nearly midnight in Berchtesgaden, which, as we all know, was Hitler's headquarters in the Alps. Mein Führer, yes, I know the hour. Churchill's speech today, yes, I know. But I found something better. Listen.

He holds the phone to the radio. William's voice seeps through the line. Ask yourself, who is the real enemy of the working man? Goebbels smiles as he hears Hitler's breathing change. I want everything on Joyce. Every speech, every detail. We're going to make him the voice that tears Britain apart. Through the radio, William's voice continues its deadly work. Goebbels settles back, closes his eyes...

He's going to bottle it all and use this Englishman to drip poison into every British ear until their resolve rots from within. MUSIC

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A few months later, Reich Broadcasting House, Berlin.

William settles into the leather seat of his Reich-issued Mercedes, smiles at the news suggesting the Luftwaffe will have air superiority over Britain within weeks. Six months ago, he and Margaret had little hope of scraping by. Now, under Goebbels' wing, his voice is starting to reach British homes each night. The receptionist's heels click across the marble-lined reception floor to greet him as he enters the building. She presents him with a wooden box and the day's ministry-approved script.

Cuban cigars from Dr. Goebbels himself, in recognition of your mounting success. He's been so busy he hasn't seen Margaret in weeks. But his relationship with Goebbels is as strong as ever. He sidesteps workmen mounting a framed photograph on the stairs. His own image captured in profile at the microphone. Commanding. Assured. A voice of authority. When he spots a cluster of radio staff huddled around British newspapers...

Their laughter dies as they see him. He strides over, grabs the paper from one of their hands. British, fresh from Fleet Street. His stomach drops as he reads the headline. "Lord Haw-Haw." For a moment, he can't breathe as he reads: "A mysterious broadcaster with his Haw-Haw accent. Some fat elderly Shakespearean actor teaching elocution at a pathetic German institute.

Ouch, that is a burn. Although he has worked very hard at that accent. So in a way, the fact that they think he is a Shakespearean actor, whore whore or not, maybe you take that as a plus. Whore whore is basically a way of describing a particular type of affected posh speech. Haughty. Haughty. Haughty, haughty. Whore whore.

I guess that's like the sound they make, innit? I mean, you're just being a posh person, yeah. It's sort of like, how would you speak if you had cheeks full of foie gras? Even here, thousands of miles away, the British mock him. His colleagues avert their eyes as his director's voice cuts across the studio tannoy. 30 seconds until we're live here, Joyce. He hurries into the recording booth as the red light blinks on.

Germany calling. Germany. But he can't see through the red mist. He stops. Dead air hangs heavy in the booth. Oh, God, the emergency tape's going to hit in. In his earpiece, he hears the director. Hair joist. Through the glass, he sees the director gesturing frantically, the engineer panicking. William meets their eyes without flinching. No more hiding. He tears up his script, allows the pieces to flutter to the floor.

For months now, you've listened to my voice. You've mocked my accent, made fun of my manner, christened me with childish nicknames. Your newspapers speculate. Who is this traitor who speaks to Britain so? Well, tonight, I shall tell you. William hesitates. He knows the British authorities still want him locked up. If he continues now, he'll alert them to where he is and what he's doing.

Lose the anonymity that's protected him for the last six months. But he won't be mocked or belittled any longer. Maybe just put up with the mocking and the belittling. He's proud of the man he is. And he's got nothing to hide. It's time for the mask to come off. Oh, God. He takes a breath. I am William Joyce. And I left England not in fear of war, but in pursuit of truth.

This isn't about being proud of the man he is. This isn't about wanting to put an end to the mockery. This is ego. He wants everybody to know who he is because he wants the glory. His knuckles whiten as he grips the desk. You see, I know them, these lords and ladies who send your sons to die. Their newspapers spoon-feed you lies while your children starve. William's voice rises, stronger now.

Your parliament, nothing but a gentleman's club where old men trade your lives like poker chips. Your precious class system, invisible chains that bind you while they whisper, know your place. Silence fills the booth. The enormity of what he's done dawns on William. Then the director's voice cuts through. Bravo, William!

The gallery erupts. Not polite applause, but a roar of triumph. There's no turning back now. He will never be silenced or ridiculed again. In the glass, William catches his reflection. A glimpse of what he was always meant to be. Lord Haw-Haw. He's reclaimed it already, within seconds. He'll make them choke on that name. Every weakness in Britain's armour, every crack in its foundation, every bitter resentment he's nursed, they're all his to expose now.

He'll write his own scripts, speak his own truth, and night by night, broadcast by broadcast, turn their sneering joke into their worst nightmare. This is a beautifully textbook example of the fragile male ego. Aggravated, enraged, inflamed. August 1940, Chartwell, Kent, 1am.

Churchill's private secretary, Brendan Bracken, picks through the night's telegrams, checking his watch between each code and message. Tell me about Brendan Bracken, purely so I can say Brendan Bracken. Brendan Bracken has a great name. He was arguably Churchill's closest friend, went on to serve in his cabinet as Minister for Information, and, like William Joyce, was Irish, with a complicated relationship with his mother country, but also was the subject of rumours.

Because his relationship with Churchill was so close that actually he was Churchill's illegitimate son. Oh, gosh. Love Brendan Bracken's backstory. OK, spin off. His third cup of cold tea sits forgotten beside him as he works. As Churchill's most trusted confidant, he's promised to be available at any hour, whatever the cost. He's even sold his London house, splitting his time between Chartwell and Downing Street.

Brendan stifles a yawn, glances at the clock, closes the folder of sanitised airfield damage reports, when laughter echoes down the hallway. He shuffles along the corridor to find three secretaries huddled around a wireless, barely suppressing their giggles. Then a voice, cultured, mocking, utterly unlike the BBC's careful neutrality, cuts through.

Your women are so frightened of our bombs, they're having their hats made of tin. Perhaps they think German steel will become fashionable in London. Rather late for the BBC, isn't it? It's Lord Ho-Ho, Mr Bracken. So nice to see Secretary One again from, I think, series 414.

29, 38, 39 and 42 of British Scandal. She's always around, isn't she? She is. She goes out with that copper who shows up in the last series. What's going on here then, son? No matter what decade, always the same. The girls exchange knowing looks. Everyone listens to him. My sister's factory in London passes around at broadcast times. He's very funny.

Bracken turns to the second secretary. "Oh yes sir, everyone in my street listens. My neighbour even writes down the bits that..." Bracken reaches for the telephone. "James, sorry to wake you, that BBC monitoring, I need Hor Hor's listening figures too, now if possible." He waits through the clicks and whirs of the connecting line. But as the voice reads out the numbers, the blood drains from Bracken's face. "Are you okay Mr Bracken?" He doesn't answer.

Ginger! Like a walrus is a lot.

Unless you bring news that Goering's left waffer has suddenly developed an allergy to flying. Churchill doesn't look up from his papers. Water sloshes as he reaches for another document. So I need to discuss Lord Haw-Haw. Churchill looks at him bemused. A smile on his face. Eden does a splendid impression. Germany calling! Well, I've just received his listening figures. He's getting nine million listens a night, sir.

Bloody hell, even in a time when everyone's listening to the radio, 9 million and Secretary 12 sisters listening. So he's getting to the people that he wants to reach. This isn't politicos and people, you know, around the halls of power that are listening. This is real people on the street hearing what he's got to say. Bracken watches as Churchill puts down his cigar.

Absolute bunkum, Bracken. Nine million. Impossible. Bracken slaps the BBC figures onto Churchill's bath tray. His listening figures are over half that of the BBC's. And he's one man.

He pulls out a transcript. While your boys drowned at Dunkirk, Churchill quaffed champagne. Bracken watches Churchill's expression darken. Now I'm picturing a walrus quaffing champagne. I bet there's a hipster out there with that as a tattoo. I was just thinking that. It's definitely a hipster tattoo. A walrus with a monocle quaffing champagne. Definitely. Top hat? Were you picturing the top hat? Definitely, yeah. If you've got that as a tattoo, get in touch. Britishcandleatwondery.com

Last week, a munitions factory in Manchester closed after he named it as a target. We know who he is, sir. A man called William Joyce. Churchill is silent. But when he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet. I want everything. Birth records, school reports, army service, his favourite flavour of jelly. Silence him, Bracken. Jam the bloody signals if you need to. Anything. He needs to be stopped.

Churchill's hard stare fixes on Bracken. Bracken nods as he leaves Churchill's bathroom and reaches for the telephone. The first of many calls tonight. Because this isn't just about catching a traitor anymore. It's about protecting something far more precious than any factory or airfield. The British people's unwavering spirit. October 1940. Stalag Luft 3D prisoner of war camp outside Berlin.

William steps from his Mercedes into the biting October rain. Towers pierce the grey sky, wooden barracks stretching in endless rows before him. Groups of emaciated men in British uniforms huddle against the driving rain, heads bowed. He hasn't seen Margaret for days, not since the Dorsland and the neighbours complained about their argument. He takes from his hip flask, barely registering the burn anymore. William studies a prisoner's file.

Private Best in the Manchester Regiment, captured at Dunkirk alongside his brother. Perfect. Today will be different from his usual broadcasts. If he pulls it off, this might just land him that promised promotion. His polished shoes echo on the concrete floors of the interrogation block. The recording equipment stands ready. He adjusts the microphone, checks each dial methodically, wipes the condensation from each one. Everything must be perfect.

The guard stands at attention. "Your selection is ready, Herr Joyce." William straightens his tie. "Excellent. Bring him in." The door opens. Private Best looks even more fragile than his photo suggested. Ribs visible through his tattered shirt. A half-heeled gash above his eye. "Please, take a seat." The prisoner lurches forward and spits. William feels it land on the lapel of his jacket.

The guard's rifle butt smashes him in the stomach, doubling him over. That's enough. William raises his hand, stopping the guard mid-swing. Levers. I can handle myself. Private best. William's hand tightens on the file. He lights a cigarette. Quite something, wasn't it, Dunkirk? He exhales slowly. Two brothers, abandoned by Churchill on that French beach. And now, here you both are.

William takes out a medical file from his leather folder, places it on the table. Though your brother isn't doing too well in the... infirmary, I believe. Pneumonia. It's a killer. Couldn't Ackett is a real Englishman, could you? Had to run off and be jetties performing monkey. I've heard you broadcast, but William cuts in. Do you know what pneumonia does to a man?

William opens the medical file, slides across the table. First, the fever spikes. Then the coughing starts. Deep, wet, like drowning. From the inside, he studies Best's face. Rather like Dunkirk, I imagine. OK, so if we were in any doubt, which I don't think we were, he is a nasty bastard. Best's hands clench into fists. Your brother's been asking for you. Between the coughing fits...

This is disgusting.

William slowly pushes a script across the table, stubbing out his cigarette. Just words. Simple words. Best stares at the script in horror. In exchange for your brother's life. William waits until he sees Private Best give the smallest of nods. William adjusts the microphone one final time, checking the levels. The red light flickers on. Germany calling. Germany calling. Good evening, England.

Tonight, I bring you a special broadcast. A soldier speaks the truth about Churchill's betrayal. He nods to best. His hands shake as he lifts up the script. My fellow Britons, I speak to you from Germany, where I've learned the truth about this war. 29th December 1940. Cabinet War Rooms, London.

Winston Churchill grabs the table as an explosion rattles the reinforced ceiling of his subterranean war rooms. Lights flicker as dust and debris fall from the ceiling. An RAF officer bursts in, saluting. Latest radar report from Fighter Command, sir. A large squadron of German bombers has broken through our air defences. Our fighters engaged, but, um...

The man hesitates. Early reports indicate it's one of their largest raids yet. Churchill slams his glass down. Night after bloody night!

Through the walls, a voice seeps into the room. "Germany calling. Germany calling." The RAF officer shifts uncomfortably as the voice grows stronger, filling every corner of the office. "While bombs rain down on your homes, Churchill and the Royal Family make secret preparations to flee to Canada." "Turn that damn thing off!" The wireless clicks silent. Churchill pours a large whiskey.

He hurls the glass against the wall as Brendan Bracken enters, hesitating as he carries his usual stack of papers. Bracken shifts awkwardly. Every night he uses our own sons against us, takes their terror and beats us with it. And now... His voice trembles with rage. The bloody gall of it to tell my people, my people, that I would abandon them.

Stop dancing around, Bracken. What aren't you telling me, man? Reluctantly, Bracken produces a red folder marked Most Secret. Churchill studies the surveillance photographs inside, showing William Joyce's daily routine in Berlin. We've tried chatting him down. It's impossible. If we block his radio signals, we risk blocking our own broadcasts. Our fighter command communications. He watches as Bracken hesitates. There is...

"Another option, Prime Minister." Churchill's voice drops to a whisper. "Show me everything. Every option." He stares at Joyce's picture, his rage cooling into something more dangerous: calculation. Churchill knows what must be done. This traitor's voice must be silenced. Permanently. The methods may be ugly, may haunt his conscience, but he will not let William Joyce destroy his people's will to fight.

Not while he draws breath. Every big moment starts with a big dream. But what happens when that big dream turns out to be a big flop?

From Wondery and At Will Media, I'm Misha Brown, and this is The Big Flop. Every week, comedians join me to chronicle the biggest flubs, fails, and blunders of all time, like Quibi. It's kind of like when you give yourself your own nickname and you try to, like, get other people to do it. And the 2019 movie adaptation of...

Like, if I'm watching the dancing and I'm noticing the feet aren't touching the ground, there's something wrong with the movie. Find out what happens when massive hype turns into major fiasco. Enjoy The Big Flop on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Big Flop early and ad-free on Wondery+. Get started with your free trial at wondery.com slash plus.

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.

22nd of June, 1941. Berlin. William shoulders through the busy Berlin streets, clutching his promotion papers.

Chief commentator for foreign broadcasts. Everything he's worked for. His head still spins from the meeting, from Goebbels' glowing words of praise. Celebrations explode around him. Wehrmacht's trucks thunder past, their engines mixing with German chants. And please, I don't know how many times I have to beg for it, do translate the German. That is German. For...

To Moscow. To Moscow, sure. Germany has declared war on the Soviet Union. Operation Barbarossa has begun. Tonight, with renewed vigour, William will broadcast how Germany will crush Russia, then turn its full force on London. He pauses at a flower stand, selects a bouquet of white lilies, Margaret's favourite. He's barely seen her these past months, lost in rewrites and recordings, coming home long after she's gone to bed.

But she'll understand. She always has. The woman who saw his potential that first night at the microphone. Who gave him the courage to become who he is. Who believed in him when he was nothing. He pauses at his apartment door. Takes another snifter from his hip flask. Margaret? Darling? I have some amazing... The flowers drop from his hand. Someone's ransacked the place. Drawers yanked open. Content scattered across the floor.

He rushes to the bedroom. Wardrobe doors flung wide, shelves stripped bare, her telefunken radio gone. "Margaret! Margaret!" Panic claws at his throat as he stumbles back onto the street. He has to find her. The police, their friends, anyone who might... Movement catches his eye. A man in a dark coat across the road, watching him with deliberate focus. William starts walking, faster now.

In a shop window reflection, two more men have joined the first, spreading out to flank him. More trucks thunder past as William pushes through a cluster of Wehrmacht officers. William weaves through the crowd. His pursuers match his pace, closing the distance. Every attempted turn is cut off by another figure in a dark coat. His shoes slip on the cobblestones as he breaks into a run, down Friedrichstrasse, their footsteps echoing behind him.

They're herding him, he realises, like wolves circling prey. He cuts onto Unter den Linden, where tanks now roll east towards glory. Then he sees it. The glint of a police officer's badge ahead. Officer! Officer, please! You have to help! I'm Lord Horhor, THE Lord Horhor! The officer's expression doesn't change, as he gestures to a black car idling at the kerb.

A couple of hours later, Gestapo headquarters, Berlin. William sits at a metal table, his collar loose, tie askew. His hip flask lies empty beside him. The room is spare, bare walls, single light, mirror that's probably two-way glass. A Gestapo officer enters, closing the door with deliberate slowness. He's older, stern-faced, with deep-set eyes that seem to look through William.

He says nothing as he takes the seat opposite. This is outrageous. William straightens his tie with trembling fingers. Dr. Goebbels himself just promoted me. Today. This very morning. And this afternoon, you run through the streets like a hunted animal. William buckles slightly. The officer slides a piece of paper across the table. Your broadcast schedule for the past month. Very busy man.

Oh, a fan. OK, this changes the dynamic. I can sign it if you like. As chief commentator, and this, he places photographs down, one by one. Your usual coffee shop, your barber, the florist where you bought lilies today. Oh, they're all of me. This is like the Gestapo version of love actually, isn't it? Are you suggesting that... We protect our valuable assets, Herr Joyce.

though some need more protections than others. The officer drops more photographs onto the table. Margaret entering an apartment building. Margaret at a cafe. Margaret with a man in Wehrmacht uniform. Margaret kissing him. No, she moved in with him yesterday. A captain in the Wehrmacht. They make a handsome couple, don't you think? The air leaves his lungs. His promotion paper slipped to the floor.

Margaret. While he was with Goebbels, she was... But that's not why you're here. William barely hears him. The room seems to tilt. The officer leans forward. The British have activated a cell in Berlin. They're planning something permanent. William stares at the photos, his world collapsing. You've made powerful enemies, Herr Joyce. The British want you dead.

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.

Thank you.

our values, our struggles, and our dreams. In our latest series, we explore the Progressive Era, which came to be defined by Teddy Roosevelt and others who believed in a strong, active government that worked on behalf of all Americans, rather than the privileged few. As the United States entered the 20th century, these progressives hoped to steer the nation in a bold new direction, to launch an era of reform to restore power to the people. Follow American History Tellers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all

From Wondery and Samistat Audio, this is the second 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 dramatizations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Germany Calling by Mary Kenney

Haw Haw, The Tragedy of William and Margaret Joyce by Nigel Farndale. And Lord Haw Haw, The Life and Legacy of the Notorious Nazi Propaganda Broadcaster During World War II by Charles River Editors. 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 Louis. Wondery.

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+. You can join Wondery in the Wondery app, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts.

Lamont Jones' world is shattered when his cousin dies in custody just weeks after entering prison. The official report says natural causes, but bruises and missing teeth tell a different story. From Wondery comes Death County, PA, a chilling true story of corruption and cover-ups that begins as one man's search for answers, but soon reveals a disturbing pattern.

Lamont's cousin's death is just one of many, and powerful forces are working to keep the truth buried. With never-before-heard interviews and shocking revelations, Death County PA pulls back the curtain on one of America's darkest institutional secrets. This isn't just another true crime story. It's happening right now.

Follow Death County PA on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of Death County PA early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus.